by RC Boldt
“Now, here’s the plan…”
Chapter 9
Rudy and I take the old Honda Civic stashed in his garage back in Fort Pierce and drive all the way to Port Isabel, Texas. From there, he has a boat waiting for us, and we navigate our way to Costa Rica.
After docking in Playa Cocles, he turns to face me. Wearing a deep crease between his brows, his eyes are shaded by his sunglasses, but I know if he’d bare them, I’d see the remorse that bleeds through in his voice. “Unfortunately, this is where we part ways.”
He seems to hesitate before outstretching his arms. “No pressure, but if you’re cool with a hug goodbye, I—”
I launch myself at him and wince at meeting nothing but the hard muscle of his torso.
A small chuckle rumbles in his chest as he closes his arms around me, and I know deep down to the marrow of my bones that if he felt me go rigid, he’d release me in an instant.
“It’s a habit of mine to show affection, especially when you don’t know what the future might bring.”
Something has me leaning back, and he releases me from his embrace. Regret intermixes with sadness in his expression.
His mouth twists in a subdued smile, and he backs away a step. “I just lied to you, though.”
Pure panic ignites inside me. Oh my god, no. Please tell me he didn’t lead me into a trap…
“’Cause I know what the future will bring.” He points an index finger at me, and a fierce expression descends on his face. “You’re gonna rain down on those motherfuckers one day. And I hope like hell I’ll be around to see it.”
With a small grin laced with sadness and affection, he tips his head toward the dock. “Now get outta here, little lady.”
I memorize him—what he looks like at this moment so I can recall it in years to come. This is a man—a true man. One who doesn’t have to use other means to prove his worth or strength.
One who’s honorable and will go above and beyond for a stranger he’s never met.
Rudy’s rare like a unicorn. I’m not only thankful for his help but also for him showing me that maybe, just maybe, there are still some good men left in this world.
Without another word, I scramble out of the boat, already dressed accordingly for the much warmer climate.
Backpack strapped securely over my shoulders, I locate the bicycle waiting at the end of the dock and leave my rescuer behind.
Chapter 10
Pedaling along the bumpy road on my way to the destination, I replay Rudy’s words, and they act as a mantra.
“You’re gonna rain down on those motherfuckers one day.”
Rudy helped me with more than just escaping. He planted the seed for what will fuel me, and it’s quickly bloomed into a thirst for vengeance.
A goal.
A mission.
I’m thankful the wind isn’t too fierce since I’ve had to keep my hair tied up and hidden beneath the trucker hat Rudy gave me. It’s aggravating but necessary. Meandering along in my simple flip-flops, loose-fitted cotton shorts, and a Billabong T-shirt, I fit in with the surfer population.
He’d had me memorize the directions to where I’m supposed to seek out a person by the name of Kat.
Take Los Continentes east until you see the large grove of mango trees on your right. Just past those will be an unnamed dirt road on your left. Go down that road. At the end of it, you’ll see the place.
Ask for Kat. Tell her Javoris sent you.
My nerves are getting the best of me because I swear I sense someone watching me as I walk the bike along the rough terrain. The weight of their eyes has my backpack feeling like it’s far heavier and more taxing to carry than it actually is.
A good-sized greenhouse sits off to the left of the two single-story homes ahead of me. The sound of the ocean waves drifts past, and peering past the two homes, I catch sight of the water lapping at the shoreline.
A wooden sign on a large thick post boasts the name “La Buena Vida.” The Good Life. A tiny derisive sound escapes my lips because I’d give anything for a halfway decent one, let alone a legitimate good life.
“Sorry, but we don’t have any vacancies,” a male voice calls out so suddenly, I stumble and scrape my shin on one of the bike pedals.
Turning in the direction of the voice, I spot a tall, older man I’d estimate to be in his late sixties or so. He stands beneath one of the covered walkways linking the two homes.
With white-blond hair cut short on his head and a neatly trimmed goatee in the same color, a plain white T-shirt encases his broad chest, and board shorts sit low on his narrow hips.
His feet remain bare, and though his attire and lean body scream surfer dude, he exudes a dangerous air. No doubt about it, this man possesses a definite Don’t fuck with me vibe that contrasts greatly with his overall appearance.
“I’m looking for Kat?” My statement comes out as more of a question, my tone tentative. Clearing my throat, I force confidence in my words even as I suppress tremors of fear trickling down my spine. “Javoris sent me.”
The sound of a screen door squeaking open draws my attention away from the imposing man. A woman with long golden-brown hair streaked with silvery gray strides around the corner. She slows when she sees me, suspicion and wariness etching her pretty features.
She eyes me from head to toe, her gaze scrutinizing. “No surfboard, and your skin looks like you haven’t seen steady sunlight.” Her gaze skims over me again before she mutters so softly I almost don’t catch her words. “This one’ll be tough.”
“I’m looking for Kat,” I repeat more firmly. “Javoris sent me.” I shift nervously on my feet and glance around. Did I somehow mess up Rudy’s instructions? Shit. If I did, this could be really bad.
