A lady at the back, sensing my presence, turned and welcomed me with a smile. She looked familiar. But she couldn’t be. I didn’t know anyone out here on the tip of the island. Everyone was starting to look like someone I should be afraid of. First the knockoff man, now the baker. She was making egg tarts for Chrissake, very famous egg tarts, but this wasn’t a James Bond movie with a pistol-packing pastry chef. Which movie had they filmed in Macau… I couldn’t remember.
Teddie would know.
Laughing at myself, I shelved my fear—still, there was something familiar in her smile.
“We’re not quite open yet,” she said in English.
Clearly, my hiding in plain sight was not an effective strategy.
The no-nonsense yet warmth of her tone rang a bell of recognition. I was losing it.
Breathing deep the pungent aroma of strong coffee and the sweet promise of buttery, custardy tarts baking, I tried for a smile. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve wandered a bit far. Would it be okay if I had some of that incredible coffee I’m smelling while I waited for a friend…and maybe a tart when they’re done?”
She poured me a cup and I swore her eyes saw through all my lies. “Here you go. On the house. The tarts will be done in a few.” She pointed to my shoulder. “You’ve got a bit of blood there.”
I’d forgotten. Adrenaline, they ought to bottle the stuff and sell it as an anesthetic. Same shoulder they’d winged at Miss Minnie’s, but slightly higher this time. Matching stripes that looked like the mark of a wild animal or a decoration from the military. “I’m not very good on the scooter,” I said, trying for casual, hoping for convincing.
“I have a first-aid kit if you’d like,” she said, as if bloody Americans appeared before dawn all the time.
“No, that’s okay. Thanks.”
She motioned me toward a tiny table tucked in the corner. She’d clearly pulled it inside from its normal spot on the sidewalk—there wasn’t room in here to turn around twice, much less for a table, even one for two. But the corner was a perfect place to see and not be seen. Dear God, I was starting to think like a James Bond wannabe. I wondered if they still had the Bottom’s Up club in town? Or was that in Hong Kong? Or that floating casino Daniel Craig laid waste to? I hadn’t seen either in a long time, but I was sort of hoping for a Hollywood ending to my little adventure.
The clerk returned to baking preparations, chattering all the while to her hapless male counterpart who kept a stoic face and focused on kneading dough.
As I settled in and pulled out my phone, I wondered if the clerk wanted a job in a casino. Never turn away a paying guest—although she hadn’t let me pay yet. I figured, by the end of the hour, I’d pay one way or another.
Cindy Liu answered before the first ring, her voice sharp but with the huskiness of sleep. “Cindy Liu.”
The hour wasn’t even sociably early. I didn’t feel bad. “Cindy, Lucky O’Toole here. I apologize for the hour.”
“Yes, Miss.” Any hint of sleep vanished from her voice. “Not to worry.”
“Just call me Lucky. Remember, we had this discussion before?”
“Okay, Lucky, what can I do for you?” The no-nonsense I’d grown to rely on returned to her voice.
“I need to find Sinjin.”
Cindy was quiet for a bit, probably weighing how to react. “What you need with him?”
“Help to find my friend.” I gave her a very short run-through of the salient points of my last twenty-four hours, leaving out the sensitive stuff.
“He more important than your hotel?” She measured her words.
“Of course.” I answered too quickly and in doing so showed a few too many cards. “What makes you think anything is wrong with the hotel?”
“Bad things happening in Macau. Everyone afraid, but not you.”
“Oh, I’m terrified.”
“Smart lady, but that don’t stop you.”
“I’m stupid that way.”
“But you want your friend?”
“I won’t stop until I find him.”
“I like you. You’re good people.” Her voice warmed...slightly.
“A gross misjudgment, I assure you. Give me time, I can change that opinion.”
This time she actually laughed. “You are at Lord Stow’s?”
“How did you know that?”
