Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (46 page)

“We don't have time for this, Mr. Cho. If you can do it, why haven't you done it already?”

“Dad! Da-a-ad.”
The boy went into a coughing fit.
“Come—get me. Please! I'm scared.”

“Patrick!”

Tristan gritted his teeth. The love and fear were so evident in their voices. He glanced at Sandy, who was looking down and rubbing her hand across the side of her belly. She looked like a Madonna, her goodness shining like a halo. And he knew what he had to do.

He wanted to watch their baby grow up. He wanted to feel that much love for his son, but not through a cloud of fear. He swore to himself that he would not allow Murray's son—or his own—to end up as a casualty of this mess.

“Patrick! Be brave.”
Through the phone, Murray sucked in a deep breath.
“Don't hurt my boy. I've got something else. Information you will want, but first you have to let Patrick go.”

The man's laughter echoed through the phone line.
“You're ordering us? That is not how it works. You're a little confused. We give the orders. You follow them. Hey, here's a bargain for you. You tell me what you've got, and if it's good enough, maybe we'll let your son live. That's a sale you can't afford to miss.”

Murray put his hand over his mouth and tried to stifle a sob. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, looking up at Tristan. “I had to. He's my son.”

Through the phone's speaker, Tristan heard Murray take a deep breath.
“It was so dark, except for lightning.”
In his fear, Murray's smooth English was breaking down.
“I get close as I could, but when lightning finally light up long time, I see Mrs. DuChaud, and a man.”

“A visitor?”
the man said.

“No, no,”
Murray replied.
“It was dark, but lightning was bright. I think it was Tristan DuChaud.”

“What? Are you serious? Because if you think you can fool us into letting your kid go—”

“No. I see what I see. Maybe it's him. Maybe not. But I know Mr. DuChaud. The man look like him. A lot.”

“Could have been a relative. Stop wasting our time.”

“A relative? You mean like cousin or brother? No, no. You don't get it. Here's the rest of the story. Mrs. DuChaud and him got very close. Closer than cousin. They were kissing—not like relatives.”

“Kissing? I'll be a sonofabitch,”
the kidnapper said, then muttered under his breath.

Tristan couldn't understand him. He paused and backed up the recording, then played it again.

“—not like relatives.”

“I'll be a sonofabitch.”

Tristan held his breath, but he still couldn't quite make out the kidnapper's muttered words. “Do you know what he said right there?”

Murray shrugged.
“‘Got to get proof. Lee will want proof.'”

“Lee? He said Lee?” Excitement coursed through Tristan's blood. Vernon Lee was the owner and CEO of Lee Drilling, the multibillion-dollar corporation that owned a lot of a whole lot of things, including several thousand oil rigs around the world and a large number of land drilling operations. Murray shrugged, and Tristan grabbed his shoulder. “He said
Lee
? Are you sure?”

Murray shrank away from Tristan's hand. “He said it in English. I'm pretty sure.”

Lee will want proof.
His suspicion had been right all along. He'd known from the start that the man on the satellite phone giving orders to the captain had to be high enough in Lee Drilling, the company that owned the
Pleiades Seagull
, to expect the captain to obey him without argument.

Whether that official was Lee himself, Tristan hadn't known—until now. Now he had some corroboration that who'd ordered Sandy watched and Murray's son kidnapped was the same man who had ordered his death on the
Pleiades Seagull
.

The popular media classified Lee as practically a recluse who fiercely and expensively protected his privacy.

The implications of exposing the multibillionaire were stunning. Even a rumor suggesting that he had masterminded the smuggling of automatic handguns into the United States with the idea of arming criminals and kids with the lethal weapons could destroy him and decimate his multibillion-dollar corporation.

Tristan started the recording back up.

“—want you to do now. You get back over there. Get me proof that the man you saw is Tristan DuChaud. A photo or video. And you'd better not be seen. My boss is smart and thorough and he's got all the money in the world. He'll know a fake within seconds. And trust me, Cho, anything suspicious happens and your kid's dead. Just get me that photo.”

“I'll get you the photo. Then what?”
Murray's voice was toneless.
“What about my son?”

“Well, Mr. Cho, you turned out to have something that just might be useful. If you improve how you follow directions and you bring us proof that the man you saw is DuChaud, maybe you can save your son.”
The man hung up.

