by Meryl Sawyer
“My sister says a young guy in a Hummer ran her down.”
“Why am I not surprised? We go to Plan B.”
She closed her eyes for a second and nodded. “I have to say goodbye to Tina.”
“No, don’t tell her that. Say you’re going for coffee and you’ll be back in ten minutes.” When she agreed, he added, “There will be a taxi waiting for you at the side entrance near pediatrics. I’ll follow you in the Acura.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
KEKE KICKED OFF HER SHOES at her front door and raced into her home to answer the telephone. It was Ane on the line.
“Keke, is there something wrong?” the older woman asked, obviously troubled by Keke’s urgent message.
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to find Chad. He didn’t show up for our luau, and he didn’t call. I thought maybe he mentioned something to you about going out of town on business.”
“Noooo,” Chad’s assistant replied very slowly. “He isn’t away on business. I schedule all his business appointments.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“Have you tried that woman? Pele’s ghost?”
“Eddie gave me Devon’s number, and I called but no one’s home.” Keke peeked out the window to be certain the children were safe. “The last I saw him, Chad was using the marina’s pay phone to call a friend from his Delta Force days. The guy had called him for something. Do you suppose Chad went somewhere to meet him?”
Ane didn’t respond.
“Can you hear me?” Keke asked.
“Yes. I just don’t like discussing Chad’s oihana.”
“I wouldn’t ask about my brother’s business if I weren’t worried. It’s not like him to disappear when the family was having a luau.”
“True,” Ane agreed. “A friend didn’t call Chad. He called someone. All Chad said was his name, then he hung up and left the office. I don’t know what made me do it. I’m not usually such a hana mau kino.”
Oh, puleeze, Keke thought. Ane was queen of the hana mau kinos. Busybodies. She lived to mother Chad. That’s why Keke had called her.
“I pressed the redial button on Chad’s telephone. The number on the display was a Washington, D.C. area code. I hung up before it could ring. I looked out the window and saw Chad standing by the marina’s pay phone.”
Keke didn’t know what to think. Her brother rarely lied, especially about something as seemingly trivial as a telephone call. “If I hit the redial button on his phone, would it still dial the number?”
“No. He returned to the office and made several calls. That number is gone.”
“His Porsche isn’t in his garage.”
“Have you checked the airport lot? Maybe he decided to drop in on one of his dive shops on another island.”
“I called them. No one’s seen him, and they’re not expecting him.” Keke twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “I’ll drive out to the airport. It shouldn’t be hard to spot a black Porsche.”
“Mark my words. He’s with Pele’s ghost. She’s pilikia.”
Keke loaded Mei and Lui in her Datsun and drove along Kalanianole Highway until she reached the turnoff for Honolulu International Airport. Pilikia. Trouble. She couldn’t help feeling her brother was in trouble, and she wouldn’t be surprised if Devon was involved.
Why would Chad lie about a call? Why wouldn’t he have told someone that he couldn’t make the luau? This wasn’t like Chad, and it had her very worried.
“Isn’t Grandmother coming to dinner?” Lui unexpectedly asked.
Cripes! Keke had completely forgotten. “Your father is taking us out.”
“Goody,” cried Mei. “Chuck E. Cheese!”
Keke wondered if Mother Nakamura would have a conniption. She’d been amazingly good-natured when she’d surprised them by showing up at the luau, but she hadn’t eaten much. She’d sampled the fruit and rice dishes. The tender pork from the roasted pig hadn’t made it onto her plate. Chuck E. Cheese should be a challenge for her.
Keke turned into the airport and waited in the line of cars, going to park. “Let’s play a game,” she told the children. “I’ll give a dollar to the first one of you who sees uncle Chad’s black car.”
“The Porsche,” Lui said.
Keke took a ticket from the machine and drove into the lot. If Chad had taken his favorite toy to the airport, he would have put it in the covered parking. She headed into the structure and methodically drove up and down each row. When she arrived at the top level, she decided this was a wild goose chase.