“My sister works there. I can hear her—she talks without stopping. Give me ten minutes. Stay out of sight.” With that, she rang off.
I had nothing to do but dig into the warm tart Cindy’s sister slipped in front of me with a nod and a shy smile. I knew there’d been something familiar about her—and I was glad I wasn’t seeing bad guys in every innocent baker.
Even though I had taken my time, savoring every bite as I pressed into the corner out of view of the street, I was eyeing a second tart when Cindy Liu stepped into the shop. She unwound the scarf around her head and shook out her hair.
“You saved me from myself,” I said as I rose to greet her.
Ten minutes and the woman was completely put together. Skirt, sensible shoes, pressed blouse, and loose shawl to cut the cool morning air. She made fashion look as easy as an afterthought. I wanted to ask her how she did that, but now was not the time, nor did I really want to trot out another of my deficiencies, struggling as I was with so many already.
I’d lost Romeo. I sent Teddie off like a Christian to fight the lions. And I was chasing a ghost.
“Americans,” she shook her head. Her tone evidenced her displeasure with our culture. “More is not always better.”
“You’d never make it in Vegas.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t read. “I’m sure you are right.” She motioned for me to follow as she turned on her heel. “Come, we haven’t much time.”
I grabbed her arm and turned it over, exposing her forearm. No tattoo.
She didn’t resist. “Not all who fight carry the mark.”
“And that makes it difficult to tell which side you’re on.”
Cindy pulled her arm back and tucked it under her shawl, which she pulled tight, unable to fight the shiver that rippled through her. “Actions will show you.”
“If I live.”
Light tinged the east as we headed outside. I followed Cindy across the road to a small dock area where fishermen readied their boats…very small boats…with nets that smelled of last week’s catch.
“Where are we going?”
Cindy glanced at me, a cool apprising glance. “You want Sinjin?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then you come.” With a curt nod she continued down the dock, stopping in front of a spot with a particularly tiny boat. A small, dark man stepped to meet us with a snaggle-toothed smile of black and broken teeth. His face creased by the sun, his eyes hooded dark holes, his body thin and ropey, he looked ageless, even with the thin spikes of white hair growing from his head like tufts of grass. Exuding the vibrancy of a much younger man, he extended a hand. I took it. Calloused, hard, it matched the rest of him. I winced at the vigorous squeeze as he pumped my hand twice.
Cindy smiled as she gave him a kiss, one on each cheek in the European tradition. “This is Mica. He will take you there.”
I eyed the small boat—my seaworthiness was limited to large vessels, and unwillingly to those. “There, where? You do know there are sharks in these waters?” I thought of the shark net to protect the swimmers at Repulse Bay, which was actually on Hong Kong Island, but not that far as the shark swims, which didn’t make me feel better. “And I don’t have any water wings,” I stammered.
They both ignored me. Instead, they looked at the lights twinkling across the water. A quarter-mile, no more, separated us from them. “You go there,” Cindy said, confirming my fear.
“And where exactly is that?” Macau and its islands threw off my sense of direction.
“China.”
My heart skipped several beats. “You mean China, like mainland China?”
�
��Yes.” Cindy and Mica both seemed untroubled by this.
“Won’t the authorities consider it bad form if I enter the country illegally?”
Cindy pursed her lips and nodded. “Quite possibly. So, you mustn’t get caught.”
“And if I do?”
“You have gun?”
“Yes.”
“Then shoot yourself.” For a moment, she didn’t smile.
Everybody wanted to be a comedian.
I eyed the boat, rocking on the easy swells, then Mica, standing there as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which I guess he hadn’t. If he got caught, they’d only take his boat.
“Cindy…”
She put a hand on my arm. “It okay.”
With no one else to trust and a desperate need to find Romeo before there wouldn’t be anything left worth saving, I nodded and stepped into the boat. Mica settled a dirty blanket across my lap as if I was the Queen of England. I clutched my Birkin like a shield, feeling the false confidence of having a gun I knew I wouldn’t use. “I would like to come back alive and not in shackles looking at a firing squad,” I whispered to him.
