“We’ll need a chopper. Two line drops. Two guys to steer the boat in the wrong direction.”
“Got it.” Reese grabbed a couple of guns from a wall rack then pushed past the others and climbed the stairs. The sound of his footsteps had barely hit the wheelhouse deck before the engines kicked into high gear.
Mitch braced his feet wide apart as the boat arced into a turn, heading south. “Liz, finish getting dressed. There are extra shoes in the locker. Find a pair that fits you.”
“I know. Get tie-ons.” Steadying herself against the side of the table, she bumped into his chest.
“You learn fast.”
“Can you give me ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes. No more. Drake still needs to bring us up to speed on this.” He jerked a nod in her direction, and she headed to her stateroom.
She stopped at the doorway then caught his attention as she waved her finger up and down in his direction. “You might want to get dressed, too. Unless you plan to run around in your skivvies all day.”
He glanced down, then rolled his eyes and walked back to his own room. Without thinking, he threw on some clothes, strapped holsters in place on his shoulder and thigh, and stuffed extra clips in his pocket. Shoving the knife and gun into place, he grabbed his other Glock. And a pair of shoes. Tie-ons.
Stepping back into the main cabin, there was no sign of Drake. He’d probably already headed up on deck.
From the hard bump of the hull hitting the water, he had no doubt the boat was running flat-out. Mitch paused at the tracking screen for another check on radar and satellite. Looked like they had a good hour lead time on Coercion Ten’s chase boat and PWCs and were steadily increasing that lead.
“Hurry up, Liz,” Mitch shouted as he headed up the stairs, out of the cabin.
“Don’t rush me. I’ve still got two more minutes.”
If she wasn’t on deck in two, he’d go down and pull her upstairs. The conversation with Drake had to happen, and Mitch wanted her to be part of that talk. Her reaction to whatever the boss said would tell him a lot about how much she’d known all along. Plus, he wasn’t sure if she and Drake had had a chance to talk about paternity.
He found Drake leaning back against the side rail of the boat, staring out at the Gulf. He’d strapped on his gun, too. Hung his binoculars around his neck. And plopped on one of his three favorite baseball caps. Anyone not familiar with him would see a harmless, early-fifties man with tinges of gray streaking his once dark brown hair.
That might be their last mistake. Not only was he six foot with eyes that seemed to stare right through a man, he also worked out every day. He might not be as fast as he used to be, but he’d fight as hard as he had thirty years ago. He’d put you down or die trying.
Since the drone had appeared, Drake had stayed off to the side for the most part, quiet and watching. He might be the Director of OPAQUE, but once the chopper escape became their only option, the control of the assignment had shifted back to Mitch.
“She about ready?” Drake asked.
“Not long,” Mitch replied.
“You got everything you need?”
“Yeah. Except for the answers.” His implication hung in the air.
Drake glanced up at the sky. “Beautiful day. Got a few clouds on the horizon. Might even get a little rain tonight. Maybe a storm.”
Mitch didn’t see any clouds. Neither did Drake. This was just one of his ways of softening what was to come. None of the agents had figured out if the softening was meant for them or for Drake.
The noise from the boat engines notched downward and then finally silenced. The boat slowed, and once it came to a slow float, Reese came down from the wheelhouse. “Chopper should be in the vicinity in less than thirty. Let me know when I should call them in close.”
Reese focused across the deck. A slight widening of his eyes was his only outward sign to whatever had grabbed his attention.
“Good. That should give us enough time to…” Drake stared toward the stairs leading to the boat cabin, his eyebrows pinched together.
Grabbing the gun from his holster, Mitch was ready for whatever waited behind him. He spun around. Straightened his arm. Aimed. Jerked it back down, pointing the gun at the deck. He gulped and swallowed, as his core took in what he was seeing. “Oh, Liz…”
Standing in front of them, Liz looked determined, defiant, and drained. She’d cut her hair finger-length short all over her head. And, it was streaked with what looked like a light desert-sand color.
He walked closer to her and stared. Gone were the straight bangs. The overly neat smoothness. The soft shoulder-length strands he’d wrapped his hand around as he kissed her out on the Q40.
“Back at the beach house, Cat showed me all the ways you can change your appearance. When I told her no one would ever make me cut my hair, she told me hair can grow back. Dead is dead,” Liz said as she gently dabbed the short strands of hair. “I can make this even lighter if I need to.”
