DEVON STOOD at a pay phone outside The Golden Palms Motel near Miami International Airport. She was trying her brother-in-law’s cell phone for the third time.
“He still isn’t answering,” she told Chad.
“At least you know Tina’s been upgraded from critical to stable.”
They’d called the hospital from the airport and had learned Tina’s condition had improved slightly. With the new privacy laws, that’s all the hospital could tell them.
“I think I should go over to the hospital now.”
Chad put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “We agreed to take every precaution. You need to be disguised.”
“And we should have guns.”
“I told you. I know where to buy weapons.”
After they’d landed, they had taken a taxi to Rent-A-Wreck, a car rental agency that offered nothing but ugly, battered cars. Chad had insisted they wouldn’t be easy to spot in a car like their dented white Acura. They’d driven to a pink motel that rented rooms by the hour. Devon wasn’t sure why it was called The Golden Palms. The only palm she’d seen was a fake one not more than two feet high in a pot just outside the registration office.
“Let’s go,” Chad said. “If we hurry, we can find two guns and buy clothes to disguise you. We should be able to see your sister after dark. That’ll be perfect. If someone’s watching the hospital, we should be able to slip by them.”
“You really think this is a trap.” Devon didn’t want to believe it was true, yet she was well aware two people had already died. Rutherford and Ames wouldn’t hesitate to hurt Tina to get to her.
“It pays to be cautious,” Chad replied.
They piled into the dented Acura and drove to nearby Little Havana. She’d been there once years ago, when she’d visited her sister.
They parked on Calle Ocho, the main drag. Shops and cafés the size of pigeon holes lined the street where the signs were all in Spanish. The scent of café cubano, the strongest espresso she’d ever tasted, drifted out from the cafés and mingled with the rich smell of illegal Cuban cigars.
Salsa music pulsed from the shops and boom boxes sitting on the curbs. Nearby old men played dominos and chatted on the sidewalks, still reminiscing about the “good old days” in Cuba though they had been in Miami for almost fifty years.
“Stay here,” Chad told her. “Lock the doors.”
“No way. I’m coming with you.”
He slanted her a look that said he was going to argue, but he didn’t. She still couldn’t tell if he truly believed her story or was merely going along to see what would happen. He was taking precautions, though. His actions told her that he cared, but she wished he would say something.
“Okay, but put on your shades and let me handle this.”
She slipped on her sunglasses and stepped out of the car. Blistering heat shimmered off the sidewalk in waves. Hawaii was humid, but the trades made it pleasant. The heat here sapped all of her energy before she’d taken a few steps.
“How do you know where you’re going?” she asked.
“I don’t, but drug addicts have to support their habits. You deal or you steal. What you steal you’ve got to sell.”
“Exactly. That’s how I bought my Sig Saur. I went up a back alley in Chinatown. I could have bought a number of guns, including an AKC.” She couldn’t help being proud of herself. It had taken courage to walk down that dank alley and negotiate for a weapon.
He put his strong arm around her and pulled Devon flush against his side. “Christ! I hate thinking of you wandering around in a place like that.”
“Get over it. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to survive.”
“I know, babe. I know.”
They walked down the one-way street until they were on the perimeter of Little Havana. Many of the shops here were boarded up. Others were illuminated by a single bulb at the end of a cord suspended from the ceiling.
“Land of santeros,” Chad commented, referring to Cuban priests who practiced the same folk religion they had in Havana.
“I thought you hadn’t spent much time in Miami.”
“I’ve just passed through. My work was in the field, but we learned about the santeria in Delta Force. The Cubans have become a presence in Florida. It pays to know their traditions.”
“My sister says it’s legal for them to sacrifice a chicken.” She wasn’t particularly fond of chickens, but she couldn’t imagine “sacrificing” any animal.
“Animal rights activists took them to the Supreme Court. They ruled it was part of their religion, like the Native Americans who are allowed to smoke peyote as part of their services.”
Chad steered her around a corner and down a side street barely wide enough for a compact car. A few young punks clustered together, their dark eyes blazing—attitude with a capital A. Marielitos, she thought, recalling what Tina had told her. The first wave of Cuban refugees had been intellectuals, and many had gone on to great success in Miami.
The Mariel boat lift had given Castro the opportunity to empty out his prisons. The marielitos hadn’t given up a life of crime just because they were now in the land of opportunity. Too many had honed their skills and passed them on to the next generation.
One gang member was bopping around in a circle, dancing to a beat only he could hear. The others leaned against the filthy wall, watching them. Chad strode forward, and Devon kept pace with him, thankful she had on the dark-haired wig. This was no place for a blonde.
