“A few grenades and a harpoon.” He bends over the engine, and I roll my eyes as Beau collects the other ends of the leads.

  “Then you’re in the wrong place. I believe all weapons are now stored in the swanky new bunker buried underground at the boatyard.”

  He exhales and unbends his body, looking at me tiredly, and I smile sweetly.

  “I just spoke to Esther.”

  His face becomes thunderous, and he goes straight back under the hood.

  “Have you spoken to her?” I ask.

  “Little point, isn’t there?”

  “Why?” I press. “I thought you two were getting along nicely.” Too nicely for Danny.

  On an impatient grunt, Otto straightens again. And smacks his head on the underside of the hood. “Fuck!”

  I flinch, and Beau flies around, still armed with the claw clips on the cables. “What happened?” she asks.

  “Fuck!” Otto yells again.

  “Shit!” I rush over as he rubs his head. “Is it bleeding?” I take his hand and check, seeing his palm smeared with blood. “Ouch.” I look beneath the hood and spot a catch on the underside. “Of all the places you could hit your head, you hit it on the only spot with a metal catch.”

  “Rose,” he hisses, looking at his bloody palm. “Oh fuck.”

  “What?” I ask, assessing him. “Shit, Otto, you’re pasty white.”

  Beau drops the cables and hurries over. “Otto?”

  “I think I need to sit down,” he mumbles, his speech becoming slurred, his eyes starting to roll.

  “Oh my God,” I cry, as he starts to sway. “He’s going to pass out!”

  Beau hooks an arm through his on one side, and I take the other, just as Otto becomes a dead weight between us. “Fucking hell,” Beau gasps, as we both crumple to the floor under the strain, unable to hold Otto up, not surprising really, since he’s probably double our size. “Get Doc,” she orders urgently, having me making a mad dash for the house, yelling as I go.

  “Doc!” I shriek when I make it into the hallway, out of breath, my throat scratchy. “Doc, where are you?” I run into the kitchen, the TV room. “Doc!” God damn it. I pull my phone out and dial Danny, and he answers in just one ring. “Is Doc with you?” I ask urgently.

  “No. Why would Doc be with me? I left him at the house to scan you.”

  “He did scan me, and now—”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay? The baby?”

  “I’m fine. We’re fine, but Otto isn’t.”

  “What?”

  “He hit his head and lost consciousness.”

  “How the fuck did he hit his head?”

  “He misjudged how much head height he had.” I’m being very sketchy with the truth, but Danny doesn’t need details, this is an emergency, and I don’t want my plans to learn to drive ended before they’ve begun.

  “Rose?”

  I turn around and find Doc at the top of the stairs. “Never mind, I’ve found him.” I hang up and wave my hands frantically. “Otto’s hurt,” I tell him. “You need your bag.”

  “My God.” He turns to go back to his room. “No rest for the wicked,” he grumbles. Never has a statement rang truer.

  While Doc is gone, Danny calls me back. I answer and pace. “Never, and I mean never, hang up on me,” he warns.

  Doc appears, hurrying down the stairs as fast as his old body will allow. “I’m here, I’m coming, I’m armed,” he sings.

  “I’m sorry.” I flank Doc as we rush back out to the gardens. “I’ve got to go.”

  “There are so many questions I want answered.”

  “They’ll have to wait.” I take my chances and hang up again, needing to brief Doc on what’s happened. “He hit his head on the metal catch on the hood of Dolly.”

  “What?” He looks at me in utter confusion.

  “Beau’s car. Dolly. Then he passed out.”

  “I see.”

  We make it to them, and I’m surprised to see Otto sitting up, his scowl epic. “You came around,” I say, as Beau gives me a look that tells me to tread carefully.

  “I’m fine,” he grunts, trying to get to his feet, wobbling.

  “Let us not be smart,” Doc says, moving in as Otto gives up and drops like a rock to the ground. He checks Otto’s head. “Superficial,” he murmurs.

  “Superficial?” I blurt. “I saw the blood. Not even any stiches?”

  “No.” He squeezes a tube of liquid onto Otto’s head and starts wiping.

