Virginia Smith - Into the Deep

“She?” A wave of fear raised goose bumps along her arms. “Who is she?”

“There is only one she they could mean—you.”

“We haven’t seen each other in over two years, Ben. Until this afternoon, we’ve had no contact at all. And that was a coincidence. I don’t know what this is about, but they must mean someone else.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think our running into each other was a coincidence at all. I think someone arranged it.”

“What is this article they’re talking about, anyway? What’s going on, Ben? Why are you so worried?”

Nikki watched a struggle play across his face. Finally, he spoke in a low voice. “I don’t want to involve you any more than you already are. It’s safer if you don’t know.”

The memory of being watched crept over her like a wave on the beach. She glanced toward the closed patio curtains again. Was someone out there now? What had Ben done? Who had he run afoul of?

A lifelong lover of books, Virginia Smith has always enjoyed immersing herself in fiction. In her mid-twenties she wrote her first story and discovered that writing well is harder than it looks; it took many years to produce a book worthy of publication. During the daylight hours she steadily climbed the corporate ladder and stole time to write late at night after the kids were in bed. With the publication of her first novel, she left her twenty-year corporate profession to devote her energy to her passion—writing stories that honor God and bring a smile to the faces of her readers. When she isn’t writing, Ginny and her husband, Ted, enjoy exploring the extremes of nature—skiing in the mountains of Utah, motorcycle riding on the curvy roads of central Kentucky and scuba diving in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Visit her online at www.VirginiaSmith.org.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

—Psalms 139:7–8

For Ted, my dive buddy and best friend

I owe a debt of gratitude to many people for helping me with this book. Thanks to author Elizabeth Ludwig (www.elizabethludwig.com) who helped me with the Spanish phrases. Gracias, amiga! The members of the Utah Christian Writers Fellowship are a constant source of encouragement, and never fail to suggest ways to improve the story. You guys are great! My mom, Amy Barkman, proofread the manuscript on short notice. Thanks, Mom! My editor, Tina James, made so many insightful suggestions that resulted in a much stronger book than the one I wrote initially. Thank you for making me a better writer, Tina. My agent, Wendy Lawton, is not only a terrific businesswoman, she’s the most encouraging agent in the industry. Thanks, Wendy. My husband not only helps me scout out new ideas for my books, he’s a terrific dive buddy as well. Ted, I appreciate you more than I can say.

And of course, the biggest thanks goes to my “heavenly Dad,” who has showed me the most incredible sights imaginable as I’ve donned scuba gear and traveled Into the Deep. How anyone can view His handiwork and still question His existence is beyond me.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

October 13

Mexico

At the sight of the morning paper, a lump of ice dropped into Ben Dearinger’s stomach. His brain did a quick translation of the Spanish headline screaming across the front page.

LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD

DRUG CONNECTION SUSPECTED

Cesar Ramirez, the owner of Blue Waters Scuba Shop and Ben’s boss, tapped the newspaper on the sales counter with a sturdy finger. “I worry about you last night, amigo.” The trademark smile that normally split the man’s darkly tanned face was absent, replaced by a concerned frown. “You hear nothing? No guns?”

“No, nothing.” Ben swallowed against a dry throat. “Why? Did it happen nearby?”

“Sí. Two businesses were vandalized on this road last night.” Cesar pointed southward down the beach. “And the man was killed not a kilometer from here. That way.” His finger switched to point up the beach in the opposite direction.

Ben’s brain kicked into overdrive to translate as he scanned the article, searching for the victim’s name. Sergio Perez Rueda. Though bright Mexican sunlight flooded through the dive shop windows, the room darkened as Ben’s head started to spin. He took a backward step and slumped against the wall beside a rack of scuba tanks.

Cesar stepped toward Ben, hand outstretched. “What is it, amigo? He was a friend of yours, this Sergio?”

Ben scrubbed at his forehead, thoughts whirling. “No. I’ve seen him around, but I barely knew him. He…was here last night.” Ben jerked his head toward the rundown two-room apartment he rented from Cesar at the back of the scuba shop. “For less than five minutes. He came to the door and asked to use the baño.”

Ben had been sitting on the back porch, watching the sunset over the crystal blue waters when Sergio rounded the corner of the shop. He’d seen how jumpy the guy was, the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. His breath reeked of stale beer. Ben hadn’t wanted to grant the request to use his bathroom, but what could he do? Be rude and tell the guy no? Instead, he’d led him into the tiny apartment and kept a vigilant watch outside the door until he emerged.

