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  Either way, Beckett was confident that this wasn’t a good place for him to be found.

  Despite his inclination to go to Chloe, he decided instead to hang low and observe the situation. As he did, he noticed that many of the girls that had been above board a moment ago had since disappeared.

  Did they go below like Chloe had said? Where they… illegals, maybe? Was there such a thing as being an illegal alien on the Virgin Gorda?

  But before he could give this much thought, however, Beckett realized that someone else was also missing: Screech.

  Where the fuck did he go?

  Donnie suddenly left his side and walked over to the two men with automatic weapons. The man on the left, a thick fellow wearing a camo hat, switched his rifle from his back to his front and gripped the stock tightly in one hand.

  This can’t be good. No way can this be good.

  Beckett cringed when Donnie reached out and laid a hand on one of the armed men’s shoulders. He expected the hard-looking man with the grimace to swat Donnie’s hand away, but he didn’t. If anything, he leaned in closer. Then Donnie said something that Beckett couldn’t make out. Without uttering a word to Donnie, the man clutching the stock of his weapon turned and whispered something in his partner’s ear.

  Then they both nodded and Donnie reached into a hidden pocket within his satin robe.

  Just as he started to pull something out, a voice from behind drew Beckett’s attention.

  “Doctor? Beckett?”

  Beckett turned around to stare at the bartender. Kevin’s expression was grim, and Beckett noted that the man’s hands — one holding a machete, the other half a coconut — were shaking badly.

  “What?”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Kevin said. “You should get out of here while you still can — this isn’t… it isn’t what it seems.”

  Beckett rolled his eyes. This mantra, coming from both the bartender or Chloe, was starting to annoy him.

  “All right, thanks tips,” he said. He was about to add more when someone’s hand came down on his shoulder.

  It was Donnie, and he was smiling again.

  “Now, about that chat…”

  Chapter 12

  Screech didn’t speak Spanish, if indeed that was what Donnie and the militia were speaking, but money was the universal language, and bribery was the ultimate manifestation.

  As he watched, Donnie produced a thick envelope from beneath his silk robe and handed it to one of the men in fatigues. That was the extent of their interaction; the men promptly shifted their automatic weapons to their backs and left the yacht. This time, however, the bouncers guarding the ramp didn’t bother moving out of the way and the militia were forced to squeeze past.

  Next, Donnie dispelled whatever argument that Chloe was having with several of the other girls, and returned to Beckett’s side.

  Screech’s legs were starting to cramp and, satisfied with all that was going on and that he wasn’t being observed, he hoisted himself over the railing. But even after he took a seat on the plush cushion as if he’d never left, his efforts to remain inconspicuous were foiled by his telephone beeping loudly in his pocket.

  “Shit,” he grumbled.

  It was a message from Bob: Where are you? Stay low, don’t engage. Use discretion.

  Screech scowled.

  Don’t engage? I’m a fucking computer analyst, not some sort of covert ops agent.

  He debated writing something to this effect, but changed his mind at the last moment; Bob didn’t strike him as someone who shared his unique sense of humor. Instead, he sent the resort address and instructed Bob to hurry.

  Despite being inundated with beautiful women, there was a bad vibe on the yacht, something that Screech wanted no part of.

  But before he could slink off, a brunette with shortly cropped hair and high cheekbones appeared out of nowhere. She sidled up next to him and started to massage his shoulders.

  He instinctively shrugged her off.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” the woman asked. “You seem tense.”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  “Well, maybe you just need a drink,” she continued. Although her words were slurred, Screech detected an accent of sorts; Spanish, maybe.

  The woman adjusted her position and in the process spilled some of her coconut drink on the cushion beside him.

  “Whoopsie,” she said with a lop-sided grin.

  The liquid smelled bitter and unappealing, leaving Screech to wonder how in the world she could actually drink the stuff.

  “No thanks,” he said. It was a lie; he wanted — no, he needed a drink — but first and foremost, he wanted off the yacht.

  But before Screech could rise, another woman, a redhead with vibrant green eyes, took up residence on the other side of him.

  She too seemed wobbly on her feet and clutched a coconut loosely in one hand.

  “You sure you don’t want a drink?” the redhead asked.

  Screech shook his head.

  “No, I’ve had enough. And I think you have, too.”

  The woman pouted and searched for the pink straw jutting from the coconut with her mouth. She chased it around for a few seconds until Screech became so unnerved that he grabbed it and put it to her lips.

  With this new distraction, Screech managed to finagle his way out of the woman’s grasp and hurried to the front of the yacht in search of Beckett.

  Only Beckett was no longer there. He glanced around, but saw no sign of the man; all he saw were more drunk bikini-clad women.

  Screech turned to the bartender.

  “Hey, did you see where Beckett went?” he asked.

  Kevin had a solemn expression on his face, which served to put Screech further on edge.

  “Beckett… did you see where he went?”

  Kevin shrugged and shook his head.

  “He was right here… you sure you didn’t see where he went?”

  The man’s dark eyes darted about, and then indicated for Screech to lean forward.

