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My mouth runs dry.

“She’s ruthless, and she’s desperate. There’s every chance she murdered a man to cover her tracks.”

The reporter feigns shock. “There’s evidence?”

His eyes shift to someone off camera before settling on the reporter. “What we need are eyewitnesses to come forward. That’s the only way we can stop her before anyone else gets hurt.”

The reporter’s breathing increases. “Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

His chin rises, a vein in his neck pulses, and his nostrils flare. “Yeah. I’m going to direct this to the woman who made the mistake of messing with me.” He leans forward and jabs his finger as though punctuating his words. “Whoever you are, know this: I swear on my honor as a United States Coast Guardsman that I will find you and bring you in.” He sits back, body rigid and his face set in hard lines.

My fingers curl around my phone as waves of nausea flow over me.

“You heard it here first. Mick Weston is a man on a mission. If you’ve seen this woman, contact…”

My stomach heaves, and I toss the phone on the passenger seat as a wave of dizziness hits me. There is no way Juan will take me to Cuba now Mick’s called on the Coast Guard to search for me. Mick Weston just painted a target on my back.

I’m as good as dead.

Three

Mick

Three seconds after the interview hit the airwaves, the phone calls started.

Most from buddies and my crew, who took it as an opportunity to rib me even more, and for the past three hours I’ve been inundated with friend requests and messages—mostly from women—and had to set my profile to private.

Brooke has sent me a solitary message that reeks of sarcasm.You’re now the pinup boy for the Coast Guard.

She’s not wrong. I’m getting attention for all the wrong reasons, and my CO isn’t happy I’ve dragged the reputation of the Coast Guard into the fray.

I crack open a beer and settle down in front of the TV, switching on ESPN. If I’m lucky I might be able to catch some of the Gators/Tulane game.

The Gators have managed to extend their lead when music starts to play. Tinny music like it’s coming from a cheap speaker. I mute the TV and listen as I try to locate the source of the music. When it’s apparent it’s coming from close to where I’m sitting, I leave my beer bottle on the coffee table and start looking. My eyes snag on the corner of a red plastic phone underneath the cushion at the end of the sofa.

What the—? Where did this come from?

Thinking Brooke or one of my friends must have left it here, I pick it up and answer. “Yeah?”

The voice that rumbles down the line has me scratching my head. “So, we’ve established you’re impulsive. Anything else I need to know about you?” Silas says.

“Why is there a cell phone in my couch?”

“For emergencies,” he says.

“Yeah, but how’d it get here?”

“Trade secret. Back to your stunt on prime time. Dumb. Really dumb. For multiple reasons.”

I sink into the sofa. “What choice did I have? You said you’d help, but you’ve done squat.”

He grunts. “There’s a right way to do this.”

“The right way isn’t yielding results fast enough.”

Silas lets out an exasperated sigh. “Start using the brain God gave you. She’s desperate and cornered. Two things she wasn’t before. Who knows what she’s prepared to do.”

“All the more reason to catch her as quickly as possible.”