“We can’t do this,” Declan says.
We’re standing in his bathroom, shoulder to shoulder facing the Prisoner who sits on the toilet. The space is small, the tub to Declan’s right, a towel rod to my left. Blue stands right outside the open door, his mouth still stained.
Prisoner cradles his mangled forearm, blood welling from the punctures like tar bubbling from the earth, the lacerations forming rivers between them. Pulling one of the scratchy white towels off the rack, I hand it to him. Prisoner presses it to his injuries. The stab wounds on his back trail blood down the side of the toilet—a macabre Duchamp Fountain.
“Oh, I’m doing it,” I tell Declan.
“There is no way he’s acting alone,” Declan says. “They know we’re here. We don’t have time.”
“Oh.” I thought he was trying to stop me from brutalizing our captive.
Prisoner does not look scared. His dark eyes meet mine and there is a deadness there that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Blue’s hackles have not gone down since he first smelled this guy.
Declan had helped me search Prisoner. We found one weapon: a garrote. He didn’t expect a fight. He expected to sneak up on his victim and strangle him from behind. I’m assuming Declan was his intended victim since Peter said the assassin wasn’t here for me. And anyone assigned to end me would know about Blue. You can’t garrote a dog and a woman at the same time no matter how expert your strangulation skills.
I grab Declan’s gun from the back of his waistband and pistol whip the asshole. His head lolls.
“What the fuck!” Declan shouts.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Oh, sure, because the blood splattered all over the steps and path won’t bring all the cops to the yard.”
“Did you just reference that milkshake song?” Declan looks at me like I’m nuts. “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.” I sing the chorus.
“We need to go,” Declan says.
“You totally did.”
Declan shakes his head and leaves the bathroom without a word. “I’m not too worried about the cops,” I call after him. “I saw what I’m pretty sure is their best and brightest on the way over here, and I think we can handle them.”
I glance back at the slumped man—he’s leaning against the wall, shoulders rolled forward, blood dripping onto the tile floor in a steady staccato. I pull out my phone and take a photo of his slack face, texting it to Rebecca with a note asking for information.
Declan returns with a roll of duct tape in his hand.
“You travel with duct tape?”
“You pistol whip captives. We all have our methodologies.”
I laugh, liking this version of Declan Doyle.
Fifteen minutes later we heft the unconscious, duct-taped man—me at his bound feet, Declan carrying him by the shoulders. Declan navigates through the hotel room and I follow; Blue’s nose swipes my hip. He’s excited by this turn of events. It’s not every day we carry unconscious people around.
“We send Blue out first?” Declan confirms the plan.
“Yes, he will let us know if the path is clear. And scare away anyone who might think about getting in our way.”
“Great plan,” Declan says, his tone sarcastic.
“You’re the one who brought the duct tape.”
“It’s useful,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s not wrong. Not only have we trussed up Prisoner—binding his ankles and wrists, then winding tape around his biceps so his arms stay tight to his sides—we also taped up his injuries so he will most likely survive transport to my little Jimney. He’s likely to even survive the drive to the helicopter. But he’s not likely to survive being tossed out at 10,000 feet.
Declan doesn’t know that part of the plan. I told him I had a secluded place we could take him. Declan, the sweet man, thinks he’s coming with us. He thinks we are doing this together—that we are going to act out a buddy movie. But I’m not going to make Declan a party to this party. He does not have the stomach for what I’m planning.
Declan opens the hotel room door and Blue slinks out. I cleaned most of the blood off his face though there is still a rusty stain around his mouth.
I cleaned myself up too and borrowed a pair of Declan’s shorts and a T-shirt. I’m swimming in them, but duct tape around the waistband is keeping the shorts from falling off and I knotted the shirt so that it no longer could be used as a parachute. But I’m not the one who is going to need one.
“What’s that evil grin on your face?” Declan asks. He’s looking back at me, Prisoner’s shoulders supported evenly between his hands.
“Nothing.” I shake my head and shrug. His eyes narrow but before he can ask any more questions Blue’s sharp bark reaches us. “All clear,” I say, pushing Prisoner’s feet so that Declan is forced to move.
He kicks the door open wide, muttering something I can’t hear under his breath. I school my expression. Being amused by Declan’s consternation and my plans to toss this fucker out of a helicopter doesn’t need to be all over my face.
I pull the door closed behind us and we turn to the left, headed for the less used staircase. The spatter of blood on the tile has smeared. People stepped in it and didn’t even notice. No one expects a blood trail while on a beach vacation, so no one sees it.
I cleaned off my knives and they are back in their holsters along with the petite pistol—the wide legs of Declan’s shorts would allow me to still get to them easily enough. My lipstick taser is still cradled between my breasts, the thin black straps of my sports bra exposed as the oversized shirt slips off my right shoulder.
