Thunder Island

Prologue

Kyle Parker walked down the side street, then turned up a narrow lane that could easily be mistaken for an alley. Dusk was falling, casting long, dark shadows, and with it a tropical breeze rustled the palm trees, carrying the loamy yet fragrant scent unique to the island. On the cat’s paw of wind, reggae music drifted over the treetops from the heart of Old Town, a signal that the nightly revelry had already begun.

He walked by the last house before Thunder Island. The pedestrian lane became a ribbon choked with nettles and weeds. He bent his head to dodge a tree branch growing out over the foot path.

The jungle’s taken over, he muttered to himself.

What did he expect? Over a year and a half had passed, a lifetime in the tropics where the rain and the sun made everything grow. The ferns, always a nuisance, had claimed the land, growing thick and tall, climbing through the trees to block his view of the sky.

Squinting to adjust to the stealthy shadows, Kyle trudged up what was left of the path. He came upon the sign unexpectedly. Like the white picket fence, the plaque hanging from the post was nearly covered by the tenacious wild vines.

THUNDER ISLAND GUEST HOUSE

NO VACANCY

That’s a crock, Kyle said to himself.

The whole damn place was abandoned.

No lights or laughter came from the house that sprawled over an acre of what had been manicured gardens. The once majestic lattice shutters gaped forlorn. On the verandah surrounding the house, the swing was nearly hidden by vines, but there was enough of a breeze for its rusty chain to creak eerily.

He could almost see himself sitting in the swing, Jennifer at his side, her blue eyes full of mischief.

Almost.

He could almost hear Thelma Mae, owner of Thunder Island, ringing the bell to call the guests to dinner.

Almost.

He could almost feel his bed on the second floor move as Jenny snuggled closer to him as she slept.

Almost.

Dusk plays tricks, he reminded himself.

Even an ace with a gun, like himself, couldn’t count on a bull’s-eye in the deceptive light. With his next breath, he admitted the truth. It wasn’t the light playing hell with his vision.

It was his mind.

Reality was the yellow crime-scene tape that even nature hadn’t completely hidden. Like a hangman’s noose, it encircled Thunder Island, screaming: MURDER!

He snapped the now-brittle tape and pried the nettles from the picket gate, pulling off what was left of the white paint. The rusty hinges groaned as it swung open, and he walked into the yard.

The expansive lawn encircling the house had succumbed to the jungle’s rule. Ivy had invaded the grass, and along with weeds and nettles, it had choked out the plush lawn. Orchids, once so carefully tended by Thelma Mae, grew wild along the sides of the building. Here and there, the orchids had climbed through the open windows into the house itself.

He craned his neck to see around to the back. The sea oats and other native grasses separating the sloping terrace at the rear of the guest house from the shore had gone wild again, growing waist high. Now it was impossible to see the sand where he’d relaxed, his arm around Jenny, watching the waves tumble onto the shore.

Thunder Island, always a mysterious place, was a ghost now. A proud building that haphazardly rambled across the property, its halls like a maze, Thunder Island had been a place with secrets—from the beginning.

Barbed nettles and weeds clawed at Kyle’s bare legs as he walked to the side of the house where Jenny’s room had been. Something in his chest caught and he had to remind himself that Jenny wasn’t there anymore.

If only he could turn back the hands of time he could have prevented the cold-blooded killing that led to Jenny being accused of murder.

For a moment, he indulged himself. Standing in the dark shadows, he closed his eyes and remembered the night when the trouble began.

Chapter 1

Eighteen months earlier

Kyle automatically checked the dark doorways and the even darker shadows in the alley.

Nothing—yet.

It was only a matter of time. Hours, maybe. Not much longer. Then they would attempt to kidnap him. If they were successful, he would be hog-tied and left to sweat in some hellhole until the ransom was paid.

No way.

He’d outsmarted all the others, a fact that was a point of pride with him. The key was staying surrounded by people. The police took a dim view of kidnappings—especially in a tourist mecca like Key West. Not that the local cops were worth a rat’s ass. Traffic tickets and arresting drunks was about the extent of their capabilities.

The best place to wait it out is the Sunset Pier Bar, he told himself. A frosty brew and the skin show should help pass the time. If he made it to midnight without being kidnapped, he would have outfoxed them. Again.