  “You should get out of here, Screech.”

  Screech frowned; the man was starting to sound like a broken record.

  “Not without my friend. Did you see him or not?”

  When Kevin didn’t answer, Screech used all of his willpower not to reach across the makeshift bar and throttle the man. A quick glance at the two men in suits guarding the ramp quickly put a damper on these plans. With a grunt of frustration, Screech backed away from the bar and made his way around the staircase where he’d last seen Beckett. He looked upward first, but only saw another harem of women. That’s where Beckett likely wanted to go, but something told him that this wasn’t where Donnie had taken his friend. Screech’s eyes drifted downward next.

  He wanted to head into the dark underbelly of the yacht like he wanted to stick a hot needle into his eye.

  But he was as loyal as he was frightened.

  With another deep breath, Screech stepped onto the first rung of the staircase and started to descend.

  What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now, Beckett?

  Chapter 13

  Beckett didn’t want to go with Donnie, he wanted to stay with Chloe and her sister, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. Besides, he was curious about what Chloe had said, about the girls below deck.

  After fetching another Scotch, Donnie led him downstairs.

  Only it wasn’t just any ‘downstairs’, the dingy undercarriage of a rusted boat. Instead, the luxury that started up above only became more extravagant down here. After entering through a second door, Beckett found himself in an opulent den, complete with leather couches, a glass table in the center of the room, and gilded oil paintings on every wall.

  “Take a seat,” Donnie instructed. Beckett looked around, annoyed that there were no girls present.

  “Where are the ladies?” he asked as he sat on a soft leather couch, sipping on his Scotch.

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about
,” Donnie remarked, taking a seat across from Beckett. As he did, Beckett noticed that there was a substantial pile of white powder on the table between them.

  Donnie must’ve noticed his gaze as he quickly added, “Help yourself.”

  Beckett instinctively reached for the cocaine, but then hesitated. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that Donnie was involved in something greater than stealing a yacht. Donnie was clearly connected, and he’d watched enough mobster movies to know that the last thing you wanted to do was owe someone like Donnie a favor.

  In addition to being connected, however, it was clear that Donnie was also very astute.

  “No strings attached, Beckett,” Donnie said, holding his hands out to his sides. “The only thing I ask is that you sit and hear me out. That’s it.”

  Beckett bit his lip as he contemplated the man’s offer. In the end, the temptation was too great and he reached across the table. He used a pink and black business card on the table to make a thin line of coke, then used a rolled-up dollar bill to snort it.

  It was good shit, and he felt his pupils dilate immediately as a rush of euphoria flooded his system. It was all he could do not to gasp.

  It had been a while since he had done any coke, harkening back to his residency days. It wasn’t something that he’d done often, only when he needed a little kick to stay awake when he had to pull an all-nighter and Adderall simply wasn’t cutting it anymore.

  As a physician, he also knew the consequences of what he was doing. But, hell, a bump now and then never hurt anyone, did it?

  Beckett leaned back on the couch and took a sip of his Scotch, marveling at how the golden liquid, previously delicious, now tasted like liquid perfection on his tongue.

  And this time he did moan, not a long drawn out orgasmic sound, but a quick expression of pleasure.

  Donnie’s smile grew.

  “It is good shit,” he said, and Beckett nodded in agreement.

  The two of them sat there for a moment without saying a thing, until Beckett started to grow uncomfortable.

  “All right,” he said. “I agree to hear you out, so shoot.”

  Donnie leaned forward then, first tucking his satin robe around his waist before interlacing his fingers.

  “I’ve got a bit of a problem, you see.”

  Beckett raised an eyebrow, and when the man didn’t continue, he said, “Hemorrhoids?”

  While the smile remained on Donnie’s face, something hardened in his eyes.

  “I wish it were that simple,” Donnie said.

  “So what’s the problem?” Beckett asked, observing the luxurious interior of what must have been the man’s private quarters. Even if the yacht was stolen, as Screech suggested it was, Donnie was doing something right. After all, you didn’t have shit this good just laying out on a table and a harem of women to do your bidding if you were a scumbag.

  Or maybe these were the very things that made you a scumbag; Beckett couldn’t be sure which.

  Donnie took a deep breath before answering.

  “I’ve got this problem with my girls dying,” he said bluntly.

  Chapter 14

  Screech heard voices on the lower level of the yacht, but had a hard time making them out. At one point, he thought he heard Donnie DiMarco say something, but this was followed by several giggles that were clearly not of Beckett’s making.

  Breathing heavily now, Screech moved towards the first door he saw, one that was partway open, and poked his head in.

  “Beckett?” he whispered.

  The only answer was another one of those giggles.

  Screech pressed his palm against the door and it swung open several inches. The interior of the room was lit by candlelight, showcasing a large bed covered in red satin sheets. Two completely nude women lay on the bed, their arms beneath one another.

  And they were staring at him.

  The sight of their breasts, perfectly round and glistening with the faint reflection of sweat by candlelight, made Screech’s heart start to race.

  “You want to join us?” the woman on the left asked. As she spoke, she uncrossed her legs, giving Screech a clear view of what lay between.