“It’s not here,” Mei said.
“Is Grandmother going to be waiting for us?” Lui asked.
Keke checked her watch. No doubt about it Mother Nakamura would be sitting on their porch in a huff. She drove out of the structure toward the booth where cars were lined up to pay.
“There it is! Right there!” cried Lui. “I get a dollar. I get a dollar.” He poked his sister. “You lose.”
Keke glanced around. “Where?”
“Next row over. See?”
Keke spotted a black Porsche but wasn’t sure it was Chad’s. She rounded the bend and went up the next row.
“See those wheels? It’s Uncle Chad’s Porsche.”
Leave it to Lui to notice the custom chrome wheels Chad had had made for his Porsche. Keke put the car in park and walked around her brother’s car. Judging by the coat of dust, the Porsche had been here for some time. Her intuition screamed something was really wrong. Chad usually took his SUV to the airport.
He must have left very unexpectedly.
CHAD IDLED AT THE CURB not far from the side exit near the pediatric unit. Fear traveled in a rippling wave up his back, to his neck, and clamped down on his temples like a vise. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but if he wasn’t careful Devon would be killed. He figured they had ten—fifteen minutes—tops to get away. Then the goons would realize Devon hadn’t gone for coffee.
The yellow taxi pulled up, and a few seconds later Devon strolled out of the hospital. Going to Plan B, she’d ditched her old lady’s clothes and was wearing black jeans and a black blouse. A backpack had replaced the worn handbag. In it she would have stowed the part of the cane that converted to a knife. Devon climbed into the cab, and it pulled away from the curb.
Chad followed several car lengths behind the taxi. The plan was to drive north and have the cab drop off Devon at a motel in North Miami Beach. Chad would pick her up and they would deadhead for Atlanta.
Chad checked the rearview mirror to see if anyone was following him. There were lots of headlights. It was still early enough to have plenty of cars on the road. An expert hit team would follow on a parallel street a block over, if the traffic was light, and be nearly impossible to spot. Since there were so many cars around, anyone following him would be in the rear.
He was counting on this team being only two, possibly three men. Hit teams who weren’t “connected”—part of a mob operation—usually worked alone or in pairs. People tended not to notice two men together. More than that attracted unwanted attention.
Chad peered in the rearview mirror again. If the hit team had military training, they would be driving a van or a SUV. He was looking for a larger-than-normal luggage rack or lights on the roof that would conceal a camera with night vision and magnification capability, which could read a license plate two blocks away. He expected them to confirm Devon was Samantha Robbins and try to take her out with a single shot, either from a high-powered rifle or at close range with a hand gun.
They would leave something to make the hit appear to be drug-related. The last thing they would want was a murdered tourist that would have Miami in an uproar. But no one gave a damn about drug killings. They were a fact of life in Miami.
Chad was four cars behind the taxi. The screaming yellow cab was easy to keep his eye on. The traffic behind him that might be following Devon was more difficult. There weren’t any vans or panel trucks in sight, but the world was full of SUVs. A
pparently everyone needed a four-wheel drive to get them to Starbucks and the mall.
They were approaching the turnoff for Highway 826. Just before it was the Sherwood Inn, where the taxi was going to leave Devon. He planned to take 826 over to the toll road and shoot back up north to avoid the congestion around Fort Lauderdale and Boca Raton.
The traffic behind him had thinned. The only vehicle that looked familiar was a red Corvette. Hit men did not tool around in expensive cars witnesses would remember.
Expect the unexpected.
The Delta Force motto popped into his head. With it came a visceral warning. Something wasn’t right.
The Corvette had been several cars back when they’d left the hospital. It still lagged several car lengths behind. It should have caught up. Most Corvette drivers would have flown by him already.
DEVON SAW THE SIGN for the Sherwood Inn up ahead. Almost there. With luck, they would make the Atlanta to Hawaii flight. She would be safe in Honolulu until the trial.
