Better Off Dead

Lindsey sat at her desk to do some work on her computer, and Zach settled at her feet. She finished in less than ten minutes. What she was doing wasn’t much of a challenge for someone who had a CPA license.

In WITSEC you weren’t allowed to work in your own profession. That would make it too easy for enemies to find you. They insisted you take a job in a new, unrelated field.

Boy had she ever. If only her friends could see her now. And Tyler. What would he say, if he knew she owned a jewelry shop?

Don’t go there.

Dwelling on the past only meant depression. And anger. She was entitled to a normal life.

The life that rightfully belonged to Samantha Robbins.

She shouldn’t have to reinvent herself. They’d broken the law—not her. But in one of life’s baffling ironies, they were free—pending trial—and she was in hiding.

A cell without walls.

That’s what she’d been told in the safe house where they’d debriefed her and prepared her for a new life in WITSEC. They had been more right than she ever could have imagined.

Provo, Turks and Caicos Islands

SITTING IN A CABANA-style beach lounge, Chad Langston stared out at the expanse of blue water beyond Grace Bay’s twelve-mile crescent of sugar-white sand. He’d just finished reviewing the coroner’s report. Cause of death: drowning.

“Yeah, right,” Chad said out loud, half-listening to the melodic sound of the surf gently breaking on the shore.

Robert Townsend IV had been an experienced master diver who’d come to this swank resort in the Caribbean specifically to dive “the wall” on Long Cay. The steep wall plunged seven thousand feet and was rated expert. How could he successfully complete that challenging deep water dive, then the following day go on a newbie’s dive and drown?

Not only didn’t it make sense, the coroner’s report sucked. No tissue samples had been taken. No toxicology report. Nada.

Okay, okay. What in hell did he expect?

The coroner was the local mortician in the capital of Grand Turk, which wasn’t surprising. Turks and Caicos Islands were a British colony half an hour southeast of the Bahamas. Once a hideaway for notorious Caribbean pirates, the eight islands were now a haven for divers and fishermen.

Serious crime was rare. They weren’t geared up to investigate the way cities in the States were. The coroner had taken one look at the body and decided drowning was the cause of death.

Townsend had been found floating, facedown, in his scuba equipment on Iguana Key. Air was still in his tank and he was close enough to shore to have waded in.

“Go figure.”

The place to start would be with Townsend’s diving gear. The coroner should have spotted an obvious problem, but experience had taught Chad that even the most competent professionals overlooked things. The local mortician didn’t rank high on anyone’s competency list.

Townsend had been a sixty-two-year-old man with a wife thirty years younger and a considerable fortune. Fidelity Insurance had hired Chad to see if his death could be suicide. If it were, they wouldn’t have to pay the five mil life insurance policy. If Townsend had killed himself, he’d used a unique method.

“Yo, Langston.”

Who in hell knew him here? He peered out from under the lounge’s blue canvas shade and saw Archer Danson strolling across the sand in front of Ocean Club West—all white skin that hadn’t seen the sun in years and skinny legs with knock knees.

“Son of a bitch! What are you doing here?”

“Tracking you down.”

Chad moved his legs to one side, and Danson sat on the end of Chad’s lounge and pushed his shades to the top of his head. He always tried to be cool but ended up looking even nerdier—if that was possible. Danson’s slathered-on sunscreen made him smell like a French whorehouse, overwhelming the pleasant scent of frangipani drifting through the tropical air.

Who could look down at a sweet little baby in a crib and call it Archer? They must have had a nickname for him. As Archer grew up, the kids would have teased him, Chad decided.

Chad had been lucky—if you called growing up in a small house with three sisters lucky. Being tall with dark hair and having a gift for sports meant he’d been popular. And happy. He sensed Danson had never been happy. The man lived for his work.

“Danson, how in hell did you find me?”

With a shrug, Danson grinned. “Your secretary said you were out of town on business. I—”

“Gimme a break.” He knew Danson must have hacked into the airlines’ databases and seen he’d flown out of Honolulu to Turks and Caicos through Miami and the Bahamas. “What’s so important?”

“We need some testing done.”

Chad didn’t bother to ask what Danson had developed for DARPA now. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—DARPA—operated out of the Defense Department and had been credited with some of the world’s most revolutionary inventions.

Global positioning, stealth technology, drones, and the mouse all had been some of their brilliant, innovative ideas. Their motto was “no idea is too wild.” Well, hell some of their ideas were screwed-up. FutureMap, an online futures market to predict terrorist attacks, had left the Congress and the public reeling with disbelief.

“My testing days are over,” Chad told him with just a touch of regret. “In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been a civilian for over eight years now.”

Chad managed to say this and keep a straight face. Danson headed special projects for DARPA. He had access to everyone’s records. He knew exactly what Chad had been doing.

Not that his career was any secret. He was still in touch with most of the Delta Force guys who’d served with him in Desert Storm. Some were still in the military, while others, like him, had opted for a so-called normal life.

“I know you’re an underwater forensic expert.” Danson’s tone was clipped, a sure sign he was pissed. Like lots of military types, Danson was big on respect. He didn’t appreciate a former subordinate giving him a ration of grief. Of course, Chad didn’t give a rat’s ass what Danson thought.

“Underwater forensics means—”

“I know. You’re Sherlock Holmes with a scuba tank. You contract out to police departments that don’t have an underwater expert, but most of your work is for insurance companies who balk at paying certain claims. Like Townsend.”

Chad gazed at Danson, not surprised to learn the man knew exactly what he was doing down here.

“Look, we’re prepared to pay you a bundle to test for us.”

“Why not use one of your own boys?” Chad would be damned before he’d act curious, but he was. DARPA usually tested its own inventions. Why didn’t they want to test this?

“Good question.” Danson fiddled with the shades perched on top of his balding head. “We don’t want word to leak out on this one. Too sensitive. You still have your SAP/SAR.”

Why hadn’t the military terminated his top secret clearance? Special Access Program/Special Access Required—SAP/SAR—was damn tough to get. The light dawned. DARPA had kept his SAP/SAR active in case they needed him.

“You could do this, Chad, make some easy dough, and still snoop around under water all you want.”

“What is it that you want me to test?”

“I can’t tell you until you agree to test and sign the mandatory confidentiality document.”

“Then count me out until I know what it is. How else can I decide if I’ll have the time or interest?”

“Christ, Langston, you’re pressing your luck.”