Free The Wrong Hostage by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

he was helpless, too.
    Or hopeless.
    “My son…” Grace’s voice failed. “I need you. Lane needs you. Help us. Please.”
    Faroe turned and looked back at her. She wasn’t wearing makeup or high heels or an unbuttoned blouse or tight pants. Nothing to grab a man’s attention. Her nearly black hair was short, clean, and shot through with some silver threads a woman with more vanity would have hidden.
    “Steele mentioned two names,” Faroe said. “I can understand how dudes like that might make you desperate. Steele certainly thought so. He normally doesn’t ask for a quarter million, unless you’re insured to the gills.”
    “He could have asked for double that amount,” Grace said. “And no, I’m not insured. Neither is Lane.”
    Faroe blew out a long, silent breath, trying to shake off the past. Whatever else had happened between himself and Grace, her child wasn’t part of it.
    And that child was in the hands of butchers.
    “Come aboard,” Faroe said. “We can talk below.”
    The relief that swept through Grace left her light-headed.
    He’s not going to turn his back on me .
    On Lane .
    The step up from the dock was more than a foot and the ship moved unpredictably on the restless water. She looked warily at the gap between the dock and the deck.
    Without thinking, Faroe held out his hand to her.
    Grace ignored it. Instead she grabbed one of the stanchions and pulled herself aboard.
    You want me, Faroe thought, but you don’t trust me. That hasn’t changed, either .

O CEANSIDE
S UNDAY, 10:03 A.M.
12
    F AROE LED THE WAY through the hatch into the stateroom. Another hatch was open into the bilge below. The work light was pointed directly at the unfinished beam. Rough epoxy outlined the seams of the smuggler’s trap. Casually he picked up the section of the floor and closed off the bilge. The power cord kept the hatch ajar.
    “Looks like one of those smuggling things you used to tell me about,” Grace said.
    “Hell’s bells,” Faroe muttered. He picked up the floor section again and set it aside. “Go ahead, take a good look. This is going to be the worst-kept secret on the border.”
    Grace studied the box for a moment. “I take it you won’t be smuggling elephants.”
    In spite of everything he smiled. Her words were the punch line from a customs joke he’d once told her about Indian border inspectors and a devious mahout. Each day the mahout and his elephant appeared at the port of entry. The mahout was searched, as was his elephant. Then they were allowed to go on. This happened for weeks, until some smart inspector figured out that the elephants were the contraband.
    “I told that story a year ago,” she said. “It was at the sentencing of aMexican smuggler.” She looked into the bilge and added, “You may or may not appreciate the fact that I gave him ten years.”
    “Then you’ve learned that there really are smugglers in this world. That’s a good thing for a judge to know.”
    Grace’s smile faded. “Oh, I’ve learned a lot more about the nature of humanity and the shadow world, as you used to call it.” As of yesterday, I learned more than I wanted to know .
    “I still call it that. Nothing’s changed, except we’re older and the crooks are younger.”
    Faroe yanked the power cord out of the socket and dropped it into the bilge. He put the floor hatch back in place.
    “Can I get you something?” he asked, trying to sound polite. “Water? Beer? There’s a little coffee left.”
    “Coffee would be fine,” Grace said. “Black.”
    That hadn’t changed either.
    As Faroe rummaged for a clean cup, Grace looked over the rest of the salon. The TAZ had at least one computer, video screens, telephones like those she had seen in Steele’s office, and a smaller version of the Ambassador’s global clock.
    “A wooden boat.” Grace didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Faroe’s stubborn determination to do things on his own terms.
    “She was built in Inverness,