Five years later
Jeff Markum lay on his belly in the sand. Waving sea
grass, bougainvillea and wild fig trees hid him from view.
His powerful binoculars allowed him to see into the open
windows of the exclusive villa situated at the far end of
the hotel grounds.
Three men gathered around a table, as was their morning
custom. They'd finished breakfast and were talking. A
soft, tropical breeze carried with it the faint sound of
laughter. Jeff couldn't hear what they were saying, but he
watched their lips moving and deciphered most of the words.
They were going fishing.
Jeff turned his head slightly to the right and saw the
dock jutting out into the deep blue of the Caribbean sea.
A well-equipped powerboat sat bobbing in the water. The
crew was preparing for their day of fishing. Jeff looked
back at the villa. The path from the front door to the
boat was about fifty feet long. Nothing obstructed Jeff's
view of the area, so nothing would get in the way of his
shot.
Kray would walk those fifty feet. He was a head taller
than both his bodyguards. It would be easy to take him out.
Jeff lowered the binoculars and rolled onto his back. His
hip bumped the gleaming rifle he'd laid out in preparation
of what had to be done. Timing. This whole damn thing was
about timing. Today it would happen. He could feel it in
his bones, especially in his knee, which often ached if
the weather was right.
It was early enough that the temperature was still
pleasant. A rainstorm had passed through during the night,
washing everything clean. He inhaled the thick air of the
island, smelling the tropical flowers, the sea and his own
sweat. He'd thought he might hesitate or be weighed down
by indecision, but he wasn't. Today. Now. Kray would die.
Jeff brushed his arm across his forehead and tried to
relax. He'd killed men before. He wasn't afraid to watch
someone die. He wasn't even afraid of dying himself. The
plan was flawless. He was the ultimate weapon — an
assassin willing to sacrifice himself for the target. Kray
didn't have a chance.
Jeff knew what would happen afterward. He hadn't spent
much time planning his escape, mostly because he didn't
expect to get away. Kray practically owned the island. He
came here often enough to make the locals pliable to his
wishes. While he was on St. Lucas, Kray liked to pretend
he wasn't a dangerous criminal, but instead, a wealthy
businessman on holiday. So the villa had no alarm system,
no heat sensors, no obvious security. It was perfect for
Jeff's plan. The three bodyguards who went everywhere with
Kray wouldn't even notice the single bullet that flew past
them to find its victim. No doubt Jeff would be caught. So
be it. He wanted Kray dead — nothing else mattered.
Jeff rolled onto his stomach again. Instead of the villa,
he saw the small red car exploding into unrecognizable
pieces. He felt the heat and smelled the burning wreckage.
He held himself very still and waited until the vision
passed; then he picked up the rifle and stared through the
scope. It had been five long years. In all that time Kray
had never crossed the line. He'd never tried to kill Jeff
again, and he'd never been caught. One of the most
powerful crime lords in the world walked free because he
was too smart and too lucky. Jeff smiled slowly. Kray's
luck was about to change for the worse. A single bullet to
the head. That's all it would take.
He was cynical enough to know Kray's death wouldn't change
the world. Someone else would step in his shoes. But Jeff
didn't care about that. Part of the reason he was here —
hell, all of the reason he was here was personal. Maybe
when Kray was dead, his dreams about Jeanne and J.J. would
haunt him less. Maybe then he could finally forget.
The sound of the boat engines cranking over caught his
attention. He adjusted the rifle, shifting his arm on the
sand, then stared through the scope. He closed his left
eye. He could see the crew preparing to cast off.
Slowly he turned the rifle toward the villa's front door.
Within a few seconds, the first of the bodyguards
appeared, carrying a canvas bag. The man was talking. Jeff
couldn't decipher his words. A second man stepped out onto
the path. Kray's assistant. Jeff waited.
A third man moved onto the path. Jeff stiffened. Kray. He
stared intently through the rifle's scope. The crime lord
looked like what he pretended to be: a successful
businessman on holiday. His brown hair was short and
brushed straight back. Thick eyebrows arched over light
brown eyes. A full mouth curved into a smile at something
one of the bodyguards said.