Terror churns within me because if they recognize me, it’s all over. I offer a polite smile, my words rushed. “I’m sorry. I must’ve gotten my directions wrong. I’ll get out of your hair.”
Plan B isn’t what I had in mind, but it’ll have to do for now.
Before I can swivel around and haul ass away from them, her voice stops me, and the steely undertone is unmistakable. “What’s Javoris’ son’s name?”
Is this some sort of test? “Um, he doesn’t have one. Not a human one, at least. He named his puppy Grim.”
She stares at me for a long moment before turning to the man at her side. They appear to have a silent conversation before she returns her attention to me. “I’m Kat.” Before I can manage to utter a response, she rushes on. “Do you have any electronics on you?”
“No, none.”
“Unpack your backpack up here. I can’t let you inside until I inspect everything.”
Her no-nonsense tone spurs me into action, and I flip the kickstand out on the bike. Sliding my backpack off my shoulders, I hesitantly approach where they stand and set it on the wooden-planked walkway. Unzipping it, I pull out all the contents and set them down.
Spare underwear and a sports bra and a pair of shorts.
The fireproof zippered envelope.
My own thick manila envelope with my coded notes for withdrawing money from the accounts I’d opened.
The boots I’d worn the night I escaped, along with a pair of socks and the beanie.
The fake ID, passport, and gun Rudy had given me.
A travel toothbrush and toothpaste, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a hairbrush, and a hair tie.
I watch Kat rifle through my belongings, scattering them along the wooden deck as if she’s an archeologist cataloging her finds. She immediately hands the gun to the man beside her.
He eyes me like he’s considering stringing me up by my entrails if I so much as breathe the wrong way. “You know how to handle this?” A trace of challenge laces his words.
“Safety off, aim, and empty the clip?” I wince at how unsure I sound, and his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t respond.
Averting my gaze to where Kat rifles through my belongings, I’m bombarded by the fact that these items now scatt
ered about are the only possessions I have.
I left behind an enormous house, a bedroom closet filled with expensive clothing, private tutors, and catered meals, and now…this is it. This is all I have left.
It hits me just how very alone I am. Even with James, Javoris, and Rudy’s help, this isn’t their fight. This is mine and mine alone. And although I did my best to plan as methodically as possible, nothing could’ve prepared me for the desolate isolation that begins to batter away at me.
No one has a dog in this race but me. My survival is dependent on no one else.
Just then, my stomach rumbles, and I hurriedly clear my throat in an attempt to overpower the sound. I’m not their responsibility, and the last thing I want to be is someone’s burden.
From here on out, I’m living life on my terms.
“Hey.”
My eyes snap up to meet the man’s. This time, however, he doesn’t appear to regard me as a suspicious trespasser. I’m not sure what he thinks of me, but his expression isn’t quite as intense or unforgiving.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
I force a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not sure. Not long ago, probably.”
It’s a lie. My stomach has been tied in knots for days, and I’d barely been able to choke down even a piece of a granola bar.
While we traveled past the northeastern coast of Nicaragua, Rudy shoved a protein bar and an apple at me, insisting I “eat something.” He’d been manning the boat, so I’d surreptitiously shoved the apple in my backpack and tried to take a bite of the bar. I’d nearly dry-heaved, my nerves so completely shot, but swallowed a tiny bite and stuffed the rest in my pocket.
Now, though, my stomach feels so empty it might collapse in on itself.
His eyes narrow, and deep lines bracket his mouth. I barely resist the urge to fidget beneath the intensity.
“You always lie to people who’re trying to help you?”
“I wasn’t aware anyone was trying to help me.” The words come out before I realize it, and they shock me. I haven’t dared to speak assertively in so long. I didn’t really think I had it in me still.
A tiny tendril of something akin to pride dances through me. Maybe I really can do this.
The woman finishes inspecting my belongings and unceremoniously stuffs them back inside my backpack. When she hands it back to me, her eyes shine with something I can’t decipher, and a soft smile plays at her lips.
“Welcome to La Buena Vida.” She tips her head in the direction of the home on the left. “Let’s get you inside and settled, and we can get to work.”
I flick my eyes between the two of them, hesitant wariness bleeding through in my tone. “Get to work…?”
The man grunts. “On you, of course.” He waves his hand impatiently, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. “Too much of a risk to have you out in the open for too long.”
They know who I am. The realization hits me that they knew from the start, and they considered me a possible threat.
It’s what causes me to blurt out, “Look, I don’t want to cause trouble. I just—”
The man’s hand shoots up, his eyes slightly narrowed, head tipped to the side. Addressing Kat, he says, “Get her inside. Someone’s coming down the road.” The man moves with much quicker speed than I expect from someone his age, grabbing my bike and sticking it inside the house.
Good grief. The man must also have superhuman hearing because I don’t detect any sounds of someone approaching, but Kat hustles me toward the door of the house without another word and shuts it behind us.
Gauzy curtains cover the windows, the slight ocean breeze billowing them from time to time. Kat draws a gun from behind the entryway table, her eyes trained on the door as if she’s ready for whatever happens next.
