Chaucer let her lead.

  She didn’t even put her ears above the water—just rose high enough to free her mouth and nose and take a silent breath.

  Chaucer did the same a second later.

  His lungs were no longer burning, but the quietness of the operation meant he didn’t get a full breath either. He figured they’d be burning again in sixty seconds.

  As he descended back under the boat, he caught a glimpse of a face peering over the side where he had just surfaced.

  Had he been too slow? Too loud?

  No.

  The face leaning over the side was a diver preparing to enter the water.

  The diver flipped around, sat on the gunwale, and dropped into the water on the other side of the boat. His partner did the same.

  Chaucer didn’t have time to communicate. He didn’t know what phase they were in. He didn’t know exactly what the plan was. But he knew the objective well enough.

  Kill these guys as quietly as possible.

  Tempest descended on her man like a piranha that hadn’t eaten for a week. With brutal efficiency, she swam for the man’s leg. It allowed him to spot her sooner than he otherwise would have, but it also let her draw his dive knife. His arms came up in a useless defensive motion, but Tempest’s knife was already in his throat.

  She pulled him down beneath the boat, allowing the blood to leak out slowly. Then she took his rebreather and put it in her own mouth before turning her attention to Chaucer.

  Chaucer’s move wasn’t nearly as elegant.

  He came up behind his diver, hoping not to alert him to his presence. With one hand he pulled the man’s rebreather out of his mouth, and with the other he wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, locking in a stranglehold.

  The man thrashed, but with his head facing downward, he kicked them lower in the water, not higher. Nonetheless, it created turbulence that could potentially be noticed by the boat above.

  Chaucer held on tight, choking off the man’s will to fight. He reminded himself: blood choke.

  When you choke someone, there are two methodologies. A blood choke cuts off the blood supply to the brain, whereas an air choke cuts off oxygen to the lungs. The blood choke is not only faster, it is also far easier—especially if you are twenty feet beneath a boat with no oxygen source of your own. Not to mention, an air choke would be meaningless underwater. Without his rebreather, the man couldn’t get oxygen to his lungs anyway.

  Chaucer looked up and saw Tempest underneath the boat, cradling her man as the inky blackness of his blood spread beneath the hull.

  Chaucer had a thought at that moment: he wasn’t at all sure he was cut out for field work anymore.

  Then again, he was comparing himself to Tempest—one of the deadliest human beings ever to walk the earth. The T. rex of her time.

  Chaucer’s diver changed tactics. As the blood choke began to take effect, he curled into a ball. Chaucer realized instantly what he was doing—going for his dive knife.

  Chaucer wrapped a leg around the diver’s, extending it and forcing the leg away from the man’s hands. The diver fought on valiantly for another thirty seconds before the blood choke finally took hold and he went limp.

  Chaucer’s lungs were on fire. He grabbed the man’s rebreather, stuffed it into his mouth, and sucked in all the oxygen he could.

  Tempest swam down to him and gave him a quick nod of approval. She then worked the dive tank off her victim and put it on her own back, nodding to Chaucer to do the same.

  Chaucer followed suit. It was a far less messy affair—his man had died bloodlessly.

  Once they both had scuba tanks on their backs, they took the men’s fins as well.

  Then they were ready.

  CHAPTER 20

  The boat sat still above them, the searchlight still scanning the rocks.

  Chaucer swam away, letting go of his man.

  Tempest went in after him, grabbing her diver.

  Chaucer looked back and realized the mistake.

  Of course.

  They’d taken their weight belts. The bodies would float.

  He took back control of his dead diver, and the two of them slowly, silently, kicked their way back toward Quarter Moon Bay, their victims in tow.

  Tempest only let go of her diver when they rounded the point into Quarter Moon Bay. Chaucer followed suit.

  The two of them surfaced a hundred yards from shore. They searched the horizon but saw no sign of the boats.

