Recognizing the rock and its bitch, the hard place, I relent. "What do you want to know?" I ask.

There's a fanatic gleam in Jones' eyes now. One that tells me whatever fucked up finale he's twisting around in that brain of his will happen—soon. So the best I can do for Chloe and me is stall him for time until the badges on shore can figure out a plan B. One that ends with the two of us alive.

If not, then I need to figure out an end game of my own.

Jones smiles. "Why don't you start with your daughter?"

There's a strangled sound from the captain and all of our eyes go to his limp body. When he doesn't rouse, the attention swings back in my direction.

The question twists itself in my chest like a pissed-off pit of vipers. Jones seems positively beside himself with glee. The maniacal smile that's more of a grimace draws his pale face taut in the moonlight.

When I say nothing, Jones jabs Chloe in the ribs with the muzzle of the gun. He turns and lifts a brow.

I'm not the kind of man who enjoys death. There are some who find a small measure of sick satisfaction when they take a life. A lot of men I've worked with over the years find it a sense of relief when they rid the world of bad men, but I've taken no pleasure in it.

But, for this man, I'd be willing to make an exception.

"Why her?" I ask instead of answering. "Why not just come to me? If you have a problem, you come to me. You don't go after my kid. You don't kill a bunch of people like a toddler on a power trip. Be a man. Confront me."

Jones cocks his head to the side and studies me. It's disconcerting, even to someone like me, having faced war for years on end, to stare into the face of an evil man.

"I'll be asking the questions," he says, after a time. "Yours will be answered. Eventually."

Chloe is as still as a statue, except for her hands. They're clasped behind her back and completely bleached of any color because she's holding them so tightly. Her fingers twitch in their restrained position and it undoes me.

"What do you want to know?" I ask Jones.

The gun eases off of her ribs and he rests his hands on the table. "Her name is Emily, right?" And I know when his face twitches he already knows her name. He'd have to. I offer a fervent prayer of thanks that my baby girl is far, far away from here thanks to Chloe.

"Yes," I say, and my voice sounds like it's being filtered through gravel. I wince and clear my throat. "Yes, her name's Emily." This time, her name is a whisper.

"Do you love your daughter, Gabriel?" Jones asks.

"Of course I do."

"How much do you love her?"

"What kind of question is that?" I ask between gritted teeth. "I love her very much."

Jones just smiles his creepy-ass psychopath smile and labors across the room to the dashboard where he checks the digital GPS. "We're here," he says as he turns back to us. "Don't you move now."

He disappears down the stairs again, his boots thudding heavily in retreat.

"What's he doing now?" Chloe whispers.

I shake my head. "I have no fuckin' idea."

"Any bright ideas?" she asks.

"I'll figure something out," I tell her.

And I hope I'm right.

"That sounds totally promising," she says and startles a laugh out of me.

"Well, I aim to please," I say.

Whatever her response will be is cut off by the horrendous clank of a chain smashing against its metal counterpart, followed by a splash of water.

"Well, wherever we are," she says instead, "we won't be going anywhere."

The boat jerks as the anchor takes hold of the ocean floor.

"We're stranded," I say absently.

"In another time," I hear her respond, "being stranded with you wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"If we get out of this, I have this cottage on the beach. I think you'd like it."

"Are you hitting on me?" she asks softly.

I don't get the chance to answer because Jones appears in the stairwell. I'm going to enjoy kicking his motherfucking ass when I get the opportunity.

Jones sits opposite me. "Now, where were we?"

"Why did you want me here?" I ask plainly. "What do you want?"

"So eager," Jones says. "Very well. I'm here because I'd like to get to know the illustrious Gabriel Rossi better, though from our short acquaintance, I've found you to be pathetically predictable."

"Have you?" I sneer. "And why is that?"

Jones picks at his sleeve with feigned nonchalance. "At first I was concerned her interference completely ruined months of careful planning." He flicks an annoyed glance at Chloe. "Then, to my surprise, you came anyway. I must know, what was your motivation?"

Her gaze is already on me when I peer in her direction. "It was the right thing to do," I say to them both.

Chloe's eyes shutter closed and a wave of pain crosses her face, pinching her brows and lips.

"The right thing to do," Jones says, drawing my attention back to him. "Interesting. Do you consider yourself a good person?"

"No better than any other man," I say.

"How humble," Jones says scathingly. "Is your charitable nature why you volunteer with the Coast Guard?"

"I wouldn't call it charity. I've always loved serving my country."

