A Question of Honor Page 14

  She raised her eyes. “That’s an understatement. It’s the only place where we can escape.”

  The noose was closing around them. Noah sensed it. “Well, as long as Dante doesn’t discover where you are, that’s a big point in our favor,” he groused, more to himself than her.

  She put the tomatoes in the salad, choosing a scallion to add to it. “Every month I lived at Garcia’s fortress with Dante at his side, I sweated. I knew the longer I stayed, the higher my chances were of being discovered.”

  “No wonder you ended up with stomach ulcers.”

  Kit pursed her lips. “Well, Chuck told me ulcers and migraines are the occupational hazards of an undercover agent.”

  “So much for Cordeman’s philosophy. If he’d taken better care of you, the ulcers wouldn’t have been the outcome.”

  Kit ignored the jab, realizing that no matter what she said about her other boss, Noah wasn’t going to agree. A shiver coursed down her spine.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Kit muttered, wiping her hands on a towel.

  Noah got to his feet, placing his hands on her shoulders and turning her to face him. God, she looked incredibly unguarded at that moment. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and caressing her flushed cheek. “Tell me,” he commanded.

  Kit shivered beneath Noah’s low, disturbing voice. She took an unsteady breath, aware of the desire within her to kiss that male mouth that tore her senses apart. He lifted her above every fear and depression into the yearning euphoria she hungered to explore with him again. She saw so much in his eyes, wanting to lose herself within them and know that she was safe. A broken smile came to her lips.

  “It’s Dante,” she admitted.

  He searched Kit’s very still face, and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “And?”

  “Dante’s a snake, Noah.” Her eyes glazed with the remembrance that had haunted her nightly dreams with regularity. “I worked with that sick bastard for a year down there at the Colombian fortress. I sweated around Dante more than all of them put together. I never knew if he was going to pull a knife on me or what.”

  “Did he try to—”

  She grimaced. “No, thank God. He had other preferences besides women. I suppose I should be thankful, but…” Her voice trailed off as she relived one frightening episode with Dante. She felt Noah’s hand sliding down her hair in a reassuring gesture. Forcing a smile, Kit said, “I’m too old for this business, Noah. I’ve seen too much.”

  “Maybe you ought to resign,” he murmured, “and go after that teaching certificate.”

  Reluctantly Kit withdrew from him, turning to put the salad on the table. “Maybe I should.”

  Frustrated by the vise Kit was caught in, Noah busied himself setting the table. He wanted to say; Dammit, Cordeman has pulled out every human emotion you had and then put it through a blender, Kit. You need a nice safe job like teaching. You don’t need street action to tear holes in your stomach and shatter your senses. But he remained silent, realizing Kit would no more quit Operation Storm than Cordeman would. Was her life worth getting Garcia? He didn’t think so, wishing mightily for an escape for her. But there was none. They had to take things one week at a time, netting the drug dealers trying to reach the Florida coast, waiting and watching for Garcia to make his move.

  Chapter Ten

  Something was wrong. Kit could sense it. After another grueling month of seven-day weeks, she had come down with stomach flu on Friday and stayed home. Noah had left that morning without her for the first time. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall: it was now 8:00 p.m. He’d promised that if he was going to be late, someone from Coast Guard headquarters would notify her. But no call had come. Where was he?

  The police portion of her brain began to work overtime. Dante and his contract killers were making every effort to find her, according to the snitches. Had they discovered that Noah was protecting her? Had they kidnapped him as he stepped off the Osprey? Killed him? She escaped to the living room, a deep sense of anguish searing through her.

  Biting her lower lip, Kit stared at the front door. Come through the door, she begged silently. Please, Noah, just come home…. Burying her face in her hands, Kit forced herself to take a deep breath. What was happening to her? Living with Noah since they had made love had been like a never-ending dream. The warmth between them was undeniable, just as the longing in his stormy green eyes when she caught him staring at her during quiet moments at home was nearly unbearable. They wanted each other so badly. But if they allowed their emotions to rule their heads, it would take their alertness away from the danger that surrounded them, and possibly get them killed.