Ben lowered his voice, hating the question he was about to ask, but knowing he had to. “Should I contact the police, Cesar?”

His boss didn’t answer at first. He ducked between the scuba regulator hoses dangling from overhead hooks like rows of rubber snakes. The whites of his eyes nearly disappeared as he narrowed his lids and considered Ben’s question. Ben waited, breath halted in his chest, until finally Cesar shook his head.

“No, that is a bad idea. This Sergio, I heard about him. He is involved with bad people.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Reynosa, I heard.”

A chill zipped down Ben’s spine. The Reynosa drug cartel had gained in strength and prevalence in the Mexican state of Quintana Roo in recent years. Their violent reputation had increased with reports of kidnappings and execution-style murders, both within their ranks and among those who opposed them. If the Reynosa cartel was responsible for Sergio’s death, they might not look too kindly on a possible witness.

A car door slammed in front of the shop. Cesar’s eyes darted in that direction. “Unless somebody asks, say nothing. That is my advice, amigo.”

The first of the tourists scheduled for a morning of scuba diving entered the shop. Ben gave Cesar a single nod, then slipped into the back to begin readying the equipment they’d need to stow on the boat.

Though he had nothing but respect for the local police, whispered rumors of foreigners languishing in Mexican prisons had strengthened Ben’s desire to stay below their radar during the three years he’d lived and worked as a dive master in Cozumel. And the Reynosa cartel… He suppressed a shudder. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Cesar was right. Sergio had gotten himself mixed up with some nasty people, and now he was dead. Nothing Ben did or said could change that. But he was still very much alive, and he intended to stay that way.

Still, why had Sergio showed up at his place last night? Maybe it had nothing to do with the Reynosa cartel. Maybe he’d vandalized the two buildings Cesar mentioned and was running to escape the police.

On the other hand, surely the news report would have included the detail that a police chase had occurred. No, more likely he’d been running from someone else, someone not necessarily official.

Reynosa.

Ben shook his head. But then why stop to use his baño? It didn’t make sense. Unless…

His pulse kicked up a notch as a possible reason occurred to him. With a quick backward glance toward Cesar, he slipped out the rear of the store and into his small apartment. A steady salt-scented ocean breeze filtered through the open window. Standing with his back against the door, he scanned the cramped room that served as bedroom, living room, dining room and with the aid of a microwave and coffee pot, the kitchen. Sergio had carried a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, which he’d taken into the second room of Ben’s apartment, the bathroom. Was he being chased because of something inside the bag? Something he’d stolen? Money? Drugs? Acid surged into Ben’s throat. Whatever it was, would Sergio have tried to stash it somewhere so he wouldn’t be found with it?

Ben crossed to the baño and scanned the tiny room looking for anything that hadn’t been here yesterday. Clean towels lay more or less folded on exposed shelves in one corner. No medicine chest, so his toothbrush and toiletries rested on the top shelf. The shower stall was a single unit—not possible to hide anything there. In fact, there was no place to conceal an item of any size.

I’m imagining things. He didn’t stash anything here.

Ben turned to go. As he did, his gaze slid across the toilet.

It looked no different. But somehow, he knew. After all, there was no place else within the confines of this cramped room. Moving slowly, he lifted the tank lid. Peered inside.

On the surface of the water was a plastic bag.

He recognized the waterproof pouch instantly. He and Cesar used a similar one on the scuba boat to keep their valuables, such as cell phones and cash, dry. This pouch was folded slightly to wedge it inside the tank in a way that wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the toilet. He couldn’t immediately identify the item inside the clear vinyl bag. Not the cash or drugs he was expecting, though. Stomach in his throat, Ben lifted the bag out. He tore open the Velcro seal, unfolded the top flap and emptied the contents into his palm.

A flash drive.

He almost caved in to the impulse that urged, Put it back. Pretend you never saw it. But what if someone from the Reynosa cartel came looking for it? What would they do to him if they found it in his toilet?

Ben stared at it, his mind cataloguing a list of possible data that might be stored on this device. It would have to be something big, something worth a man’s life. If it involved the Reynosa cartel, there was no telling.

The storage device gripped in his fist, Ben wrestled with his thoughts. One thing was certain. No way could he take this to the police. He’d be signing his own death warrant. And he couldn’t leave it here, either. He had to ditch it, someplace it would never be found. But where?