"Do you enjoy saving lives, Mr. Rossi?" he asks, the smile now gone from his too-wide lips.

"I enjoy being helpful."

"Helpful. Hmm. Do you want to know what I think?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

The squawk from the radio cuts off his answer. Above the sounds of my racing heart, I can hear Tyler's urgent voice. When I scan back at Jones, I find him staring at the unconscious body of the captain.

"Gabe, you there?" Though the connection is terrible and filled with crackling, it's unmistakably Tyler.

Jones smiles, but this time, he seems almost resigned. "Better get that, Rossi. Don't worry, we'll wait." He drops a hand to Chloe's hair and strokes. I don't miss the shiver that wracks her body and I doubt it has anything to do with the wind.

I lurch to my feet and nearly go back down. Guess that explosion knocked my head around a bit more than I thought. The dash, luckily, isn't too far away, and I catch myself on the edge and manage to stay on my feet.

"Gabe?" crackles the radio.

I fumble with the handheld and hold it up to my mouth. "Tyler, it's Gabe."

"Gabe, good to hear from you after that shit show. Can you talk?"

The radio may be filled with static, but Jones is close enough that he can hear every word Tyler's saying so I glance to him for confirmation. When he nods, I turn back and say into the radio, "Yeah, I can talk. What have you got?"

"There are hundreds of people with the last name Jones," he starts.

"Well, that's helpful."

"So, I went digging. We can assume, from his insistence that he had to have you and no one else, that he's tied to you in some way, so we've had every man on the ground looking into your background for any possible ties."

"I hope you're calling because you found one."

"We damn near didn't. But I knew the name sounded familiar, but it didn't click until I started searching into all the rescue ops for the past five years. There was a woman about a year ago? Her small fishing boat had gotten caught during a squall. We ended up having to call off the search."

I press my fingers into my bleary eyes trying to pull the details from my muddled thoughts. Then it hits me all at once and I nearly stagger backward. Her name had been Sheila Langford-Jones.

Jones. Jones. .

The color drains from my face and I have to white knuckle the dash to keep from keeling over.

"I remember," I say hoarsely, and I lean heavily against the dash as I turn to face the man whose wife I couldn't save. "I was the one leading the team." By the end, my voice is barely audible.

"You're the reason why I'm all alone, Mr. Rossi," Jones says.

My father was always a stoic man. In fact, I don't think I can even remember ever seeing him cry. As a police officer, he'd seen a lot of horrific things and he was raised to keep those things locked up tight. I never saw him seek my mother out for comfort. He was affectionate, to a point, but not very open. I imagine he was that way because if he ever did open up, all the pain and fear and regret could never be shoved back in and sewn up again.

If he'd ever broken, I imagine he'd bear a striking resemblance to Gabe when he realizes why Jones orchestrated this whole horrific ordeal.

The fight goes out of him and he slumps against the console behind him. The string keeping his spine straight snaps and he crumples and his hands cover his eyes as though he can blot out the images running across his brain.

I itch to cross the room and offer him something, anything, to comfort him, but Jones towers by my side. He watches Gabe break with sick satisfaction. When I look back at Gabe, his fingers are trembling as he wipes the sweat from his brow.

I can't even imagine how he's feeling. I ache for him. I want him to curl up with his head in my lap so I can soothe his bleeding heart.

"She died," Gabe says once he gains control of his emotions.

Jones nods. "She drowned less than a mile from where you directed the search."

Gabe mirrors his nod, both hands now supporting him on the console. "I remember now."

Jones crosses an ankle and cocks his head to the side. Unlike Gabe, his hands are steady as he caresses the gun on the table with a single finger. "Do you like playing God, Mr. Rossi? Do you like feeling in control of whether people live or die?"

"I—" Gabe struggles to find words and he scrubs a hand over his face. "I've never looked at it like that."

"No? You've never felt a rush when you're responsible for saving a life? Or ending one?"

"All I've ever wanted to do is help people," Gabe says, finally slinking to the floor as if his legs can no longer support his weight.

"You only had to keep searching," Jones says, his voice growing more urgent. "She was right there."

"I'm sorry," Gabe whispers.

"Sorry won't bring back my wife."

Sensing the situation is deteriorating, I turn to Jones. "What was her name?" I ask, grasping at the first question that comes to mind.

"Her name was Sheila," Jones says. The gun clatters against the table and he presses both fists into his eyes.

"How long were you married?"

Just keep him talking. If you can distract him, maybe someone will come.

At least, that's what I hope.

"We were married for nineteen years when she died."

