Burn

"No, sir," Dean replied, maintaining his composure as always.

Larkin never left anying to chance.

He’d needed assistance in carrying out his plan, and since none of the people he required for help were suicidal, he’d had to concoct a reason for their presence and what they were doing. A handful of security personnel, who had helped him bring the bombs onboard and place them, thought there was going to be a robbery on the high seas, during the return trip to San Diego. They believed they were going to rob all these rich people of their jewels and cash and then escape. The jewels and cash alone wouldn’t make such a heist worthwhile, but added to the artwork that was supposed to be auctioned off, it would all add up to millions.

A million wasn’t what it had once been, but it was still enough to entice a few morons.

Larkin had assured them that he’d taken care of all the details. They’d take a lifeboat, then be met by a larger boat that would take them all to South America. Once they were well away, the bombs would be detonated, so there would be no one left alive to identify the robbers.

The plan was full of holes, but that didn’t matter, because the bombs would be detonated before the planned robbery, not after. So far he’d handled any questions he couldn’t answer with an offhand or irritated assurance that he had the matter under control. Who were these idiots to question him? So far, the lure of a big payoff had kept them all satisfied.

There were nine bombs, all carefully placed to take the ship and its passengers to the ocean floor. When the time came, the would-be thieves would arm the bombs. A couple of them, Dean included, thought they had the triggers for those bombs, but in truth, Larkin had the real trigger. He’d choose his own exact moment of death … and the deaths of so many of the rich idiots who had either inherited their money or, like the Redwine bitch, won a fucking lottery. Stupid fools. None of them had earned their money, worked for it the way he had. They didn’t deserve to have it, any of it. They didn’t deserve to live.

AFTER ALL THE TROUBLE Jenner had caused him at lunch, Cael didn’t think twice about handcuffing her to the chair that afternoon, and she hadn’t asked him not to. She knew better. She still looked very pleased with herself, as he retrieved and set up his equipment so he could catch whatever had been digitally captured from Larkin’s suite while he and Jenner had been on the deck, lounging around and lunching with their new friends.

"Yoga, my ass," he muttered under his breath.

"What’s that?" she asked sweetly. "I didn’t hear you."

He didn’t respond, but sat down with his equipment. Larkin had been on deck for a while, so there shouldn’t be much catch-up work required. Cael watched Larkin’s private steward cleaning, making the bed, vacuuming. Exciting stuff. Then Larkin arrived.

The exchange between Larkin and his steward was telling, personality-wise. Basically, Larkin was a shithead … a shithead who was taking a shitload of aspirin. Cael had already noticed that he often cradled his head when he was alone. Was he ill? Or just prone to headaches?

Then Dean Mills came in, and that was much more interesting from Cael’s point of view. Getaway? What in hell did Frank Larkin have "in hand"? Other than his own dick, of course. Was Larkin planning on disappearing after the meet in Hilo?

Cael removed the earbud, retrieved the cord for the stateroom phone from his locked briefcase, and reconnected it as he did each time he ordered room service. He dialed, and in a calm voice requested extra shampoo, at the steward’s convenience.

"What’s going on?" Jenner asked as he removed the cord and once more locked it in his briefcase.

"Nothing," he replied.

"Seriously, you look as if you’re worried about something."

He ignored her and went into the parlor, just in time for Bridget’s knock on the door and her entrance on the heels of that knock. She carried several miniature bottles of shampoo in her hands.

"I think Larkin is up to something other than the Hilo meeting," he said in a lowered tone. The less Jenner knew, the better.

"Such as?" Bridget went into the bedroom area and Cael followed. She turned left, to go into the bathroom and deposit the shampoo. He glanced at Jenner, who was sitting cuffed and annoyed in her chair, spine straight, expression openly curious. Bridget came out of the bathroom and glanced at Cael, wondering about his silence. He nodded toward Jenner, and a light of understanding came into Bridget’s eyes.

Jenner got it, too, and she didn’t like it at all. "I’m in this as deeply as either of you," she argued as Cael and Bridget returned to the parlor. "Deeper!" she called after them. "And I didn’t have a choice about it, either!"

Bridget grinned, and Cael briefly closed his eyes. He moved farther away from the door and lowered his voice even more. Trust her? That would be like trusting a teenage boy to drive across country the day after getting his license. "Have Sanchez keep an eye on Dean Mills and any other crew members he meets with on a regular basis."

"What did you hear?" Bridget asked.

"Treason may not be the only deal Larkin has going." He told her what he’d heard about the "getaway," and everything else Larkin had said. As he finished, he heard a thump, a scraping sound, then another thump. He froze. Surely not. She wouldn’t. Oh, hell, who was he trying to fool? Of course she would.

He turned his head and there she was, clumsily lifting and dragging the heavy chair with her, moving it into the doorway between the two rooms of the suite.

"I saw the expression on your face," she said, sitting down in the chair as if its placement was perfectly normal. "Don’t expect me to stay in the dark while you rally the troops." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Do I need to be worried about something or someone other than you? How bad is it?" Looking from him to Bridget and back again, she added, "I’ve never seen a weapon on any of you, and I think if you’d had them I would have. Do you need help?"