Tristan stared at the phone for a moment, reviewing the information he'd just gained.
If
Murray was right and the man had said
Lee
, and if things went perfectly, Tristan just might be able to bring an end to the nightmare of the past two months.

* * *

S
ANDY
FELT
COMPLETELY
at loose ends while Boudreau and Tristan were deciding what to do about Murray, so she decided to cook, if there was enough gas for the portable stove, that was. She checked the can and found that it was over half-full.

She found a couple of cans of chicken stock in the cabinet, along with a small can of cooked chicken. She put the broth and the chicken in a pan. While it was simmering on one burner of the portable stove, she made a roux out of flour and oil on the second burner, then added the South Louisiana holy trinity of cooking—onion, peppers and celery—to it.

Once the vegetables were cooked perfectly, she added them and some sliced andouille sausage from the freezer, a few herbs and some cayenne pepper to the pot. Finally, a can of boiled okra and a can of tomatoes went into the mix.

Tristan came in about the time the pot began simmering. He took a deep breath. “Mmm, gumbo,” he said, smiling at her. “When will it be ready?”

Sandy set her mouth and shook her head. “There's not enough for everybody,” she said.

“That's okay. Boudreau and Murray have gone to his cabin. I'm headed up there in a few minutes.”

“You're going to Boudreau's? Again? Why? He can handle Murray without your help.” She sighed. “You are unbelievable.”

He frowned. “What? What did I do?”

“What did you do?” She tossed the metal spoon she was holding into the sink, where it clattered against the porcelain. “Are you saying you don't know? You dismissed me with a wave of your hand. You essentially told me to shut up. Then you ignored me. Not to mention you almost killed yourself running after him. Boudreau could have caught him in half the time. And I saw Boudreau's face. He was as worried about you as I was. And you—” She barely stopped for breath.

“I don't know. You're not the same person you were the last time I saw you.” She threw down the dishrag she'd tossed over her shoulder while she was cooking. “I'm not sure I know you anymore and I'm not sure I like this new person very much.”

Tristan listened to Sandy tick off all the things she was upset about. He'd known she was boiling mad, but he was expecting to be chastised for running, not for failing to take care of himself. Then when he'd smelled the gumbo, he'd had the fleeting fantasy that she wouldn't harangue him at all, that she'd be too worried about him to be angry.

But no such luck. She'd never cut him any slack and she wasn't now. And he knew she was right.

He wasn't the man he had been. He knew that. He had wanted to fully recuperate before he saw her, hoping that she wouldn't notice any difference in him.

But that had been a forlorn hope. She would never have missed the scar on the left side of his head, where the roughneck's bullet had barely missed blowing his brains out, or his deformed right calf, which had only half the muscles it ought to have.

But in his heart, Tristan knew those weren't the things that made him so different.

He'd stared death in the face. He knew what it felt like to be ripped away from everyone and everything he loved. He'd been through the strange and horrible experience of waking up to find himself still alive, in a body that was not the body he remembered, not the body that could do all the things that had been second nature to him.

This body couldn't walk, could barely hold itself upright, it was so weak and clumsy. His whole life, he had defined himself in terms of what he could do. He'd been the best at everything—the best swimmer, the best runner, the best wide receiver. He'd not made the best grades in school, but he'd never had to study to get by.

Then, when his father had been killed on an oil rig and he'd had to give up veterinary school and go to work on the rigs to support his mom and sister and Sandy, his brand-new wife, it had been a huge blow, because it was the first time he'd ever been forced to do something he hadn't wanted to.

From that moment, it had seemed his life had evolved into a dull routine of things he'd never wanted to do.

“Tristan?” Sandy touched his arm.

“What?” he said automatically, then realized he'd been staring into space. He looked at his wife with her T-shirt stretched over her small baby bump and spattered with gumbo and her hair drooping into her eyes.

He'd never seen her when she didn't look adorable and this was no exception. Even spattered with grease and gumbo, with her face bright pink from the heat of the gas stove, she was pretty and cute and glowing. His gaze returned to her tummy. He stepped closer and spread his hand over the rounded shape of their child, growing inside her.

“You're so beautiful,” he said.

She lifted her face to his and kissed him. “And you look awful. You need to eat and rest.”

“I'll eat later. I have to get to Boudreau's. They're going to take a photo of me that proves I'm alive. Where's today's newspaper?”

Her face set into the stony expression that told him she disapproved of what he was doing. “Still outside, I'm sure. Tristan, I can take your picture.”