He emerged from the alley behind the Hard Rock Cafe and followed the throng migrating down busy Duval Street toward the Mallory Dock for the sunset ritual. People congregated on the dock because it was the best place on the key to watch the sunset. Over the years, the gathering had become a street festival with tightrope walkers, fire eaters, a troupe of cats trained to leap through rings of fire, and God only knew what else. The show was different each night.

Expect anything, he reminded himself, glancing around.

The only certainty was, the men wouldn’t be in disguise. Each side knew exactly who the others were, which was a damn sight better than checking every skirt for hairy, linebacker legs.

Kyle joined the crowd, slogging its way past T-shirt shops and open air bars blaring music at the herd of humanity, hoping to lure a few of them away from the sunset show at the dock. He hunched his shoulders forward, half wishing he weren’t so tall. His height and athletic build made him stand out too much.

The telltale hitch in his stride didn’t help, either. He should be grateful for the pin that held his leg together. But he cursed it instead, because it kept him out of the action. Worse, it made him easy to spot.

He ducked into a T-shirt shop and quickly purchased a Florida Marlins baseball cap. They were short of XXL tank tops, but he found one with a typical Key West message:

You Obviously Have Me Confused With

Someone Who Gives A Shit.

He changed into the tank top and ditched his faded polo shirt in the trash can. With the cap on backward to cover the dark-brown hair that was cinched back at the nape of his neck with a rubber band and wearing shades to conceal his green eyes, he could pass for a tourist.

He was still too tall and he couldn’t hide his slight limp, but there wasn’t a damn thing else he could do. He hunkered down as much as he could without being obvious and attempted to blend in with the crowd.

He pretended to check the merchandise in Margaritaville’s store. Instead, he eyed the passing crowd, examining the people for familiar faces. Nothing.

Don’t you just love Jimmy Buffet?

Kyle looked down at the cute brunette at his elbow. The mogul of margaritas is my kind of guy. Remember, Margaritaville is just a state of mind—not a place.

He walked away, half tempted to stay and flirt with her. Later, he muttered to himself.

Kyle shouldered his way through the group gathered at the Sunset Pier Bar. He grabbed an empty chair and took it to the railing overlooking the channel. The sun was low on the horizon, glistening off the Caribbean blue water. Soon its last rays would fall on paradise.

What can I get ya? asked the waitress on rollerblades. She swirled around backward in a tight circle while he ordered a Corona with two slices of lime.

He didn’t have a chance to rock back in the chair and hoist his feet to the rail before his Brietling beeped him. He cocked his wrist to read the small print. With an incoming call, the watch’s face became a small screen where the message was displayed.

Son of a bitch, he said out loud.

The brass, namely Michael Dowd, needed to speak to him ASAP. Kyle took the battery to his cell phone out of the back pocket of his cut-off jeans and snapped it into place, silently cursing. The cell phone emitted an electronic signal that could easily be tracked by the men after him.

Parker, here, he said as soon as Dowd answered.

I’m saving you a place at the Hog’s Breath, Mike told him. Where in hell are you?

That’s why you’re career Navy, and I’m a civilian earning a real living. The Hog’s Breath Saloon is right in the middle of town where anyone could find me.

Kyle, we need to talk.

How lucky can I get?

Be serious. Where are you?

No way was he going to give his location over a line that wasn’t secure. At twelve o’clock is fifty percent of a celestial water body.

He hung up without waiting for a response and quickly removed the battery from his cell phone. He’d been on less than a minute. If they were tracking his phone, it probably wasn’t quite enough time to pinpoint his location.

A full tray balanced in one hand, the waitress skated up with his Corona and put it on the rail in front of him. He squeezed both wedges of lime into the beer, then took a swig as he stared directly across the channel at Sunset Key’s most lavish estate, Half Moon Bay. The guys after him hadn’t been around Key West long enough to realize that half a celestial water body was an easily broken code for Half Moon Bay.

He’d almost finished his beer when Mike Dowd ambled into the bar. He swung a chair around backward and sat down. Mike wore khaki shorts and an olive-colored shirt. The first few times Kyle had met the man off the base, Kyle had assumed he was wearing the same clothes. Then he realized Mike Dowd owned a dozen or more outfits that were exactly the same. On base he wore a Navy uniform; off base he had his civilian uniform.

