Chapter 22
“Son of a . . .” I dove into the pool, swimming down toward the middle. As I swam closer, I could see the design was made to look like a sun with sunbeams flaring in every direction. It was the necklace. It had to be. I reached for it, but it was set in a homemade tile. Recently added, by the looks of it.
I swam to the surface. “It’s the necklace. I need something to pry the tile.”
Mrs. Miller’s eyes widened as she dashed into the house.
“Mya!” I shouted from the pool. “Call Remy! Tell him to come immediately. We found it!”
Before long, Mrs. Miller returned with a very large butcher knife. I’m supposed to swim with this?
Frankie, Mya, and Gwen gathered to watch as I dove back under. Using the knife to pry the tile loose, it popped out quickly. I swam to the side of the pool with the tile and knife in hand.
“Here,” I said, handing the tile to Mrs. Miller. I tossed the knife off to the side so I could climb out.
“This is it?” Mya asked, peeking around Mrs. Miller to get a better look.
“It’s gorgeous! Look at the size of those stones! How do we get it out?” Frankie asked.
“I think the tile is made with cheap steppingstone mix. I’m sure it can break apart. But I’d hate to accidentally ruin the necklace,” I said, water streaming from my drenched clothes.
“I’ll get a towel,” Mya said, heading inside. “I have an outfit you can wear too.”
“I’m sure my other clothes are dry,” I called, but it was too late. She was already on her way.
“What should I do?” Mrs. Miller asked. “Should I call and tell them I have the necklace?”
“Do you know the number?”
Her face fell. “No. The call comes in as an unknown number.”
“Did Mya call Remy?”
Frankie nodded. “He’s on his way.”
“Let’s sit tight and wait for Remy. We still have until morning to hand over the necklace. I’m sure they’ll call again.”
“I’m so relieved,” she said, shaking from head to toe. “But I can’t get too excited until my boys are home.”
“I can clean the necklace,” Gwen offered, holding out her hand for the tile.
Mrs. Miller shook her head. “Let’s leave it in the tile. I can’t take the chance of ruining it.”
“Since Ian never told you about me, I’m sure he also never mentioned that I’m a jeweler. I keep a kit in the car.” She headed toward the door. “I’ll go get it.”
“She’s a jeweler?” Frankie asked when she was out of earshot. “She looks more like a professional trophy wife. I have a hunch Ian might not be Gwen’s first husband, and I doubt he’ll be her last.”
“That might explain why she wasn’t too upset that he married me.”
“And here I try to avoid dramatized soaps,” Mrs. Miller stated offhandedly.
“Since I met Frankie and the Miller brothers, my life has been nothing but one long soap,” I said.
“Ain’t that the truth?! They’ve been running her ragged. She’s even sprouted a gray hair,” he said, pointing at a spot on my head.
“I don’t have gray hair.”
“You do now.”
Mya handed me a towel and then leaned over to inspect. “Oh, you have one . . . or two. Don’t worry. If you go blonde, it’s less noticeable.”
The Jaws theme music filled the air. We froze, listening to the sound.
“Where’s it coming from?” I stepped back from the water.
Frankie plucked his phone from his pocket. “I forgot I assigned that ringtone to Muffin.” He pressed the answer button. “Got your land legs back?”
“I think I’ll head inside and change into dry clothes,” I said. “The pizza should be here any minute.”
“No! She didn’t say pizza,” Frankie said with a slightly higher-than-normal pitch. His eyes cut over to me with an accusatory glare. “She said . . . Lisa should be here any minute.”
“Who’s Muffin?” Mrs. Miller asked.
I opened my mouth to explain. I closed it again. How could I explain Muffin to Mrs. Miller?
“No, no, no-n-n-no! That’s not what you heard,” Frankie argued. “I’m not going to give you the address . . . what do you mean you have it? Did you just GPS my phone, woman?! . . . Hello?” Frankie ended the call and glared pointedly at me. “Do you know how hard it is to find a word that rhymes with pizza?”
