The beach would have been charming, if not for the wreckage. Fibreglass panels and the detritus of emergency gear and part of a motor, though nothing of use. Nothing he could salvage.
Mercifully, there were no bodies.
“Five boats,” Q said softly, making a count of the different pieces. “Ours. Santiago’s four. Did anyone else survive?”
“No.” James didn’t stop his survey of the scene to meet Q’s eyes, and Q wondered how many men had made it to the beach. How many James had killed. How many he’d had to kill after running out of bullets. He’d been carrying his Walther. Two small magazines, six shots each. He’d fired some onboard — first when they’d chased Santiago, and later when they’d been pursued. The weapon was holstered over James’ filthy shirt, stained with dirt and a tinge of pink.
“Were you hurt?” Q asked guiltily. He should have asked before, but this wasn’t a mission. This wasn’t supposed to be a bloody mission! Their first and only holiday in far too long. “And what do you mean, dead?”
“It was a trap.” James put his arm around Q’s shoulders, still staring out at the wreckage. “Us seeing Santiago at the hotel. Letting us chase him. The other three boats, lying in wait.”
Q sighed and leaned his head against James’ shoulder. “You faked our deaths.”
James nodded. “And when they came to look for our bodies —”
“You killed them.”
Another nod.
It was a tactically sound plan. A bloody infuriating, insane plan, but tactically sound, given the necessary improvisation.
Q took a deep breath and pushed his salt-crusted hair out of his eyes. “Right. So, where’s my mobile? I need to call this in — get a cleanup team.”
“That... could be a problem,” James said tentatively.
Q closed his eyes and sighed. “Lost? Damaged?”
“Both.”
“Right. And where are we?”
The only answer was the soft slap of waves on debris.
Q opened his eyes and stared out at the tranquil blue water. Jamaica was gorgeous this time of year, James had said. Snorkeling. Scuba diving. Their own private pool, right off their bedroom, he’d said. Half a world away from the office. Just James and Q.
Quietly, James asked, “Are you angry?”
Q stepped out from under James’ arm. He took hold of James’ left hand and undid the gold cufflink so he could push the fine material up, baring his forearm. James’ skin was sun-dark and bruised but not bleeding, for once. Q pressed his thumb against James’ wrist and moved slowly up towards his elbow. Then he felt a little lump under James’ skin.
The tracker.
Relieved, Q sighed and pulled James into his arms. “No, James. I’m not angry. This time.”
James laughed. “We’re alive. We’re alive, and for once no one’s cut out my tracker, which means someone will come for us.”
“In the meantime, we’re... where? Where are we?” Q asked, looking around as best he could without pulling away from the comforting, strong embrace.
“We’re safe.”
“That’s not an answer,” Q said in a warning tone.
James sighed and tightened his arms for a moment. “An island. No sign of human life, so it’s probably a wildlife sanctuary. There’s fresh water, though, so that’s one less worry.”
“Fresh water. I wasn’t worried,” Q said — though now he was. He pulled free of the embrace and stared until James finally met his eyes. “You have your tracker.”
Gently, James said, “The tracker’s passive —”
“I know the bloody thing —” Q snapped his mouth shut as his brain caught up with itself. The tracker was passive, yes, because they couldn’t very well cram batteries or a charging port in an agent’s arm. So the tracker depended on outside active scanners — everything from mobile towers to wireless routers — to report the tracker’s presence. But here, in the middle of nowhere, the tracker was worthless without an active scanner.
Field agents were expected to go missing. Executives, though... Headquarters would send search teams with active scanning sensitive enough to pick up a return from the tracker even from a low-flying plane. But the range would be measured in metres, not kilometres.
At least they were still close to civilisation. They’d taken a speedboat from their resort, not a jet across the Siberian Traps.
“Two days,” Q estimated. “Two days at most until they find us.”