He probably ironed his underwear, but who gave a damn? He ran the Counter Terrorism Program efficiently, yet gave Kyle the space he needed to train his men.

Okay, shoot, Kyle said, his eyes tracking the group who’d come in with Dowd. None of them had the muscular builds and wary, watchful eyes of the men who were after Kyle. Keeping the door in view to check the people entering the bar, he listened to Mike Dowd.

You’re going to find this hard to believe—

Why do I have the feeling this isn’t good news?

Mike shrugged, apologetic. We need to work in a group—tomorrow.

Tomorrow? After three months of grueling training, Kyle was looking forward to a few weeks off. Gimme a break.

Kyle usually trained men fresh out of the Navy SEAL program in San Diego. Occasionally, the Navy facility where he worked as a civilian instructor was used by the DEA. Military concerns had taken a sharp decline in recent years. The war on drugs was a growth industry.

Several police departments have signed contracts with the Navy for antiterrorist training. Miami-Dade’s the first.

Kyle slammed his bottle down on the rail. Miami vice? The Navy’s now training policemen?

More than half the fleet is in mothballs. Congress cut our budget—again. Mike waved his hand at the shimmering channel where the sun was nothing more than a gleam of light on the horizon. The Navy owns the best part of Key West. We’ve got to earn our keep. Who can train antiterrorists better?

True, but I hate to see civilians—

You’re a civilian.

Kyle stared out at the setting sun as it went down in a blaze of red-and-gold light. Rowdy cheers came from the crowd next door at Mallory Dock, celebrating the sunset. He barely heard the commotion; his mind was on his Navy SEAL days.

Like the SEAL graduates he now trained, Kyle had been anxious for adventure and willing to take any risk. Anti-terrorist work seemed glamorous—until you faced reality: Terrorism was usually random, unpredictable. Innocent people died, and too often you couldn’t do a damn thing to prevent the tragedy.

From their jackets, it’s an interesting group.

Jackets? File folders with their personnel records. Why would Dowd even bother to look? Kyle’s well-honed sixth sense kicked in. The man was holding back something.

Interesting is a word people use when they mean crappy. An interesting painting. Translation: looks like something a monkey troweled onto canvas using dog shit instead of paint.

Dowd barked something that might have been mistaken for a laugh by a stranger. This group is a mixed bag.

A mixed bag meant he would be training men and women.

I know how you feel about women, Kyle. I—

I’m crazy about women, but in the field they’re too distracting. They get good men killed. He didn’t mention his personal experience with this, yet the anger was there just the same.

Women are here to stay. Believe me, I don’t like it, either, but since Tailhook, we’ve been under orders to kiss ass. Dowd paused to flag down the waitress and order a Corona for himself and another for Kyle.

Okay, so they’re token estrogen. What else is new?

Jennifer Whitmore is a special case.

Jennifer. The name sounded in Kyle’s brain with a deafening gong.

It had been over fifteen years since he’d seen his Jenny. Another lifetime, but the memory was seared into his mind as if it were yesterday: Jenny, tears swimming in her blue eyes, begging him to do something to keep them together.

The Whitmore woman was part of the Miami-Dade County Search and Rescue unit.

Was? Kyle asked, reminding himself the world was full of Jennifers. This woman was not Jennifer Barton. Leave the past where it belonged. A memory from his youth—nothing more.

It seems Spike Roberts believes she has potential.

Kyle threw back his head and laughed at the stars emerging in the dark sky. He hooted for a full minute and Mike Dowd chuckled along with him.

Potential for what? To do the spread-eagle for Spike? Kyle shook his head and quickly scanned the room. One of the men at the bar looked familiar, but he wasn’t part of the group determined to kidnap him.

The waitress delivered their beers, and Kyle took a swig, his mind on Spike Roberts. He’d met Spike in Panama several years ago. The DEA agent was funnier than hell and had a reputation as a hotshot. He was an ass man, bent on hopping in the sack with anything in panties. It was a miracle the guy managed to stay out of bed long enough to catch any drug runners, but he did.

