Born Ready

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?”

“I’m going to put my arms down now.” He started to lower his arms.

“Keep your hands up!” she barked.

Slowly, he raised his arms back up, squinted against the glare of the light. “Is that you, Jackie Birch?”

She didn’t know what to do. She moistened her lips, hesitated.

It was all the time he needed. He dropped to the floor of his boat.

Startled, she moved the light to track him, but when her beam caught him again, he was back on his feet, a real gun in his hand.

Pointed straight at her.

She immediately switched off the light. It was her turn to dive to the floor of her boat.

“You don’t have a gun, do you?” he taunted. “You’re all bluster.”

Crap! How was she going to get out of this? From her spot on the bottom of the boat, she eyed the keys dangling in the ignition. If she stood up, she’d be in his line of direct fire, but maybe she could ease over, start the engine and—

“It’s over, Birch,” he said. “Give it up.”

What the hell was he talking about? Give what up? He was the one stealing her equipment.

Anger warred with fear. She wanted to confront him, demand to know who he was and what he was doing, but he had a gun. She had no idea what he was capable of. Gone was the affable guy she’d met that morning. In his place was a man hard-core enough to pull a gun on an unarmed woman.

You started it. You told him that you had a gun.

And she was going to end it.

She scooted on her butt until she was close enough to reach the keys, never mind the Astro Turf on the floor of the boat burning her thighs. She heard the sound of heavy footsteps but didn’t dare look up. She had to get out of here before he tried to board her boat.

With one hand she started the engine. With the other, she slammed the boat into Reverse. The craft dizzily spun backward.

Jackie pulled herself up onto the seat but kept her head down.

Everly uttered a curse and a split second later the sound of his boat engine churned the night air.

Heart pounding in her throat, she goosed the accelerator and took off down the channel. She would have preferred the ocean as an escape route but she would have had to go past him in order to get there. Clearly, he would have no compunction about ramming her boat or shooting her for that matter.

Who was he and what did he want? He couldn’t simply be a competing researcher. Not even her father’s assistants would take things this far.

What if he was a smuggler and she’d accidentally staked a claim near his port of operation? She’d heard colorful stories about drug smugglers, had dismissed them as urban legends. Now she wished she had not been so cavalier.

Boone had told her that her single-mindedness would get her into trouble one day. She should have listened. Wistfully, she wondered if she’d ever see her brother again. She didn’t know him well, but he was the only sibling she had, the only connection to her mother.

She pushed down on the throttle, running her skiff full-out, but the bigger pursuit boat was gaining on her. The moon had started to rise, blazing a silver light over the water. Speed-generated wind blew her hair out behind her, whipping over her ears.

His engine revved, whining high and hot. In the rearview mirror she saw him move to the left. He was going to overtake her.

Go, go, go.

But there was no more power left in her dinky boat. It had nothing left to give.

She let out a cry of alarm. What to do? What to do? She could slow down, let him pass her, try to whip around and head for the ocean, but she knew she couldn’t outrun him. The scenario would be the same, only in the opposite direction.

Yet, she could not surrender. Could not give up without a fight.

You could always go into the water.

Water. The one place she always felt safe.

His boat caught up to hers. They were racing neck and neck down the channel. Mangrove trees whipped by on both sides. At this speed, in the dark, wrecking was a distinct possibility.

Dread crouched on her shoulders, but she kept going because she did not know what else to do. She’d learned a long time ago to bury her emotions. Deny them power over her actions.

He honked his horn.

She refused to look over. Fear was a marching band, ramming a cacophony of adrenaline through her veins. Her temple throbbed. Her fisted hands tightened around the wheel. Her thoughts galloped, but no solutions materialized. She should have moved her equipment when she’d run across him this morning. Why hadn’t she moved her equipment?

Because that was where her research had led her. Because in her single-mindedness she’d neglected to realize how vulnerable she was. Because she’d been so invested in showing up her father that she hadn’t paid any attention to the threats around her.

Stupid, stupid girl. She could hear her father now.

Berating herself wasn’t helping. She had to think. What was she going to do?

Everly’s boat overtook hers. He pulled around in front of her, and started slowing down. She had no choice but to slow down, too, or ram into him.

Go ahead ram him.

Except her skiff would smash to smithereens in the process. He had one hand on the wheel, but he was looking back at her, the gun extended from his other hand. Moonlight washed over his bare chest. He was still mostly naked except for a pair of dark boxer briefs.

“Stop your boat,” he ordered.