  Kit paced back and forth from the living room to the foyer. She had planned a special dinner for Noah tonight to let him know how much she missed being at his side. Her lips thinned, and she walked over to the phone sitting on the lamp table in the living room. She had to call someone…but whom? She picked up the address book on the table and flipped to the last page where Noah had scribbled the number he could be reached at in an emergency.

  Her hand hovered over the phone. She wasn’t supposed to make a call for any reason! The line might be tapped, and her cover would be blown. Snitches who worked for Dante could be anywhere. Kit’s eyes narrowed as she stared down at the phone. Swallowing convulsively, she made the decision. Just as she touched the receiver, the phone rang. Startled, Kit jerked her hand back, her heart slamming against her rib cage.

  The phone rang four times before she reached out to pick up the receiver. She wasn’t supposed to answer the phone either, but Kit couldn’t combat the terror she was experiencing….

  “We’ve got a live one, Skipper,” Joe said excitedly.

  Handing the hot list to the ensign, Noah smiled grimly. “The Sanchez is registered in the U.S. This is our lucky day.”

  Noah motioned for the ensign to take over the helm, and watched the hundred-foot ship bobbing a mile away from them. “This is the second one today,” he muttered, thinking that this meant he wasn’t going to make it home before midnight. The sun had already set. Worried about Kit all day, he hadn’t been as alert as he might have been. She had been deathly sick all night. This morning when he’d gone to her bedroom, she’d still been weak from the flu.

  “She’s definitely low profile,” Joe said, pointing at the ship.

  “Yes.” Twisting around, Noah ordered the boarding party to prepare for another search.

  The Osprey came alive, but Noah remained seemingly immune to the sudden activity surrounding him. The thrumming of the Osprey’s mighty engines accelerating to close the distance between it and the Sanchez filled the air. He pulled his baseball cap an inch lower, his gaze intent on the other boat.

  “You taking this boarding, Skipper?” Edwards wanted to know.

  “Yes. I’ll run it from the deck of the Sanchez. You stay on the bridge and coordinate the radio and other necessary communications.”

  Edwards’s blue eyes danced with excitement. “I wish it was my turn.”

  A thread of a noncommittal smile pulled at Noah’s mouth. He was aware of everything at the moment. Adrenaline was surging through his bloodstream, heightening his five senses and giving him that extrasensory perception that might be needed—might save him or one of his men from death by a smuggler’s bullet. “Next time, Joe,” he murmured.

  Noah took the binoculars and watched the activity aboard the Sanchez. The ship listed and wallowed like a pregnant whale, far below the safety waterline. Noah counted three open hatches on her deck. Scowling, he put down the binoculars.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Joe.”

  The ensign nodded, skillfully easing the Osprey alongside the Sanchez. “Three hatches. Not good. The hold must be huge. They could have gunmen hiding down there anywhere.” Edwards passed a quick look to his skipper. “Just be careful…”

  Noah was handed an M-16 rifle by a member of the boarding party. A slight grin touc
hed his mouth. “I’ve got everything in the world to live for, Joe. I’m not about to waste my life on a drug runner.” He placed the portable radio on his belt and stepped from the bridge. “I’ll stay in touch once we get aboard,” he promised.

  Vaguely Noah heard Edwards’s commanding voice coming over the PA system, ordering the Sanchez to heave to and allow them to board. Noah’s mind was on his work, but his heart lingered on Kit. It was true. He did have everything to live for. He’d found Kit. Noah walked down the immaculate deck of the Osprey to join his waiting five-man party. Like the crew, Noah was dressed in the one-piece dark blue Coast Guard uniform. They all wore flak jackets.

  Petty Officer Jack Formen approached him. “We’re ready, Skipper.”

  “Good. Lock and load,” Noah ordered his men quietly. The metallic sound of ammunition magazines being loaded into the lethal weapons was heard. The Osprey loomed over the Sanchez. Noah saw only two half-naked crewmen in sight. They were dark skinned. Probably Colombian. His jaw clenched as his gaze swept across the vessel. His instincts told him the rest of the motley crew was down in the hold, waiting.

  “What do you think?” Noah asked Formen.

  The petty officer of forty-five shook his graying head. “Not good, Skipper. This tub’s too big to be run by those two dudes.”