  “I don’t like blood,” Otto grunts, making both Beau and I balk. He’s a killer, and he doesn’t like blood? “My own blood,” he adds quietly, looking up at us moodily. I’m forced to press my lips together, as is Beau, but I quickly look away from her.

  Laughing could get us both killed. My cheeks balloon. I snort through my nose. It’s no good. I catch Beau’s eye and burst into fits of giggles, clenching my belly, my eyes streaming, my breathing ragged. “I’m sorry!” I blurt, hearing Beau snickering too. “I’m so sorry.”

  Otto mumbles and grunts, shooing Doc’s dabbing hand away and forcing himself up to his feet, still a bit wobbly, and stomps off as best as his unstable body will allow. Oh no. “But we need help getting Dolly started,” I call, getting a dismissive wave of his hand in return.

  “We don’t need him,” Beau says, chuckling over a few words as she dips and collects the cables, taking them and fixing them to something under the hood of Dolly so both cars are connected by the cables. Then she starts the Mercedes and gets behind the wheel of Dolly. “He’ll be back soon, anyway.”

  “Why?” I ask. He looked about done with us.

  “He forgot his car,” she says, just as Dolly roars to life and something under the hood of the Mercedes sparks. “Shit,” Beau yelps, flying back in her seat.

  “What happened?”

  She gets out of Dolly and into the Mercedes. “I think I blew the electrics.” She looks around the inside of the car. “Nothing’s working.” She tries to start the engine. Completely dead.

  “Well,” I chime. “At least Dolly’s alive.”

  “An eye for an eye,” Beau says, grinning as she hops out and joins me. “I remember Reg telling me once that you should never jump start an old car with a new, flashy car.”

  “Who’s Reg?”

  “An old boy with five teeth who used to rescue me whenever Dolly quit. Reg the Rescue Truck.”

  Otto stomps back around the corner, his face like thunder, and we both wisely keep our mouths shut and our laughter under control as he yanks the cables out from the Mercedes, tosses them aside, slams the hood down, and throws himself into the driver’s seat.

  “Does James know you’re driving that death trap again?” he asks, a definite curl to his lip.

  “I’m not driving it, Otto,” Beau retorts, eyebrows high. “Because where the fuck will I go?”

  “He’s not driving anything either,” I whisper, and Beau snorts as Otto flashes another snarl. “God, he’s a miserable bastard today.” Beau knows as well as I do that James won’t give a fuck if she’s driving Dolly again. He’ll just be glad she’s out of bed.

  Otto tries to start the Mercedes. Obviously, nothing happens. “God damn it!” He smacks the wheel.

  “I think Dolly killed it.” Beau rests a delicate hand on Dolly’s rusty paintwork, and I’m forced to turn away to hide my tears of laughter. I hear a door slam and the unmistakable pound of Otto’s boots stomping away as he yells for Bud at the gate.

  “Get in,” Beau calls, shuffling across to the passenger seat. A wicked shiver courses through me. Excitement? I bite my lip and hurry over, putting myself behind the wheel, casting my eye over the buttons and switches. Dolly looks far more complicated than any of the Mercedes I’ve been in.

  Bang!

  “Shit!” I yelp, jumping in my seat. “What the hell was that?” I look across the car to Beau. She’s smiling.

  “That, Rose, is Dolly.” She reaches for her seatbelt and pulls it on, prompting me to do the same. “Let’s go.”

  Yes, let’s go. Not far, granted, but let’s go. I take the lever by the wheel, pull it, and put my foot on a pedal.

  And jerk forward, bunny-hopping my way up the driveway at the side of the house. “She’s not very smooth, is she?”

  Beau chuckles, stroking across Dolly’s center console with a palm delicate enough to stroke a butterfly. “Easy on the gas, Rose.”

  “I’m being easy,” I insist, picking up speed gradually, feeling relatively calm.

  “You need to shift gears.”

  “It has gears?” I ask, looking around the wheel. “None of the cars the boys drive have ge—”

  “Watch Cindy!” Beau yells, just as a black and tan blob flies across my path.