Seriously, Kyle, Jennifer Whitmore may have potential. Why don’t we go catch her act?

Act? Is she playing at one of the bars on Duval? Kyle rarely went into the open-air bars that lined Key West’s main drag. They attracted tourists with bands and singers and drinks with cutesy names like the Hog Snort.

No. Jennifer is in Bahama Village at the Kat Klub.

Bahama Village. The name alone evoked an image of the dark side of paradise. While Old Town’s Duval Street catered to the tourists, the nearby area known as Bahama Village was frequented by a rougher crowd.

Hunker down and wait them out was the cardinal rule in this type of situation. But Kyle was curious, so he agreed to go to the Kat Klub even though he would have to cross the island and risk being spotted by the men after him.

What the hell? He’d been in far more dangerous situations. And lived to tell about it.

Why is Jennifer Whitmore working in a club if she’s part of an S&R team? Kyle asked as they paid for the beers and left the bar.

She’s doing a little undercover work until training begins.

Outside, Kyle scanned the mobs of people jostling up Duval Street. He didn’t detect any sign of the kidnappers, but it was dark and the narrow street had numerous places where one of them could be hiding, hoping to find Kyle. If Mike Dowd noticed he was being cautious, he didn’t give any sign.

They headed down Front Street, silently agreeing to avoid the crowds along Duval. At Mel Fisher’s Maritime Museum they turned and walked along Whitehead until they came to Bahama Village. Here reggae drowned out the sounds of the other types of music coming from the clubs in the tourist area.

Named for the Bahamians who originally settled the area, the village now had a strong Cuban influence. While Duval Street in Old Town reminded Kyle of New Orleans, Bahama Village seemed more Caribbean to him.

More mysterious and more dangerous.

They passed the Blue Haven, where the chickens were snoozing under the raised foundation, and turned up a dark alley. Kyle cocked his head to glance over his shoulder. Nothing.

At the end of the alley, half hidden by a giant gumbo limbo tree that hadn’t been pruned in years was a large hut with a thatched roof. The neon sign flickered as if it were about to go out.

KAT KLUB

Kat Fight 2 Nite

Okay, Dowd, what are kat fights? Kyle hated the cockfights that were secretly held in the village. For damn sure, he didn’t want to see cats clawing each other to death.

Girls fighting—that’s a kat fight. Come on, it’s fun.

Kyle had his doubts, but he seemed to be alone. The Bahamian bouncer stationed at the door was holding back a line of men. Dowd told the three-hundred-pound black man that he had a reservation.

Uh-oh, said a tiny voice in Kyle’s head. Who else knew Dowd had planned to bring him here? He looked around carefully, but didn’t see anyone he recognized.

Inside, it was dimly lit and rank, with the smell of cigars and tequila suspended in the hot, still air. The ring was more of a runway, cutting through the center of the room. From metal bars beneath the thatched roof, high-powered strobes zapped the runway with blinding light, a stark contrast to the shadowy spectators’ area. They were seated in the front row at a table the size of a TV tray.

This is Jennifer Whitmore’s last night here, Dowd told him.

A bleached blond waitress sauntered up to them dressed in a silver metal bra and a black leather thong with a whip dangling from the waistband. A chain of roses with a cobra emerging from the blossoms was tattooed on her thigh.

Only in Key West.

When you checked beyond the sunny skies and the warm sands, Key West’s darker heart beat steadily. Kinky sex. Drugs. You name it.

The blonde took two pitchers of margaritas from her tray and deposited them on the table next to the glasses. Even in the dark, Kyle could tell the drinks were watered down.

Fifty dollars, bay-bee, she said with a breathy voice that was so fake Kyle almost told her to get a life.

Let Uncle Sam pay, Dowd said when Kyle reached for his wallet. He paid the waitress who’d poured them a drink, managing to slosh much of the sticky liquid over the table.

Fifty frigging dollars? Kyle asked after one swig of what tasted like warm piss.

You have to buy two pitchers instead of paying a cover charge. It—

A drumroll, then the lights went out. The fine hair on the back of Kyle’s neck stood on end. Sweat furrowed down the small of his back. He hated not being able to see a damn thing.

