Remy felt like punching something.

Thump.

The man's head b.u.mped against Remy's arm again, a string of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.

For the love of G.o.d!

Ava awoke from a sound sleep. She sat up straight on the bed below deck, listening for sounds in the dark room. Her ears strained.

What woke her?

She skimmed her hand along the surface of the bed over to the edge. In a quick movement, she claimed the knife tucked under the mattress. She gripped the handle, waiting for a sound or movement.

Ava cursed at herself. She knew she shouldn't have fallen asleep, but it was important to be at the top of her game, a game that she would quickly lose if not alert and focused.

A light thud came from above, stirring her into action. Ava bounded from the bed, the knife strangled in her grip. She crept toward the stairs, feeling along the wall to keep from b.u.mping into anything in the unfamiliar quarters. Finding the stairs, she slowly climbed, listening for the intruder. She pressed her ear against the door.

Nothing.

Had she imagined it?

Couldn't be. Her instincts were normally spot-on. Someone had to be on deck. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled, and she began hoping her instincts were wrong this time. She might be trained in combat, but that didn't mean she looked forward to it.

Letting out a breath that was lodged in her throat, Ava flipped the latch to unlock the door. It swung open, the hinges groaning from the a.s.sault. She was yanked from the doorway and slammed against the side. The knife flew out of her hand, skidding across the deck.

"What are you up to this time, traitor?" the voice snarled.

How did he find her? He was supposed to be miles from the dock. They were to meet at the rendezvous spot. Ava felt faint, her limbs soft and useless.

"Brock-" Ava started, only to be jostled harder.

"Remy!"

"I'm sorry," she said, keeping still. She knew any movement would only fuel his anger.

His laugh was bitter. "A nice blanket apology. It covers so many sins. What are you up to this time?"

His question blasted her like shrapnel. She didn't know how to answer because she didn't know the answer herself.

How did he find her? What tipped him off? She knew it'd be wasted breath to ask, something she couldn't afford to waste at the moment. His nearness was suffocating and overwhelming.

"This is bigger than you or me. This began long before Iraq."

His grip on her arms tightened. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. She wouldn't be weak, not in front of Brock. Not in front of anyone.

"Let go," she demanded.

"So you can slit my throat?"

"I seem to have misplaced my knife," she retorted.

If he was going to act boorish and not listen, then she wasn't going to waste her breath. As it was, the sun was peeking up over the horizon. It was time to leave.

With a quick kick of her foot, she struck Brock's leg. He didn't react, just held her as tight as before. She'd often thought he was made of rock; that thought returned. Why was it Brock who had to be involved? Why couldn't it be someone more manageable?

Well, if he wouldn't let go by force, then . . . no, she probably shouldn't. But . . .

Ava crushed her lips against Brock's. His reaction was swift. She tumbled across the deck, bulldozed away by one of his thick arms.

That was going to leave a bruise, she thought as she picked herself up. Unfortunately, it wasn't only her skin that was bruised. But it'd had the affect she wanted.

With the back of his hand, he wiped the kiss from his lips. "Don't ever do that again, traitor!"

"I wasn't the traitor!" Ava barked. "The day of the attack I went searching for him. I knew he was close. I never would've left had I known about the attack."

"Don't lie," he snarled.

"I thought you were dead," Ava confessed. "I came back to find body bags lined in trucks. I thought you were in one of them."

It had been over one hundred degrees that day and yet the chill she felt, looking upon the row of dead soldiers, still haunted her to this day. Before she could even process Brock's death, she was called back by an urgent summons.

She didn't wonder why at the time, but someone must have known Brock wasn't among the dead. Why wouldn't they want her to find him? That was her job, after all. To find soldiers. Well, that and her other job; the one that no one knew about. The one she kept secret from Brock.

"Crying won't help," he said. "I don't trust you. Nothing you can say or do will change that."

Was she crying? Fat drops stung as they rolled down her cheeks.

She never cried.

Well, it was rare. The last time had been six years ago.

Remy turned away in disgust, distancing himself farther. "Whatever you're going to do, do it now. I don't want your lies or your tears."

Ava brushed the droplets away and straightened. Remy narrowed his eyes as if waiting for her attack.

She turned and headed to the pilothouse. It was time to go. She was going to end this once and for all.

Somehow.

Chapter 7.

Remy watched as Ava turned away, as if not wanting to engage with him. His lips still burned from her kiss no matter how many times he tried to wipe it away.

Why was she on this boat?

And why the h.e.l.l did she just start the engine?

"Can you untie us?" she called.

A wave of fatigue settled over him as Ava calmly went about her business. It was as if nothing had happened. As if she wasn't laying a trap but getting ready for a leisurely cruise. He wasn't about to help cast off.

But how else could he get answers if he didn't follow her?

Even if it was on a boat.

On an ocean.

A boulder formed in his throat. While he was a good swimmer and didn't mind the water, there was something about the ocean that unsettled him - especially on a boat with Ava at the helm. He preferred his grave on land and not a thousand leagues under the sea. An urge to wrap himself in life jackets suddenly overwhelmed him.