Chad reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. Devon instantly saw the narrowed eyes, the shifting glances. They’re going to jump him, she realized.
“I need a gun. Make that two guns.”
“Well, bro.” One punk swaggered forward, his English tinged with a Cuban accent. “Lemme help.” He reached out for the money.
Chad pulled it back. “Let’s see what you have.”
A flash of his dark eyes forewarned Devon. He whipped out a switchblade and it flipped open, its razor-sharp blade catching a beam of sunlight. Chad shoved her out of the way, and she stumbled sideward, aware of the other men inching forward.
The punk lunged and Chad kicked so fast Devon almost didn’t see his foot leave the ground. Chad’s knee shot up between the man’s thighs. The young tough doubled over, his body convulsing as if he’d been zapped with a jolt of electricity. Chad grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. The bone snapped, the sound not so much a crack as a gristly crunch. An agonized moan bounced off the nearby wall.
The knife fell to the asphalt with a clink that echoed along the narrow street. Chad bent over, plucked it off the ground. He jerked the punk to his feet and held the knife to his jugular. Chad’s face contorted with an emotion too deep to be mere anger. “Ready to die?”
The kid clutched his balls with his good hand. “Dios, mio. Dios mio.” My God. My God.
“I take that as a no,” Chad said and the kid nodded, tears funneling down his cheeks.
Chad released him with a snort of disgust. The punk crumpled to the pavement, one hand flapping like a rag doll’s while the other cradled his crotch.
Chad held the switchblade outward to the men who were now huddled in a pack. “Are we going to do business or fight?”
“Whatcha’ lookin for?” one of them asked.
“Sig Saur 225. Two of them.”
Devon knew this wasn’t the easiest gun to locate. Punks like this worshipped firepower. The 225 didn’t hold as many rounds as they preferred, but the weapon was easy to conceal. Just right for Devon and Chad’s purposes.
“Gimme five,” the punk said. “I’ll be back.”
“We’ll be down the street at El Diablo café,” Chad said. “There’s an extra fifty in it if you get the guns to me in half an hour.”
Chad snapped his fingers at Devon as if she were his dog, but she didn’t take offense. These men were into major macho stuff. They were afraid of Chad now, and he had to keep up the image.
When they were back on Calle Ocho, she asked, “Did you encourage that guy to fight with you on purpose?”
“You bet. It’s law of the jungle. Go for the jugular. Show them who’s strongest. If I hadn’t, they would have jumped me and stolen my money.”
“How could you be sure one of them wouldn’t pull a gun and shoot you?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t but they’re addicts interested in little more than their next fix.”
Devon walked beside him and thought how lucky she’d been in Chinatown. The two junkies she’d approached had been so strung-out that they hadn’t been capable of overpowering her and stealing what little money she’d had. For ten bucks, they’d directed her down the alley to a Chinese herb shop. The owner took the stolen guns, gave them money to buy drugs and resold the weapons for higher prices.
They turned into El Diablo, a sidewalk café Devon hadn’t really noticed when they’d walked by the first time. A waitress built like a tombstone ambled out. “Que?” What?
“Dos medianoches y dos Coronas,” Chad ordered in Spanish.
“You speak Spanish?” Devon asked.
He nodded. “It’s very helpful if you spend much time in Special Forces.”
She realized there was a great deal about him she didn’t know. “How much time have you spent in Southern Florida?”
“Not a lot, but I was in the Everglades quite a bit doing some testing for the military.”
Interesting, she thought, but she could tell by his closed expression that he wasn’t going to discuss it further.
“Okay, so what did you order?”
“Medianoches. Ham and cheese sandwiches with pickles sliced lengthwise. I understand they were popular in Havana when people would stay out all night dancing at clubs. At dawn they would eat medianoches and go home.”
The waitress delivered the sandwiches. Devon sampled one and found she liked it—she hadn’t realized how little she’d eaten on the airplane. She’d been nervous about telling Chad the truth and so worried about her sister that she hadn’t been able to eat.
“Your appetite is back,” Chad commented. “Good. You’ll need your strength if this goes south on us.”
“I hope—”
The young punk who offered to get them guns rushed up, a backpack slung over one shoulder. “Check dis, dude.”
Chad scooted their plates aside, and the kid put five Sig Saurs on the small table. He made no effort to hide what he was doing from the café or the street. Out of habit, Devon glanced around. There weren’t any police in sight. She hadn’t seen a single patrol car since entering Little Havana.
“I’m going to try Steve again,” she said, standing.
She left Chad carefully examining the guns and went to the pay phone on the side of the café. Steve startled her by answering on the second ring.
“It’s me, Devon.”