“Less, probably,” James said soothingly. He slid his hands up Q’s arms to squeeze his shoulders. “So there’s no need to worry —”
“James!” Q snapped, exasperated. “I’m not a bloody civilian. I’m thirsty, tired, and hung over, but I am not worried. I’m fully aware of the resources HQ will mobilise to find me, because unlike some people on this island, I do not make a habit of disappearing.”
Startled, James held up his hands. “All right. I’m sorry. What do you need?”
“A satellite phone, two aspirin, and a decent cup of tea,” Q groused, looking back over the water. He could see through the turquoise waves to the sand beneath, where tiny fish darted in search of breakfast. Palm trees swayed gently, fronds rustling. Dark green bushes with glossy leaves filled in the gaps between slender trunks. It was gorgeous here, the sort of wild beauty that could never be duplicated at a resort, no matter how artfully landscaped.
No computer. No mobile. No phone to call room service. No change of clothes or hot shower or cold fridge full of drinks and snacks.
“I can show you where there’s water,” James reported, his tone of voice professionally neutral, which was a relief. Right now, Q needed a trained field agent, not an overprotective boyfriend. “And something else that might help.”
“Something else?”
James’ sly grin flashed. “You’ll see,” he said, holding out his hand to lead Q away from the beach.
Heat. Heat and humidity, clinging thick and wet to itching skin.
Grimacing, Q forced his eyes open. Shadow and light played around him, flashes of emerald leaves and pale sand. He pushed up onto one elbow and saw his head had been pillowed on a dark blue dinner jacket.
“James?” he asked — or tried. His throat felt scraped raw, his mouth dry, full of a foul taste.
What the hell?
Q got himself upright with effort. The sand felt cool through his socks. He’d been lying in an idyllic little clearing, sand free of debris, no sign of insects, branches propped up to shade his makeshift bed.
“What the hell?” he whispered, scrubbing his hands across his face. His skin was imprinted with fine creases from folds of bespoke wool. His glasses were nowhere in sight.
His own dinner suit was covered with sand, black wool stained with salt. Socks, trousers, braces, shirt. Cufflinks gone, cuffs loose around his wrists. No waistcoat, no jacket.
No James.
His heart gave a single fearful thud before logic reasserted itself. Q’s dinner suit was black; James’, midnight blue. That meant James had to be somewhere.
Probably causing trouble.
He’d certainly done enough of that last night. One minute, they were drinking too much champagne and whispering filthy promises across an intimately small table, and the next...
Santiago.
Q took a deep breath, one that broke into a fit of rough coughing, and clutched at a branch for balance. He was thirsty and more than a little hung over, and they’d stolen a boat last night. A stolen boat, a frantic chase on the water, and now... where the hell were they?
“Q? Q!”
That was James. There was no sense in shouting a response, so Q saved his breath and ignored the fire in his throat.
James ran into sight, looking just as disheveled as Q felt. “You’re awake. Are you all right? How are you feeling?”
Hiding the relief that made his knees go weak, Q pushed away from the tree and met James’ eyes squarely. “I’m fine. I could do with a cup of tea, though, and an ex— oof,” he grunted as James pulled him into a tight embrace.
A bit of Q’s irritation chipped away. James was impulsive, cocky, irritating, and a magnet for trouble, but his concern was genuine.
“I want an explanation, James! What the bloody hell happened?” Q asked, voice muffled against James’ shirt. “And if you say ‘too much champagne’, I’m fully capable of dislocating your knee even without my shoes.”
James laughed, low and comforting, and his arms tightened. “Santiago. The —”
“— diamond smuggler, yes. And?”
“And... we chased him, only he had —”
“— reinforcements.” Q sighed, closing his eyes. “There were boats. Lots of boats.”
“Just four.”
“Just four. Just four!” Q drew back one foot, prepared to kick, and James pre-emptively pulled him close again.
“It could’ve been worse. They were only powerboats, not destroyers.”
“I hate you, James.”
“No, you don’t.” James leaned back and smiled down at Q. “Besides, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“I’m an executive, 007. I can fire you. I can have you exiled,” Q threatened.
“Go right ahead.” James leaned in and kissed his forehead. “You can’t fire the dead.”