He shook his head. “Don't wait on me to eat. It's probably going to take all day to get that picture and get it to the kidnappers. I'll eat some of Boudreau's roast pig.”

“Why don't you take the gumbo to Boudreau's, if you don't want—”

“No. Stay inside, Sandy. Just to be safe. I'll be back before dark.”

He stalked out and slammed the French doors behind him. He winced at the rattle of glass panes. He hadn't meant to slam the door on her while she was talking, but he couldn't say he was really sorry. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He couldn't deal with Sandy right now, because he had no idea how to explain the way he'd been acting toward her.

Besides, if he was going to have a prayer of catching Vernon Lee, and saving Murray's son, he had to get the picture taken and send Murray on his way to turn it over to the kidnappers.

Chapter Nine

“This is a stupid idea,” Tristan growled as he shifted his weight off his bad leg while trying to hold the newspaper up so the date was visible. “There's a date and time stamp on the camera. Why isn't that enough?”

“Might be enough, but it ain't dramatic. That man needs to know you know what he's doing, yeah,” Boudreau said. “Now stand still.” He frowned and squinted at the phone he held in one large hand.

“It's the icon that looks like a camera,” Tristan said, unable to keep from chuckling at his friend's efforts to press the minuscule touch screen with his large, bony fingers. He heard the clicking noise that signaled that a photo had been taken.

“Oh, no,” he said, the laugh fading. He tossed the newspaper down and reached for the phone. “Give me that. I'm not sending that SOB a photo with me laughing.”

But Boudreau held on to it, tapping on the screen. “It's in focus,” he said. “Only good one we've gotten, with you fidgeting so much, you.”

“It would have been easier if you weren't trying to press the button with those gigantic ham-hands.”

Boudreau's face creased into what Tristan knew was a smile, although someone who didn't know Boudreau might think his expression was murderous.

“Humph,” Boudreau huffed, holding up his hands. “These ham-hands saved you in that water. You were caught on a branch so big I almost couldn't break it.”

“I was lucky that you were fishing in that inlet that day,” Tristan said. He felt a pang in the middle of his chest. Boudreau had been like a father to him all his life, especially after his own dad was gone. And he'd happened to be in just the right place at the right time to save his life. Tristan scowled at the older man.

“What?” Boudreau said grumpily, then turned toward the sink. “I got to make some coffee,”

“Boudreau, what were you doing fishing in that inlet that morning? You don't like it there. You always said it was too close to the rigs. That the discharge from the oil rigs collected there and ruined the fish. You said not even the sharks would eat them.”

Boudreau filled the pan with water and put it on the gas stove and lit it. “Probably why you still alive, you.”

“You knew, didn't you? Someone told you that night that I'd gone overboard and you figured if the oil from the rigs ended up there, that a dead body might, too.”

“That little wife of yours walked up here to tell me. She said I should know. Said I was family.” Boudreau's voice faltered at the end.

“So you were looking for me.” Now Tristan's voice cracked. It was overwhelming and humbling to think about Sandy and Boudreau, these two people who loved him, who, together, had created the miracle that saved his life.

The gratitude and love that erupted from deep inside him was too much. It filled up his heart and overflowed.

Sandy, in the midst of her grief and pain, had thought about Boudreau. She understood that he needed to know what had happened. He shook his head, trying to stop the stinging behind his eyes. “You went out there to look for me.”

Boudreau spent a full minute adjusting the flame under the pan of water, although it appeared to Tristan to be perfect. “I didn't want you getting torn up on the branches and driftwood, or dragged out to sea.”

A lump so large he couldn't swallow past it blocked Tristan's throat. He could never repay either his friend or his wife for what they'd done.

He picked the phone up off the table where Boudreau had left it and moved the photo from the phone's memory to the SIM card, then took the card out and placed it in a small manila envelope, which he sealed and set on the table.

“Coffee?” Boudreau asked.

“Only if it can walk over here by itself.”

Boudreau chuckled. “It's been boiling awhile. It might do it. Do you want to take some to Murray?”

“Sure.” Tristan pushed himself to his feet. His leg was hurting like a sonofabitch after this morning's chase. His body was achy and stiff, as though he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep for days.

“You all right?” Boudreau asked as he handed him two steaming mugs.