  Chaucer spoke first. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

  “They’ve got training. No doubt about that. Their response to our intrusion was impressive. We might already be out of time.”

  Chaucer said, “You’re the exfil specialist. What do we do?”

  “Easy. We get to the airport and steal a plane. Maybe take that Carl guy hostage.”

  Chaucer smirked. That’s what you get for asking Tempest to come up with a plan. “How about we grab a taxi to the airport and pay somebody to get us off this island before anyone knows what happened?”

  Tempest frowned. “You know, playing it safe is not as attractive as you think it is.”

  Chaucer opened his mouth to retort, but had nothing. Being the adult was not always attractive.

  They came ashore on the far end of Quarter Moon Bay and ditched the scuba gear in the surf. Then they followed the treeline, approaching the resort.

  Anya van Mier stared at the scene before her. At six feet tall, six three in the heels she currently wore, with slicked-back blonde hair and pale, perfect skin, she was an imperious presence, and she knew it. She counted on it. She drummed her impeccable silver nails on the Cradle as she surveyed the damage in her mind. Three of her men dead. And Mei, her number two at this facility, also deceased. And worst of all, if the intruders were not found in the next hour, the Olana operation would be officially compromised.

  She asked the new second-in-command, a tough-minded German named Falk, “What the hell happened here?”

  “Two of the Tongata guests. They were pros.”

  “Identities?”

  Falk looked down. “We’re working on that. The initial facial rec check turned up nothing⁠—”

  Anya grew impatient. “If they made it down here, we have them on facility video. I want to see it. Now. And I want to know how much of the facility they got to see?”

  “At least some of the procedure here. And one other possible location⁠—”

  “Possible?”

  Falk continued, “It’s possible they were in the communications room. It’s the middle of the night and the mainframe has been running maintenance.”

  Anya swallowed hard as her mind ran through the implications. The communications room was never to be left unmanned.

  Falk could see what she was thinking. “Wilton was in the bathroom. It was blind luck. If anybody even was in there—I’m only reporting it because we don’t know.”

  Anya shook her head. “You know how this goes. We assume the worst. We assume they got everything. They saw the procedure. We must assume they got a snippet of our comms.” Her voice hardened. “My concern is communications. What was going through communications at the time of the incursion?”

  Falk didn’t want to answer, but he knew better than to show weakness to van Mier. He looked her dead in the eyes. “The orders for London.”

  “Which orders for London?”

  “All of them. Both operations.”

  Anya closed her eyes for a brief second. She knew the rage building in her could be viewed as weakness. She kept it in check. “Has Carl found them yet?”

  “He’s searching the resort as we speak. Hasn’t reported back yet. I’m sending reinforcements.”

  Anya spat, “Wake the team.” Her eyes went cold. “Whoever those two are, they don’t leave the island.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Chaucer and Tempest snuck across the resort in the predawn hours. Chaucer didn’t like it one bit.

  He whispered, “There’s gotta be another way.”

  Tempest whispered back, “We need a plane, and you’re right. Better to hire one than steal one. Planes cost money. This is how its gotta be.”

  Tempest slunk down the teak walkway that wound through the villas and led to their own. She nodded to Chaucer, who produced the key card and held it up against the doorjamb, unlocking the door. He then opened the door, and Tempest burst in, ready for anything.

  Anything took the form of Carl—the severe-looking Nordic blond—who was busy searching through their effects. He was on the other side of the room, across the king-size bed from Tempest, and she saw him drawing a weapon.

  She let out a feral roar as she charged him.

  A pistol came up, and a single shot rang out a millisecond before Tempest’s hands were on the gun arm. The shot was low and passed harmlessly between her legs.

  She slammed his gun arm against the wall. Normally, the force would have been enough to dislodge it, but Carl was no normal opponent. He kept control of the gun and tried to muscle it back into a proper trajectory.

  Tempest wasn’t having that.

