Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (42 page)

They were stoically silent. Composed. Resigned to their fate. She studied them: six men who had been prepared to murder untold innocents on the strength of their religious beliefs. Or maybe she was being too generous. Maybe money had more to do with it. No, she thought again, not money. Not these six.
Why?

Because, they look as if they are praying.

Images flashed unbidden across her mind. Press photos, some taken by her mother, of terrible destruction wrought by suicide bombers. Of buildings felled and body parts strewn among twisted I-beams, and blood-spattered survivors sobbing over the bodies of loved ones. Carnage wrought by humanity against itself.

Mercy stared at these ordinary looking men, prisoners sitting on a rock ledge, held at gunpoint. Another word for their attitude came to mind:
Smug.
No, that wasn’t quite right either. There was a name for people who sacrificed themselves for what they believed to be a righteous cause.

Martyr!

The awful truth struck her so unexpectedly, with such monumental force, that she buckled over as if she’d been hit in the stomach. She remembered Demolition Day at Red Sands’ camp. She recalled their instructor’s words: “A reverse trigger can be used to destroy weapons or valuable property rather than lose them to the enemy.” She sucked in a breath.

“Clear out! Get out now!” she screamed.

Morocco spun and stared at her as if she were insane.

“The cave’s booby trapped!” she screamed.

That was why one of the gang had immediately rushed toward the tunnel at the rear of the cave. It was his job to defuse a timed bomb, set as a backup in case intruders overpowered the two guards and laid in wait for the others.

How many minutes…or seconds before it went off?

“Now!” she shouted, waving the men back into the water. “Go, go…go!”

Understanding registered in Morocco’s eyes as they met hers, and trust. “Retreat!” he yelled. “Ditch the gear.” There was no time to recover tanks, masks, other equipment.

His men, so well-trained, reacted without questions. Two dove into the water from the ledge opposite where Mercy stood. Two more came running from across the cave. Morocco kept the prisoners at gunpoint, making sure they didn’t interfere with his team’s departure.

His hard gaze fixed on her. “Move, PD!”

Mercy dove in and then swam for the cave’s mouth, telling herself Morocco would be right behind her. Of course he would.

She could see one man swimming ahead of her. The others, slower than she, came close behind her. Mercy counted one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three—before the current grabbed and sucked her toward the opening. She dragged down a full breath then dove deep to avoid the low wall of coral overhead. With both arms stretched out over her head to protect it, she kicked hard.
Harder!
The riptide pulled her deeper and deeper, faster and faster, until she thought her lungs would burst.

The water around her might as well have been solid, it was so black. She could see nothing but sensed she was still within the mouth of the cave. If she surfaced an instant too soon, the force of the current would bludgeon her against dagger-sharp rocks overhead.

Mercy fought her body’s urgent demand to surface. How much longer could she hold her breath? Thirty seconds? She looked up and caught a glimpse of crescent moon above her still-submerged head. She was clear! She kicked toward the water’s surface and blessed air beckoning to her.

It was at that moment, before she reached the surface, that the world came apart. An explosion sent shock waves hammering through the water, throwing her off balance.
Oh, God—no!

Every cell in her body felt painfully jolted, as if she’d been hit by a lightning bolt. She went limp in the water. She could hear nothing.
Eardrums burst?
Her lungs held no more oxygen. A crushing pain gripped her chest. The urge to breathe was almost irresistible. Her body’s natural buoyancy started lifting her slowly toward the surface. She managed three weak kicks.

Choking, gasping, coughing up brine, Mercy burst above the waves and shook water out of her eyes. She stared in horror back the way she’d come, at the rocky shore, but didn’t stop swimming even though each stroke felt stiff, mechanical, and barely moved her forward a foot. Instinct told her to put distance between herself and the cave.

Where are the others? Oh, God, Morocco!

A second concussive blast sent rock, trees, sand spewing into the air. But she felt more than heard the explosion this time. Her ears still weren’t working. Her body, rigid with terror, she watched as an orange plume of flame shot up into the night sky. The stench of chemicals, smoke, burning flesh? No screams came from whoever remained inside. But
she
screamed, and screamed…and screamed.

                                          47

Morocco’s body was never recovered. Mercy doubted he’d made it into the pool before the first of the two blasts. Maybe he’d known he wouldn’t if he stayed long enough to insure his team got away safely. He had struck her as a man who would make the safety of his men a priority.

The island newspaper reported a terrible tragedy:
Charter Yacht Explodes, Killing All Onboard.
The article briefly explained that the crew had foolishly stored an excessive supply of propane gas used for cooking. The resulting fire had spread to trees along the nearby shore of St. John’s parkland.

The curious who bothered to visit the island in the hope of viewing the destruction for themselves might have wondered why remains of a boat didn’t wash up on shore. Or how a fire could have caused the collapse of natural caves on the island. But within days the ingrained lethargy of the island won out over the residents’ curiosty, and people simply stopped asking questions.

Glen saw Mercy off at the airport on St. Thomas a few days later. “I guess I won’t be seeing you again. You said this was a one-time deal for you.”

She nodded. “Right. Absolutely. Never again.” But at the same time the thought came to her:
Too bad.
Because there was something fist-pumpingly gratifying about beating criminals at their wicked games.

She’d played a critical role in depriving violent men of funds they needed to pursue their attacks. Maybe her efforts meant they would be able to afford one less rocket launcher or recruit fewer suicide bombers. She could only hope. And although the Coober Pedy mine would never see its stolen ore again, more of the precious gems remained to be freed from the earth, and she’d been assured by Jobson that the victims of the theft were to be compensated for their losses from future profits.