Tristan nodded, but he knew he'd groaned when he'd put weight on his leg, and he knew it was going to be painful to walk. “Just a little stove up from this morning.”

“Tell Murray he'd better drink up, 'cause as soon as I clean up, we'll be going.”

Tristan stopped at the door. “Boudreau...”

“
Mais non.
We have had this talk already, and it's barely past noon. You with that gimpy leg, you'd slow us down. Anyhow, oughtn't you be back home with your wife? What happened to all your worry that she was in danger?”

“Didn't you tell me you thought she was safe?” Tristan muttered.

Boudreau didn't say anything. He just gazed at Tristan.

“Anyhow, Murray said the kidnapper told him to leave her alone. I'm sending Lee proof that I'm alive. He has no reason to go after her now.” Boudreau's head bobbed up and down slowly. Was he agreeing or thinking?

Tristan headed outside and found Murray where they'd left him earlier, his hands tied separately and loosely around a tree trunk so he had some range of movement. The fisherman had been working on the knots, but apparently had given up and gone to sleep. He didn't stir until Tristan nudged him with his shoe.

“What? Patrick—” Murray jerked awake. “Oh.” He looked around for a few seconds, until he remembered where he was. He lifted his gaze to Tristan's with a carefully blank expression.

“I don't understand why you have to tie me up,” he said. “You're going to help me find my son. Why would I run away?”

Tristan shrugged. “You did before. Here's coffee,” he said, setting it on the ground between them.

He still didn't trust Murray. For all he knew the fisherman would kick out and try to trip him, and he didn't want to take any risks with his bad leg. “Boudreau says drink up. You two are heading out soon.”

Murray reached for the coffee and blew on its surface, then took a cautious sip. “What time is it? Where's my phone? The kidnappers should have called by now.”

“Yeah, see,” Tristan said, “there's no cell service here. I mean, look around. It's a jungle and a swamp. You'll hear their message when you're on your way to Gulfport.”

“They're going to kill Patrick if I'm not there when they get there.”

“Don't worry. You'll be back at your trailer in plenty of time. Boudreau will tell you exactly what you're supposed to say and do.”

Tristan propped himself against the old rough-hewn bench and drank his hot, strong coffee as he watched Murray until Boudreau came out with a washbasin and tossed the water into the side yard, then set the basin down. He was freshly shaved and he had his shotgun with him.

He did the same trick he had at the house, loosened Murray's bonds with a simple flick of his wrist, leaving the fisherman staring bewilderedly at the ropes he'd tried unsuccessfully to loosen.

“See this gun?” Boudreau asked Murray. “She don't have no compunction about shooting somebody who's not being smart. And she ain't sure how smart you are.”

“I'll do just what you say, Mr. Boudreau. I want my boy back. I don't want him hurt. I'm a smart man, Mr. Boudreau. Mr. DuChaud.” Murray looked desperate. Given that it had been several days since he'd seen his son, Tristan couldn't blame him.

“Well?” Boudreau said, looking at Tristan, who frowned. “You never did tell me what you're going to do.”

“I'd like to go with you.”

Boudreau shook his head. “I told you no. You'll slow us down. Go back to your house. Be with your wife.”

He gestured to Murray. “Let's go. We got to walk down to the dock and then to the seafood warehouse parking lot to get to Murray's pickup.”

Once they were gone, Tristan ducked into Boudreau's cabin and grabbed the automatic handgun that his friend had hidden behind a loose board.

The board covered a hiding place Boudreau had shown Tristan years and years before.

If you ever get in trouble,
Boudreau had told him,
behind this board is everything you need.

And Boudreau had not been exaggerating. Doing a quick inventory, Tristan saw the large magazine for the gun, matches and lighter, a windup flashlight and a battery-operated one, and five hundred dollars in fives and twenties.

Tristan remembered what Boudreau had told him about the stash.
If you're in so much trouble that this ain't enough, then God help you, because I can't.

“Thanks, Boudreau,” Tristan muttered as he pocketed what he needed. The gun for sure, the ammo, the lighter and all the cash. “I'm good for it,” he muttered, rising.

He passed the walking stick propped by the door, almost reaching for it but not. He couldn't keep depending on it. Besides, he was probably going to need both hands.

Tristan pocketed everything but the gun. He looked behind the door and found a hunting vest of Boudreau's. With the gun and the large magazine in it, the pockets were a little bulky, but it worked.

