Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(64)
“Your Intel and the footage from the warehouse said there were eight,” Golden God said, and now that he wasn’t shouting, she recognized his voice and his Deep South accent from the radio.
Intel. As in intelligence? And they claimed they weren’t CIA or SEALs? Who else talks like that? She’d seen enough Jason Bourne and Mission Impossible movies to know government-speak when she heard it. Not that movies always got it right, but still…
“It did,” the woman agreed, letting her eyes drift back to Maddy. “You won’t care if I send two men belowdecks to check your story, will you?”
“Be my guest.”
She watched Olivia glance toward Dances with Wolves and Sir Lifts-Weights-a-Lot. She didn’t utter a word. None were needed apparently because the men re-shouldered their weapons and disappeared through the bridge’s interior door.
“Now,” the woman said, her voice dark and throaty, reminding Maddy of an NPR host. “You want to tell us what happened?”
“I do.” Maddy nodded. “Just as soon y’all tell me who the hell you are.”
“My name is Olivia,” the woman answered easily.
“Well, duh.” She frowned. “These things on the side of my head are called ears.” When Olivia lifted a brow, Maddy tilted her head toward the blond behemoth. “I heard the golden god over there call you that when you came bargin’ in.”
“Oh, ay!” Swoon-Worthy interjected. She’d bet her bottom dollar he grew up somewhere in east Jersey, close to New York City. “A set of balls and a smart mouth. Anyone ever told you neither of those things is very attractive on a lady?”
“Yep. All the time,” she assured him. “Anyone ever tell you that when you find a group of folks who just got shanghaied by terrorists they thought were Cuban refugees, and then after that same group of folks watched you kill all those not-really-Cuban refugees, you should skip the personal introductions because, Lucy, you got some serious ’splainin’ to do? When I—”
“Maddy,” Captain Harry tried to interrupt again, but she kept talking right over him.
“—asked who the hell you were, I meant who the hell are you workin’ for and what the hell is goin’ on here? And just what the hell did we stumble…er…sail into?”
And, sure enough. She was probably pushing her luck. But between the shock of everything that’d happened, the dead body on the ground at her feet, and the weirdly distracting warmth caused by Swoon-Worthy’s nearness, she feared she was edging her way toward a full-on emotional or psychological breakdown, or both. And since she abhorred appearing weak, she tended to go in the complete opposite direction, putting on a brazen, in-your-face, won’t-back-down front.
Thankfully, it seemed to work. “You’re right,” Olivia said. “You deserve to know what’s happening.” Maddy blew out a covert breath. “But first, go back. You thought those men were Cuban refugees? Why?”
“Well…” Maddy lifted her hands, relieved to discover they were no longer tingling from lack of circulation. But they were shaking. Definitely shaking. I’ll just keep them clasped behind my back, how about that? Yessiree, Bob, that sounded like a good plan. “Because they were floatin’ in a broken-down dinghy out in the middle of the Straits of Florida. And they looked the part.”
“Fits yours and Morales’s theory about their boat sinkin’,” Golden God said.
“Yeah.” Olivia nodded at him before returning her attention to Maddy. “And you…what? Tried to bring them on board so you could take them to the authorities?”
Not knowing just which government authority these folks reported to, and wanting to avoid any time in an eight-by-ten—she looked ghastly in orange—she decided it was probably best to keep her answer vague. “Somethin’ like that.”
Swoon-Worthy grunted, a deep sound that reverberated low in her belly. When she looked up, it was to discover his pretty eyes were narrowed into slits that caused his thick lashes to cast crescent-shaped shadows on his cheeks. He wasn’t buying her story. No real surprise there. She’d never been very good at lying. Her mama always told her she had an honest face and any fibs flashed across her expression like neon signs on Las Vegas Boulevard.
“I, uh, I see,” Olivia said, and Maddy suspected she just might. But, thankfully, she didn’t pursue the subject further. Instead she said, “Okay, so here’s what you need to know. Those were terrorists. They were floating out here because they—”
“You really think you should be tellin’ her all this?” Golden God interjected.
“Come on, Leo,” Olivia said. Leo? Hmm. Fits. “After everything they’ve witnessed here today”—she hooked her thumb over her shoulder at Lead A-hole’s corpse—“they’ll have to be debriefed and made to sign nondisclosure contracts, and the yacht will have to be impounded for evidence collection. Given all that, I don’t see the harm in letting them in on the basics.”
The basics. Not too hard to read between the lines of that one. Of course, the fact no one was going to give her the whole truth and nothing but the truth was playing second fiddle in her mind to the word “debriefed.” She imagined herself sitting in a soundproof room, hooked up to a lie detector while a bare overhead bulb shone down on a bunch of men in suits who would pummel her with questions while recording every single word out of her mouth. This day is crazier than a three-dollar bill.