An instant later, the glaring lights illuminated the runway-style ring. In pranced an Amazon of a woman with a mane of blue-black hair and dark, feral eyes. She raised strong arms the way prize fighters did when they paraded into the ring. She kick-boxed along the runway, lashing out at nearby tables with long, powerful legs.

The mostly male crowd jammed around the tiny tables whistled and cheered as the black leather shorts and halter top strained, threatening to burst the seams and expose buns of steel or soccer ball boobs. Something about the woman gave Kyle the creeps.

Marlene the Marvel, screeched the announcer. Unnn-deee-feated in twenty-seven bouts.

Somebody should call for a chromosome check on the Marvel, Kyle told Mike. I can hardly wait to see Jennifer Whitmore. Wanna bet she needs a check, too?

Hee-rez the challenger, the announcer yelled over the catcalls. Baby Doe Whitmore.

Out of the shadows at the far end of the room appeared a petite blonde with an off-kilter ponytail at the top of her head. Her huge blue-gray eyes framed by long, wispy lashes seemed to be blinded by the intense light. She hesitated, lowering her chin a notch as she slowly walked down the runway.

A hush fell over the room, but Kyle barely noticed. His gut clenched as if the Marvel had kick-boxed him in the groin. His brain kept trying to unscramble what he was seeing.

Jenny. His sweet Jenny all grown up.

Finally, he said, Her name is really Jennifer Barton.

How’d you know? Mike asked. Her stepfather, Hyram Whitmore, adopted her. It’s in her file.

How did he know? How could he forget? The last time he’d seen Jenny—fifteen years ago—they’d been little more than kids, still in their teens. She’d been sobbing. I don’t want to leave you, Kyle.

La-a-deez, yelled the announcer when Jenny stopped in the center of the ring. Take two steps back, and when I blow the whistle, come out fighting. Remember, nothin’s too dirty in a kat fight. Anything gooo-z!

The women backed up until they were about six feet apart. The announcer disappeared into the shadows. A second before the whistle blew, the Marvel attacked, catching Jenny off guard.

She grabbed Jenny by her shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. Jenny valiantly tried to fight her off, but succeeded only in getting the neckline of her T-shirt ripped until it nearly exposed her breasts.

Jenny bolted for the far side of the ring.

The Marvel pounced, from behind, coming down on top of Jenny like a load of cement. Kyle couldn’t sit there and watch. He began to rise, but Dowd slammed a hand down on his shoulder.

Jennifer isn’t getting hurt. It’s an act. They’ve been fighting every night for over a month.

Kyle’s chest tightened as if his lungs couldn’t take any more of the hot, stale air as he watched Jenny. Somehow she’d managed to get on top of the Marvel and was pummeling Marlene with her fists. Jenny wasn’t Playmate material. She was the girl-next-door all grown up.

With sex appeal in spades.

The Marvel was now dragging Jenny across the stage by her ponytail. Poor Jenny was kicking and screaming loud enough to be heard in Miami.

Do you think you can work with Jennifer? Mike asked.

I love you, Kyle. Don’t let her take me away. But Jenny’s mother had taken her and disappeared. Until now.

Jenny’s crazy about me, he heard himself say.

Another two minutes passed, filled with antics Kyle didn’t find entertaining, but the other men were mesmerized. They were pounding the tables and cheering when the Marvel finally pinned Jenny to the mat facedown and straddled her, trapping Jenny’s arms behind her back at a painful angle.

Kyle waited while the announcer declared the Marvel the victor and presented her with a gold lamé bra that couldn’t possibly contain Marlene’s humungous breasts. Defeated, Jenny waited nearby, head down. Her ponytail had come undone. Damp strands of tawny-gold hair hung around her heart-shaped face.

Kyle had to resist the urge to go over, put his arm around her, and lead her out of the spotlight. No doubt, the other guys in the place were thinking the same thing. Even though Marlene the Marvel had won, Jenny was the true victor.

Mike Dowd said something to the waitress. She went up to Jenny as she was leaving the ring. Squinting into the light, Jenny came in their direction. Mike stood up and Kyle rose beside him, aware of all the heads turning in their direction. There wasn’t a man in the whole damn place who didn’t want to meet Jenny.

Jennifer, another great show, Mike Dowd said.