  She leapt over his arm, twisting as she did so, only to be surprised when Carl did the same thing—somersaulting in midair to prevent any arm lock from happening.

  Chaucer grabbed the lamp on the nightstand, intending to use it as a weapon, only to find it was built into the furniture itself. Frustrated, he grabbed the phone handset, feeling less and less good with each passing second about his chosen weapon.

  When Carl swung his gun arm in Chaucer’s direction, Chaucer swung downward with all his might and connected with the gun hand. Against all odds, a direct hit on the thumb was enough to dislodge the gun.

  Tempest and Carl released arms and squared off on the far side of the bed.

  Chaucer moved to intercept, but Tempest put a hand out, stopping him. She didn’t look in his direction. Her eyes were only on her opponent.

  Tempest looked Carl up and down and asked, “How do you want it, big boy? Challenger gets to choose the method.”

  Carl cracked his knuckles as he sized up his opponent. “BJJ.”

  Tempest looked surprised. “Brazilian jiu-jitsu, huh? You a ground-and-pounder, Carl? Okay, I’ll be your dance partner. Let’s do this.”

  Chaucer ended up with a front-row seat at a martial arts exhibition. He glanced at the gun, wondering if he could make a move for it, but it was in the opposite corner of the room, past Carl. That wasn’t happening.

  The two combatants approached each other, watching hands and feet carefully. It was obvious from Carl’s footwork that he was highly trained—and highly agile.

  Chaucer was pissed. They didn’t have time for this.

  He searched the room for another weapon, but all their gear was on the other side of Tempest’s little octagon. All he could find was the TV remote. He thought better of it and decided to sit this one out—for now.

  Carl made his move, punching at Tempest’s face then continuing downward, going for a leg lock.

  Tempest saw it coming and went low herself. She bear-hugged him at the midsection and, in a single fluid motion, flipped them both, landing on top of the bigger man.

  It became a scrum.

  Tempest unleashed a flurry of punches to the man’s face and neck—blows Carl seemed to all but ignore as he flipped himself into a different position and threw his leg up over her head.

  Tempest ducked before his leg could strangle her, but in doing so she lowered her face right into his other knee, which connected with her temple.

  It dazed her for just a moment, but it was all the time Carl needed.

  Carl flipped her over, now on top, and returned the beating she had just given him—but with twice the force.

  Chaucer looked on, concerned. “Tempest?”

  Even as she was being beaten, Tempest found time to glare at him. “Stay out of it, asshole.”

  With that, she delivered an elbow to the big man’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. It gave her a clear view of his neck, and Tempest was never one to turn down a present.

  Her other hand came in and delivered a four-knuckle blow to his larynx.

  Carl choked, but kept his composure, and head-butted her for his troubles. She turned her head at the last second, and his temple glanced off her cheek instead of her nose.

  But Carl wasn’t done. Carl went for a second headbutt, this time connecting with her nose, bloodying and dazing her.

  He saw it, the loss of focus in her eyes—his window of opportunity—and went in for the kill.

  Tempest tucked her chin to receive the third headbutt, their foreheads clashing like goats battling for dominance.

  It was only then that Carl realized his mistake.

  Tempest was letting him succeed with the headbutts so he wouldn’t be paying attention to her legs.

  As he reared his head for another blow, her legs snaked up behind him—an impressive move even for the most trained—and wrapped around his neck.

  Tempest’s powerful leg muscles pulled the man backward, going for the blood choke.

  Carl spun as best he could, kicking at her face, but Tempest was ready. Her hands deflected his kicks, catching one leg and twisting it into a pain position.

  The free leg kicked wildly, but the only result was hastening his unconsciousness.

  Ten seconds later, Carl’s face went from red to purple.

  Ten more, and his kicks lost half their power.

  Ten more, and Carl didn’t more.

  Tempest waited thirty seconds longer to make sure he was out before releasing him.