“I didn’t know she was going to hear me.”
“You said pizza. That’s like her supervillain call signal.”
“I thought it’d be donuts,” Mya said thoughtfully. “Maybe chicken. She does love chicken. Remember when you dressed up as a chicken and she called you her tasty chicken?” she asked Frankie. “I really thought she might take a chomp . . . you were her husband, after all.”
Mrs. Miller’s brow cocked as she glanced from Mya to Frankie. She leaned over to whisper, “I thought Frankie preferred . . . you know.”
“He married her to buy a yacht and found out she’s a con artist. It looks like you’ll get to meet her,” I said, hiding a grin. “Mya, you might want to order more pizzas. I’m heading upstairs.” I was stopped by a phone ringing.
We all turned in the direction of the sound. Mrs. Miller held her phone with shaking hands. “It’s him.”
“Go ahead,” Mya urged softly. “We’re all here, and we have the necklace.”
Mrs. Miller swallowed hard and steadied her hand long enough to press answer and bring the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
We stood, watching Mrs. Miller with shallow breath.
“I know it’s twelve hours until the deadline. I have the necklace. What should I do?”
She swallowed again.
“I—I understand. I’ll be there.” She waited for a moment before ending the call.
“Well?” Mya was the first to ask, but we all stared at her with the same quizzical expression.
“I have to board a plane. It leaves in three hours.”
“To where?”
“Freetown in Sierra Leone.”
“Is that in Spain or something?” Frankie asked.
“It’s in Africa. Oh, my God!” Her face paled. “I didn’t think to bring my passport!”
Glances darted back and forth as we realized none of us had passports.
“I have my passport,” Gwen said from the patio door. “And I know my way around the city. I’ll go.”
“I can’t allow that,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’ll find a way.”
“I can’t see how you’ll get around security without a passport,” I said. “Maybe Remy has a passport with him.”
Gwen didn’t press the issue. “I’m here if you need me. I have my kit. Shall I clean the necklace?”
Mrs. Miller was reluctant to handover the precious item. It wasn’t until Mya touched her sleeve and gave her a small nod that she hesitantly handed over the tile.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Gwen turned, nearly bumping into Remy.
“Remy, oh, thank goodness you’re here. Do you have your passport with you?” Mrs. Miller asked.
“No,” he said as a scowl formed. “I take it they called.”
“Just a moment ago. I have to board a plane to Freetown in three hours.”
“I hate to ask, but what about a visa to enter the country?”
The sound of metal smashing into metal blasted through the house. We froze, listening to the twisting metal screech.
“Was that a car accident?” Mrs. Miller asked.
The front door crash open. Remy pulled out his gun, but it was useless. Within seconds we were surrounded by six men dressed in SWAT gear, wielding guns that could Swiss cheese us in a blink of an eye.
“Put the gun down,” a man barked at Remy. I recognized him. It was the man from the Sierra Leone government along with five of his men. Was his name Teteh Kamara? I tried to recall, but I was frozen from brain to toes.
Remy reluctantly placed the gun on the gr
ound, keeping eye contact the man entire time.
“Kick it over,” the man ordered.
Remy kicked the gun, sending it skidding to the man’s feet. The man kicked it behind him to his men.
“Hands over your head! Walk slowly. If you make any sudden moves, I won’t hesitate to toss you over the cliff. Suicide rates are high this time of year,” he threatened as I followed the others inside the house.
They led us to the dining room and tied our arms and legs to the chairs.
“Please,” Mrs. Miller cried. “I have to board a plane. My sons . . . “
“I know all about your sons,” Teteh stated. “You won’t be making the flight.”
Mrs. Miller and Mya disintegrated into tears.
“How are you involved with the ransom?” Remy asked, trailing each man with assessing eyes.
“We aren’t,” Teteh said, inspecting the ties.
“He’s with the Sierra Leone government. Or at least that’s the lie he told me,” I said, glaring at the man.
“I am with the Sierra Leone government.”