  “Shit!”

  “And Barbie! Shit, Rose, hit the brake.”

  “Which one’s the brake?” I yank the steering wheel to the left, adrenaline charging through me fast.

  And plough straight into a bush.

  11

  DANNY

  I’m merciless on the throttle, flying across the water like a bullet, out of my seat, James flanking me. The salt spray hits my face, making my skin tight, the roar of the engine and pound of the water filling my ears, drowning out the voices telling me to go on a killing spree. But I’m still strung. Still tense. Still edgy.

  As the corner of the cove comes closer, I slow so I can loop without being thrown off. I’d love to yank on the handlebars. Being rag-dolled across the water might distract some of my muscles from being infinitely tight. I slow until I’m barely moving and look down at my wetsuit, considering the bandages and Dermabond beneath.

  “Not wise,” James says as he chugs over, circling me.

  “I know.” Freefalling will offer only a momentary sense of lightness. Is there anything in the world that can alleviate the pressure completely? Yes, there is, but I can’t spend all of my spare time fucking my wife. “I think I’ll take the coastline back,” I say. An hour racing across the water at breakneck speed has done nothing to lessen the stress. Maybe a leisurely chug back will.

  James nods and turns his jet ski. “Don’t be too long.”

  I leave him and head toward the rocky coastline on the east side of the bay, where commercial buildings stand over the water, some still midway through development. Ruined. They’re destroying this private bay. I slow to a stop and bob on the water when I reach the small cove where Winstable Boatyard once stood. The boatyard Pops built. The place where I learned to ski, to swim, and how to hide firearms. I smile. Fond memories.

  Cranes still loom over the site, diggers rumbling across the muddy ground, but there’s one building complete, and it looks nothing like the educational facility I was told it would be. It looks more like a hangar. If I didn’t now have Byron’s Reach, a far better site, I might hold it against the developer. I can’t blame the old boy I rented the place from, nor his son who sold it from under my nose. I wonder how his knee is after I blew it out? Naturally, I don’t give a fuck. Just wondering.

  I continue slowly along the coastline. The area is so much bigger than I remember, or perhaps that’s because most of it is now flattened, each side of the piece of land nearly touching the nearest developments on either side. I turn to face the other side of the bay, seeing Byron’s Reach in the distance, a dot on the horizon. And the big fucking problems awaiting me. Problems that aren’t going to be fixed while I bob out here on the ocean.

  I rev the engine and pick up speed, concluding a slower, safer pace isn’t helping. Every time my mind goes back to Pops, to The Bear, to the fucking zoo he keeps, I burn hotter. Breath heavier. Shake more violently.

  By the time I make it back to shore, I’m no less calm. James is coming out of the yellow container. “Is he still alive?” I ask as I trudge toward the cabin, knowing James would rather Kenny Spittle was not breathing.

  “And kicking.” He slams the door and bolts it before securing the padlock.

  “And is he still insisting he didn’t tell Agent Burrows we killed his father?”

  “Yes, he is. Apparently Burrows got a tip off that I murdered Spittle. Anonymous.”

  “How the fuck do you know that?”

  “Higham.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  James’s eyes shine with something quite ugly, and I hold my hands up in surrender. “It slipped my mind,” he grates. “Besides, it’s bollocks. For one thing, you killed Spittle, not me. Plus, there’s no fucking body to prove anyone killed Spittle at all.”

  I curl my lip at the container where Spittle’s son is being held. “His phone?”

  “Silent.”

  “And the bank?”

  “Still nothing according to Otto.”

  “Fuck it!” I yell, kicking the dirt, walking in circles, my breath short. Even if his phone wasn’t silent, answering it would be pointless, because the accent on the other end would be Russian, Irish, or Polish, and that tells us nothing more than we already fucking know. But it’ll tell them we have Kenny Spittle. “How much damage have you done?” I ask, looking at James.

  “No damage.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve not touched him.”

  “You sure?” I reach behind me and pull down my zip, wriggling out of my wetsuit and pushing it down to my waist.