"I'm so sorry," Gabe whispers.

Jones is across the room with his hands around Gabe's throat before I know what's happening. In seconds, Gabe's face goes from ghost-white to purple. Panicked, I look around the room for some way to help and I see that Jones has forgotten the gun on the table in his haste.

I stare at it for a few long heartbeats and then it's in my hand, heavier and bigger than I would have imagined. I flick off the safety and then cross the room.

Jones is still so intent on Gabe that he doesn't notice me until I press the muzzle against his head. "Let him go," I say, not recognizing the confident voice of the woman speaking.

Gabe's bloodshot eyes find mine and he shakes his head as much as he can with Jones' hands still around his throat.

Ignoring him, I jam the gun against Jones' skull. "I said, let him go."

"What are you gonna do with that, little girl?" Jones asks, but his hands ease fractionally and Gabe's eyes find me over Jones' shoulder.

"I'm going to blow your head off if you don't let him go in the next ten seconds." Surprisingly, my hands are steady for the first time in hours as I nudge his shoulder with the gun. "Now, I said get up."

Jones waits a few seconds and then eases back on his haunches. "I should have killed you when I had the chance," he growls.

"Too late," I respond with a sickly sweet smile. Gabe coughs as he gets back to his feet. I offer him a hand up and say, "Are you okay?"

He does a weird shrug/nod that I take to mean yes. His feet are steady, but his eyes are still haunted. He gestures for the gun, but I hesitate for a second.

"I'm fine." He gestures again, and I hand it over. The gun in his hand restores some of his confidence and he straightens. "Get Tyler up on the line and tell him we're about fifteen miles northeast," he says.

"What are you gonna do?" Jones goads. "I don't think you actually have the balls."

Gabe points the gun at Jones' leg and fires off a round. I can't help my shriek of surprise—or the flinch. Jones howls and collapses on the floor.

"If you don't want me to give you an identical one in your other leg, remove this collar."

I gasp. "Gabe, no."

"It's fine," he says without looking at me.

"But he could detonate it."

He shakes his head as he and Jones share a long look. "He won't do that, will you Jonesy?"

"How could you possibly know he won't kill us all?"

Gabe's response chills me to my core. "Because he wants to see me suffer and an explosion would be over too quickly. Jones here says he's been planning this for a while. He wouldn't want it to end without having a little fun first."

"I don't—"

But Gabe doesn't listen. Instead, he crouches to where Jones is now kneeling on the floor and says, "Get the goddamn collar off of my neck or I will shoot you."

"Let me—"

"No," Gabe interrupts. "Me first. He needs me. He'd be too tempted to hurt you to spite me. He'll do me and then you'll explain to me how he did it, so I can take yours off next." When I don't move he stands, gun still trained on Jones, and his dark eyes come to me. "You understand?" he asks.

The words are stuck behind a tangle of fear in my chest. I know my eyes are wild and wide, but I nod anyway. Instinctively, I trust him like I've never trusted anyone before, in spite of the news about Jones' wife.

Gabe softens a little and hooks a hand around my neck. He forces me to look at him and then presses a soft, swift kiss to my lips, sending a shock throughout my entire body. My hands lift to guard against the onslaught, but end up gripping the still-slick material of his suit instead. Short though the kiss may be, it is unequivocally shattering.

When he releases me the barest of seconds later he positions me behind his back. I'm both numb and electrified and the combination short circuits my thoughts until I hear Jones working on the collar around Gabe's neck. My breath catches in my throat as Jones carefully maneuvers around the inner workings of the collar. Gabe and I hold a collective breath when the catch releases. I can't even bear to look.

A few seconds later, I peer through one eye and find Gabe rubbing his naked neck with one hand. The collar dangles from two long, tan fingers and he holds the gun loosely in his other hand.

Jones looks up at him, his face carefully blank. "What now, Gabe?"

Gabe sets the collar down carefully on the table, then gestures with the gun. "You're not done yet, Mr. Jones. Her next. I hope you have steady hands."

"Great," I mutter as I move next to him.

"Did you talk to Ty?" Gabe asks as he moves behind me.

"No," I hiss back, "I was too worried about the bomb around your neck."

He puts a hand on my back and nudges me forward. "I'm right here, Chloe."

I'm pretty sure I don't breathe until Gabe leans forward and says, "That's it. You're okay."

There's the slightest moment where a weight is lifted off my neck—both figuratively and literally—and then I get thrown backward, knocking Gabe down along with me.

Maybe the son-of-a-bitch detonated the bomb anyway.