She started to jerk the wheel to the left to try to bolt.

“Don’t make me shoot you,” he warned.

Defeat drained every bit of energy from her body. She turned off the engine.

“Good move,” he said in a tone so patronizing she wanted to smack him. He wheeled his boat around, edged it alongside hers, cut the engine.

Narrowed, steely eyes met hers. His jaw was set. His gun pointed right at her heart. “Hands up.”

Slowly, she raised her arms over her head.

Time slowed, moved like syrup.

This was it. She was about to be raped or killed or both. She gritted her teeth, curled her fingernails into her palms.

No, no, I’m not going down without a fight. I’ll take my last breath fighting.

“United States Coast Guard,” Scott barked. “Face down on the floor. Prepare to be boarded.”

4

There’s no such thing as a Coast Guard on vacation.

—Marcy Dugan, public relations liaison, Sector Key West

SCOTT STOOD ON THE BOW of her small craft, playing his flashlight over the prostrate woman, alarmed by the jolt of sexual awareness passing through him. He couldn’t want her. He shouldn’t want her.

But he did.

Gotta stop these inappropriate impulses, Everly. Six months is too long. You need to get laid. Clear your head. ASAP.

“You … you’re really Coast Guard?” Relief leaked from her voice, filled the starry night air.

She lay on the floor of the boat, her hands clasped behind her back, wrists crossed together over her fanny, awaiting his handcuffs. Problem was, his cuffs were in the pants pocket of his uniform on his boat. Not to mention he was standing there in nothing but boxer briefs plastered wetly against his thighs and his half boner.

Briefly, he closed his eyes, licked his lips, struggled for control.

She raised her head from the floor, turned her face upward, squinted into the light.

Terrified that she would get a glimpse of his arousal, Scott commanded, “Face down!”

She obeyed, planting her chin back on the Astro Turf.

Scott wasn’t sure what to do next. He couldn’t let her up until he’d resolved his body’s unwanted involuntary response. He swallowed hard.

Quick, think of something libido crushing.

But all he could think about was how long and sexy her legs looked in those cutoff blue jeans.

Scott clenched his jaw. Global warming. The state of health care. The national debt.

“What have I done?” she asked. “What laws have I broken?”

He didn’t know what to do. Let her up? Go put on his clothes? But if he stopped to put on his clothes, she could make another run for it. Not that she could escape, but he didn’t want the hassle of chasing her down again.

Scott shone the light around her boat, looking for something to restrain her with, spied a rope coiled in the corner. It was too big and thick, but it would have to do.

“The least you could do is answer me,” she said. “This is pretty outrageous. You chase me down, pull a gun on me—”

“You pulled a gun on me first.” He retrieved the rope.

“I didn’t have a gun.”

“I didn’t know that.” He settled his SIG Sauer P229R and the flashlight on the short bow and leaned over to tie her up.

“Are you sure you’re Coast Guard?”

His fingers skimmed her soft skin as he looped the rope around her slender wrists. He could feel her breathing in angry gulps of air. The erection he thought he’d conquered stirred again.

Dammit!

Scott tugged on the ropes, making sure they were secure.

“You’re rude, you know that? How am I supposed to know you’re Coast Guard? You don’t identify yourself. You’re not in a Coast Guard cutter. You’re in your underwear—”

“Lieutenant Commander Scott Everly at your service,” he said. “And I’m on leave.”

“So if you’re on vacation do you even have the authority to manhandle me?” she seethed.

“I am when I see a crime being committed.”

“What crime?” she yelled.

“Easy there, mermaid.”

“Don’t patronize me.” She chafed.

He straightened, turned, moved away.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“To solve the underwear situation.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ignoring her, he picked up his duty weapon and flashlight and stepped back onto his boat.

“What are you doing? You’re not just going to leave me tied up here!”

In spite of himself, Scott smiled. She was a feisty one. He’d grant her that. He dressed quickly, finally feeling fully in control again, holstered his duty weapon, retrieved the cylinder he’d found attached to the Kevlar cable and returned to her skiff. He reached down, hauled her to her feet and played the beam of his flashlight over her.

She sent him a blistering scowl. “I demand to know what I’m being charged with.”

“Have a seat,” he said mildly, indicating the captain’s chair.

“No.” Defiantly, she raised her chin.

He gave her his sternest military officer glare. “Do you really want to go there?”

“Bully.” Petulantly, she settled onto the seat.

“You’ve got some mouth on you.” He sank onto the small bench seat opposite her.