Seconds later, the man’s voice drifts through the open window first.
“Sorry, man. No vacancies right now. But if you head down the coast about ten miles, Punta Mona is a great place.”
“Thanks, bro. Appreciate it,” says the unassuming surfer.
Kat’s body is tense, eyes alert as she stares at the closed door while I stand frozen, my back plastered against the wall. A long moment passes before flip-flops sound against the wooden deck and the man mutters outside the door, “All clear.”
Kat’s shoulders relax, and she backs away from the door as it opens. The man steps through it and closes it behind him.
Now up close, the man’s piercing blue eyes appear even more astute as though he’s continuously on guard. And judging from what just occurred, it’s safe to say he is.
Bracing a hand against the door, he pins me with a look that holds an odd mix of both resignation and determination.
“If you need to use the restroom, it’s down the hall. First door on your left. Otherwise, we need to sit down and get the ball rolling.”
I glance back and forth between the two. “And when you say get the ball rolling, you mean what exactly?”
Kat regards me with a look that sends prickles of dread tiptoeing down my spine. Her expression communicates everything even before she says the words.
“We mean, get started on executing your death.”
Chapter 11
Kennedy
Eleven Years Later
Yuma, Arizona
“On the tip of the defendant’s middle finger, you can see this linear scar.” I gesture to the large screen illuminating my slides.
“It’s important to note that on January twenty-second of this year, he posted on his social media platforms—both Instagram and Twitter, as you see here.”
I click the handheld device to display the next slide showing the screenshots verifying this information.
“In his post, he states that he cut himself while using a knife to slice an apple and displayed the photograph which clearly shows an unencumbered view of Mr. Kolar’s hand.”
I flip to the next presentation slide.
“I analyzed the vein patterns visible in Mr. Kolar’s photographs of his hand from his social media posts as well as photographs he willingly permitted to be taken by the police department. Then I cross-referenced them to the video footage of the assault.
“I traced the vein patterns onscreen while singling out other identifying marks on Mr. Kolar’s hands, which you can see I’ve circled, and that of the hands seen in the video footage. I printed off the results, and you can see these overlap perfectly.”
Collective murmurs of awe sound amongst the local detectives in my audience.
“Now, I’d like you to look at the backs of your hands. The veins are beneath the skin—enclosed in it—which means they aren’t susceptible to any altering like fingerprints.
“The unique trait about your vein patterns, is no two are alike. By that, I mean that not even identical twins carry the same vein patterns in their hands. In addition, your vein patterns in your right hand differ from your left.”
I pause to let that revelation sink in. Normally, when I’m asked to present my skills to law enforcement personnel, those who still strive to protect the innocent display more determined expressions. It’s as though I’ve just handed them a golden key to unlock knowledge they hadn’t known was available.
“My plea reversal rate is currently at eighty-seven percent. Often, that means that when the defendant reverses his or her plea from not guilty to guilty, the victim may not be required to face that individual and testify in court.”
A hand shoots up in the air, and the arrogant asshole well past his prime doesn’t even bother to wait for me to acknowledge him.
“Hey, Kennedy?” I don’t bristle at the man’s casual use of my first name or his lack of use of my title. He knows I’m Dr. Kennedy Alexandre. But being the troglodyte he is, this type of shit arouses him, I’m sure.
A polite smile in place, I raise my eyebrows innocently. “Yes, Peter?” The flicker of annoyance and narrowing of his eyes tell me my refusal to call him Pete has irritated him.
Petty as f
uck, I know, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.
“Whatd’ya do for your thirteen percent failure?” He smirks and nudges his buddy seated beside him as if he wants a pat on the back for his obnoxious question.
A part of me wants to ask him what he does for his paltry thirteen percent success rate—which is very generous, I’m certain—for ensuring his sexual partner attains an orgasm, but I suppress that urge.
It’s tough, I won’t lie. Especially with such a spectacular specimen like Pete.
I know his type. If misogyny had a photo beside it in the dictionary, this man’s face would be on display. He’s full of himself and thinks he knows everything simply because he’s worked in law enforcement for years, squeaking by with the bare minimum effort.
And he has a poor opinion of all females. Specifically me, it seems. Each time I’ve held a conference, upon the request of the police commissioner, Pete gives me a hard time.
It doesn’t matter if my plea reversal rate increases each year. It doesn’t matter that I have the stats to prove that my work has assisted in the sentencing of countless pedophiles over the years and that I’ve contracted with law enforcement agencies across the US, unable to fulfill all the requests I receive.
None of it matters to Pete because he’s always scoffed at my work. Yet he has a record number of cases under his belt where pedophiles have walked free. He refuses to fight for those young victims and simply moves on, collecting his monthly paycheck accordingly.
He doesn’t expect my reaction. This becomes evident when the sight of my smile has his smirk wavering.
“That’s a great question, Pete.” I hold his gaze until he becomes so uncomfortable that he averts his eyes. My tone is casual yet holds a steely undertone, my words benign to my audience. “Failure just means I work that much harder. I never stop fighting for the victims.”