The FBI wasn’t the only thing that had traumatized me as a child. “This is not the swamp of sadness.”
I struggled to delude myself enough to wipe that image from my brain. Yet with the first sucking step, I chickened out and decided not to try for the boat.
“Besides, Ringo has the keys. It would be useless and I’d be a sitting duck.”
Remembering how quickly Leandro had snuck up on me, I worked along the edge of the grotto until I reached a point where the cave ceiling met the waterline and the sandy floor sloped too steeply to create a beach.
I braced myself for the bone-numbing chill of mid-February water, and was shocked to find it much milder than Lake Michigan’s polar chill.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I swam through the opening and kicked toward the light.
The water was less choppy than it had been earlier, so I wasted no time paddling to the nearest point of the rocky shoreline.
Looming above me and slightly south was a squat tower. It reminded me of a casemate, armed to the teeth and ready to annihilate anyone storming the hill. I had no plans for that. Moving quickly, I found a secluded flat rock that tucked behind a stand of scrubby trees where the wind was non-existent and the tower was completely hidden. There, I stripped off the outer layer of wet clothing and wrung the excess water out. Ellie’s boots were next. I pulled the wool socks off and stuffed them over a pair of branches so they’d dry quicker. They were technically mine. And as soon as they were remotely dry, I’d put them back on.
The sun was warm and the sky clear. If Ellie were here, she’d likely suggest sun-bathing. As crazy as it sounded, it wasn’t a bad thought. Wet and cold would kill you faster than dry and cold. And for someone used to Chicago winters, this little sun beach was downright balmy.
Through all of this, I kept an eye on the shore and the ocean. I had a fairly good view of the southern curve, but the northern slope was too steep and blocked the shoreline.
I decided it was a good thing. Even here, the bluffs were sharp and the terracing that normally accompanied civilized coastline was abandoned. It was like perching on the edge of the world during some forgotten time.
With a castle tower, armed mobsters, and one very MIA assassin.
A voice drifted from the beach below. I barely heard it over the surf, but then an equally male voice answered it.
I knew those gravely tones and stretched my neck to spy Mario and Ringo moving over the rocks by the cave entrance.
“Why did you think she’d be safe here?” Mario pointed at the tower that had frightened me so. “They would see her.”
“Relax. She’s in the cave.”
No, she wasn’t. I almost gave myself away, but waited to see what Ringo would do next.
Instead of diving into the water, he crawled between some rocks and disappeared from sight. Mario reluctantly followed him.
I gathered my things and put on what I could without courting hypothermia, and scooted down the slope to where they’d disappeared.
Between the rocks was a narrow stairwell formed naturally by the jumbled stones, but obviously assisted by human means. The larger boulders formed walls and I followed the sound of their voices as I climbed down the uneven riser intervals.
“She was here; I swear it!”
I emerged from a final twist farther into the cave than I’d anticipated.
Mario held a gun on Ringo. “You…” he struggled for words. “I trusted you, I begged you to keep her safe. You swore to me on the code you would protect her.” He spoke rapidly in Italian, or the Galluric dialect that his grandfather preferred.
“Mario, please…listen to me.”
I cleared my throat before this got any worse. “Ahem, boys? Can we leave now? I’m cold.”
Mario whipped around, gun still half-raised. But as soon as he saw me, he dropped it into the sand. “Cara mia.”
I don’t know if I ran to him, or he ran to me, but we closed the gap between us faster than I could blink. I wrapped around his warmth, soaking it in and likely chilling him but neither of us cared much for the logistics. Instead, he kissed me frantically and held me with a ferocity that would have frightened me if I weren’t so damn grateful he was alive. I even mused aloud. “You’re alive.”
His lips stalled on mine. “I am, and you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m cold but whole.”
“How did you get wet?” He tried to make some distance between our bodies to study me, but I wasn’t having it. I wasn’t ever going to let him go again, and more importantly, he was warm. And I’d finally begun to shiver from the chill.