  She spat blood from her mouth onto his unconscious face. “The Gracies can suck my dick.”

  She smiled and turned to Chaucer, who wasn’t impressed.

  His arms were crossed, a frown on his face. “You done?”

  Tempest pointed at Carl. “He’s twice my size. Come on. You’ve got to give this to me.”

  “We’ve got to get to the airport. Now.”

  Tempest frowned, pouting. Then she went through her things, finding cash, credit cards, and a concealed weapon or two.

  Chaucer did the same.

  “You know, Chaucer,” Tempest said, “if you can’t stop to smell the roses every once in a while, you’re never going to be happy.”

  “There could be thirty hostiles outside the door. I’m just being practical.”

  Tempest straightened, ready for action. “There are always thirty hostiles on the other side of the door, Chaucer. That’s life. When are you going to start living?”

  Tempest threw the door open.

  No one was there.

  Chaucer mocked her. “There are always thirty hostiles on the other side of the door.”

  “It’s a metaphor, dickhead.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tempest rushed off into the night, and Chaucer followed—as he always did.

  They stole a Tongata courtesy vehicle that helpfully had its keys dangling in the ignition and drove to the airport as the sun broke on the horizon.

  Tempest kept an eye on the rearview mirror the entire twenty-minute journey. No pursuit appeared. The tiny airport had several general aviation aircraft, prop planes and small jets tied down next to the airport’s lone building. It also had an airport bar that appeared to be open twenty-four hours a day.

  Chaucer and Tempest headed for it, discussing the plan.

  “Any plane, any destination,” Chaucer said. “The important thing is to leave this second.”

  “How are we going to know who to ask?”

  Chaucer smiled. “I’ll know.”

  They entered the airport bar, a glass-enclosed room with a view of the single airstrip, columns painted dark blue, and a cobalt metallic bar.

  There were two serving staff and four patrons.

  It took Chaucer just a moment to realize the patrons were all pilots—glorified chauffeurs taking elite clients wherever they wanted on a moment’s notice.

  Chaucer spotted the man at the end of the bar in flip-flops and a Hawaiian shirt. “That’s our guy.”

  Tempest eyed him. “Him?”

  Chaucer didn’t reply. He just walked over and sat beside the man.

  Chaucer said, “I need somebody to take my friend and me on a quick hop.”

  The pilot looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Sorry, pal. I’m spoken for.”

  “I know. But your flight isn’t for six hours.”

  The pilot set his drink down and turned his body. “And how exactly would you know that?”

  “You’re drinking diet soda—straight. That means you’re flying within eight hours. Otherwise I’d peg you as a Bloody Mary type. But you’re in civvies, so you wouldn’t risk your clients seeing you like this. That means you’re grabbing a drink before the beach—or a mistress. Over four hours, less than eight. I split the difference.”

  The pilot laughed. Evidently Chaucer was right on all counts. The pilot extended a hand. “Ben Murphy. And you are?”

  Chaucer shook it. When Murphy pulled his hand back, he found an ounce of gold resting in his palm. “Saul Gold.”

  Murphy laughed—a deep, rumbly laugh with a wet edge. He used to be a smoker. “I’d love to help you,” Murphy said, “but your guess was dead on. I’ve got a flight in six hours.”

  “What’s the shortest hop from here?”

  “Absolute closest? Jaluit. Forty-five minute flight. But there’s nothing there.”

  “Except an airport?”

  Murphy nodded. Chaucer could see he was trying to figure Chaucer out, and failing.

  Chaucer did the math. “An hour and a half round trip. Three hours with turnaround, refueling, and preflight. That gives you a three-hour cushion.”

  He tossed Murphy another ounce of gold.

  Murphy scratched his heavily stubbled chin. “So let me get this straight. You don’t care where you’re going, as long as it’s not here?”

  Chaucer nodded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “Well, Mr. Gold, if you've got two more of those paperweights, we’ve got ourselves a contract.”