Going Overboard by Christina Skye Page A

private life, and risk of life and limb. Carly was a civilian, and his job was to keep her safe.
    He'd failed and because of that Carly was wearing the blood right now.
    McKay couldn't shake the cold weight of that knowledge as he looked down at her strained face. He barely noticed when Daphne touched his hand. The siren wail was very close now, but time seemed to stretch out, measured in eternities before three men in white jackets scrambled up the rocks carrying medical kits and oxygen equipment. Inspector St. John pulled him away from Carly as the medics went to work.
    Nikolai Vronski chose a peach and studied it carefully. “Report.”
    “The work is being done at this moment.”
    “The details were made clear?”
    “All of it arranged by phone, as you required.” His subordinate, a former champion weight lifter with buzz-cut blond hair, put a cellular phone on Vronski's granite coffee table. “They will phone me when the work is finished.”
    Work.
As if they were writing a report or building a dam. At another time Vronski might have found it amusing.
    He slit a wedge of skin gently from the peach. “And the payment was accepted?”
    His subordinate permitted himself a slight smile. “With no problems. I thought it wise to haggle about the price at the last.”
    Vronski stared at the tender, peeled peach. “So they wouldn't think we gave too much, too easily. Very thoughtful, Sergei.” He fingered the neat piles of hundred-dollar bills stacked near his right hand, more money than he could once have imagined. It was pleasant to riffle through the bills, watching the ugly face of the American president gleam in the tropical sunlight. But something continued to bother him. “It might have gone badly today.”
    “The threats had to be carried out. You had no choice.”
    Something moved in the depths of Vronski's eyes. Regret, or perhaps simply weariness. “A man always has a choice. You forget that at your peril, Sergei.”
    “Of course, sir.” The athlete nodded, silent and respectful.
    “That is all. Go below and check on Yoshida.”
    In the quiet that followed, Vronski's hands closed on the neat pile of bills. He raised his face to the sunlight and closed his eyes. “So it begins,” he whispered.
    She tried to make sense of the voices. She needed to tell McKay that something was on fire, maybe her side, but the sound wouldn't come.
    Someone kept shaking her, the movement like metal teeth dragged across her burning skin. She asked if Daphne was safe, if her crew was unharmed. She asked again and again.
    No one seemed to hear.

B lackness blurred into gray. Weight pressed down on Carly's chest.
    Can't breathe.
    Light burned into her eyes. An eternity came and went, followed by silence that faded rising into muffled sounds. Someone was talking, touching her forehead. McKay…
    No.
    Disappointment fell with crushing force. Where was he? Where were Daphne and the crew?
    She blinked as a woman in a white coat held a light before her eyes, every movement making Carly's head ache. She wanted to tell her to stop, but the woman's voice was too gentle. Her espresso-colored skin was smooth when she took Carly's pulse.
    “Daphne?” Carly winced at the effort to speak, her throat painfully dry. “Where's Daphne?”
    The woman put down her light and laughed. “She's pacing right outside your door. You two appear to be quite a team.”
    “A regular Laurel and Hardy.” Carly's fingers tensed. “She's not hurt, is she?”
    “She's as healthy as anyone can be with three gallons of coffee racing through her system. How do you feel?”
    Carly rubbed her forehead and felt the outline of a bandage. “Like I got shot out of a cannon.” She tried to
    move and gasped at the immediate burst of pain. “I feel as if I lost an argument with a cement truck.”
    “You're in spectacular shape, considering that you've been shot. You also took a nasty bang on the head when you fell.”
    Carly stopped trying to move, the effort