Barefoot with a Stranger (Barefoot Bay Undercover #2)(88)

“No, not never mind,” Chessie shot back. “Mal was in her office, on her computer. She might be hiding because there are men with guns everywhere, but what’s to stop her from getting in our way?”

“The fact that I locked her in a janitor’s closet.”

“Oh, that. Is she okay?”

“What do you care?”

Think, Chessie. “But what if someone comes in here? Anyone. Those guards. What if she makes noise or gets out? Check on her,” Chessie demanded. “Make sure no one is in the hall. We don’t need a witness, Rog.”

He took a slow breath, rattling his nostrils, before he finally turned to step outside. “I’ll watch. You work.”


He’d have to come around the desk to see what she was actually typing, but she still wanted him out of the room.

“You can do this, can’t you?” he asked when she hesitated.

“Not with you in the room instead of watching out for witnesses.”

“You think I’m leaving?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” She flicked her fingers in the air, wishing she could actually hit his face. “You are not dealing with a rookie, Rog.”

He shook his head. “A family curse, all right. Hurry up. We don’t have much time.”

“I’m not putting my fingers on this computer with that door open,” she said. “Close it and stand outside. Knock if someone’s coming.”

At his hesitation, she threw her chair back and her hands in the air. “Fuck it, Rog. Find your own damn money.”

The bluff worked. He walked out and closed the door. Chessie brought the screen to life again and started to dig through the bank website.

Bank IP address. Wait and scan. Credits transferred to that IP. Wait and move that information to a file. Find the ACCNO number. Get out of one page and to the next. Save logs. Move them. Delete logs. IP scan.

The door popped open, and she gasped.

“Do you have it yet?” Drummand demanded.

She just glared at him until the bastard backed away. God, this would be fun if her life wasn’t on the line. And Mal’s.

Refusing to give in to the little squeeze of anxiety that thought caused, she focused on the screen, determined to prove the man outside the door was the mastermind of this whole half-million-dollar embezzlement.

Her fingers were shaky, but with each new keystroke, each fallen firewall, and each file logged and copied and moved, she felt closer.

Finally, she found her way to the original account, where the money had first accrued. Dropped in over a two-year period, taken from government accounts using what she was certain were bogus invoices that got lost in the bureaucracy.

Invoices submitted by a company—a shell company, no doubt.

Her gaze moved to the picture a few inches away, focusing on little Gabriel Rafael Rossi Winter. Finally, the screen flashed, and a new name and account appeared.

Roger Drummand, Primary Account Holder. Please enter password.

The door popped open, and Drummand marched around the desk, staring at the screen. Then the pistol smacked the side of her head, hard. Then again, twice as hard, knocking her right off the chair. She couldn’t help grabbing the side of her head now as waves of pain ricocheted around her brain.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

She looked up at him, vaguely aware that blood trickled from her mouth. “Moving money into your account.”

“No, you’re not.” He yanked her up from the floor and tapped the screen to life. “Where is it? Where is the money?”

Tucked away in a temporary account she’d just made. But first she needed to get into his original account and get a screenshot of the embezzlement proof. She wouldn’t quit until she had it. He pushed her further aside, the gun still on her as he tapped the back arrow and landed on the temporary account. “What’s the password?” he demanded.

She shook her head.

He stuck the gun in her face. “One second to tell me the password or you die.”

“You won’t kill me here,” she said, seizing a lot of bluster she didn’t actually feel. “You won’t pull the trigger and kill an innocent American citizen in an office in this place.”

“You’re right. I won’t kill you here.” He shoved her to the door. “We have other ways of getting information here at Guantanamo Bay.”

She closed her eyes and stumbled to the door knowing exactly what ways he meant.





Chapter Twenty-nine





As two guards escorted him through a series of covered, outdoor pathways through various buildings, Mal forced himself to remember every little thing he knew about this place.

“This way,” one of the guards said, the first and only thing out of the young Marine’s mouth.

The north end had been like a second home to Mal. That’s where they’d worked, where they’d tried to convince terrorists to be double agents.

And then Gabe’s voice came back to him.

There’s a Beretta Nano stashed in that cubbyhole.

But was it still there? If he could get into the Country Club…he could get out of it, too.

Memories flooded as they turned the corner and headed toward that hall. But there were six holding cells where prisoners waited their turn to go to the Country Club, and the guard slowed enough that Mal knew they were putting him in one of them.