Guns and Roses (53 page)

His eyes get big as he shouts back! “
Ay, dios mio
! No! I—I can’t swim!”

Now
he tells me.

We hit the water with the velocity of a cannonball. The sub is just thirty feet below the surface, close enough that we won’t get the bends. We would have popped back up if the pulley’s GPS system wasn’t honed in on submarine’s outer chamber, which is set to close after us, draining water and filling with oxygen before the main cabin opens.

What I haven’t counted on is that El Chihuahua would panic. He grabs me around the neck, as if I’m a flotation device. With my free hand, I try to fight him off, but the more I struggle, the tighter he holds onto me.

My lungs feel as if they are about to burst—

A dark shadow circles us slowly. Proof that the Grim Reaper not only walks the Earth, but swims the oceans…

El Chihuahua feels it, too. I can tell because he lurches forward and his eyes pop wider, if that’s possible. His mouth widens with a silent scream. He’s thrashing frantically. The bubbles around us rise furiously, all pretty and pink—

With El Chihuahua’s blood.

Apparently, his injured leg has attracted a shark.

The crunch of bone against the great white’s bicuspids roars, like a sonic boom, through the murky water. Jaws and I are playing tug of war with Hector. I fight the urge to let go of him and save myself. The only thing that may save his life—and mine—is the speed in which we’re racing toward the sub—

I’m still holding onto him—really, to what is left of him—when I slam into the submarine’s antechamber. Pissed that his brunch has been rudely interrupted, the shark rams the sub again and again, rocking it from side to side.

Gasping for air, I choke as I scream to Jack, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

When the engine kicks in, the sub pitches forward, and I flip over—

Onto what used to be Hector Negron de la Moraga.

In this case, just a severed torso and bald head. His bulging eyes stare into mine, accusing me of fucking up royally.

Yep, he’s right.

Along with the salt water sieving through the antechamber’s drainpipe is the last of El Chihuahua’s blood, some of his entrails, and my vomit.

3:31 pm

“Well, I guess half an asset is better than none.” Count on Jack to look at the bright side.

“Think so? Good. I’ll let you explain that to Ryan.” My teeth are still chattering. That’s to be expected, considering I was just a few seconds away from being a great white shark’s dessert course.

I turn my back as I strip out of my wet clothes to the bikini underneath, not because I’m modest in front of Jack (he always admires the view), but because I still can’t stand to see El Chihuahua’s glaring at me.

I know why Jack is wincing—and it has nothing to do with the jiggly bits he claims he sees, but because he dreads the thought of calling Ryan Clancy, our boss at Acme Industries. “I guess the sooner we get it over with, the better.”

He’s right. With or without Hector’s intel, we’ve got to figure out a way to find the Quorum’s safe house and break into it.

After setting our GPS coordinates and our speed on autopilot, Jack crouches down for a closer look at El Chihuahua. “There are some strange markings on this dude. Not the usual gangbanger tats. More like… I don’t know, calculus or something.”

I quit toweling my hair for a closer look. “You’re right. But it’s certainly a little more complicated than Mary’s eighth grade homework.” I follow one line of digits, which seem to run on forever, but is connected with a plus sign to an equally crazy alphabet . . .

Could it be . . .?

“Oh my God! Jack, this is some sort of code!” I circle El Chihuahua’s torso. “By the look of things, the guy’s whole body is a database!”

“If that’s the case, then I hope Jaws didn’t munch on what we need. Let’s show old Hector here to Arnie, in tech ops. He’ll know if these are ciphers—and if so, how to decode them.” Jack grabs his iPhone off the control board console and then goes in for a tight shot with the camera app, clicking away on what’s left of Hector. I’m surprised he doesn’t pass out, what with the sickening condition of Hector’s corpse.

The way Hector’s eyes follow me makes me want to gag again.

I try to shake it off, but it’s hard to forget his shit-eating smirk as he tapped his head and boasted,
“It’s all up here…”

I grab Jack’s arm. “I think I know which one to decipher! When I asked him about the Quorum’s villa, he pointed here.” I shiver as I put my finger over Hector’s left ear.

“That gives us a place to start.” Jack tosses me the iPhone. “But go ahead and take pictures of every inch of your friend. The more samples we supply Arnie, the easier it will be for him to break the cipher. In any event, it’s time I call Ryan.”

He’s given me the easier of the two tasks.

I’ll thank him later, in a way I know he’ll appreciate.

First, I click off a few shots of the tattoo over Hector’s ear. Then I move the iPhone’s lens ever so slightly, to another section of Hector’s head.

Rest in peace, Hector. You smart ass.

Turns out you were certainly smarter than you looked.

As I snap away, Jack radios into Acme. In no time at all, Ryan’s gruff bark is echoing through the submarine. “How’s the party?”

“Bad news.” Jack pauses. “It got crashed. A shark ate the Chihuahua.”

Ryan’s curses would make a sailor cringe. When, finally, he calms down, Jack adds, “But we saved enough of him that I think we may still have a chance to save this operation. The guy seems to have written his life story on his bod. You’ll see what we mean. We’re transmitting now. Have Arnie take a look. Maybe he can make something out of it. Tell him to start with the first code we send, the one over Hector’s left ear. Donna thinks he indicated that it’s the magic number. ”

He gives me the high sign. Within a few minutes, I’ve texted the .jpeg in question, followed by all the other tats, too.

“If you’re right, it’s the nuttiest thing I’ve ever heard.” Despite the doubt we hear in his voice, the next thing we know, Ryan is shouting to Arnie to get on it.

The line is silent for too long. Finally, Arnie’s jubilant shout confirms our suspicions. “Damn, this is awesome! I’m guessing the computer will crack it within the hour.”