He smiled with as much understanding as if I’d spoken Swahili.
It took several pulls on a motor that probably hadn’t been manufactured in this half of the century before it caught with belches of smoke.
As we motored quietly across the open expanse, I didn’t even try to engage Mica in conversation. My Portuguese was nonexistent and I didn’t think this was the time to trot out my intimate knowledge of Cantonese curse words. So I sat on the narrow wooden bench and clutched the sides of the boat as I tried to shake the images of being rowed across the river Styx. And here I’d hoped my demise would be a bit more dignified.
Halfway across, Mica killed the engine. Other fishing boats, dark shadows moving across the water, glided past. No one said anything as they motored into a new day. Water lapped against the sides of the boat, which rocked in the wakes of the passing boats. Lights shone in a tall building on the shore as we approached. Several smaller ones clustered along the shore. But there were no car headlights beaming through the darkness, no movement. Mica paddled the rest of the way, sliding us silently into a small dark pier. The last gasp of night crushed in around us. I huddled, trying to make myself small.
Mica motioned for me to get out.
“Here? You can’t be serious.”
He nodded and grinned.
I didn’t like his grin. I pulled out some bills and pressed them into his hand, unsure whether I was paying for my own execution. Without looking at the money, he pocketed it, then helped me out of the boat. With a nod, he backed the boat out, turned it, and paddled toward Macau.
Leaving me alone in the dark.
I stood there, shivering, more out of fear than cold as I tried to think of stories for the authorities when they finally caught me, an illegal in their country. I’d heard about Chinese jails—cold, damp, a piece of bread, if the rats didn’t get it first. Light brightened the sky behind me but left my little bit of coast in the gloom.
Behind me, I heard Mica’s engine sputter to life.
I rooted in my purse, my hand closing around the gun. I transferred it to a position at the small of my back, held snug by the waistband of my pants. A bit too snug. Maybe Mona was right—a cleanse was in my future. The thought nauseated me. Or maybe that was fear that roiled through my stomach.
Alone with no one to call and fresh out of ideas, I was as close to giving up as I’ve ever gotten. I wondered how the article would read in the RJ. Would they be kind? Would they vilify me? Would they even remember?
One little boy would remember.
The smell of baby soap, as strong as if I was…home. The reality hit me; why it took so long I don’t know.
Everything, okay, not everything, but a lot rested on me.
And I could handle it. I had to.
Stokes. Maybe he would come get me. Not a perfect solution, but if he got me out of China, I could handle the rest. I pulled out my phone. As I was scrolling through for his number, a sound stopped me. I cocked my head, trying to catch it again.
I palmed the phone, hiding the light, then crouched down. Not much to hide behind, but at least I was a smaller target in the soft light of the new day, quickly brightening.
Footsteps rustled through the grasses. I dropped my phone in my bag, then grabbed the gun, holding it at the ready as I turned toward the sound. Silently, I racked the slide and strained to see into the darkness. Crouching further down, using the grasses to hide me, I held my breath, listening. And I had absolutely no idea what to do. Shoot my way out? Yeah, that’d be a good plan—talk about making a bad situation worse.
My hand shook as I tried to keep the gun aimed. What was it they said—only a fool feels no fear? Well, at least I wasn’t a fool. Although, given my recent string of choices, that could be debated.
“Lucky?” a voice hissed.
How did they know my name? Thoughts tumbled on a wave of panic.
“Lucky? Are you here?”
My heart skipped a beat. Could it be? I waited.
“Lucky?”
Yes, yes, I knew that voice! Joy rushed through me. I didn’t dare believe. “Romeo?” I whispered. Raising up, I called to him again, this time louder. “Romeo! Over here.”
The footsteps, faster now, he rushed out of the darkness.
