Deception Island

A mosquito whined in his ear. He slapped his face, and the squeal muted. He hadn’t been there for Theo then, and he hadn’t been there when Gabriel’s men had come in the night. He’d been en route back to Corsica after wrapping up a mission in Mali as they were sneaking his boy out of the country.

Rafe had walked into Theo’s grand-maman’s house, expecting his son to run and greet him, and found instead the terrified woman bound and gagged and three soldiers waiting to escort him away. How long had Gabriel been watching them? Rafe clutched the phone. Gabriel’s instructions were clear—if Rafe involved anyone else, he’d never see his son again.

He’d have to construct his contingency plan carefully. If Gabriel had contacts in the Legion—which seemed likely, given his intelligence on Rafe—they’d notice if several legionnaires suddenly took leave. But one? It was a gamble, but not as big a risk as doing this without backup.

Water poured off the roof, drops ricocheting up into the hammock. It was hot enough for him not to care about being wet, though that in itself was a danger. He peered out at the rain. He couldn’t risk calling from here—the less she knew the better. He dashed to the shed they’d passed earlier and shoved the door open. Something scuttled into a corner. It was a storage bunker and guardhouse, with gardening equipment, basic aquatic gear, a set of bunks. He inspected a roll of thick plastic—it’d do for a waterproof laptop case, later. Rain drilled on the tin roof. He laid out the comms gear and reinstated the batteries. Laura had been updating a blog regularly, with photos, so she had to have a strong satellite connection. After a few minutes, he figured out how to hook up the laptop to the internet connection via the sat phone, after first checking it wasn’t sending a GPS signal. It’d be suicide to make the call directly from the sat phone—whoever was paying the bills would see the number he dialed. He drummed his fingers on the laptop casing. A Skype call to a landline, using his personal account? Yes. All they’d be able to discern was that the sat phone was used in the Indonesian region.

He laid the sat phone outside the hut, where it could catch the signal, and dragged the USB cable just inside the shed door. After firing up Skype and disabling the video, he dialed his base. He asked for Flynn in English, in his best attempt at an Australian accent, shouting over the rain while muffling his voice. Not that his lieutenant ever got calls from home. After a few reconnects and holds, a gruff voice came on the line.

“Allard.”

Merde. Of all the guys to answer the phone. “Can I speak to Lieutenant Flynn?”

“Non.”

“Caporal Armstrong?”

“Non.”

“Capitaine Angelito?” For good measure.

“Non.”

Rafe pressed his lips together. He couldn’t go right through his commando team. Maybe they were all out training—or drinking, more likely. One more. “Sergent Levanne?”

“Non.”

“Where are they?”

“Who is this?”

“Flynn’s brother. It’s an emergency.” Rafe knew his lieutenant didn’t have family, but Allard probably wouldn’t. He wasn’t a guy anyone took into his confidence.

The line went quiet. Finally, Allard spoke. “Guiana—South America. Deployment. Can’t be contacted.”

Putain. “Camopi?”

“Oui...yes.”

Rafe winced. Of all the Legion outposts the team could be in, they picked Camopi, a hundred clicks upriver from nowhere? Even if Rafe got a message through, and Flynn could extract himself, it’d take forty-eight hours at least for him to get to Asia. “When will he return?”

A pause. Rafe pictured Allard’s I-don’t-give-a-shit eye roll. “Weeks. Months.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Rafe ended the call and leaned against the tin wall of the hut, clutching his temples. He could send a coded message to Flynn, over the internet, but it might not be picked up for weeks.

He was on his own.

* * *

Rafe woke to sun on his face. The insect calls had given way to birdsong. Had to be late. He sat up in the hammock, planting his feet on the floor to stop the world swinging, and pushed away the mosquito net. His mouth was as dry as the white sand on the beach a few meters away.

He pushed himself up, cricked his back and knocked on the villa door. “You awake, princess?”

No answer. A tingle of suspicion crept up his neck.

Another knock. “Princess?”

He pulled the key from his shorts pocket and unlocked the door. The bed was empty, the shutters open. A gauzy curtain sailed up before an open window, an insect screen tapping on the frame. The door to the bathroom was ajar. No one there.

Damn, he usually didn’t sleep that solidly. Years of commando training had him bolting out of bed at any suspicious noise, his instinct honed to recognize risk even as he slept. How could he have missed her leaving the villa? He hadn’t had a chance to do a proper scout of the island—what if a boat had managed to get through the infamous network of reefs and currents, and she was right now waving it down?

He jogged out onto the veranda and spotted movement in the lagoon, beyond the jetty that jutted into the azure water. She was swimming for it? No, her long, languid strokes were parallel to shore. She was...doing laps. His muscles unwound. He stepped inside, yanked a bottle of water out of the fridge and chugged it until his throat relaxed. Probably trying to keep in shape for her next photo shoot. He ripped off a handful of baguette and wandered back outside. She’d turned, heading to shore, the low sun lighting up lean, lightly tanned arms as they circled through the water.

When she reached the shallows she stood, her body glistening as she rose, barely covered by a bikini. Breasts, legs, curves.

“Mon Dieu.”

She looked up, straight into his eyes. Damn, he’d said that aloud. As she walked—sashayed—to the villa she combed her hands through her short hair.

“Not scared of sharks, then?” He deserved the Légion d’honneur for sounding that nonchalant.

She shrugged smooth, freckled shoulders. “What are the chances of getting attacked twice in twenty-four hours?”

“High, around here. I’d rather not have my treasure stolen from me when I’ve only just secured it.”

“Who says you’ve secured me? I could have slit your throat while you slept.”

He leaned against a pole and took another swig from the bottle. “With a bread knife? Might have taken a while.”

“I’m persistent.”

“You would have got lonely here.”

“I’d have coped.”

Up close, her body looked strong, toned—not as delicate as she appeared in her perfume commercials. The body of a woman who’d never worked a day in her life, who had all day to spend in a gym. And what couldn’t be fixed by a life of leisure could be fixed by a surgeon. There’d been speculation of a nose job, lip implants. The surgeon must have been good. She looked wholly natural. Her nose was straight and her lips were full and pink and...and not something you should be looking at. She strolled past, close enough that he could smell the salty freshness of her.

He allowed himself a glance at her back. Strong shoulders curved down to a narrow waist. The bikini rode low on her hips, revealing the tiny V that only belonged to a woman with a good derrière. A ragged scar was carved into her lower back, in a looping formation. He narrowed his eyes. Not a scar.

“Who is Jasper?”

Her head snapped around, her eyes wide. “What?”

“Your tattoo. Former tattoo.”

She twisted, straining to look, as if it was the first she’d heard of it. “Someone I’d rather forget.”