Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(85)

“Oh, we found it,” he said, a certain smugness in his voice. “Alana did her good deed and tried to pay him back for covering for me, but—hey!”

She hit the brakes as the truck behind them barreled closer. She braced for impact or the shot, whichever came first, but somehow the driver behind her veered sharply to the left and missed them. Drummand grabbed the wheel again, jerking it to the right and making her wrestle for control. The back spun one way, then the other, rolling into a gully off the road while the truck disappeared ahead of them.

“Damn it!” he screamed when they came to a stop, a good four feet lower than where they’d been. “What the f*ck are you trying to prove?”

She blinked at him, the impact of the near miss hitting her brain almost as hard as his words. The ones spoken before the accident.

“Covering for you?” she asked in a hushed whisper. “Alana didn’t steal the money?”

“Of course not. She came in handy when I needed your hero Mal to take the blame. And now I need everyone to stop f*cking around so I can get the money and fork it over to someone who’s threatening to ruin my life.” He looked around, carefully keeping the gun on her. “Now what the hell are we going to do?”

So he was being blackmailed. And he was desperate.

And then…her head cleared. Cleared and made way for a plan. Finally.

He wanted her to get into this bank account he thought was Mal’s and move the money. And until she did, he wouldn’t kill her. Even better, once she found the account…she might be able to clear Mal’s name.

That was a good plan. A great plan. Now she had to act, and she’d better nail the part.

Slowly she turned to him and lifted a brow. “I’ll drive if you push.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

He only had to be stupid enough to let her hack bank accounts that could possible prove he was the embezzler, not Mal. And Mal could have his life back.

“Listen to me.” She cocked her head, channeling her inner badass, which, up until this week, she didn’t even know she had. “Let’s make a deal, Rog.”

Silent, he eyed her suspiciously.

“You need my services, pretty bad, as I understand it.”

His beady eyes narrowed even more, but he stayed quiet.

“And I need money. Let’s say…” How much would be enough to get him to say yes and trust her? “Ten thousand.” Before he could argue, she put her hand on his arm, hating the touch, but praying it could work. “Ten thousand transferred to my bank account, the rest to yours.”


Very slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’re f*cking his lights out.”

Lovely. She gave a light laugh that was pure hope and great acting. “Rog.” She gave a put-upon sigh. “Do you really think I’m working for nothing? You really think I’m traipsing all over Cuba and spreading my legs every time he snaps his fingers because I need a good time?”

He just stared at her, definitely off-balance with this.

“That guy has been hiding cash for years. My brother told me all about it, and the day Mal Harris was out of prison, I went for him. You think we were in that airport together by accident? I knew he was coming to see my brother, and I zeroed right in on that poor deprived horn dog and played him like a fiddle.”

Okay, a little heavy on the clichés, but as his suspicious look morphed into admiration, Chessie powered on to close the deal.

“But now?” She pffft a disgusted breath. “Who needs him? We could be a good team.”

She stared at him, waiting. It felt like those suspended seconds when she’d type in a password and pray that it would work. When he didn’t respond, she tried one more time, tipping her head toward the back of the car. “You want to drive or push?”

“I’ll drive. You can’t get far on foot.”

“I’m going as far as the money, honey.” She reached for the door handle and opened it gingerly, half expecting to be shot. But he let her get out. She checked out the ground, which, thankfully, wasn’t muddy. She could push this car for Mal, couldn’t she?

She walked to the back of the car and watched Drummand maneuver his body into the driver’s seat. As she did, another vehicle came roaring toward them, easily doing ninety.

She looked up as it passed, and when she got a glimpse of the white van, her heart dropped as hard as the car had into the ditch. That was the van Alana Cevallos had driven to her house. The detainee van. It was headed back to Guantanamo. Mal was in that van. Alive and looking for her. She had to believe that.

She put her hands on the hatchback of the little Hyundai and gave a nod to Drummand, her new partner in crime. He revved the engine, and she pushed so hard her brain almost popped out.

Mal was on his way to Gitmo. He could die doing that—and he’d be doing it for her. She could do this for him. She would do anything for him.





Chapter Twenty-eight





The wound in Mal’s shoulder had him drifting in and out of reality. Images of Drummand and Chessie darkened his mind. A flash of a gravestone made things worse. His arm burned and his head throbbed with each crevice and rut the van clunked over.

And then he could smell Gitmo. At least, he recognized the scent of oily chicken and burned pizza, telling him they were on the two-mile avenue lined with fast-food joints that led to the main entrance.