Protector S.o.s.. Susan Kearney
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more set in his ways, she was probably wasting her breath. The hard look on his face, the grim set of his mouth, warned her to choose her words carefully. For Ellie’s sake, she had to work with him. If she’d had any other choice, she’d never have called Travis. But with Ellie’s life on the line, she’d do anything to help her—even put up with her brother again. While Sandy didn’t know exactly what Travis did for a living, she knew it was high-tech, dangerous and clandestine work for a secret organization that worked with the U.S. government.
Sandy had expected Travis to come charging in to save Ellie. She’d known he’d be full of himself, but she needed his expertise. So when, after considering her words, he pressed the off button and said, “Good point,” her jaw dropped.
The Travis she’d known would never have admitted that she had a good idea, never mind let her suggestion change his mind. Perhaps along with his body’s maturing, his mind had grown wiser. Or perhaps his fear for Ellie was making him consider other options. Whatever accounted for the change in him, she hoped he’d learned to control the temper that fueled him.
If Travis’s temper had been a motor, it would have run on high octane. If his temper had been a boat, it would have been a sleek racer, raring to go and easily tipped. And if his temper had been a storm, it would have been a nor’easter—powerful, raging and disastrous.
Years ago, Sandy had decided she didn’t want to drown in one of his storms. And yet, she’d always been drawn to the passion that drove him. There was a turbulence to Travis that made him the most exciting man she’d ever known, but that attraction came with a cost—a price so high, that being around him was dangerous to her well-being.
After the most passionate of flings, Sandy had concluded she couldn’t live in the chaos that always surrounded Travis. Their breakup had been painful, but necessary. She’d cut her losses and gone on. And as a means of self-protection, she’d avoided Travis during his infrequent trips to visit Ellie. For her own sanity, she didn’t want to risk falling for him again. Incredible passion wasn’t worth the accompanying heartache.
“We need help. I’ll wait until I can use a land line and a pay phone.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. Travis, the original Mr. Go-It-Alone, had become a team player. Stunned by his transformation, Sandy realized that the man she was sitting beside must have gone through more than she’d imagined to have changed so much. Ellie had hinted that Travis’s stint in the Special Forces had taken a toll, but Sandy hadn’t wanted to discuss him—not when the subject was so raw and painful. So Ellie had honored her wishes and rarely mentioned his name.
She peered at Travis over her sunglasses. “I’m all for getting help, but if there’s any chance of a leak…”
His eyes snapped with the old temper, but he kept it caged. “We need help with Vanderpelt. The Shey Group, the people I work with, will get me Vanderpelt’s history—everything from where he was born to where he keeps his money. I need to know who Vanderpelt trusts. Where he’s from. What other property he owns. Everything about his business, to make the right decisions.”
“You have access to that kind of information?”
He nodded. “We also need blueprints of the island. Satellite photos might tell us if Ellie is there. We may need an assault team to land. Or a secret approach might be better, depending on the number of men and defensive positions. I need expert military analysis. We don’t have the time, expertise or equipment to do this all alone.”
Travis sounded as if he knew what he needed, as if he was an expert. And a stranger. Instead of responding emotionally, he’d laid out a plan in a logical progression that had clued her into the fact that the organization he worked for must have extraordinary resources. “Okay. But Vanderpelt expects you and me to deliver his boat. We’ve got to find it, repair it, then sail it to his island.”
“The Shey Group can help us there, too.”
Travis spoke as if he had no doubt his organization would help them. She didn’t question his judgment, because one thing hadn’t changed—Travis had always loved his sister. And Sandy had no doubt he would do whatever it took to rescue her. Making the decision to call Travis had been difficult. She’d worried that his hot-headed temper would hurt her chance of rescuing Ellie, but now she was very glad to have Travis at her side.
Sandy knew that boats often disappeared and were never seen again. It was too easy for a professional thief to steal a boat in the middle of the night, change the serial numbers and sail off to another country to sell it. The Coast Guard couldn’t cover every cove and harbor along the U.S. border. And marinas simply operated on too small a profit margin to employ night watchmen. Usually, the insurance company paid off the claim and the owner purchased a new boat. Finding Vanderpelt’s missing vessel was not going to be easy.
“How can the Shey Group help with the boat?”
“We have contacts in the Coast Guard, the navy and the police. If Vanderpelt’s boat shows up on any official radar, we’ll know about it.”
Travis’s certainty gave her a measure of relief. “You’re assuming Alan and his associate didn’t sink her, or change the serial number.”
“I’m not assuming anything. Can you put out word to the local sailors, and at the marina, that we need to find that boat? Also, if we can get a line on the Grady-White, it might give us a clue as to who we’re dealing with.”
She nodded. “The grapevine is as good as ever.” Fishermen, local guides and pleasure boaters were a tight community. When one of their own needed help, everyone pitched in.
Travis turned the boat around, heading back to the marina. “I’ll order us some jamming equipment. We have to be able to communicate without fear of someone listening.”
Travis sounded sure of his technical expertise, but she still feared his equipment could give away their plans. “But, if we jam the signal, won’t they become suspicious?”
“Not necessarily. Let me deal with it.”
Were they actually working together? It was difficult to believe that she and Travis had had a conversation without ending up in bed or shouting at one another. This had to be a first. And she hoped it would continue.
After they returned to the marina, Sandy typed up a description of Vanderpelt’s boat. She offered a reward for any information, then used the copy machine to make flyers. Her assistant manager would post some at the marina. But she took the majority of the flyers, and a stapler, with her. She and Travis drove up and down the coast, stopping in marinas, bait shops and boat dealers to put them up and talk to people about the missing boat. At this time of year, the waterways were crowded with boaters on summer vacation. Everyone promised to keep their eyes peeled during their journeys.
While Sandy worked, Travis stopped at local bars. He used the pay phones repeatedly, never staying on the line for more than thirty seconds. Then they’d both return to her vehicle and head to the next spot.
Travis checked the sideview mirror for what must have been the hundredth time. “I wish I could pick up a tail.”
“Why?” She was driving since Travis was barhopping. In case anyone was watching, he’d ordered a beer every place he’d stopped. But he probably hadn’t drunk much, because he still appeared clearheaded. Even in their younger days, Travis might have been a hell-raiser, but he hadn’t been much of a drinker. He liked fast cars and faster boats, but he always said high speeds and drinking didn’t mix.
“A tail might give us some clues. Vanderpelt is like chasing a ghost.”
She didn’t like the frustration in Travis’s tone, or the discouragement in the set of his shoulders. “What do you mean, he’s a ghost?”
“Vanderpelt is not a U.S. or Canadian citizen. His name is probably an alias. A corporation owns the island, but it’s a subsidiary of a Swiss company. Normally, the Swiss are not into sharing their financial information with us. But since 9/11, and thanks to a favor Logan Kincaid did for their embassy people