She narrowed her eyes, stuck out her tongue.

“Height of maturity.”

“Just tell me what the hell you want.”

He planed his palms over the tops of his thighs, felt the crisp material of his navy blue uniform. He held up the cylinder. “What is this?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Now is not the time for flippancy. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“For what?”

“This for one thing.” He waggled the cylinder under her nose.

“Stop it,” she spat through clenched teeth. “You’ve messed up everything. I’m going to have to start all over.”

“What is it?” he pressured.

“The ADVOcean-Hydra.”

“What does it do?”

She rolled her eyes. “It uses Doppler technology to measure 3-D water velocity in a wide range of environments including surf zone, open ocean, rivers, lakes and estuaries. Know any more than you did before you asked?”

Scott studied her in the light from his boat’s headlamps. Either she was telling the truth or she was a superb liar. “Just who are you, Jackie Birch?”

She pulled herself up straight. She glowered as if she wanted to deck him. He was glad he’d tied her hands. “I’m a college student.”

“You seem a little old to be a college student. Slow learner?” Okay, so he was baiting her.

“PhD candidate, Skippee.”

Skippee? He suppressed a smile. He had no right being intrigued by her. For all he knew she was DeCristo’s drug mule. “PhD in what?”

“Marine biology. Not that it’s any of your business.” She wriggled against her restraints. “What am I being charged with? I have a right to know.”

“I’m the one asking the questions.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

“Who are you calling?”

“Running a background check. Got your driver’s license on you?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “No.”

He clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk. You should carry ID on you at all times. Do you know your license number off the top of your head?”

She huffed out a breath. “I’ve got a confession.”

Confession? His gut tightened. She was going to admit she was working for DeCristo. “Let me guess, you’re not really a marine biologist wannabe.”

“My name’s not really Birch.”

“Aha, now we’re getting somewhere.” An exquisite sadness washed over him thinking that this woman had gotten entangled with scum like DeCristo. Don’t cut her any slack. She’s old enough to know what she’s doing.

“Yeah, down a freakin’ rabbit hole, Alice,” she snapped.

“Not really proficient in people skills, are you?”

“As if you’re a regular Benjamin Franklin.”

“Cacti have friendlier personalities than you.”

“Ouch,” she said sarcastically. “You are so mean. How will I ever survive a cut like that? There’s a reason people give cactus a wide birth.”

Scott leaned forward. This was bad. He liked her spunk. “What’s your real name?”

“Jacqueline Birchard.”

“What?”

She repeated her name.

An odd relief pushed out his sadness. She wasn’t working for DeCristo? Why did he so want to believe that was the case?

“Any kin to Jack Birchard?” he asked hopefully.

She sighed. “He’s my father.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Happy now? You’ve discovered my big dark secret.” Her nostrils flared.

This was the renowned oceanographer’s daughter? Chagrin poked at Scott. His desire to stop DeCristo had led to a grave error in judgment.

“Wow,” he said, “I’m a big admirer of your father’s work.”

Her sigh deepened. “Yes, yes, he hung the moon and milked the stars. Your fan worship is adorable.”

“Don’t get along with the old man?”

“My, you are astute. The Coast Guard must be so proud.”

“It’s gotta be tough living in Jack Birchard’s shadow.”

“You know just how to make a girl feel special. I bet women fall all over themselves to see you in your BVDs.”

Scott ran a palm over his head, blew out his breath. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“Through no fault of mine.”

He let the sarcasm pass. He deserved it. He’d jumped to conclusions. He wasn’t normally so trigger-happy, but DeCristo’s latest exploits had hot-wired his emotions. “What are you doing out here alone?”

“I was trying to find out who was messing around with my data recording instruments. Imagine my surprise to find a vacationing Coast Guard in his underwear who then chased me down and tied me up. It might be sexy if I was into bondage, but since I’m not …” She stood up, turned around. “Untie me.”

Feeling foolish but not wanting her to know it, Scott tugged on the rope and it fell free, but in the process, his hand brushed lightly against her fanny and triggered another unwanted physical reaction in him. Pathetic.

He sat back, placed her monitoring device in his lap to cover what popped up.

She pivoted to face him again, brought her hands up to rub her wrists.

“So,” she said, standing over him. “Who did you think I was?”

He wasn’t at liberty to discuss DeCristo, but he wanted her warned. “We’ve had reports that drug smugglers have been using the mangrove channels to transport contraband with attractive young women as drug mules.”