“Where are you from?” the man asked, his voice and posture relaxing as they drove through the dark.
Caitlyn squeezed Kurt’s hand.
“California,” he said.
The driver glanced in the mirror again, his brown eyes lighting with interest. “Los Angeles?” he asked, his voice tinged with excitement. “I have always wanted to see Hollywood. And Venice Beach.”
“We’re from San Diego. It’s about two hours south, depending on traffic. Close to Mexico.”
They made small talk with the man, and reached the portin about twenty minutes.
Miraculously, the tower of a Caribbean Queen cruise ship rose above the harbor buildings, a brightly lit beacon among the smokestacks.
Caitlyn paid the driver the rest of the money and they watched him drive away before positioning themselves in a semi-private spot next to the tourist marketplace. The shops had stayed open late to take advantage of the rush of cruisersheading back to their ships for a late departure.
Removing a burner phone from her purse, she called Shaylee about the boat that was supposed to be waiting to take them and their nonexistent group to St. Lucia.
“Engine trouble,” she said, zipping the burner phone into her purse. “Shit.”
His thought exactly. Soon every police officer on the island—and probably most of Lambert’s private securityteam as well—would be on the hunt. And, eventually, the limo driver would realize what he’d done.
But Kurt wasn’t without resources of his own. “I have an idea.”