“What do you want?” Steve sounded more exhausted, more irritable than he had the first time they’d spoken.
“I understand Tina’s a little better.”
“A bit. She has a long way to go.”
“I need to see her.”
“She’s in ICU. One visitor at a time. I have to be with her.”
“Couldn’t you spare me a few minutes to see my sister?”
“It won’t do any good. She’s not conscious. You’ll just be wasting your time.”
“I’ve come a long way…risked a lot.”
The long silence nearly split her eardrum.
“All right. Two minutes. That’s all.”
“This evening.”
“I’ll be here.” Steven clicked off without another word.
“We’re good to go,” Chad told her when she returned to the table. “Two Sig Saurs and two extra clips each—just in case.”
BROCK TRUDGED UP to Kilmer Cassidy’s office. He’d returned to his bunker under Obelisk this morning after a late night flight from St. Louis. The show had been a hit, if you judged by crowds, but Brock had been angry and frustrated the whole time. Jordan had cozied up to Trensen, but she hadn’t bothered to return his calls.
Why not? Had something bad happened in the Delano he didn’t remember?
Nagged by that thought, he opened the door to Cassidy’s office. The knock-out blonde who’d been hired as Cassidy’s “secretary” greeted him with a perfunctory half smile and told him to go into Cassidy’s office.
“What’s the status on the Robbins woman?” Cassidy asked the second Brock came through the door.
“The trap’s sprung,” Brock assured him while he mentally took inventory of the office. He’d do some major redecorating when he moved in.
“Make it fast,” Cassidy snapped. “I’ve gotten word they’re about to set a trial date.”
Brock battled the urge to tell the arrogant cocksucker that he’d known this for more than a week. “We’ll have the bitch soon.”
“I want to know the minute you do.”
Brock waited for Cassidy to ask another question or bark an order, but the prick just glared at him. Cassidy’s silence unnerved Brock. The sonofabitch always had so much to say. Brock thought about the missing file, and his inability to come up with any information on Olofson’s computer. He had a hunch he was losing their trust. He shouldn’t feel pressured. This was their fault for not listening when he gave them the heads-up on Samantha Robbins.
But Brock did feel pressure. The only way to get their trust back was obvious.
“Don’t worry. Give me twenty-four hours. Then the Robbins bitch will wish she were dead.”
“YOU’RE SURE I CAN PASS for a teenage boy?” Devon asked Chad.
“Absolutely.”
After they had purchased the guns, they’d gone to Ekhard’s and bought extra wide bandage tape and a Marlins baseball cap. Then they’d visited the mall and purchased tennis shoes that cost more than the average family made in a week. Baggy gangsta style jeans and an X RULES T-shirt completed the outfit.
Chad had clipped her dark, curly-haired wig short. With the baseball cap on backward and her breasts taped flat, Devon could pass for a boy, but she needed to keep on her dark glasses to disguise the feminine rise of her cheeks and her long eyelashes.
Chad had altered his appearance, too. He’d added pounds around the middle, hips and legs with a layer of insulation they’d found at a construction site. He, too, wore baggy pants and a Marlins T-shirt. He’d wrapped his head in a rank green do-rag that was now more brown than green. He walked hunkered over slightly, as if his weight and the backpack he had slung over his shoulder slowed him down.
The backpack held the contents of his duffel, a strange-looking flashlight, GPS and other things she hadn’t recognized when he’d repacked the duffel before checking out of the fleabag motel. They were parked in the visitors’ lot outside Miami-Dade Memorial Hospital.
“Remember about your gun,” Chad said.
“Right.”
They’d already agreed to double-check to see if the hospital was screening for weapons. If they weren’t, they planned to keep them concealed in the pockets of their baggy jeans like gang members did. If the hospital had a metal detector, they would have to leave the guns in the trunk of the Rent-A-Wreck.
“All set?” Chad asked.
Devon nodded and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
“I’ll check out the lobby for the metal detector and anyone who might be waiting for you. Then I’m going up to look around ICU. Give me ten minutes exactly. If I don’t come back to get you, revert to Plan B.”
Plan B. She would drive north to Atlanta and board a plane for Honolulu there. If the hospital was being watched, Rutherford and Ames might have the Miami Airport under surveillance.
He trailed his index finger up the curve of her throat, barely making contact, his eyes never leaving hers. With the breathtaking sweetness of a lover’s kiss, his mouth met hers. She moved into his arms.
Please, she longed to say. Don’t let me go. Love me the way I love you.
He pulled back and his eyes roved over her face in silent appraisal. “No heroics, Devon. Time it. If I’m not back in exactly ten minutes, get out of here.”