Pirate

  “We’ll simply have to go back.”

  “Let’s lose our tail before we start making plans.”

  The ladder stopped about four feet off the ground. An easy jump for him. At the bottom, he waited for Remi—very much enjoying the view as she climbed down.

  She noticed. “We’re running for our lives and you’re watching me?”

  He grinned as he took her by the waist, helping her to drop the last few feet. “At least I’ll die happy.”

  They stepped from the relative cover of the dumpsters. Remi looked both directions. “Which way?”

  Good question. If Avery’s men just started their search from where they saw the rental car parked, they’d be heading to their left. “Right.”

  At the end of the alley, he poked his head around the corner, then ducked back just as the white SUV turned onto that street. They’d be caught in seconds. On the other side of the alley, he saw several doors, the second one closed only with a screen, undoubtedly to let the breeze flow through the shop. “This way,” Sam said, running across the alley, hoping the screen door wasn’t latched.

  Twenty-three

  Remi followed Sam into the building, the screen door clattering shut behind them. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior as they rushed down a hallway, its dingy white walls covered with a mix of graffiti and scrawled names and cities from past visitors. The beat of reggae music thrummed louder as they emerged into a barroom. Judging from the look of the rough clientele—Jamaica’s equivalent of a biker bar, Remi presumed—it was not the sort of establishment she and Sam tended to frequent. At least eight men and two women eyed them over the tops of their beer bottles. Most wore leather vests over sleeveless black T-shirts, their burly arms covered with tattoos, though some were hard to see against their dark skin. Remi smiled, hoping they weren’t being sized up as an easy mark.

  Sam dug some money from his pocket, slapped it on the bar. “Drinks for the house, Mr . . . ?” He gave a questioning look toward the bartender.

  “Jay-Jay to my friends,” he replied in a melodious accented voice. “That amount of money, my good man, makes you one of them.”

  Sam introduced himself, then extended his hand. The bartender shook it. “My wife will be safe here? I won’t be gone long.”

  “Very safe. You have my word.”

  Sam turned to Remi. “I’m going to see if I can get to our car. Back in a flash.” He walked to the front door, peered out, then left.

  Remi glanced at the bartender, then his customers, who regarded her as they drank, and she told herself that Sam was very good at reading people—he wouldn’t leave her anywhere he didn’t think was safe.

  Even so, she found it hard to sit and wait.

  Alone.

  Jay-Jay smiled at her. “Who are you running from, pretty lady?”

  She swiveled around on the stool and faced him. His long dreadlocks were pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a black T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo on the front. His dark eyes held no malice, and she realized this was probably what Sam had noticed. “A couple of men who apparently think we’re better off dead.”

  “Those would be the white men who came in here earlier asking if we had seen two Americans—one a woman with red hair?”

  That feeling of vulnerability increased, and Remi suddenly wished that women’s head scarves were back in fashion. “They were here?”

  “About twenty minutes ago, but not to worry. As I promised your husband, you will be safe here, pretty lady. What will you have to drink?”

  “Water, please,” she said. Serious alcohol would have to wait.

  He poured her a glass, slid it toward her, then took a rag and started wiping down the bar.

  Remi sipped her drink. But as the seconds ticked past into minutes, her gaze kept returning to the door, hoping Sam would appear. At one point, she walked over, cracked open the door, noticed a number of motorcycles parked out front but no sign of Sam.

  The bartender joined her. “Perhaps you should let me have a look instead. No one will notice a man like me. But you’re a different story.” He stepped out to the sidewalk, wiping his hands on his towel as if merely taking a break from bartending. When he returned inside, he guided her back toward her stool. “Your husband will be here soon. He is good at hiding, but I am better at finding.”

  Less than a minute later, Sam rushed in. He crossed the room toward Remi, somewhat out of breath. “Big problem.”

  Jay-Jay poured Sam a glass of water. “What problem, my friend?”

  He took a drink, nodding toward the door. “Avery’s men . . . Saw their car parking just up the street . . . One walked into the business at the far end.”

  Jay-Jay nodded at the bikers sitting at the tables closest to the bar. They rose from their seats, two moving to the front door, two heading down the hall to the back. “The second time they have been on this street,” he said. “That would worry me.”

  Remi grabbed her purse from the counter beside her. “Should we go out the back?”

  Sam shook his head. “No way to get to our car without being seen.” He looked around the room, eyeing the men and women who remained. “Then again, there actually may be a way . . .” He leaned toward the bartender, disclosing his idea in a voice too low for Remi to hear over the music.

  Twenty-four

  Jay-Jay nodded in agreement as Sam went over the details, asking a few questions in return. At the conclusion, the man gave a deep laugh, saying, “A good plan, my friend. Hide in plain sight. If we can find some volunteers.” His gaze landed on a couple sitting near the jukebox. “Antwan, bring your lady here.”

  The pair walked up to the bar, and Jay-Jay asked, “How would you like to earn free drinks for a week?”

  “For what?” Antwan asked.