He made his way to the dock and across to his garage, where his Jeep was parked. It probably hadn't been driven since he'd gone into the water. Luckily, it started right up.

As he pulled out onto the road, he saw Sandy at the French doors, but he didn't stop. He had to get to Gulfport, where Murray and Boudreau were meeting the kidnappers to hand over the photo.

He and Boudreau had talked about what might happen once the kidnappers got their hands on the card that contained the photo of Tristan holding the newspaper. Both of them were afraid they would kill Murray and his son.

That was why Boudreau was going with Murray and it was part of the reason Tristan was determined to be there, despite Boudreau's objection. Neither Murray nor his son would die if he had anything to do with it.

Tristan caught up to Murray's truck about two miles from the Gulfport commercial pier. He stayed well behind the old vehicle.

Finally, Murray slowed and stopped in front of an RV park across from the pier. Tristan pulled in behind an SUV and watched as Murray got out, unlocked the door of a small recreational vehicle and went inside.

“Go, Boudreau,” Tristan said under his breath. “They could be waiting for him inside.” But he didn't have to worry. Boudreau waited no more than a few seconds before he got out. He had the shotgun in a seaman's ditty bag.

Tristan slipped out of the Jeep and circled around to the back side of the RV. The small camper was hardly big enough for two people, so he wasn't sure what the kidnappers were going to do.

Truthfully, he didn't know what he was going to do, either, except for one thing. He'd decided a mere picture of him holding a newspaper wasn't good enough to send to the man who'd ordered him killed. He planned to send him a video that proved in no uncertain terms that he was alive.

With Murray's recording of the kidnappers, Tristan was at least one step closer to finding the man who'd wanted him murdered. If the kidnapper had said
Lee
, then the step was a huge one.

Now he needed to get the flash drive he'd hidden in the nursery, in a shiny blue mobile Sandy had hung over the bed. She'd told him she'd bought blue as good luck, because he'd been sure the baby was a boy.

If the voice on Captain Poirier's satellite phone ordering the commission of traitorous crimes against the United States was proven to be Vernon Lee's, the multibillionaire mogul was about to crash and burn.

He hadn't had a chance to listen to all the conversations he'd captured. With any luck, the captain had called Lee by name at least once.

Tristan wanted to confront Lee in person so he could identify his voice, but if he had to settle for sending the man a video, so be it.

It was around three o'clock and the pier and the RV park were essentially deserted. Murray had told them that most of the slips held fishing boats and fishermen were up and out at sunrise and didn't return until sunset, leaving the dock and the RV park almost empty during midafternoon.

So the kidnappers had chosen the perfect time for their meeting with Murray.

Tristan leaned against the hot metal side of the camper and tried to look casual as he waited to see how the kidnappers were going to contact Murray.

Within moments, he heard a telephone ringing inside, through the obviously thin walls. When Murray answered, Tristan could hear him plainly.

“Hello,” Murray said anxiously. “Hello?” After listening for a brief moment, he said, “Wait. Which slip?”

Tristan straightened, hardly daring to breathe so he wouldn't miss a word.

“Forty-two? Did you say forty-two? Oh. Forty-three.” Murray paused. “Yes, yes. Of course I have it. I said I would. Is my son there? Hello?”

They'd hung up on Murray, but Tristan had the slip number. He only hoped it was Slip 43 at
this
pier.

He took off at a gimpy run, needing to make it as far away as he could from Murray's RV before he and Boudreau came out.

Boudreau could possibly be angry enough at him to fill his butt full of bird shot if he saw him. By the time he reached the Jeep and dared to take a look back at Murray's camper, Boudreau and Murray were hurrying toward the pickup. Boudreau said something to Murray on the way and Murray responded by pointing east across the rows and rows of slips that made up the docks of the commercial pier.

Tristan climbed into the Jeep and pulled out into traffic. He drove well past the general area that Murray had pointed out and parked in a loading zone. If his Jeep got towed, he'd deal with it after he'd dealt with the kidnappers.

When he got out of the Jeep, his leg nearly gave way. It was throbbing with pain and the little muscle he had left quivered with fatigue and weakness. He probably had only a few seconds' lead on Murray and Boudreau, so he quickly scanned the docks until he saw the row of slips that included number 43. Reaching into the rear seat of the Jeep, he pulled out an old baseball cap and a rag he kept in the backseat to wipe his windshield.