Born Ready

She entertained the idea that he might not be the simple kayaker he seemed. He could be spying on her. A competitor bent on stealing her research. Hell, her father could have sent him.

That thought was unsettling, but it was the sort of stunt her father might pull. Jack Birchard could say one thing and then do the exact opposite. The interest that the University of California had shown her project would be just the thing to make him change his mind. Except, his hubris would never allow him to admit he was wrong.

You ‘re letting your imagination run away with you. Everly isn’t after your research. He was just a good old boy out in his kayak.

Jackie leaned on the railing and took a deep breath of the sultry summer air. Duvall Street was not far away and she could hear the sound of revelers stumbling in and out of the bars that Hemingway had once frequented.

She wondered if Everly was a tourist or a Conch and then wondered why she wondered. Who cared?

The ubiquitous Key West Anthem, Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville,” drifted up from the street. The smell of fried seafood floated along with the music. Jackie’s stomach growled and she realized she’d forgotten to eat again. Her last meal had been a breakfast energy bar.

She was about to pad into the kitchen to see what she could find to eat when her computer made a soft pinging noise. It was the alert system she set up to notify her of problems with the equipment.

Quickly, she hurdled the coffee table, dropped down on the sofa and snatched up the laptop just in time to see the electronic data disappear from the screen.

A curse word escaped her lips. Either something had gone haywire with the satellite feed or someone was messing around with her equipment.

SCOTT SPENT THE REMAINDER of the day with Carl in his old stomping grounds, getting educated about what Juan DeCristo had been up to. He didn’t tell Carl about Jackie. Scott knew enough about the law to make damn sure of his accusations before he threw them out there. But even so, he couldn’t help wondering if there was another reason he did not mention his encounter with the woman in the red bikini.

He didn’t want to admit, not even to himself, that he had been sexually attracted to her. Shame burned his gut. How could he be attracted to a woman involved in the drug trade?

Easy there. Remember, innocent until proven guilty. Trust your instincts. Your gut didn’t get bad vibes from her. Don’t jump to conclusions.

Still, he had to know what she’d been doing out there alone at the break of dawn.

By the end of the day, Scott knew he had to investigate and either put his mind at ease or push Jackie Birch to the top of the suspect list.

When Carl and Marcy invited him over for dinner, he begged off, asking for a rain check. He was staying in the guesthouse in his mother’s backyard, but he did not even stop in to say hello to his family when he got home. He didn’t bother changing out of the Coast Guard clothes he’d worn to visit Sector Key West. Instead, he walked straight to the motorboat docked at the pier and took off through the mangrove channel, headed for the estuary where he’d found Jackie that morning.

The sun hunkered low on the horizon. He’d be returning in the dark, but he had floodlights and the power of the Coast Guard behind him. The more he thought about what DeCristo was doing, the madder he got.

If Jackie Birch was involved in this, he’d take her down so fast it would make her gorgeous little head swim, sexual attraction be damned.

Fury flamed hot inside him, burning up his collar to his neck, and on upward to flush his cheeks. He was so fired up that it took him a while to find the spot where she’d been that morning. In fact, if the dying sunlight hadn’t glinted off the silver fish bobber, he might not have been able to find it in the thickening twilight.

“Gotcha,” he growled and motored over.

He killed the engine and tossed the anchor overboard. Anger trembled his hand as he leaned over the side of the boat to search for what was hidden in the water. His fingers brushed a small metal platform. He grabbed hold, shook it hard.

It did not give. His fear was confirmed. Jackie Birch was up to no good.

“Son of a bitch,” he swore as his gut dipped to his shoes. His stupid gut had led him astray. He’d liked her. Shame pushed away the anger. Six months without sex could ruin a man.

His furious fingers snatched at the buttons of his shirt. In five seconds flat he stripped off everything except his skivvies. He turned to lift up the passenger seat. He then dug in the compartment where he kept boating supplies, found a snorkel mask and underwater lamp. Too bad he didn’t have a diving tank with him.

Mosquitoes buzzed around his bare skin as he strapped on the mask and leashed the lamp around his wrist. A second later, he was in the water.

Silence engulfed him. It wasn’t until he was underneath the surface that he realized just how noisy it was topside—birds calling, insects singing, trees whispering in the breeze. Down here, quiet reigned.

Mangrove roots stuck out every which way, snatching at his hair, scraping against his skin. Scott flicked on the light. Fish darted past him. He examined the metal platform. It was mounted on a pole securely buried in the floor of the estuary and attached to the platform was a long black cord that stretched down as far as he could see.

He wrapped his fingers around the cord. Kevlar. He yanked. The cord did not give, but a heavy object moved, banged against the pole, vibrated the cord against his palm. Something was attached to it.

Fueled by the rumors Carl had told him about Juan DeCristo’s stealth submarine drone, Scott’s imagination ran wild. It could be a transmitting beacon. To elude detection, Birch could have hidden the beacon here and stopped back to attach it to her boat before each of her drug missions.

He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to give her every benefit of the doubt, mainly because he’d been dumbly smitten, but the evidence was pretty damning so far.

Don’t be a chump. Let the evidence speak for itself.

He needed to dive deeper.

But first, he had to go to the surface for air.

When he reached the top he saw that heavy darkness had engulfed the sun, leaving only whisper traces of daylight lingering in the evening sky. In the distance, he heard a loud splash and tried to convince himself it was an alligator or a bull shark, and not an armed drug dealer. Precisely what was Jackie capable of?

Don’t spook yourself.

He took a deep breath and dived again. With one hand on the Kevlar cord, he followed it down.

The beam of his light found the first cylindrical tube at eight feet. It was secured through the cord. He flashed the beam over the tube. It was some kind of sensor device, but what? He was not familiar enough with stealth technology to make a guess.

Air hunger drove him back to the surface. This time when he came up he saw the headlights of an approaching boat. Small craft from the sound of the engine.

Who was it? His gut roiled and he felt vulnerable, defenseless. His gun was in the boat.

The nearing craft moved at a rapid clip, coming up on him fast. There was no way he could get into his boat, get to his gun before the intruder was upon him, but he had to try.

He swam to the ladder, pulled himself up on his boat, and he was just yanking up the anchor when the headlights from the oncoming vessel caught him dead on. Now he knew how deer felt.

His soaking-wet underwear clung to his thighs. Water rolled off his body. He couldn’t see against the glare, had no idea how many people were in the boat. He was an open target. He raised an arm to shield his eyes.

The engine of the other boat died.

“You there!” a tart, sharp female voice hollered. “Stop whatever you’re doing. I have a gun and I won’t hesitate to use it.”

JACKIE WAS LYING about the gun, but she hoped the nearly naked guy poised on the back of his boat with his arm, shielding his eyes would buy her bluff. Instead of a weapon, she held a spotlight clutched tightly in her hand.

He turned directly into her spotlight, raised both arms over his head. “Don’t shoot.”

That’s when she saw that it was Scott Everly.

The anger that had sent her running from her apartment to the boat docks and propelled her here as fast as she could drive, flared high and hot.

“You!” she spat. “I should have known. Who sent you?”

“Put away the gun,” he said, his voice calm but steely.

“Who are you working for?” she demanded. “My father?”