  “Pretty sure. And if you’re wondering why I’ve not mutilated the fucker, it’s because I reached the same conclusion you did while out on the water. How was your trip back alone, by the way?”

  “Reminiscent. What conclusion?”

  “We need to release him and maybe buy him a few minutes at a tanning salon so that when he gets back to work at the bank, everyone will believe he’s been on vacation.”

  “Get Otto to track him.”

  “Your bandages are wet. You need to replace them before the Dermabond dissolves.” James motions to my chest, and I look down, scowling at the damp material. “Why the fuck didn’t you wrap up in waterproofs?”

  “Distracted.” I march over to the container as I unravel my bandage and toss it aside, then fight to get the padlock undone, swinging open the door. And cough. “Jesus,” I breathe, holding my fist to my mouth. The smell is musky. Fucking putrid. Totally unbearable. And the sight of him isn’t much better. Kenny Spittle looks up, squinting with the bombardment of light attacking his eyes. I push the door closed.

  “D-Boss!” Liam sings, appearing at the top of the steps to the cabin. His hair is longer. Wilder. And I’m quite sure his board shorts haven’t been washed since the last time I saw him some weeks ago. His eyes fall to my chest and nearly fall out of his head, and I look down, confused. Then not when I see the mess I’ve made of myself. Fuck me.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” I snap, trudging toward him. “We had to get our own fucking jet skis ready because Jerry was dealing with clients and the girls in the café were busy serving.”

  “I don’t think you had a long enough vacation,” he murmurs as I storm past.

  “You’d be right.”

  “Get our skis in,” James says, pulling his wetsuit down too. “Then come join us.”

  “Sure, J-Boss.”

  I laugh sardonically. “Your back, my front. It’s a fucking horror show around here.” I help myself to a water from the fridge and cast my eyes around the busy café as I swig. My stare lands on a man in the corner, who is watching us both standing by the fridge. My stomach turns and questions run amok through my mind. Has he found Pops? Beau’s mum?

  “Come,” James says, encouraging me toward Higham. “And keep your fucking cool, okay?”

  Keep my cool. I look around the café again, wishing everyone gone so I don’t have to bother keeping my cool. “Everyone’s looking at us.”

  “My back, your front,” James says. “And since when do you care?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then shut the fuck up.”

  Higham’s eyes are nailed to my chest as I approach, and one look warns him not to ask. Pulling out a chair, I lower to the seat, setting my water on the table as James gets comfortable beside me, folding his arms over his impressive chest. I don’t fold mine. Can’t. For fuck’s sake.

  Higham takes a sip of his coffee and pulls his jacket in, resting back in his seat. “I’m sorry about your father,” he says flatly. “And your girlfriend’s mother. Jaz Hayley was a respected agent.”

  “I don’t want your condolences,” James says quietly, a lethal edge to his tone.

  “What do you want from me then?”

  “Nothing.” he replies. That’s not true. “Or maybe a pardon when I find out who it was and butcher the fucker.”

  “Let us have this one,” Higham says, coming in closer.

  “You don’t know who this one is,” James points out.

  “No, but I know two pretty fucking determined men who can find out.” He looks between us, and I raise my eyebrows. “This is personal for us now too,” he goes on. “Like I said, Jaz was a respected agent.”

  James laughs, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Higham,” he says lowly, getting closer. “If I go home and tell Beau that the bureau suddenly cares enough about her dead mother to find what was left of her after she was blown to smithereens, she will, and I am not joking you when I tell you this, tear every last FBI agent limb from limb.”

  “Beau is a former cop.”

  “Who knew her mother’s death was not an accident but wasn’t allowed to prove it, despite the evidence.” James sits back, and I take over. He’s going to blow. The simmering anger seems to be alternating between the two of us.

  “There are so many bent cops on the force and bureau, Higham,” I say, taking more water. “I don’t even know if I want to be talking to you right now.”

  “I’m not bent.”

  “That’s what they all say. Any news on my father’s missing body?”

  “We all know you and your friend The Enigma have more chance of finding your father’s body than the FBI.”

  “So that’s why you’re here? For our help?”

  “Would you rather me be here to arrest you?”