Jack’s lips graze my forehead with a congratulatory kiss.

For the first time since I saw that godforsaken island, I’m breathing easy.

 But not for long. The submarine’s engine lets loose with a bang and a wheeze—

Then silence.

Not good.

Only the emergency lights keep us from groping around in complete darkness.

I’m almost afraid to ask, but someone has to. “What the hell happened?”

Jack checks the life support data on the control console. “Looks like our battery died. We have, at the most, another thirty minutes of back-up power and oxygen.”

Unfortunately, we’re still one-hundred-twenty-two nautical miles from Cabo.

Jack shakes his head. “We’ve got to capsize quickly, before this sardine can sinks like a stone.” He tosses the radio receiver and the iPad at me. “Radio Ryan to send a helicopter and let him know he can track our whereabouts with the iPad, via its GPS coordinates. When you’re done, put both in waterproof pouches along with our ops gear, while I inflate the portable DSVR. And as much as I’d personally prefer you in that bikini, I’m guessing you’d be more comfortable if you wore a wetsuit when we get topside.”

Thank goodness our sub is equipped with a Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle.

Suddenly, I remember Hector. “But… what about him?”

Jack laughs and then gives me a swift kiss. “Sweetheart, this isn’t weekend at Bernie’s. We’re not dragging him along. If his tats are encoded, we’ve got what we came for.”

He’s right. Hector’s fate is a burial at sea.

Not mine. Somewhere, thirty feet above us is a piña colada with my name on it.

And a date with the Quorum.

After explaining the reality of our situation to Acme, I pack up our op gear and stow it securely inside the DSVR. Then I jump into a wetsuit and fit a scuba mask over my face.

When Jack gives me the high sign, I push the button to the sub’s exterior antechamber—

Nothing.

Won’t open.

I pound on the button, then on the door.

Nada. Zip.

I shrug. “Your turn.”

Jack grabs a crowbar from the utility closet and tries to pry open the door of the antechamber. Granted, he’s six-foot two-inches of gumption, charm, and sinewy muscle, but even he’s not Superman, and it ain’t budging.

My eyes scan the cabin. The only portion of the hull that is not made of reinforced fiberglass is the glass bubble at the top of the submarine.

I point to it. “The bubble is just big enough for the DSVR to squeeze through it. I say we strap ourselves into it, then we break the glass with the portable ejection system we have in our ops gear. We can also use the ejector to propel the DSVR to the surface. We’ll cut loose after we’re clear of the sub.”

“Works for me.” He stares up at it. “Okay, get into position and hold tight. I’ll launch on the count of three—”

I huddle into the DSVR, my wrists wrapped tightly around the straps on the inside of its hull. Jack follows suit. It’s not the best of circumstances for cuddling, but hey, it could be worse.

He shouts, “Two…and
three
—” then pulls the trigger on the ejector.

Under water, the usual shriek of shattering glass is dulled to a thud and a
whoosh.
But instead of sprinkling down on us, we fly upward after it.

As we hurtle toward the surface, the tiny shards sparkle like shiny guppies as they float away.

The real fish scurry off in a panic.

I know I should be scared, too. Instead, I’m calm because Jack is holding onto me, as if he’ll never let me go.

But of course he won’t.

Ever.

Because he loves me.

6:14 pm

A fuzzy peach sun is melting into the jade horizon. Hot pink clouds float around the baby blue sky like God’s lava lamp until, finally, the sun’s last rays flicker out, revealing starry pinpricks in the indigo night.

Our three-hour sunbath has browned Jack’s face, but it turns pink at my touch.

I touch him often.

I am still holding onto him for dear life.

For the past three hours, our emergency raft has been slapped silly by foamy whitecaps. Although our wetsuits have kept us dry and the wind has finally died down, the night air is chilly enough that we shiver as we lay in each other’s arms.

“Acme is sure taking its sweet time getting here,” I sigh.

“Maybe the helicopter hit some headwinds coming out of Los Angeles. Fine by me. It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m enjoying a few hours of down time.” His eyes, usually a soft green, have darkened to the color of the sea. “Hey, what do you say we make the most of it?”

“Ha! If you think this rubber dinghy is my idea of a romantic getaway, you’re mistaken. After sitting in this thing for three hours, I’ll need that massage more than ever.”

“Your wish is my command. Turn over.” Even in the dark, I can make out Jack’s playful grin.

“I’d take you up on it, but if this boat goes a’rockin, Señor Shark may come a ’knockin’ again, and unfortunately, we’ve launched our last missile.” I toss him the empty ammo cache to make my point.

He laughs. “Okay, I hear you. But I do have something else to keep us busy until the chopper shows up. I was going to save this until after we’d made love in our very own seaside cottage, but I’ll let you have it now.”

He pulls a small red heart-shaped box from his ops bag, and hands it to me. “For you, milady.”

“Really?” I can feel myself blushing. I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see my face.

I hesitate only a second before untying the box. Inside is tiny pink doll, a baseball covered in autographs, a Magic 8-Ball, homemade cookies shaped like hearts and wrapped in cellophane—

And a jeweler’s box.

I clear my throat.
“Hmmm.
Interesting combination.”

“Go ahead, read the tags. But save the 8-Ball for last.”

I would have guessed he’d have asked that of the jeweler’s box.

 I pick up the baseball. The autographs are from players with the Los Angeles Dodgers, my son’s favorite team. Pinned to it is a note:

Dear Mom,

For Valentine’s Day, I’ve cleaned out the garage in order to earn enough money to take you and me to a ballgame—only you’ll have to drive us, because even though it’s a date, I’m not legal yet.