"Well?" she questioned.

Remy growled as he stalked to the side and slipped off the ropes that anch.o.r.ed the boat, s.n.a.t.c.hing his bag off the dock before Ava pulled away.

Watching as water separated them from land, Remy knew that Ava would always get her way. He might be stronger than her, but she ruled their destiny.

He'd keep his distance for now. While he wanted answers and to know how long he'd be stuck on this floating sc.r.a.p of timber, he wasn't going to argue, beg, or plead. He'd face whatever was waiting for him. He was done talking.

Remy cursed as his stomach rolled with the rocking boat.

This is why he was Army, not Navy.

Ava scanned the darkening blue water, her eyes always tripping back to Brock. He hadn't said a word after he untied the boat. She thought he would barrage her with questions. But he didn't. Instead, he sat down, back against the side of the boat and looked out at the water. She wondered what he was thinking, what he might be planning.

Ava remembered him like this. It was the same before every operation. He sat quietly, pondering, his thoughts lost in a sea of scenarios. He worked through each one, conquered each one, leaving nothing to chance. An escape route was always planned and rehea.r.s.ed. When action was finally required, it went smoothly. Calculated. If there was a hiccup, Brock had already planned for the detour.

With his menacing muscular frame and shaved head, he didn't look like a person who strategized. Too many people, enemy included, were quick to judge by appearance. They'd never underestimate him twice.

She remembered sitting next to Brock, her head resting against his arm as he worked. Her hand touched his thigh, warm and strong. After a few moments, while his mind was still far away, he would wrap his arm around her, his fingers drifting along her side and hip. They'd sometimes sit like that for hours until his fingers were no longer mindless, his eyes no longer far away, but on her.

She sighed.

The fact that he hadn't foreseen the fated attack must have knocked the wind out of him.

Ava shook off the urge to sit next to him. He'd probably toss her overboard.

Instead, she glanced at the navigation system that she barely understood. She at least knew they were heading to the given coordinates and were approximately eight hours away.

The gas gauge indicated they had plenty of fuel. The man she had rented the tub from said she shouldn't have any problems. It was a large fuel tank with a separate backup tank specially added. She didn't question why; she was just thankful for it since there were no sails . . . not that she'd know how to rig them anyway. But she'd become a quick learner if she had to.

Ava turned the navigation system to autopilot.

Autocaptain?

Ugh. They were both going to die at sea from her inept knowledge, forget whatever lay ahead.

Ava stepped from the cramped cabin, the sun drenching her in warmth. Salty sea wind whipped her hair about her face. She reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, realizing she'd never had time to brush it. She must look a mess and there wasn't anything she could do about it. She didn't dare step too far away from Brock or he might have the boat turned around before she could even locate her brush. And she had been without brushed hair before. Brock has seen her at her worst. There were a lot of those days when they were on the move, far away from civilization, sometimes with minimal gear.

She could still recall the thick, dry coating covering her mouth and tongue when she was unable to brush her teeth or rinse her mouth; a remembrance from a previous deployment. She had been in a desert town, hiding until she could move safely. What should've been hours turned into days.

Ava eyed Brock's duffel bag. It was sitting too close to Brock for her to raid, but she knew he'd have mints. His bag was like a Mary Poppins carpet bag. It didn't look like much, but it always had what you needed.

Ava tore her eyes away and looked out to the ocean. Land had disappeared an hour ago. She hated this feeling of being isolated, water surrounding her like an enemy troop.

"Tell me," Brock said, breaking the silence. "Tell me why you did it."

Ava slowly turned toward Brock. His eyes were still locked on the water. "Would you believe me if I told you?"

He didn't answer.

"I'm not going to waste my breath, then."

Silence reigned for a few uncomfortable minutes until Brock said, "At least tell me if I was supposed to die too."

"No one was supposed to die. If I had done my job right, no one would have."

"You admit you were working against us. Who were you taking orders from?" Brock demanded.

"I never worked against you. But, yes, I was under the command of someone else."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you."

Brock stood. "Who?" he growled.

Ava turned away. Brock was furious again. He wouldn't listen to her.

Hearing his thunderous steps coming at her, she dodged, feeling the wisp of air as his arm shot across, missing her by an inch or two. She knew right away that he wasn't trying to hit her. She also knew that if he caught her, he wouldn't be gentle either. A soldier-or traitor-in his eyes was neither male nor female. He didn't give special treatment to anyone. She respected him for that . . . just not right now.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Just tell me what happened. Tell me what I'm walking into. You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you anything," Ava said, but her words lacked conviction.

Brock caught her with both hands, dragging her close to him. Her eyes transfixed on his mouth as he demanded answers.

An alarm blared from the cabin, jolting them apart. They both looked to the sound and then to each other. Their eyes locked with a mutual temporary truce before they raced to the wheelhouse.

"Why is the alarm sounding?" Remy shouted.