Jeff adjusted the scope until the cross hairs centered on
Kray's head. He touched the trigger. He'd been practicing
with this rifle for over a year. He knew exactly how much
pressure to apply, knew how heavy the loads were in the
bullets and knew precisely what would happen to Kray at
the moment of impact. He'd always been a good field agent,
even if he'd spent the past five years behind a desk.
He thought about Jeanne and J.J. one last time, then
cleared his mind. Nothing existed except the target.
Nothing mattered.
His breathing slowed, as did his heartbeat. His body
stayed perfectly still in anticipation.
The fourth man stepped through the door and onto the path.
He, too, carried a canvas bag. The group started moving
toward the boat. Now, Jeff told himself. He drew in a
breath, held it and started to squeeze.
"Monsieur Kray!" a female voice called.
Jeff froze, then forced himself to relax. There was still
time. Kray and his men turned toward the house. A dark-
haired woman in a gray-and-white uniform ran down to the
dock. She was holding a piece of paper. Kray waited
impatiently as the woman approached him.
They spoke briefly.
The woman, her dark hair pulled away from her face,
stepped between Jeff and his target. Jeff waited. Kray
read the paper, then handed it back to her and nodded. The
woman started toward the villa.
Before he could adjust his sights on Kray again, a flicker
of movement from behind the villa caught his attention. He
tried to ignore it, but years of training kicked in.
Cursing silently, he swung the gun back toward the villa,
using the scope as a magnifying lens.
A woman crept up to the rear of the villa, toward the
French doors by the breakfast room. She wore jeans, a
white T-shirt and running shoes. Despite her casual
attire, she was as out of place as a mouse in a cage full
of cats. Tourists didn't go creeping around behind the
crime lord's villa, and operatives didn't sneak around in
the middle of the day. Who the hell was she? Her long
blond hair and pale skin told of her Anglo heritage; she
wasn't a native. But she was trying to get in to Kray's
villa. Jeff knew enough about his enemy to know she wasn't
part of his entourage.
Jeff glanced at the maid. The dark-haired woman had paused
at the front of the building to light a cigarette. He
looked at the blonde and saw she was fitting a key into
the French doors and cautiously pushing them open. If the
maid smoked one cigarette, that gave the blonde less than
two minutes before the maid interrupted her. Damn it all
to hell.
He turned his attention back to the men at the end of the
dock. In about ten seconds, when the bodyguard climbed
into the bobbing boat, he would have a clear shot at Kray.
If he killed his old enemy now, the woman would be trapped
inside the villa and caught at whatever she was trying to
do. He told himself she wasn't his responsibility. He was
here to take out Kray, civilians be damned.
Except that wasn't his policy. He trained his men to
protect civilians. He couldn't expect any less from
himself.
Jeff closed his left eye and gently moved the rifle until
the cross hairs centered on Kray's ear. He touched the
trigger.
"Bang, you're dead," he said softly, then lowered the
rifle to the ground.
Kray spent at least six weeks every spring on the island.
He met with his managers, talked money with the various
banks that laundered his funds, gave expensive parties.
Jeff was also going to be here for six weeks. This was
only day five. He had plenty of time to deal with Kray.
He glanced at the maid. She'd finished about half of her
cigarette and was watching the men on the boat cast off.
One of the bodyguards called out to her. She smiled and
waved.
Jeff quickly broke down the rifle and slipped the weapon
into his backpack. As he put on his cap and picked up the
binoculars, he heard the boat engines roar as they powered
the vehicle out toward the open ocean. Blue skies and
bluer water beckoned. They wouldn't be back until late
afternoon. He thought about the bags the bodyguards had
carried. They might even stay away overnight.
He turned his attention back to the villa. The woman
hadn't reappeared. The maid was down to the last third of
her cigarette.
"Come on," Jeff said quietly. "You've got less than thirty
seconds until she goes back inside."