  Noah’s mouth quirked as he nodded, bracing himself to compensate for the movement of the Osprey. “Yeah…okay, men, let’s watch ourselves very carefully,” he warned the party.

  Noah gave Formen a nod, and the six men leaped from one ship deck to the other. The three hatches looked like yawning, cavernous mouths to Noah. He ordered McMorrison, the youngest crewman, to detain and search the two Sanchez men standing on the bridge. Noah’s sensitive nostrils detected the sweet odor of marijuana. He motioned Formen to his side.

  “You take the first hatch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Noah looked at the other two men. “Dawson and Crinita, you take the second hatch. I’ll take the third.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dawson said.

  Noah turned to the last man, Sullivan. “You wait up here in case we get into trouble,” he commanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The silence became deafening as Noah walked lightly across the cluttered deck laden with coils of rope. The Sanchez was a garbage scow, with rust in evidence everywhere. In the gray light of dusk, everything became indistinguishable. They would have to descend those wooden ladders into either total darkness or dimly lit areas where precious seconds would be lost until their eyes adjusted.

  Noah’s heart began a slow pound as he released the M-16's safety, readying the weapon. His hand tightened around the rifle and he slowed his step, trying to discern if anyone was waiting with gun in hand at the bottom of the hold. His eyes couldn’t pierce the gloom. Noah walked cautiously around the hold, lifting his head momentarily to see if Formen or the other team had descended yet. They were getting ready to go down. Sweat trickled down his temples. Gripping the splintered ladder and swinging over the hold entrance, he winced at the powerful odor of marijuana. Grimly Noah glanced around. The feeble light from several electric light bulbs left huge areas of gray shadow throughout the cavernous hold.

  Noah descended to the lower deck, turning, his back against the ladder. Silence. He pulled the radio from his belt. Putting his mouth close to it, he pressed the button. “Nothing so far, Joe. Stay alert,” he ordered.

  Replacing the radio, Noah allowed his hearing to do the work for him. His eyes were adjusting and he saw his other three men coming down into the hold. Bales of tightly wrapped and freshly dried marijuana were packed everywhere with the exception of a few key aisles.

  There was the sound of a metallic click. Cold horror washed over Noah. “Formen!” he yelled, “look out!” and assumed a crouched position.

  Before Formen could react, the roar of gunfire shattered the silence. The petty officer was knocked off his feet. He slumped to the deck, wounded. The smell of spent ammunition stung Noah’s flared nostrils as he raced down the central aisle toward his wounded crewman. Screams, curses and more gunfire mingled in earsplitting explosions all around him. Noah saw four Sanchez crewmen hiding behind bales, firing away at his men. Everything blanked out in his mind except the imperative to pin down the enemy.

  “Crinita, Dawson!” he roared, “four men at eleven o’clock!” He threw himself flat on the hard surface of the deck, rolling over twice as his men fired in that direction. Finding protection against a bale, Noah glanced toward Formen, who lay unconscious only twenty feet away. Blood was pooling rapidly to surround the area where he lay. The bluish haze of gunfire drifted through the poorly lit hold, the vicious red-and-yellow flames from the muzzles of the rifles ripping through the air.

  Sweat covered Noah’s face as he gestured for Dawson and Crinita to outflank the Sanchez crewmen. Grabbing his radio, Noah shouted orders back to Edwards.

  “We need help! Get a medic over here. Formen’s down!” Dammit, Formen was bleeding to death! Noah shouldered the M-16, aiming carefully, firing. Dawson and Crinita were working their way into position to pin down the enemy. If only…Noah flipped the rifle on full automatic, spraying at the Sanchez crewmen. He lurched to his feet, laying down a blistering wall of fire that gave him cover as he sprinted to where Formen lay.

  Noah looked up as he stood over his petty officer. Sullivan was waiting anxiously at the top of the hold.

  “Get ready to take him up!” Noah yelled. “I’ll push him up the ladder!”