“Go to the back,” she told the driver. “Number sixty-seven.”
Chad had told her to wait in front of this room where she wouldn’t be seen from the street. She glanced at the meter to the right of the Haitian driver who’d tried to engage her in conversation earlier. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but she couldn’t talk. She kept seeing her sister and Romero.
The men after her would stop at nothing.
The taxi’s air-conditioning was on the fritz or so the driver claimed. She suspected he kept it off to save on the gas he used. The windows were rolled down. It was hot and her skin was clammy. One good thing about the wreck was its air-conditioning worked.
She pulled a wad of bills out of her wallet, intending to leave him a nice tip. The knife that had been part of the cane was on top of her things in the backpack near the wallet. The knife had a special sheath over the blade so she could still use it after she’d left the cane in the hospital rest room. She pulled it off, careful not to cut herself on the razor-sharp blade, and moved the Sig Saur beside it. After the driver let her out, it would be several minutes before Chad appeared. She wasn’t taking any chances.
The taxi pulled into the parking space in front of number sixty-seven. The security lights were on but they weren’t very bright. Dark shadows formed in several places nearby. She was reassured by the number of cars in the lot. At least there were people around.
A lipstick-red Corvette drove into the space next to the cab. Behind the wheel was a woman with long, dark hair. The flashy sports car reminded her of Tyler’s midnight-blue Corvette.
It seemed like another lifetime. A life that belonged to another person.
The cabdriver glanced over his shoulder at Devon, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin. “That’ll be—”
Pop! A dull cracking sound reverberated through the taxi. The driver scrunched sideways as if picking up something from the seat. A long second ticked by.
“Are you okay?” Devon asked.
No response. Devon leaned forward. Oh, Jesus, no! Blood was streaming from a small hole in the side of his head.
She realized the woman in the Corvette had used a gun with a silencer. She hit the floor and jerked on the drawstring of her backpack for the gun or the knife. A hulking silhouette loomed beside the taxi’s back door opposite where she was hunkered down.
“Get out of the car,” ordered a male voice.
Stalling, she didn’t answer. Chad couldn’t be far away. She’d looked over her shoulder twice in the cab and had spotted the Acura. Surely he would be here in a minute.
“I said get out of the car.”
She recognized the voice of the man who’d come into her sister’s room. From his bulked-up shadow, she guessed he was wearing a Kevlar vest as well as a woman’s wig. If she used the gun, it would have to be a shot to the head. Was she good enough to kill him before he shot her? Until WITSEC, she’d never fired a gun. Now she wished she’d spent more time at the range.
Where was Chad?
The back door of the taxi near her feet swung open. The shadows prevented her from clearly seeing his face, but she could tell it was a man in a woman’s wig. He had a long-barreled gun in his left hand. A special silencer, she decided. With the tiniest pop, the gun had killed the man. People in the motel wouldn’t be awakened by shots from this gun.
“Get out or I’ll haul you out!” he ordered, his voice low, yet undeniably threatening.
She jerked her knees closer to her body and hunched around the backpack, her hand inside closing over the knife’s handle. “Go ahead. Shoot me, but I’m not moving.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.” His voice was deep, crusty and radiated ruthlessness. “You have something that belongs to my friend. He wants to talk to you.”
What on earth? She didn’t have anything. Now that she’d been relocated twice Zach and some clothes were all she possessed. “You’ve got the wrong person. This is a mistake.”
“You’re Samantha Robbins.”
Buying time, she didn’t respond. Surely Chad would come along any second. Then it hit her. Chad should have been here by now.
A keening cry of agony too deep for tears welled up in her throat. She’d known this would happen. She was the kiss of death—literally. They’d murdered Chad. She choked back her emotion. She didn’t have time for sentiment now.
The FBI agent, Romero, the taxi driver and now Chad. Her sister almost became another victim. The flame of vengeance burned in her gut.
“Who wants to talk to me?” she managed to say, a plan forming in her mind.