  Sam said, “Lend us your gear for a few minutes.”

  An agreement was struck. Antwan and his girlfriend turned over their leather vests and motorcycle helmets, and Jay-Jay slid a set of keys across the counter toward Sam. “You’ll take very good care of my bike.”

  “Like it was my own.”

  “You’re sure you know how to ride?”

  Sam picked up the keys. “Anything happens to it, there’ll be a new one waiting before the day is through.”

  “The old one is fine. It’s the black Harley with the license frame advertising my bar.”

  Sam glanced at Remi’s expensive-looking purse—talk about a beacon announcing their presence. Jay-Jay, however, solved the problem by providing a backpack to hide it in. And just in time, as one of the bikers standing watch at the front door announced that the two men had just emerged from the shop across the street and were eyeing the bar.

  Jay-Jay nodded. “Who wants to ride?”

  Everyone in the room stood, ready to roll.

  “You see?” Jay-Jay told Sam. “My friends are your friends.”

  “One problem,” Sam replied. “These men are armed.”

  “No worries,” Jay-Jay said. “Billy here will make sure you’re well protected.”

  A towering biker stepped forward and lifted both sides of his vest. On the left, Sam saw a handgun in a shoulder holster, and, on the right, a trench knife with a handle that doubled as metal knuckles. Suspecting that Billy wasn’t the only armed man in the room, he was grateful that everyone here had decided he and Remi were the good guys.

  Turning back to the bartender, Sam shook hands with him one last time. “We’ll make it worth everyone’s while.”

  “Which will be very much appreciated. But not necessary. Be safe, my friend.”

  Sam and Remi put on the helmets, Remi tucking her hair beneath. Both lowered their visors before stepping outside, surrounded by the other bikers. They mounted their motorcycles, Remi sitting behind Sam, wrapping her arms around his waist, as he started the Harley, then shifted into ge
ar.

  They took off, engines roaring. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Avery’s men crossing the road toward the bar. One of them looked their direction.

  Suddenly, both men started running down the street.

  So much for that deception. And any advantage they had in getting to their car. They’d have to lose them on the motorcycles—not part of Sam’s plan.

  Unless . . .

  He stopped his bike alongside the white SUV. Billy circled back around and pulled up alongside him, Sam asking, “Mind if I borrow that trench knife?”

  Billy drew it from its sheath, handing it to Sam. As hoped, the two-edged dagger was razor sharp.

  Remi’s grip around his waist tightened. “They’re coming,” she said. “Wouldn’t the gun be better?”

  “Don’t worry.” He leaned down, punched the sidewall of the right front tire, yanked it out, then repeated the process, widening the hole.

  The tire flattened in a whoosh of air.

  “That should buy us some time,” he shouted as he returned the knife to Billy. They took off again.

  Just before they turned the corner, Sam looked back, saw Avery’s men stopping by the SUV, one of them punching the hood in anger.

  He smiled. Finally, something was going their way, and he relaxed, enjoying the short remainder of the ride to the rental car.

  “That was close,” Remi said, waving to the bikers once they were safely in their own car.

  Sam pulled out, angry over the turn of events. “Too close. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing you here.”

  Remi had just started plugging in their route to the hotel and looked up from her phone. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It was foolish to come to lunch when we knew they were out here.”

  “I was just as much to blame. You certainly didn’t see me protesting.”

  “But I know better.”

  “You mean, I don’t?” Remi sighed. “First of all, we had no reason to think they’d be going door-to-door looking for us. It would have been far more expedient and efficient to stake out our car. That’s what we would have done. Second of all, it turned out fine, so quit blaming yourself.”

  She was right about the door-to-door thing. Which made him wonder just how intelligent Avery’s men were—not that it made them any less dangerous. Though this trip was much less eventful, he and Remi kept their gaze glued to the mirrors. No sign of the white SUV or any other car that seemed to be following them. Even so, when they reached the hotel, Sam checked out, drove to a new hotel where they checked in under a different name, then made arrangements to have the rental car returned and a new one sent. No sense giving Avery’s men the advantage of knowing where they were and what car they were driving.

  Settled in their new hotel room, Sam placed his phone on the glass-topped coffee table, turned on the speaker, then relaxed on the couch.

  Selma answered on the first ring. “I was hoping you’d call. I figured you might be at dinner and didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Room service,” Sam said. “We opted for low-key after our attempt to dine out at lunch.”

  “Oh?”

  “Avery’s men are already here. They followed us from the car rental lot. I’m assuming that whatever it is, they haven’t found it yet.”

  “What makes you say that?” Selma asked.

  “It’s the only explanation that fits why they’d waste time coming after us. They’ve had a full day or more to search before we even got here. If they’d found what they needed, they would have left.”

  “Maybe,” Remi said, taking a seat next to Sam, “Avery’s men like to hold a grudge.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Sam leaned back, asking Selma, “What, exactly, are we looking for?”