Then again, there was the pure exhilaration of risking one’s life for the greater good and, at a critical moment, convinced you were about to die…not dying. The cycle of risk and survival was addictive, providing a non-chemical high unlike any she’d experienced even on the most breathtaking amusement park rides. Better than winning a gold medal for the breast stroke. Better even than cutting her time in half on Red Sands’ obstacle course. The phenomenon was impossible to explain to someone who hadn’t gone through such an ordeal.

This,
she thought,
is why cops become cops
.
This is why some people excel in a war zone, then can’t adjust to the routine of civilian life when the battle’s over.
But she kept all of this to herself that day at the airport in Charlotte Amalie.

Beside her, Glen smiled, shoveling his sandy hair out of his face, looking almost bashful as he handed her carry-on bag to her. “Yeah, well…at least you’ve got your hearing mostly back. Maybe you’ll change your mind some day, join us again. You’re good, Mercy.”

She patted her palm affectionately on his cheek and smiled. “Thanks, Sea Turtle.”

He grasped her wrist and brought her hand down, palm up. Into it he placed a rough stone the size of a half dollar.

“What’s this?” But even as she said it, she kind of knew.

“I went diving yesterday to check out what was left of the cave. See if there was any way to get inside. There wasn’t. But scattered around on the sandy bottom of the cove are bits of rock. Some, just brown sandstone. Others are…well, I thought you might like a souvenir to take home with you.”

She looked down at the stone in her hand. It was unpolished, but even in its present raw condition, she knew what it was. Glints of blood-red crimson, ethereal blue, and brilliant green streaked through dark magma. If expertly cut and polished, the black opal she held would make a stunning ring or necklace.

“Thanks, Glen,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

The PA system announced her flight was boarding. But Mercy lingered a little longer. One thing still bothered her.

“If I’d been thinking like a true pro,” she said, “I’d have realized sooner what was happening. You know, about the bomb. Morocco might still be alive.”

Glen shook his head. “He knew the risks going in. And he made sure his men, and you, made it out. Without your warning, they’d all have died.” She started to interrupt, but he waved her off. “Listen, you saved my life on the container ship. How can you or anyone else expect more?”

“I suppose,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion, “but when you stop demanding more of yourself, isn’
oseings, she supposed, would never make sense to her. ial with me onde it in the lecture.  approaches, I should be able to p
t that when you start cheating at life?” Mercy looked away, unwilling to let him see her eyes fill. She watched a jet lift off the runway. Literally tons of metal, flying. Incredible. Some things, she supposed, would never make sense to her. Morocco had died; she lived. He was the pro; she the amateur. But his sacrifice had played a role in enabling Red Sands to deter one terrorist cell from functioning with impunity. She blinked away the tears.

Glen kissed her on the cheek. “I have to see more of your art someday. I have a feeling it’s powerful stuff.”

“Next time you’re in DC, look me up. Passions Art Gallery, in Georgetown.”

“That I’ll do,” he promised.

                                          48

“And what will you do about dear Sebastian?” Talia asked her daughter.

Mercy sat on the edge of the bed and looked around her mother’s room in the Western Maryland Rehab facility—bursting with flowers, bright with sunshine streaming through windows that overlooked a pretty garden. This was the question she’d asked herself ten times a day since she’d returned from the Virgin Islands.

As Mark Templeton had already told her, Sebastian checked himself out of the nursing home, against doctor’s advice, the day after she returned to the Caribbean. He’d left no note for her, no messages on her phone since then. She assumed he was back in Mexico City or at his cattle ranch in the hill country northwest of the city.

She had tried to call him at Rancho Hidalgo after his daughter verified that she’d just Skyped him at the ranch. But Manuela, his housekeeper and all-around gatekeeper, had answered that day, and every day since. Each time she solemnly repeated the same message: “The Don is not available, Señora.” And then, the final time when Mercy called, tearfully begging Manuela to let her speak to him because she knew he must be there and it was urgent she talk with him. “Sorry, it is his wishes,” was all the woman would say.

Mercy supposed she’d known all along that he might not forgive her for returning to St. Thomas. Perhaps he’d believed that by helping her rescue Talia he was releasing her from her deal with Red Sands and she would stay in DC where he wanted her. Where she’d be safe.

“Why don’t you give him a call?” her mother suggested gently.

“I have, Mom. The man is angry with me.”

“Give him time.” Her mother patted her hand. “A good man has forgiveness in his heart. Sometimes it just takes a while to surface.”

Mercy smiled at her. “Perhaps you’re right.” But then she remembered how unforgiving Sebastian had been to others in his life. She sighed and returned her attention to the one person she knew who would always support her, no matter what choices she made.

During the weeks Talia had spent in treatment, she’d slowly regained weight, and now was able to eat a little solid food. It had taken nearly two weeks for the home-brewed drugs she’d been fed to wear off. Everyone at the hospital said she was lucky to have survived the ordeal. She worked daily with a physical therapist, gradually building her strength. Another kind of therapist visited twice weekly and encouraged Talia to write in her journal about her days of captivity. Her mother still hadn't written a word. Instead, she snapped photographs of the flowers and trees through her window with the new camera Mercy had bought her. Sometimes a nurse or Mercy wheeled her outside in a wheelchair, and she always took her camera with her. But Talia no longer took photographs of people. She refused to explain to her therapist why her once favorite subjects no longer interested her. Mercy had her own theories but kept them to herself.

Now they sat quietly together, on the bed, holding hands, absorbing the feel of each other’s skin and the soft life-pulse beneath, thankful for being alive and soaking up the bliss of being together again.