  Dropping his weapon, Noah pulled Formen into his arms. He had to get him topside or he would die! Grunting from the weight, Noah maneuvered Formen to the ladder and pushed him upward. Helping hands reached downward, hooking beneath Formen’s armpits. With one mighty shove, Noah boosted the unconscious petty officer up and out of the hold to safety. Another spate of gunfire erupted. Wood splintered and exploded all around him. Noah clenched his teeth, dropping to the deck below. In those horrifying seconds, he knew he was the target they were gunning for. Suddenly life became precious as Noah leaned down to grab his rifle. But a bullet found him and he was slammed to the deck. He felt a searing flame of white heat in his left arm as an electric jolt ripped up into his shoulder and neck.

  He shook his head to clear the shock of being hit and hung on to his weapon with his right hand. A Sanchez crewman suddenly leaped from behind a bale and ran toward him, his revolver lifted. As Noah tried to raise his left arm to steady the wavering barrel of his rifle, he found he couldn’t move his fingers.

  The crewman sprinted closer, screaming curses. He waved the revolver wildly in his right hand and bore down on Noah, who stood between him and freedom via the hold ladder. Noah gasped as he forced his left arm to move. He had to lift the rifle or he’d be dead in seconds. Blood flowed heavily from his arm, staining his uniform, as he forced his numbed left fingers to steady the weapon.

  The crewman was lowering the revolver. Aiming it directly at Noah’s chest as he leaped the last few feet toward the ladder. Noah heard Dawson scream at the crewman to drop the gun. He didn’t. Noah lifted the M-16. Pain raged through the left side of his body as he squeezed the trigger. The jerk of the rifle tore through him and he cried out, dropping the weapon after firing it, rolling onto his side and grabbing his left shoulder. The Sanchez crewman was hurled backward by the impact of the bullet, dead.

  “Son of a bitch,” Noah sobbed between clenched teeth. Blood. He was bleeding heavily. His mind was clearing, but he knew he was in shock. One look at his forearm and he knew the bullet had severed a major artery. He would bleed to death right here. No! his heart screamed. Kit. What about Kit? Dammit, you can’t bleed to death! He was aware of Dawson running down the aisle, kneeling at his side.

  “Get me a tourniquet,” Noah gasped. “Anything…for God’s sake, hurry!”

  Dawson’s eyes widened as he stared down at his skipper. “Yes, sir!” he breathed, scrambling up the ladder and yelling for the corpsman.

  Noah
fell back, pressing as hard as he could on the injured area. Closing his eyes, he fought off the first tidal wave of blackness. I don’t want to die in this lousy hold. I want to live. Kit…Dammit, I want to live! Got to have time for Kit…Isn’t the bleeding going to stop? Noah groaned as he felt his strength begin to ebb. He’d lost too much blood and his eyesight was dimming. If he lost consciousness, his hand would slip from the wound. Where was help? Where the hell was Dawson with a tourniquet? And Jack…Jack Formen. God, was he still alive? Kit…I need you… Anger mingled with despair and Noah felt coldness seeping into his lower extremities. He knew what that meant. He lay sprawled on the splintered wooden deck between huge bales of marijuana, wondering if he was going to die without being able to tell Kit just how much she meant to him….

  Kit wrapped her hand around the receiver shakily, then finally jerked it off the cradle. “Hello,” she croaked, trying to steady her voice.

  “Kit, this is Cordeman.”

  Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the receiver. “What’s wrong, Chuck?” she gasped.

  “There was a firefight involving the Osprey. Trayhern and another Coast Guard crewman were wounded in the action. They’re being brought to the trauma unit of the naval hospital in Miami.”

  No! her heart screamed. The trauma unit was reserved for critical cases only. Noah had been involved in a gun incident. “Oh, my God,” she cried.

  “They’ll be arriving shortly by Coast Guard helicopter. There’s an emergency team standing by and—”

  Kit dropped the phone and raced to her bedroom to grab her purse. She didn’t care if she blew her cover by showing up in a public place. Noah was injured and she wasn’t going to wait patiently at home for further word on him. She took the keys to the silver Toyota, which Noah used as a second car. Using the automatic garage door opener, Kit waited impatiently for the door to lift. Hurry! Hurry! Her world was suddenly blown apart. Noah, loving, trusting Noah, who always smiled and looked on the positive side of life, had been shot. How bad was it? What kind of gun? Depending on the type, the bullet could do minimal or maximum damage. She swallowed against the lump in her throat as she backed the Toyota out of the driveway, intent on only one thing: being with Noah.