“A friend. He just wants to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
A blast of static erupted from the taxi’s radio. “Where are you, Xavier? Report in. Report in.”
Poor Xavier, she thought. He’d probably come by boat from Haiti, believing he’d find a better life in America. Her heart lurched madly with something too intense, too painful to be mere anger.
Devon didn’t care anymore. She would take this ruthless killer with her. Or die trying.
He lunged forward, grabbed her ankles, and dragged her out of the car in one swift movement. She banged the back of her head against the car and hit the pavement. White-hot pain shot through her skull, and for a moment, she couldn’t focus.
He grabbed her hair and jerked her head backward. The dimly lit parking lot whirlpooled before her eyes.
Strong arms snaked around her midriff and hauled her upright, pinning her hand in her backpack while she dangled, her toes barely touching the ground.
“Gimme the gun.”
“I-it’s in my backpack.” She tried to sound as if tears were about to gush. The opposite was true. A strange calmness now accompanied the anger burning with astonishing intensity.
One scream could bring help, but she might not get a chance to kill this bastard. Chad’s face flashed across her mind. He had so much to offer the world, yet they’d snuffed out his life without hesitation. She decided against screaming, and her vision suddenly cleared.
“Gimme your gun,” he repeated, his sour breath on her face.
“I-it’s in m-my…pack”
He released her, but kept his gun pressed against her ribs. “Throw it down on the ground.”
Her hand still on the knife, she fished in the backpack, pretending to be searching for the gun. She dropped the gun onto the pavement along with the backpack. In the same instant, she hurled herself at him, heaving her weight at the arm holding the weapon. With her other hand, she rammed the base of her palm against his nose. He reeled sideways with a furious grunt, then staggered two steps forward, waving the gun.
She aimed the blade just under his breastbone. Using the full weight of her body, she shoved the knife into the cushy Kevlar. “This is for Chad.”
Without a sound, he doubled over and crumpled to the ground. Blood spurted from the wound and hit the taxi’s door like a gusher. The metallic odor of fresh blood permeated the humid air.
Hands trembling, she searched his pockets and found several thousand dollars in cash and a wallet with a Florida driver’s license. She yanked the wig off his head, picked up his gun, and tossed everything into her backpack.
Head aching but pumped with adrenaline, she opened the trunk of the Corvette. Duct tape and a flashlight. She’d hoped to find tools. She needed to switch the Corvette’s license plate with one of the cars in the motel lot.
On the front seat, she found a tiny plastic packet of white powder. Cocaine, she thought. She picked it up with a tissue and took it over to the dead man. She tucked it into his pocket. Removing the bloody knife was trickier. It had lodged against a bone. She pulled hard and it released with a gristly crunch.
A sweep of headlights blasted the area. She stayed low, telling herself she wasn’t surprised. It was amazing no one had come along before now. From this angle between the cars, they couldn’t be seen unless they drove down this far. She was prepared to open the passenger door of the Corvette, leap in, and speed away. She assumed the keys were still in the car because they hadn’t been in the killer’s pocket.
The set of headlights veered right, the car pulled into a space up front, and she heard what sounded like college boys half-drunk getting out of the auto. Apparently they were trying to decide who had the room key. She waited while they went inside and wiped the blood off the knife using the hit man’s trouser cuffs.
The boys stumbled into their room. She hunkered down and removed the Corvette’s plates with the knife. Nearby was a Lexus with Florida plates. She switched those with the Corvette’s plates.
She was behind the wheel, ready to drive north. Wipe your prints off the taxi, a voice in her head told her. She scrambled out of the car and over to the cab. It took several minutes to remove her prints.
She climbed into the sports car again, fired up the powerful engine, and put it in reverse. A single beam of light glared at her from the rearview mirror, blinding her. She jerked her head to the side to avoid the spotlight.
The hit man was part of a team. His partner had come to investigate.
She slammed her fist against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “You’re not killing me, you son of a bitch!”