And there he was.
“Target visual,” I murmured, angling the screen so Grace could see. “White-and-graphite yacht, private slip F-12. Dvorak’s on deck.”
Bones followed my gaze. “What’s he doing?”
“Pretending he’s on vacation,” I answered as Voodoo and Lunchbox joined us. “Drink in hand. Shirt unbuttoned. Absolute prick energy.”
Grace squinted at the feed. “That yacht is—something else.”
“Understatement,” Lunchbox muttered.
“We need him off the boat. Or isolated on it.” Bones was already tracking angles, exits, and choke points.
Grace tilted her head. “I could distract him.”
Bones gave her a long, slow look. The kind that saidabsolutely not, what the hell are you thinkingwithout a single word.
She blinked back at him. “What? This is definitely bikini weather. And he’s on a boat. Approaching directly would be a challenge, right?”
I didn’t argue with her. Because she wasn’t wrong. If anyone could convince him it was Gracie, the Bones whisperer.
Gracie strolling down that dock would draw every hetero eye for fifty yards. Probably more, really. Voodoo pressed his lips together like he was trying not to grin. Lunchbox failed at trying not to grin.
Bones closed his eyes briefly like he was negotiating with the universe. Then he exhaled through his nose. “Alphabet, get us access to the private docks.”
“Already on it,” I said, fingers flying. The marina’s security system was a joke. “We’ll be able to slide right through the gate for the next fifteen minutes or so.”
Bones jerked his chin. “Voodoo. Lunchbox.”
Both men straightened.
“Rock, paper, scissors. One of you goes water-side, approaches from the stern.”
Voodoo groaned. “Really?”
Bones didn’t blink. “Really.”
They squared off like five-year-olds.
“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!”
Lunchbox threw scissors.
Voodoo threw rock.
Lunchbox swore under his breath. “Damn it.”
But Voodoo grinned like a wolf. “Enjoy the swim.”
Bones cut their bickering with a low growl that snapped them both to attention. “Voodoo, get eyes on the starboardwalkway. Lunchbox, water approach. Alphabet covers cameras. I’ll monitor movement.”
Then he looked at Grace.
“Dollface,” he said low, warning already woven into his voice, “you’re distraction only. No contact. No approach. No physical closeness.”
She flashed him a grin that was one hundred percent trouble and sunshine. “I know. Just distraction.”
That didn’t reassure any of us. She was already stripping, right there, between the car doors with Voodoo and Bones playing blocks as Lunchbox stripped off his own shirt and down to shorts.