I had a moment to brace myself. Then he hit me, grabbing me in a bear hug.
We staggered together, holding on.
Oh, God. He was alive! We held each other tight, gathering strength, killing a fear. When my heart had steadied and I’d started to accept that he was here and okay, I disengaged and held him at arm’s length. Amazingly, he looked… fine. Oh, maybe frayed around the edges, but his eyes were bright, his smile at full wattage. Even his cowlick still stood in defiance.
“How?”
A voice from the darkness answered. Male. Authoritative, with a hint of British. “Courage is rewarded.”
I turned toward it. I knew this voice. “You! From the jetfoil.”
He stepped into the light. I almost gasped; well, I probably did. The man in front of me embodied the best of each culture, Caucasian and Asian. Jet-black hair, worn straight and long, chiseled features, wide-set eyes, a strong jaw, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs. That’s all I could see in the barely-light morning. The color of his eyes remained hidden, but for some reason I knew they were green. He wore a flowing white shirt gathered in front with a string that he hadn’t tied and loose black pants, tight on his hips, then tucked into black boots.
I’d just been dropped into a romance novel.
I gave him a raised eyebrow. I so did not need saving…well, given that I was in his country illegally, maybe just a little bit of saving.
“Sinjin, I take it?”
He bowed low. “At your service.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“DON’T you think you’re taking this pirate thing a bit too seriously?” I stepped in front of him. The slight widening of his eyes hinted that he wasn’t used to a woman being so bold, or one that was his physical equal. Yep, his eyes were green.
He looked a bit sheepish. “It adds to my mystique, and besides, the locals like it.”
“Well, I don’t like the whole heavy-handed pirate bullshit. Not one little bit.” Fisting my right hand, I held it in my left. Pivoting off my right foot, I threw my elbow at his jaw.
Bone met bone in a meaty thunk. He dropped like a stone.
Not out cold, but I think he got my message.
I stood over him as he propped himself on one elbow, rubbing the spot where my shot had landed.
“Your displeasure is so noted.” He shot an amused glance at Romeo. “You warned me. And you were right; she is impressive.”
With a hand on my arm, Romeo stopped me from further action I might soon regret. “He’s a bit of a drama queen, but he plays for our team.”
“You told him I was impressive?”<
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“I had to tell him something.” A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “And then you had to hit him.”
“I owed him. Besides, he hit me first—well, Ming, a young woman in his employ, did on the jetfoil. And, he took you.” I whirled on Sinjin. “Do you have any idea what my last ten hours have been like?” Had it really only been such a short time? It felt like an eternity trapped in a bad movie with no laugh track.
He gathered himself into a seated position. Then, pulling his feet in, he grabbed his knees. “Unfortunately, I do.”
I let him get his equilibrium—I’d hit him pretty hard—then I extended my hand, helping him to his feet. He wobbled a bit before finding his land legs, which gave me a taste of the revenge I craved.
“Why did you take Romeo?”
Sinjin rolled his head side-to-side and blinked rapidly. “Remind me to never make you mad.”
“You won’t need reminding. Now, tell me, why did you take Romeo?”
“Romeo, he didn’t lie. You are impressive.” He worked his jaw. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Do I look like I care?”
“I get it. You’re steamed up.” His posture relaxed, but his smile was tight. “Do I look like I care?”
Tit for tat and all of that. “Okay, we’re even.”
“Hardly,” he said, his tone stepping on any possibility that he might be joking. “My family owes yours an incredible debt.” Before I could ask what, he motored on, answering my question. “Bait. I took your friend for bait. I needed you to come to me. I needed to see what you were made of, where your priorities are. And I needed you to trust me. If I came to find you, then I would have none of those things.”
Trust you?” I spluttered.
Opening his arms wide, he was all innocence. “Detective Romeo is unharmed.”
Well, there was that. “What about the ten years I lost worrying about him?”
Lucky the Hard Way Page 17