“In what capacity?” Remy gritted.
“In any capacity deemed necessary. Where’s the necklace?”
Quizzical glances flashed back and forth from our prison chairs. They didn’t have Gwen. Did she escape? Did she steal the necklace as soon as Mrs. Miller handed it to her?
“This seems like an extreme way to find an engagement necklace, doesn’t it?” I asked, stalling.
“It’s become political. Where is it?”
“Just because the woman is engaged to the president doesn’t mean it’s political.”
The scraping sound of metal springing open and a cold blade on my throat had my attention. I froze as the blade bit into my skin. Mya squeaked and sobbed as the metallic scent of blood swirled my senses.
“Have you ever heard of blood diamonds?” He growled low into my ear. “Don’t you understand? The Millers are being held hostage to fund a movement. The funds will be used to overthrow the government. The rebels are bloodthirsty and will slaughter everyone! Innocent women and children . . . it doesn’t matter to them. Two American men are not worth that price. They will not get the diamonds or the money.”
“And what happens to the necklace when you have it?”
“It will fund our army to hunt down the rebel group.”
“So . . . no engagement present?” Frankie asked, completely off topic and thankfully so. “That’s not right.”
Kamara pulled the knife away and stared at Frankie as if he was an oddity. Of course, I thought, it was never an engagement present. I bet it wasn’t stolen either. They wanted those funds just as much as the rebels.
“War costs money,” he stated. “Where’s the necklace? I won’t ask again.” The words were gritty and threatening.
“It’s being cleaned,” I said.
“Who has it?”
“Gwen. I don’t know where she is.”
“Search the house,” Kamara ordered.
Four men hurried out, leaving only Kamara and one armed man. The men in SWAT gear didn’t talk, they didn’t blink, they didn’t move unless ordered. They were military drones—and scary as hell.
It was only a matter of minutes when a scream pierced the silence. Gwen.
“I think we found the necklace,” Kamara said smugly.
Moments later, the four men returned with Gwen in their custody. They dragged her to a chair and tied her to it. One man held the necklace in his hand. It sparkled and twinkled like a beautiful ray of sunshine, not a weapon of war.
“Hello?” a man said from the front door. “I have your pizza. Do you know your door is broken?”
The delivery man stepped into the dining room and froze. One of Kamara’s men moved toward him. The delivery man dropped the pizzas and screamed. He bolted for the door, screaming as he fled.
“Let him go,” Kamara ordered. “We’ll be gone before he can find help. Give me the necklace.”
Kamara’s face twisted into a dark sneer as he inspected the necklace. “It looks like we won the war,” he said, slipping it into his pocket and then giving a hand signal to the men. They headed out the door, not giving us a second glance. Kamara paused on his way out. “We only came for the necklace and to stop the ransom payment. My men are trained assassins. We will not stop until our mission is complete. I will leave you in peace, but it is in your best interest not to give me a reason to order your termination.” With those final words, he walked out.
We were quiet, listening for sounds. Any sounds. Finally, an engine started and the vehicle sped down the road.
Mrs. Miller and Mya slumped over in full-body sobs. I wilted at the thought of David and Ian never coming home. I didn’t care what Kamara said. This wasn’t over. If we could pay the ransom, then that’s what we would do. I’d hate to fund rebels, but there must be a way . . .
Oh, my God! It’s perfect.
“Everyone scoot your chair to the person next to you. Back to back,” Remy said. “We can untie each other.”
Remy was the one closest to me. We scooted toward each other. As we fumbled with each other’s knots, Remy said in a hushed voice, “As soon as we get out, I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“If we can’t get to Greyson, we’re taking his hotel down. This isn’t over, Jet. Not by a mile.”
“I thought I was going to have to argue with you. I have a plan.”
“Tell me on the way. I don’t want Mya or Mrs. Miller to overhear.”
“Why not?”
“Look at them. They’re crying so hard they can’t see to walk straight.”