  “H-h-have you — have you s-s-seen Beckett?” he stammered. He was aware of the fact that he was sweating now, too, and that the front of his shorts had suddenly become uncomfortably tight.

  The girl who had asked him to join them, raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know who that is, sweetie, but I’m open to a little role play.”

  Screech swallowed hard; the lump in his throat had gone from an Adam’s apple to an Adam’s watermelon in the course of a few seconds.

  I have to go… I have to find my friend, he intended to say. But when he opened his mouth, one of the girls rose from the bed and started to walk toward him.

  Screech found that he could no longer swallow at all.

  “Sure, he does,” the woman whispered in his ear. She flicked her tongue against his earlobe and a tremor ran up and down his entire spine.

  Before he knew what was happening, Screech was guided to the foot of the bed and the remaining woman on it crawled over to him. A moment later, she started reaching into the front of his shorts.

  Screech was lost. He would have spent the night, or two, or forever, with these goddesses if it hadn’t been for a voice echoing down the hallway.

  It was Beckett, and he seemed angry.

  “I—I have to go,” Screech mumbled.

  The girl on the bed grabbed his shorts and pulled him close.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she said seductively. As if to reinforce this point, the woman to his left licked his ear again.

  Then someone shouted — undeniably Beckett this time — and implementing willpower that he didn’t know he possessed, Screech brushed the woman’s hand away from his belt.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t—” the standing woman reached for him again, but Screech spun out of the way and hurried toward the door.

  What in god’s name am I doing? He wondered absently. I just turned down two of the most beautiful women I have ever seen… for what? For Beckett?

  An image of Beckett holding the bloody stone flashed in his mind.

  The man has already shown that he was more than capable of looking after himself.

  But there was a difference between taking care of a confused and exhausted ex-convict like Craig Sloan and dealing with someone like Donnie DiMarco.

  Screech muttered a curse under his breath and hurried away from the room before he changed his mind. But with the euphoria, regret, and alcohol coursing through his system, he quickly got lost in the labyrinth that was the yacht’s lower level. Instead of finding himself anywhere near Beckett and Donnie DiMarco, Screech found himself standing in front of a thick metal door. Under normal circumstances, Screech would have paid it little heed, but seeing as it was so out of place in this lap of luxury, he was drawn to it. The outer padlock was thick and rugged and very clearly closed. And yet, Screech felt compelled to tug on the lock anyways.

  It didn’t budge.

  Beckett shouted once more, and Screech turned back in the direction of the voice. It sounded like it was coming from nearby. He started to move in that direction, but stopped when he heard something from the other side of the door.

  Screech hesitated, listening closely for the sound again. When it didn’t recur, he started to back away.

  That was when he heard it again.

  “Help us,” a soft whisper reached him from the other side of the thick metal door.

  This time, Screech pressed his ear up against the cool metal. The music was still droning on from somewhere above, but while the intervening floors had managed to dampen the sound, it was strong enough to make the metal quiver against the side of his head.

  “Help us… please help us.”

  Screech pulled back.

  “Is there… is there someone in there?” he asked stupidly.

  The response was as immediate as it was hau
nting.

  “Please, whoever you are, help us.”

  Chapter 15

  Beckett did his best to listen intently, but the cocaine was making it difficult to concentrate and he wasn’t sure he was following along.

  “I think I’m missing something here, Donnie. Your girls are… dying? Why? Sorry, but, uh, that’s all I really got from that five-minute diatribe.”

  Beckett stared at the man as he spoke, trying to figure him, trying to figure why the hell a man like this needed his help. When Donnie’s eyes darted to the considerable pile of cocaine on the table, things began to click into place for Beckett.

  But unlike Donnie, he wasn’t one for euphemisms, genteelisms, or circumlocution; in his experience, all they led to was confusion and misunderstandings. And he wanted to be very clear about certain things moving forward.

  There are girls… trapped below…

  “You’re talking about your mules, right?” Beckett said, a sour taste in his mouth. “You’re using girls to smuggle drugs from wherever you’re getting them from and they’re dying en route? Did I get that right?”

  Even though his voice remained calm and even, inside, Beckett’s feelings couldn’t be more opposite.

  Donnie smiled.

  “You know, they said you were smart and I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

  Beckett’s eyes narrowed and he took a sip of his Scotch.

  They said.

  “Who told you about me? How did you know I was a doctor?”

  Donnie shrugged and Beckett responded by leaning back on the couch.

  Two can play this game, he thought.

  “Well, I’m not sure where you got your information from, Donnie, but you’ve been sadly misinformed. You know, Hippocratic Oath and all that. I’m a doctor — I help people. And whatever you’re doing here… I’m not interested. Thanks for the coke and the drinks, but I think I’ll be on my way right about now.”

  Beckett expected Donnie to drop the act and be more direct with what he was proposing, perhaps misinterpreting what Beckett had said as a negotiating tactic, but the man remained silent. He just continued to smile his irritatingly perfect smile with sparkling white teeth peeking out from behind his dark beard.