  “Ship manifests and court records. While we’ve been trying to decipher the code on the map, Pete and Wendy have been searching for information on that ship that went down off Snake Island. As I mentioned before, some of what we deciphered made us suspect it was part of a larger fleet that left from Jamaica. We have it narrowed down even further. I need you to look through the manifests from between 1694 and 1696. If we find out who owned the fleet, we’re that much closer to discovering where to find the original cipher wheel. And if we’re really lucky, it’s right there in Jamaica.”

  “Where is it we’ll find this information?” Sam asked.

  “The Jamaica Archives and Records Department in Kingston. I’ll send you all the pertinent information.”

  “Thanks, Selma. Give our best to everyone at home.”

  He disconnected, then held up his wineglass. “Here’s to a productive search come morning.”

  Remi touched the rim of her glass to his. “At least it’s a public building. There’s bound to be all sorts of security.”

  Lightning flashed just outside, lighting up the balcony in stark relief. Within seconds, thunder rumbled overhead, as the center of the storm raged above them.

  “A warning or an omen?” Remi asked.

  Twenty-five

  Charles Avery’s attorney, Winton Page, sat across from him, sliding documents over for his review, as the man detailed the figures on each. The hour was late, but Charles had been tied up all day and this was the first opportunity they’d had to meet. He wanted this divorce over and done with. “What’s the bottom line?”

  “Bottom line,” Winton said. “You’re better off paying your wife what she wants. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.”

  “I’ll be damned if I give her a penny of anything she’s asking for. I built this empire from the ground up. All she did was spend the money I made.”

  “And she bore two of your children.”

  “Who followed in her footsteps. Spoiled, predatory brats.”

  “Which is what wills are for. Your wife is the more immediate problem.”

  Problem was right. If there was some way he could do away with her and not bring any attention to himself, he would have done it by now. That was certainly an option down the line. For now, her nosing around his banking was the more pressing threat. “What about this forensic accountant she says she hired?”

  “It’s one of those ‘It depends’ answers. If your wife somehow gained access to records you weren’t aware of, the possibility exists they might discover some of your hidden assets. In other words, it’s a gamble.”

  One he was willing to make. He’d been careful over the years, and while he knew Alexandra was aware he’d been hiding assets, she didn’t know the half of it. In fact, she might not have even been aware of any recent activity had it not been for the Fargos’ untimely arrival in the middle of his search for the map. Their interference had caused him to make several rash decisions that led to a sudden shortage of liquid assets—hence the need to dig into his wife’s accounts.

  He glanced at the clock, wondering why it was that Fisk had failed to call with an update on their Jamaica search. The information that was supposed to lead to the cipher wheel. He should have heard something by now, and so as Winton droned on about the legalities of what he was doing, his gaze kept turning to the phone.

  Finally, it lit up. He grabbed the receiver, his secretary saying, “Your wife—”

  The office door burst open. “—is here,” Alexandra said. “I don’t know why she bothers with the announcements. As if I need permission to walk into a building in which I’m half owner.”

  “Half owner, my—”

  “Tsk, tsk, dear. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.” She opened her purse, pulled out an envelope, then tossed the handbag on the couch. “Winton,” she said, walking up to him. “So good to see you diligently on the job. You did get the subpoena for the accounting records?”

  “What subpoena?”

  “Oh, silly me. This one.” She waved the envelope at him, then handed it over. “Of course, th
is is just a copy. I’m sure the process server will turn over the original. I’m just trying to be a good sport by giving you a heads-up.”

  He opened it, then slid it across the desk toward Charles, who merely glanced at the document, not wanting to give Alexandra the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. “Is this becoming a nightly ritual of yours? Coming to my office to goad me? Or is your social calendar suddenly empty?”

  “On the contrary, it’s actually fuller than ever, now that news of the divorce is out.” She put both hands on the desk and leaned in toward him, her smile icy. “Had I realized how much you hindered my social standing, I might have filed much earlier.”

  “A shame you didn’t.”

  She looked down at the papers on his desk, and he immediately turned them over so that she couldn’t read them. Instead, her gaze landed on the yellow scratch pad covered with notes, phone numbers, and figures from various phone calls he’d taken throughout the day. She reached over, turning it her direction. “Fargo?” she said, reading the name circled and underlined on the pad. “A new business acquisition in North Dakota? Something I should let my lawyer know about?”

  He pulled the pad away from her and turned it upside down as well. “You’ve served your subpoena, now go.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t here to serve that. It’s not legal if I do it. I just wanted to let you know that my lawyer’s asked for the accounts to be frozen. In case you’re wondering why your ATM card suddenly stops working.” This time, her smile positively dripped acid. She patted the notepad he still held, then turned and walked to the couch to retrieve her purse. “Do take care, Charles. Winton, always so good to see you.”

  Charles, his teeth clenched, waited until the door shut after her. “Do you see what I’ve had to put up with all these years?”

  “She’s only trying to goad you on.”

  “Well, it’s working.” He got up, poured himself a drink, finally relaxing enough to think about what she said. “Can she do that? Freeze my money?”