Jenny mumbled something, but her eyes were on Kyle. Her lower lip trembled just slightly, the way it always had when she’d been upset.

Hey, Jenny, he heard himself say. Talk about coincidences—

It’s Jennifer, not Jenny.

She reached for the full pitcher of margaritas to pour herself a glass. She needed it; her face was moist from the fight. A rivulet of perspiration ran down her collarbone, and he couldn’t help notice it disappear between her breasts.

Get a grip. Fifteen years have passed. Jenny is all grown up now. It’s Jennifer, not Jenny. Definitely not his Jenny any longer.

I never thought I’d see you again … Jennifer.

Kyle Parker, I couldn’t get that lucky.

She flung the pitcher of margaritas at his face. His split-second reaction kept the liquid from hitting him square in the eyes. Instead, the contents sloshed onto his denim cut-offs, drenching them as if he’d peed in his pants. The liquid trickled down his legs and puddled in his shoes around his bare feet.

He turned and walked away, all kinds of pissed. Women. Go figure. Fifteen years had turned his Jenny into a ball buster.

Half the joint was laughing at him when he asked the bouncer where to find the men’s room. Not that he gave a rat’s ass. Jennifer, the woman, had just destroyed a memory that he hadn’t realized was so important until now.

He rounded the corner, heading for the shack where the men’s room was located. Suddenly, a distinctive click sounded near his right ear.

A gun cocking.

Kyle didn’t bother to face the kidnappers. He stood there, cut-offs and underwear sopping, and cursed his own stupidity. Letting a woman distract you was a sure way to get killed.

Chapter 2

Jennifer stared at Kyle Parker’s back as he angled his impressive shoulders sideways to get through the crowd. Deep in her heart, she had always known sometime, somewhere, Kyle would cross her path again.

But why tonight when she’d been totally unprepared?

She’d emerged from the blinding lights, expecting to see Mike Dowd. For an instant, she’d thought the tall, powerfully built phantom with Mike was a result of the move from ultra-bright light to near darkness. It had been years since she’d lain awake at night, dreaming about Kyle, but now and then she would spot some man who reminded her of him.

Despite her best efforts, she always looked twice … to make sure.

Tonight there’d been no mistake. Kyle was older, his body filled out, having lost the youthful lankiness she remembered so well. He’d seemed taller, too, but perhaps that was because she had to stand on tiptoe to hit five four and he was almost a foot taller.

Some things never change—like Kyle Parker’s penetrating green eyes and cocky grin.

Just seeing him had brought back the heartache, the agonizing pain. And the unbearable darkness that had nearly eclipsed her soul.

What she’d said next came as a surprise—even to her. She’d been trying to curb her tongue, but knowing herself, she wasn’t counting on having much luck.

She realized Mike Dowd was speaking, and mentally gave herself a hard shake. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize she wasn’t welcome in the counterterrorism program. There were too many people waiting for her to fail. She needed to stay on Mike’s good side.

I guess Kyle was wrong. You’re not crazy about him.

Is that what he said? The conceited jerk would.

Mike shrugged as if to say he couldn’t quite recall. The good old boy club at work.

I’d sure hate to make you wait six weeks until the other instructor arrives. Mike pulled out Kyle’s chair for her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. She dropped into the seat, suddenly exhausted, and he sat down. Kyle’s the best.

Kyle was an instructor in the counterterrorist program? She couldn’t manage to string words together. After several long beats of silence, she formed a response. I’m a pro. I can work with anyone, even Kyle Parker.

Mike Dowd’s expression said he had serious doubts. He parted his lips to say something when a brute of a guy strode up to their table, leaned over, and began speaking in a low voice.

Sir, Blackwatch has just kidnapped Kyle Parker.

Kidnapped? Jennifer’s heartbeat kicked into high gear. You don’t care, she told herself. You’re engaged to a man you love. Still, she didn’t want something terrible to happen to Kyle.

Congratulations, Brody. Mike shook the man’s hand. I was wondering if anyone could catch Parker. He looked at Jennifer. I guess being drenched with margaritas had him off guard.

What was going on here? she wondered, but didn’t ask. Her mouth still tasted of shoe leather from telling off Kyle, then discovering she was going to have to