The Stolen Bride

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Jean

“Renault, I’m telling you, it’s too hot for the stealth motor. All the sound insulation will make it overheat. You’ll have to cut it off every forty-five seconds.” Anton Acosta, mechanical genius and master of Cuban-style tech kludges, shakes his head worriedly as I stand on the dock next to him, double-checking my gear.

The dock, like almost everything in Cuba, is old, the salt-bleached boards creaking under my feet as I go through my bag. Rope and grappling hook—check. Silk mask and gloves—check. Safe-cracking gear—check. Chloroform rags, Taser, and a nylon backpack to hold the contents of Richard Gamble’s yacht safe—check.

I offer Anton a reassuring grin. “Don’t worry so much about the engine, mon ami. I’ll baby her just fine. Besides, I always use the damn oars once I get within a certain range.”

“Just make sure this time. If you overheat the engine out there, one of the other pirates might be listening in on the shortwave when you call for help. I do not want to end up towing you back home and patching bullet holes in the speedboat’s hull again.”

“Hey, now, that was not my fault. You were the one who checked the boat—why didn’t you notice the lo-jack those Bahamas scumbags attached to the hull?”

“Yes, well, I learn from my mistakes. I just want to make certain that you do as well.” Anton frowns and fiddles with my speedboat’s engine housing a bit, then sighs, shaking a head-full of wavy coffee-colored hair as he closes the panel. “Jean, are you even listening? Jean!”

I look up, meeting his big, soft brown eyes with my sharp black ones, and turn serious a moment. I scratch at my spiky brown hair in irritation, then smooth it back with my palm. “I’m listening, but if I don’t do my gear check now I’m gonna be halfway into international waters and discover I’ve f*****g left something…again.”

It’s our usual routine. We intercept local Wi-Fi, radio, and phone traffic through receivers that Anton put together and determine who is piloting which local ship where. We zero in on one, wait until early in the morning when the yachters are asleep or on a thin crew, and I sneak aboard and rob them.

There are several yachters just wandering around the Caribbean in the right season, and many are on their own, without a crew. I suppose it’s part of the whole macho rich-guy image to be able to pilot your own boat—but it means there’s no one piloting or on watch when the rich guy and his companions bed down.

I guess I’m technically a pirate, but really all I have done is take the whole safe-cracking, cat-burglar thing and bring it out onto the water. Baton Rouge is down one fugitive from the law now, and the Caribbean is up one guy who likes it better well outside of US waters.

“Okay, so... Gamble entered international waters around four, started heading our way, then dropped a drag anchor and shut it down for the night maybe two hours off Varadero.” I consult the salvaged flat-screen displaying the yacht’s location.

“Yeah, guess so. Beacon has them there for the night, and their itinerary has them docking at Varadero tomorrow. They’re taking a honeymoon suite for a week, then sailing on. That means he’s alone with his new wife.” Anton joins me in looking down at the laptop. “Two people probably knocked out from champagne and s*x by now. Sounds like an easy job.”

“Should be.” Lucky bastard. It’s always the rich guys that ladies go for. “Guess they wanted lots of privacy for their first night.”

He gets a wistful look. Anton is a hopeless—and luckless—romantic, a bit like myself, but a decade and a half younger. “Who wouldn’t? Look, just get in and get out as fast as you can. I have an engine to rebuild in the morning.”

“Will do. I’ll be done in time for you, me, and your brother to have a late night beer when he picks up the stuff to sell it.” One of the good things about working with Anton—and there are a million of them—is that his brother fences goods off of his boat, selling them to tourists.

By the time that someone discovers that they've bought stolen goods, he’s an hour away in another country, and the recipients are the only ones left to get in trouble. Thus, most buyers end up leaving it alone and not asking too many questions. It gives us a steady stream of clean money coming in from all over, without much chance of tracing any of it.

“Just remember that we’re using the third channel today if you have to catch me on shortwave. Luc and those bastards out of the Bahamas are not raiding us again mid-job.” Anton straightens up and cracks his back. “All right, everything’s shipshape with the speedboat. Good luck. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Gear check’s done, I’m good.” I grab the map printout and hop aboard the modified speedboat. It’s a decommissioned Coast Guard vehicle that Anton souped up in ways I could barely follow when he explained it to me. All I know is, it’s fast, quiet, light enough to row once I get near the yacht, and has a small arsenal hidden inside of it in case things get crazy.

“Adios!” he calls after me, and I snort. Neither one of us particularly believes in God, but we believe in each other’s skill and trustworthiness, and right now, that’s all we need.

It’s a quiet ride out to sea for about an hour and a half. The water is calm, the breeze is just strong enough to cool things down, and there are a billion stars overhead competing with the silver moon. Nights like this, I wish I had someone to share it all with, someone besides my beer buddy and partner in crime, anyway.

I miss having a nice lady in my life. I’m not into self-pity, but enjoying the night by yourself gets lonely after a while. At least if you’re a guy like me. Anton and I have commiserated over many a beer about the sorry state of our romantic lives.

There have been women, just not the right women. I never have a problem getting laid, but when it comes to having someone I really look forward to seeing day in and day out, I haven’t had any luck beyond friends-with-benefits in almost ten years.

