Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(87)

Suddenly he heard the sound of boots pounding on the linoleum. Guard boots. Instantly, he cleared the screen, just before the door flew open, and Mal was face-to-face with three M16s.

Son of a bitch.

“Drop your weapon,” one of the guards demanded.

“And get away from the computer,” another man yelled from behind.

No, not another man. Roger Drummand.

Mal slowly lowered his weapon as his gaze met the blue-eyed slits of his nemesis. Where was Chessie? What the hell did he do with her?

“In here, Francesca.” Drummand turned, but not before he sent a smug look to Mal, who was already surrounded by the sergeant on patrol and two other men.

“Francesca…” The word slipped out, a little desperate, a lot relieved.

The SOP shifted his attention to Chessie as she came in from the hall a second later, dirt on her face and the beach cover-up, her hair a wild mess, her eyes…hard. Cold. Focused.

“This is my technical assistant,” Drummand said to the SOP. “We need some privacy to see what damage this thief has done to the computer system.” He nudged Chessie to the computer.

And she practically flounced to the keyboard without so much as a glance to Mal.


“This man needs to be put in a cell,” Drummand said. “Immediately.”

“Should we take him to Delta?” the SOP asked. “Or medical?”

“Take him to the north block,” Drummand said. “First floor.”

Camp No. As in no one knows where it is, and it would be completely deserted. At least he wasn’t going to the third floor for a waterboarding date.

“Yes, sir.”

Drummand put a possessive hand on Chessie’s shoulder, guiding her into the seat in front of the now darkened computer screen. “Francesca, can you please find that missing file now?”

“Of course,” she said, settling into the seat with her fingers on the keyboard.

She turned to glance over her shoulder. “I can find anything.” For one millisecond, her eyes grazed Mal, telling him nothing.

Except that she was so damn good in the field, even he might buy this act.

He realized he still held her glasses in his left hand. Reaching out, he offered them to her. “You’ll need these. So you can see clearly.”

“I can see perfectly.” She took them, but their hands brushed in the exchange. At the electric touch, her gaze flicked to his, a millisecond of eye contact, long enough for her to communicate that she had a plan.

But a plan wasn’t going to keep her alive. He squirmed as the guards surrounded him and grabbed his arms, preventing him from scooping her up and getting her out of here. Instead, he was led away like a dirty prisoner, powerless to protect the only woman he ever…oh, hell, why fight it? The only woman he ever loved.

* * *

Blood. Caked to his T-shirt sleeve. Splattered all over his chest and stomach. Dripping down his arm and smeared on his face.

Chessie’s stomach turned as she remembered how defeated Mal looked, and her heart stuttered with fear at how much blood he’d lost and where they could be taking him to lose even more.

She wanted to scream and throw her arms around him, but this was a mission and she had to play her role or they both would die.

She had to clear his name. Had to.

She picked up her glasses as though his smeared fingerprints were their only connection. She didn’t need them to see what she was about to do, but if she had to make a quick getaway, she sure did.

First, she had to find the proof—or create it—that Roger Drummand committed the crime that put Mal in jail, and get that proof into the hands of someone who could, and would, do something about it. Then Mal could be free…for her.

Holy crap, that was a lofty plan and impossible goal under these circumstances. But it had to be done, by her fingertips, on this computer. She had the power now, and she had to use it.

She touched the screen, and while it flickered to life, glanced around the neat office, her gaze falling on a picture of a family. Four kids and a mother. She recognized Alana Cevallos as the woman she’d been spying on in the bushes. Those must be her children. But there were four. Mal had told her Alana had three kids.

One of them must be Gabe’s son.

She reached for the photo and brought it closer to look at the smallest child in the photo.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. He was a carbon copy of his father. The same blue eyes, the same black hair, the very same mischievous smile and teasing tilt to his head, even though he was maybe a year or fifteen months in this photo.

But now he was dead.

She set the picture down, remembering the pain that the last hour’s adventure had numbed. She had to fight through that, and think.

Think, Chessie, think. This is what you do.

But she also made fake deals with criminals and pushed cars out of ditches and jumped on crop dusters and sneaked out of rooms half naked.

They’d been through so much…only to discover little Gabriel Rafael was dead. This mission couldn’t be a complete failure. She had to clear Mal’s name and kick Drummand’s sorry ass to jail in the process. She had to.

“What are you waiting for?” Drummand demanded, coming up behind her.

To be alone. “Where’s Alana?”

“Never mind. Start working.”