He didn't know why he was rooting for the mysterious
woman, except if she was Kray's enemy, then she was his
ally. He waited, counting out the seconds. The maid
finished her cigarette and stubbed out the butt in the
decorative sand-filled jar beside the door. She opened the
front door and stepped inside.
Damn. Jeff picked up his backpack and rose to his knees.
With a last glance at the departing boat, he crawled
through the low-lying bushes around the beach and toward
the back of the villa. The blonde hadn't come back out
yet. If the maid caught her, she would have a lot of
explaining to do. If she did manage to escape, he would
follow her and try to find out what she was doing here.
Ally or not, he wasn't going to let anyone get in the way
of what had to be done.
Andie Cochran promised herself that when she was safely
out of danger, she was going to find a quiet place out in
the bushes somewhere and throw up. She hadn't known it was
possible to be this scared and still function.
Her muscles quivered and twitched. Her hands shook, her
knees trembled. Even her breathing was ragged. Her stomach
lurched threateningly and her heart raced. Nerves had kept
her going for the past three weeks and she was hanging on
by sheer force of will.
She glanced at her watch. She had no time left. She'd seen
the nanny run down the dock toward Kray and his men. It
had given her only a moment to act, but she'd taken it.
There might not be another chance. Kray and his goons were
gone on an overnight fishing trip. The villa was at the
far end of the resort and the hotel housekeeping staff
wasn't due for a half hour. No one else was around. The
building was empty except for the nanny and Bobby. She had
the perfect opportunity to rescue her son.
Andie moved quickly through the silent house. It had
changed some since she'd been here last. Of course, that
had been over six years ago. She'd been young and
innocent. A fool. As she passed by the elegantly appointed
living room, she noticed that the cushions and draperies
had been replaced, but the heavy carved mahogany furniture
was the same. She and Bobby could live for three years on
what Kray had paid for the sofa and love seat alone. But
then he'd always wanted the best, the most beautiful, the
rare. She must have been such a disappointment to him.
It didn't matter, she reminded herself. None of it
mattered. She turned toward the long hallway and ran
quietly toward the back bedrooms. Kray would take the
master suite for himself, with his bodyguards on either
side and across the hall. That left only the last three
bedrooms empty for her son.
Most of the doors stood open and she glanced in them as
she moved past. Unmade beds, piles of luggage, luxurious
furnishings, but no people. When she approached the end of
the hallway and the last three rooms, she heard a voice.
"I'm not afraid, I won't be afraid."
The soft singsong crooning stopped her in her tracks.
Instinctively Andie clutched her hands to her midsection
as if she could hold in the pain. Oh, God, what had Kray
done to her child?
She flew down the last few feet of corridor toward the
sound. When he was frightened, Bobby would huddle in the
middle of his bed and rock back and forth, singing the
refrain over and over again. It happened during rare Los
Angeles thunderstorms, or when he'd snuck downstairs while
she was studying and watched a scary movie. She would hear
the soft singing, then curl up next to him on the bed,
holding him close until he forgot to be afraid.
No one knew that, she thought, fighting the tears. No one
knew anything about him. He'd spent the past three weeks
alone in a terrifying world. Living with strangers,
missing her, not knowing how desperate she'd been to be
with him.
She opened the last door on the right and stepped into the
darkened room. Drapes had been pulled closed over the wide
window. There was a bed in the center of the room, along
with stacks of toys, many of them still in their boxes. An
untouched breakfast tray sat on a low table.
Her son lay huddled in the center of the bedspread, his
back to her. "Bobby," she said softly.
The boy turned toward her. His hazel eyes widened; then he
sat up slowly as if not able to believe what he was seeing.
"Mommy?"
She moved toward him, holding out her arms. He stood up
and launched himself at her. She caught him in midair. He
wrapped his sturdy legs around her waist and his arms
around her neck. Familiar little-boy smells assaulted her,
as his warm, small body pressed against her.
"Bobby," she murmured, clutching him closer. His hair was
longer, but still felt the same. Her palm moved up and
down against his bony spine, feeling the ridges and thin
muscles that would one day make him as big and broad as
his father.
© 2003-2026