“It will give them hope. Right now, they don’t have any. The more hands on deck, the better.”
“Is that pizza I smell?” Muffin asked from the front.
“Muffin! We’re in the dining room!” Frankie called. “Help!”
Muffin stepped next to the fallen pizza and glanced around quizzically. “Is this some kind of party game?”
Chapter 23
We watched as Mrs. Miller walked to the front desk and asked for Greyson. The woman shook her head. Mrs. Miller smiled politely and took a seat in the lobby anyway.
Step one. Complete.
“Let’s get this plan in motion,” Remy said, surveying his SWAT team, which included Frankie, Muffin, Mya, and me. “Remember, stick to the plan!”
“I got this,” Muffin stated. “Just remember my Disneyland ticket you promised.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow.”
Muffin dashed inside. Her job was simple. Destroy and cause havoc.
“Frankie and Mya, you’re up.”
“I’m so nervous,” Frankie giggled as they slipped through the doors.
Remy and I watched as they stepped to the front desk. Frankie bellowed in a loud, furious voice, demanding that the hotel refund his money. Mya played along, though not nearly as loudly. I had to hand it to Frankie, he really knows how to throw himself into a role.
Mrs. Miller gave the couple a curious glance and then picked up a tourist magazine to leaf through.
Glass shattered inside the building . . . Muffin.
“It’s begun,” I said.
“We should see security any moment. You do realize we could all end up in jail.”
“Greyson won’t press charges once he knows.”
A security guard ran through the lobby as another crash sounded.
Mrs. Miller casually walked to the lobby restroom with the magazine tucked under her arm. A few moments later, she exited with a wisp of smoke trailing her.
“Steps two, three, and four are complete.” I smiled and watched Mrs. Miller resume her station in the lobby.
A window shattered above us, sending glass shards plummeting to the ground. Remy grabbed me and dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the jagged glass.
“Look out below!” Muffin shouted as objects launched out of the window. Everything from lamps to pillows were tossed. Nothing was left
behind. Not even the TV. The front entrance was littered with debris in under a minute.
“Is that my room she’s destroying?” I asked, plucking a T-shirt from the debris. Yep. My shirt. I groaned and dropped it back into the debris.
The fire alarm blared, sending staff and guests scurrying in every direction.
“Look,” I said, pointing to the reception desk. “The manager just picked up the phone. She must be calling the fire department.”
“The alarm goes directly to the fire department. She’s calling Greyson. I bet he’ll be here soon.”
Guests poured from the building and huddled in the parking lot, camouflaging Remy and me.
Frankie and Mya were still bellowing, Muffin was still tossing, and I was holding Remy’s gun. His spare gun. He’d bestowed the great honor upon me of letting me see where he hides his guns . . . in the trunk of his car. He’d emptied the spare gun of bullets before handing it over. We’re safe.
“Are you sure I need this?” I asked.
“Do you see any other way of stopping Greyson or Fiona? We need to separate them. The only way that will happen is with force.”
“Speaking of which . . .” I watched as a car pulled into the lot, blocked by the growing crowd of guests and staff. A wailing fire truck pulled in after the car. The crowd scattered to allow the fire truck closer access, giving the car closer access as well.
I glanced at the lobby one last time. Mrs. Miller was no longer there.
Remy put his hand on my shoulder. “Jet, it’s time to put on your crazy face.”
As Remy and I dodged scurrying guests and firefighters to Greyson’s car, I sent the text to Frankie, Mya, and Muffin to cease and scatter. Fiona stepped out of the car and had her eye on the hotel and fire crew. We surrounded Greyson before either of them knew what had happened.
“Remy?” Greyson asked, perplexed until he saw the gun. “Have you lost your mind?” he growled until I held a gun to his back.
“Don’t move!” I gritted.
Greyson stilled. Did he really think I was going to shoot him? I guess with both Remy and me masked in fierce scowls and wielding guns, one might never know.
“Tell Fiona to go ahead without you,” I ordered.
Cashing Out Page 19