There was Shayla in New Orleans, who was saving herself for marriage until one of my then-friends had gotten her drunk on absinthe and raw-dogged her in my apartment living room.

There was Margaret in Baton Rouge, a sweet, gentle, married woman who told me about her actual status the day she went back to her husband.

There was Carol Anne in Miami, whose husband tried to come back after abandoning her for four years and who chose him over me.

There was Andrea, whom I would have married had she not cheated on me twice. There were tons of others that I had tried with and just not felt that spark.

Fortunately, finding hot women in the Caribbean was ridiculously easy. It was finding ones who wanted more than a “vacation boyfriend” that was tough. Not that I should be complaining—a steady supply of no-strings s*x took the edge off my loneliness nicely.

In spite of being able to get laid pretty much whenever I want to, at times like this, I look up at the sky and wonder if I'll ever have anyone waiting for me when I get home. I wonder if I'll ever have the whole wife-and-kids thing. I wonder if I'll settle down and give up my career of larceny on the high seas.

The engine is whisper quiet for an outboard. I baby it as much as I can, running it long enough to get good forward momentum, then cut the engine and let it cool down while the boat glides through the water. In the quiet between running it, I can hear the night: the soft splash of water, the whisper of the wind, the faint sounds of other boat engines running somewhere in the dark.

It's a soft, warm night, relaxing and full of promise. I smile a little as I turn the engine back on and start forward again. It won't be long until I'm there.

Finally, the dark hull of the yacht appears ahead, floating in the water without so much as its deck lights on. Someone could run into it out here. Either Gamble has no sense, or he’s gotten so wrapped up in his new wife that he’s forgotten things like making sure his yacht is visible to passing ships.

It makes things easier for me, though. It guarantees they won't see me coming.

I cut the engine and put the oars in the water, rowing forward with my eyes on the yacht the whole time. I pull the boat through the water with long strokes, my eyes locked on the deck, where nothing moves. But then I notice something in the water beside the yacht and slow down.

It's yellow rubber—a life raft. It's floating a few inches below the water's surface, and now and again, a fresh froth of tiny bubbles escape from it, and it rides a little lower in the water. It looks like someone was trying to deploy it when they discovered the holes in it.

Did they then go to bed, or are they up there still in the dark? My heart starts beating fast, and I peer at the deck again for signs of a flashlight being used. Nothing. If someone's on deck, they’re likely sleeping too.

I hate the unknowns in this business. They're the thing most likely to get you killed or make you fail your job. And unlike in most areas of employment, f*****g up when you're burgling places can get you jailed or worse.

I stare at the darkened yacht for a few more moments, then row forward, pulling up to its side not far from the swamped life raft.

The first part, of course, is tying my boat. Anton has supplied me with ropes tipped with small bolos. I grab one and sling it around a few times, then release it toward the deck railing. The bolo flies true, wrapping its weighted ends around the railing, and I give it a yank to tighten it up.

I tie off the boat, then grab my rope and grapnel. The rope has knots tied in it every foot so I can use it for climbing more easily. I don't want to fire the grapnel using a grapnel g*n; instead, I swing it over my head, around and around in a circle, until it's pulling hard at its own tether and I know it will fly true.

I let the grapnel go and watch it sail neatly over the edge of the railing, then give it a gentle tug, and feel it catch on something. I smile faintly and tie the other end to my belt like a rock climber. I try the rope with a harder tug, and it stays in place. No clatter, no slack, no slippage.

Good. Whatever is going on—and it may just be drunken shenanigans for all I know—I'm not really interested in messing around on the yacht. I want to get in, get the valuables, and get out. That's it.

As I clamber hand over hand up the side of the yacht, I repeat that to myself. No problems, no drama, no being discovered. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s a mantra to help me focus—or maybe it’s a superstition, like burning the Hand of Glory before a job.

I’m a thief. Ultimately, no matter what skill, tools, or help I have, part of my job always hinges on luck. I always find some way of crossing my fingers on the way in.

I swing over the railing once I get to the top and land in a flexed crouch on the other side. My eyes scan across the deck as I stand still, ears pricked. I don’t seem to have any company.

But then I hear weeping, and I feel something seize up inside me.

Crying women get to me, whether or not I’m the i***t that made them cry. The despair in that weeping female voice reminds me so much of my mother that my chest tightens. I shouldn’t investigate; soft heart or not for women’s suffering, I have a job to do.

...and in a second or two, I find myself heading in the direction of the muffled sobs anyway. Goddamn nuisance of a conscience.

I find her quickly; she’s balled up next to one of the ladders, face buried in her knees, and gorgeous, pale blonde hair clinging to her shoulders in damp tendrils. Even in the thin moonlight, I can see dark splotches all over her arms—developing bruises, evoking even more memories of my Mom.

Shit.

She looks up suddenly, eyes huge, flinching on instinct...and then she stops, staring at me as her fear changes to confusion. She removes her hands from her face, and I see her blackened eyes and swollen nose. Oh f**k, what did Gamble do to her?

“Who the hell are you?” she hisses, brows drawn together.

I open my mouth to answer...and have no idea what to say.