The cloistered back staircase feels even hotter and closer when carrying a limp, bound body. The blood here is totally undisturbed except for our own footprints. It’s dried into streaks and thick drops. A good forensics investigation could find a lot of evidence but they’d have to get here fast. A wind forces its way between the thick vegetation and the roll of thunder shudders through the air.
Blue leads the way down the spiral staircase, turning toward the parking lot at the bottom. Declan and I wait in the shaded path, standing in the blood of our prisoner. Blue lets out another sharp bark. We move quickly toward the lot.
My Jimney is parked under a tree on the far side of the lot near the exit. It’s a small black SUV with big tires and rust fringing the bumper and chassis. The windshield has a cracked line at the top that runs parallel with the roof. A winch with a hook is mounted on the front bumper…just in case. The roads around here can be brutal.
We cross the exposed sandy parking lot at a jog, the weight of Prisoner bouncing between us. It would be impossible to explain this situation to any bystanders. Declan stops six feet from the Jimney, and I pivot around him to get to the passenger door. Cradling the unconscious man’s feet with my left forearm, I fish around in my right pocket for the key.
Unlocking and opening the door, I rest Prisoner’s feet onto the passenger seat. Rain starts to pitter patter, cooling my heated skin and helping wipe away evidence. It’s also going to drive people off the beach. We need to get this body hidden now.
I pull the lever to pop the front seat, allowing access to the small seating area in the back. Picking up Prisoner’s feet again, I shift them into the back. Declan pushes and I heft the feet further in. Sweat beads on my forehead..
We thread him about halfway in, his body bent at the waist, my angle totally blocked. I jog around to the other side and open the door, popping the driver’s seat and climbing half in the back. I pull Prisoner forward while Declan pushes.
The would-be assassin is too long for the back seat—his feet come out my door and Declan is still supporting his head outside. Declan angles his body up. I reach across Prisoner’s body and grab his sleeve, holding him up, my body half in the vehicle, butt sticking out. Declan lets go and steps back quickly, pushing the passenger seat back into place so I can rest Prisoner’s head against it.
Blue growls. Oh shit, we are about to have some company. I fold Prisoner’s knees, so he’s pretzeled against the back of the front seat, legs bent. I step back, his feet slide after me. Shit.
I get the driver’s seat halfway back into position, then push his feet in again and slam it quickly. Ha! Got it. Blue barks a warning.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with my giant sleeve and look up to see Red and Freckles crossing the parking lot. Red looks pissed and satisfied. As if her assumptions about Declan are all coming out to be oh-so-fucking-right. Loading a drunk friend into the back of a car in the middle of the day—pure scoundrel behavior. Freckles follows, wide eyes wandering over Declan’s tight black shirt. His effect on women really is kind of fascinating—love and hate are such close companions.
Declan has already moved away from the Jimney, arms up in the international sign of don’t shoot. I circle the front of the little SUV, headed for the passenger side. Opening the door, I call Blue over. He turns away from the approaching women and leaps in. His head brushes the ceiling, leaving a stripe of white fur behind.
“Ladies,” Declan says brightly. The rain is still just an insistent drizzle—almost like the thick humidity decided to manifest rather than an actual storm. Dark clouds swirl behind the hotel, though, piling up on themselves, cannibalizing the sky. The sound of the ocean grows, the waves getting rougher, urged on by the storm spiraling closer. Thunder rumbles across the parking lot, sucking up all the sound so that all anyone can hear is its deep grumbled warning.
I round the front of the little SUV again, pulling the key from my deep pocket. “What are you doing?” Red asks, going full school hall monitor on Declan’s ass. I grin at her and wish I could wink. But all I’ve got is a double eyebrow raise and a head nod—all meant to say, you get him, girl.
I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine. It’s got a nice little roar for such a tiny thing. Declan looks over his shoulder and frowns at me. I shrug an apology and put the vehicle into gear. It jerks forward—the transmission is a little sticky—and Declan has to do a quick jump to the side so my rusty bumper doesn’t clip him.
Red is standing close and Declan, knight in shining armor that he is, blocks her body with his as if I’m going to run down the hall monitor who distracted Declan the moment I needed him distracted. Red is playing for my team and doesn’t even know it.
Blue’s tongue lolls out of his mouth as I turn out of the parking lot. Thunder rumbles again and the rain picks up its pace on a gust of wind that makes the palm trees sway, as if they are waving me an enthusiastic goodbye. In my rearview mirror Declan stands with his hands on his hips, hair rain-slicked to his head, shirt clinging to his sculpted chest, looking even more pissed off than the storm at his back. I give him an enthusiastic wave.