Free The Indigo Thief by Jay Budgett Page B

velvet cocktail dress with an open back, her curls hidden in a tight bun. She puckered her lips, applied a coat of red lipstick, and slid on a pair of large silver sunglasses. Phoenix was dressed in tortoiseshell spectacles, a black suit, and a thin tie. He’d covered his blond hair in brown goop and had it slicked to the side.
    “Ready?” asked Mila. She slid the tube of lipstick into my hand and winked. “For you, Ms. Perkins. If it’s any consolation, you make a pretty girl.”
    “It’s not,” I muttered, “but thanks anyway.”
    It took me ten minutes to put on my blouse and skirt, then another five to get my bosoms on straight. Yes, they made me wear bosoms. Bertha especially enjoyed that.
    Kindred applied a final layer of powder to my face before stepping back to marvel at her creation. “You look wonderful, dear!” She glanced over at Bertha. “The bosoms were a nice touch.”
    In the kitchen, she briefed me on Phoenix’s and Mila’s respective covers. They were Parker Chester, a recent university grad, and Maria Lalone, a travel writer from Kauai, respectively. I wondered again how I’d gotten stuck being Nancy.
    “The Wet Pockets are ready, dears,” Kindred called to the others. “Meet at the main dock in ten minutes. And don’t forget your lunches! It’s going to be a busy, busy night.”
    At the dock, I learned that Wet Pockets were four-foot-long pouches made of military-grade cellophane wrap—the kind that was, ironically, used by the Feds to catch criminals. Upon seeing the Pockets in person, I realized they were just clear, thin bags sewn together by Bertha. Propellers had been strapped to their tops, and they were pumped full of air.
    I’d seen sturdier sand castles.
    Dove pushed us toward the contraptions. “Come on, little sardines,” he said gleefully. “Into your cans you go!”
    The Wet Pocket wrapped itself around me like… a wet pocket.
    Phoenix and Mila hopped into the pouches next to me. I sucked in a deep breath as Dove rolled us into the water. The Pockets sank immediately, weighed down by their heavy propellers. Water spurted behind us as the propellers fired up. Through the clear plastic casing, I saw Phoenix’s Pocket lead the way. His must’ve been armed with a tracking device—maybe even a GPS.
    The Pockets dove down fifty feet. Schools of fish scurried in fear from our paths as we shot through the water. We turned sharply, and my Pocket slammed against a rock. Its jagged edge ripped my Pocket’s cellophane seam. Water immediately began to stream in, and mascara ran into my eyes.
    Crap. Kindred had put on mascara.
    I grabbed the Wet Pocket’s edges as they tore and fluttered apart, their seam undone. Water slammed into my face. I squeezed my eyes shut. My skirt billowed in the currents. If I’d been on land, at least it would’ve felt breezy.
    My fingers slipped, and the cellophane fabric danced along the tips of my fingers. I wasn’t going to make it to Newla. Not this way, at least.
    Dorsal fins hurried past my feet. A school of fish, I figured. Large ones, by the feel of it. I squinted my eyes open. Rays of sunlight broke the water.
    Suddenly something stabbed my shoulder hard, plunging into the deep tissue. Had I not been holding my breath, I would have screamed. Whatever stabbed me lodged itself in my flesh and yanked me upward. The Pocket’s tattered remains flew from my hands as I was pulled toward the surface. Blood from my shoulder poured into the water.
    I grabbed at my shoulder, trying to dislodge whatever had pierced the skin. My fingers probed the wound, and I felt a sharp prick as they encountered a barbed piece of metal sticking out of the skin.
    A fishing hook. And I was being reeled in.
    More fins brushed against my legs, this time larger ones. I swallowed hard, reminding myself to remain calm. The fins didn’t belong to fish at all.
    They belonged to sharks.

Chapter 9
    The hook in my shoulder pulled me up in spurts. Each new pull yanked me