“Yes.”She lowered her voice. “I have cash. U.S.”
His expression changed to one of guarded interest. “How much?” He eyed her bag and she tightened her grip.
“How much do you want?”
He bit his lower lip and called to his boss, waving the older man over. They exchanged words in the local creole, which had more of a French influence than Bajan, so she only understood a few words.
The kid turned backto Caitlyn. “One thousand.”
Jesus. Kurt had come prepared, but she didn’t know if she should use up the majority of his cash on this. Then again, without inconspicuous transportation, they had nothing.
“I can give you eight hundred,” she said.
The boy looked at the shiny bike for a minute. “Okay.”
Thank God. Hopefully the scooter ran as well as it looked.
He unlocked the seat and liftedit to reveal a storage space with an additional helmet. He removed a couple of personal items, stuffing them into the pockets of his cargo shorts, and then handed her the keys.
The older man, his curly dark hair infused with gray, watched carefully as she withdrew money from her bag shielding it from view of any onlookers.
She counted out the money and discreetly handed it over. “You’ve cleanedus out,” she said. These guys seemed nice and honest, but there was no need to advertise that she still had hundreds of dollars left. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
“Bring it back when you’re done, maybe I’ll buy it back from you for a discount.” He grinned.
She chuckled. “I’ll think about it.”
She waved at Kurt, and he joined her as the men went back to loading the van with trinketsand souvenirs from their stall.
“Nicely done,” Kurt said. “Let’s hope this thing runs.”
“And has gas,” she said, stuffing her bag into the storage space under the padded seat. “Nothing’s open right now.”
Since she had a better idea where they were going, and was used to driving on the left, Caitlyn took the front and Kurt settled behind her, one muscled arm looped around her waist. Despitehis loose hold, the contact made it hard to breathe.
Within minutes they were speeding—well, not exactly speeding, since the little bike couldn’t top fifty-five kilometers per hour—away from the port toward Brandon Marlowe’s oceanfront home.
As the crow flies, he only lived about three miles from Lambert, and it was unnerving to head back toward that evil man’s home. But if they did find a wayto raid his place, being so close would give them an advantage.
Plus, she doubted Lambert or the local law enforcement would expect her and Kurt to stick around the island, let alone be within a five-mile radius of the scene of the crime.
Her mind faltered at the memory of Glenn lying on the floor, his blood draining from his body and splattered across her green dress. The rain had washed herand her clothes clean, but she could almost feel the blood on her skin, as if it would permanently stain. Was it because she had known him personally? No matter how much she had disliked him, and no matter how despicable he was, she couldn’t seem to get over the fact that she was responsible for that kind of damage.
Yes, he’d lunged at her with a knife. Every cop, and anyone who’d studied hand-to-handcombat, knew a knife could be just as deadly as a handgun, maybe more so. Rationally, she knew she had done what she had to do, but it was little comfort.
How did men like Scott Kramer—one of Steele’s snipers—look through the scope of his rifle, stare his target right in the face, and press the trigger? Then again, how did any of these guys kill when necessary?
She wasn’t innocent. She knewthat. And yet, still, she was struck with the difference between shooting at a nameless, faceless attacker, and the up-close and personal fight with Glenn. It should matter to her just as much that she may have taken lives from afar, but as much she didn’t want it to, being face-to-face made a difference.
With a sigh, she jettisoned her unproductive thoughts. She’d made a wrong turn and hit adead end, and she couldn’t use their phones for GPS. Before getting on the scooter, they’d both tossed their phones to avoid tracking and surveillance. Once they’d used the burners to call known associates—Kurt to secure Brandon’s house for their use and provide Tara with an update, and Caitlyn to give Shaylee the bad news about Rose and ask her neighbor, Jade, to take care of Rockley—the deviceshad become a liability.
So, now she had to wing it.
Having landed on Marlowe’s runway in the past helped with the general location, but she didn’t know the exact turn-by-turn directions on the ground.
Backtracking, she made a few more wrong turns before finally pulling into the driveway on the north side of the actor’s house. His home sat at the end of a quiet street, less than a hundred yardsfrom the beach.
Waves made shushing sounds against the shore, and bugs and frogs croaked into the night. The two-story home was modest by Hollywood standards, but fairly large for St. Isidore, probably about three thousand square feet on two levels. The exterior was lit like the Lincoln Memorial, showing off its white stucco walls and dark green shutters, all the windows lined up in a classiccolonial style.
