Breathless. Sharron McClellan

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      “Yeah. Well. Hi,” Nikki returned.

      Nikki still sounded irritated. “I was going to call as soon as I packed,” Jess explained. “I’m just on a tight schedule right now.”

      “Packed?” Nikki asked. “Where are you heading?”

      “To the beach,” Jess said, cradling the cordless phone between her neck and ear. As much as she loathed hauling her personal dive gear—she didn’t need much other than a wet suit for protection against coral and fins for additional speed—it would look strange for her to use rental when she was a professional.

      Besides, the thought of putting her mouth around a used snorkel and regulator was repulsive. “Since I have time on my hands, I thought I’d work on my tan.”

      “They’re letting you leave? What about the accident?”

      “It’s under investigation.” She tucked her fins in the bottom of her dive bag.

      “You mean, you’re under investigation,” Nikki said, her voice terse.

      “The situation is under investigation,” Jess corrected as she folded her full-body black wet suit and tucked it on top of the fins.

      Through the receiver, she heard Nikki inhale. “I bet if I was there right now, I’d smell honey, wouldn’t I?” Nikki pressed, her voice terse.

      Jess sighed. That was Nikki’s undercover way of calling her a liar. Trust her friend not to let her get away with anything. Even a fib. “Yes,” Jess admitted. To Nikki’s olfactory-based psi sense, spoken lies had always smelled a little too sweet. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

      “Okay,” Nikki said, her tone finally softening. “Anything I can do to help?”

      Find Arachne? Bring Chuck back to life? Jess wished she could tell Nikki what was happening and hated the fact that she couldn’t. If she did, then Nikki would want to know how Jess got her information, and getting into a discussion about being an Oracle agent—especially a discussion on an unsecured line—was as dumb as one got and would put them both at risk.

      As much as she hated it, she’d have to trust that Nikki could take care of herself and that Delphi would stand by her word to keep Nikki safe.

      “Not really,” Jess finally replied. “Unless you know of a way to speed up a Marine Tribunal.”

      “Not likely.” Nikki chuckled.

      “So don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Jess tossed her dive knife and mask into the bag.

      Outside, a car honked, and Jess peeked between the curtains to see her taxi. Nice timing.

      “I gotta go,” she said, jamming the rest of her gear in. “Taxi’s here.”

      “Have fun, and don’t worry about the investigation. You’ll be proven innocent.”

      “Thanks,” she said. Nikki’s forceful assurance caused a true smile to broaden her mouth. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

      She hesitated. “Nikki?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Thanks, and be careful.”

      “What?”

      She heard the confusion in Nikki’s voice, but she’d already said too much. “Nothing. Just be careful.”

      “I will.”

      It wasn’t much of a warning but it would have to be enough. Jess hung up, grabbed a small backpack that contained her clothes and hoisted her heavier, much larger dive bag over her shoulder. At the taxi, the driver popped the trunk from the driver’s seat. Jess tossed her bags in then took the passenger side, sliding the seat belt over her lap.

      She never sat in the back.

      She glanced at the driver. Tall. Thin but muscular. Dark. Dreadlocked hair.

      And off, somehow. She cast another quick look in his direction, trying not to stare, but couldn’t quite figure out what it was that bothered her. “I’m Israel,” he said with a heavy Caribbean accent as he pulled away from the curb.

      Jess didn’t offer her name, not caring if it seemed rude. Something was making the hairs on her neck rise, and it wasn’t just that he was a caricature of a Jamaican.

      “Where you heading?” her driver persisted, intent on chatting. “Vacation?”

      “Something like that,” Jess said, watching the road as they entered the freeway.

      “You a diver?”

      Maybe he was just nosy, she told herself. And her nerves were overtense. Whose wouldn’t be, considering she’d been told that a criminal mastermind was gunning for her? “If you don’t mind,” she said, trying to relax and to stop seeing danger in every shadow, “I’ve had a long day and would like a bit of quiet.”

      “Of course, mon” Israel said, “Of course.”

      She breathed a sigh of relief and watched the pavement slide by—right up until Israel drove past the exit to the airport. Jess stiffened. “You passed the exit.”

      “I know a shortcut,” Israel said. “Miss all the traffic and get you there faster.” He turned off at the next exit, then down a side road that led through a warehouse district.

      Shortcut her fanny.

      The car slowed.

      “Where are we going?” she asked. “This isn’t a shortcut.”

      Israel looked at her, all semblance of friendliness replaced by something dark and purposeful. Automatically, her hand went to a gun that wasn’t there—the one she’d had FedEx pick up a while ago.

      “No, Miss Whitaker, it isn’t,” he said, reaching into his jacket.

      That’s what was off, she realized in the split second his hand moved. The bulge in his jacket. It wasn’t a wallet. It was a shoulder holster.

      Her driver was armed.

      Even as her mind processed the information, her combat-trained body was in motion. Unbuckling her seat belt with one hand, she swiveled sideways, bringing her legs up and slamming them into Israel, pushing him against the door as his gun cleared the holster but before he could point it at her.

      The car jerked sideways, and the gun fell to the floorboard with a dull thud. Jess grabbed the wheel, yanking it toward her and sending the vehicle skidding in the opposite direction. Israel pounded her hands with his fist, trying to make her let go.

      He hit her again. It was like having her fingers smashed in a door, but Jess gritted her teeth and refused to loosen her grip. He was bigger. Stronger. And the moment she gave an inch, he would use it against her.

      Changing tactics, he bent over, groping for the fallen gun. Like СКАЧАТЬ