there. I have no idea what lies ahead for us in the next hours or days, but we’ve got to find a way to make peace or go our separate ways.”
Hunter’s silhouette puffed up in the darkness. “You want to tell me what I’ve done to turn you into such an asshole?”
“Try showing a little respect,” Jonathan replied. “We are, after all, saving your lives.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” Hunter puffed up even bigger and took a half step closer. “So far, all I’ve seen you do is take lives.” He looked like he might throw a punch. How entertaining would that be?
“Not here,” Gail said. “And certainly not now. There’s too much to do.”
“Like what?” Hunter pressed. “We’re walking through the dark after killing people whose friends are going to be very pissed off when they find out. What are we going to do? Hide?”
“Not a bad start,” Jonathan said.
“Pretty goddamn cowardly for a guy with two guns,” Hunter said.
Jonathan felt his control slipping. The C-word wasn’t often slung at him, and it pulled the pin on his rage grenade.
“Definitely not the time or place,” Gail repeated. To Hunter, she said, “Believe me when I say that. If you and Lori want to head off on your own, you’re welcome to do that. But this bullshit dick-knocking has to stop. Now.”
Jonathan’s head whipped around to Gail. Did you just include me in that dick-knocking comment?
Yes.
They’d known each other long enough that they really could communicate without words. Even in the dark.
The radio broke squelch on Jonathan’s shoulder, and a panicked voice said, “Break, break, break, we have an emergency.”
With a singsong tone, Jonathan said, “I bet I know what this is. . . .”
“Who is this?” a voice said. “And remember radio protocol.”
“This is India, in Sector Eight. Hotel and Foxtrot are both dead. Their killers are missing. Bungalows Nine and Ten.”
“That’s us,” Hunter said.
He’s fast on his feet, that one, Jonathan didn’t say.
“Are you sure they are missing?” the other voice asked. “Have you checked for bodies?”
“Alpha, you don’t understand,” Delta said. “Hotel and Foxtrot were killed by an expert. With a knife.”
After a long pause, Alpha said, “Return to the Plantation House. Bring our men’s equipment and weapons with you.”
“That’s a problem,” Delta said. “Their equipment and weapons are all missing.”
* * *
Tyler’s friend Jaime Bonilla was nothing if not organized. Sometimes annoyingly so. But now, as Tyler fumbled through the darkness, he sent up a prayer of thanks to Jaime for being such an OCD pain in the ass. He moved in the dark with confidence that the center aisle would be clear. He knew without a doubt that the heavy black flashlight that Jaime used to illuminate his work would be right where it belonged, in its charger, mounted to the first rack of metal shelves on the right. And it was.
Tyler lifted the light out of its keeper, placed his palm over the lens, and pressed the switch. He didn’t want a lot of light, but he wanted enough to be able to see what he was doing. At this point, he’d reached the end of his initial plan, which was simply to get out of the terrorists’ view. He wanted to buy some time and some anonymity, but both of those would run out soon. How long could it possibly take before they realized that they had two more sets of identification than they had people signed into the hotel?
And how much hope should he hold out that Annie would keep his secrets? Especially after he’d dumped her. But hey, it’s not like he didn’t offer to bring her along. Still, he felt like a shit for leaving her.
Past was past. Now that he’d given the crazy guys with guns a reason to execute him on sight, he needed to focus on the business of staying out of sight.
He needed to put distance between himself and the attackers—and the sooner, the better. There was a section of old houses—shacks, really—on the back side of the island that the construction workers used while they were building the resort. He doubted that tonight’s assholes would know anything about them. It wasn’t like Baker Sinise put the shantytown in the brochures that sold accommodations for a gajillion bucks a night.
The original roads from the shantytown to the resort had mostly been converted to hiking trails. These now veered away from the old housing to take exploration-minded visitors through the rain forest to the bamboo forest, and finally to the gem in the Crystal Sands’ crown: the ninety-foot waterfall. This was reached through a backdrop of spectacular flowers whose names Tyler could not have guessed on a multiple-choice quiz.
As he visualized the overgrown roadway in his mind, his gaze shifted to the other end of the maintenance room. He could almost see the Peg-Board to the right of the door, where he knew he would find the keys to every one of the golf carts—the bell staff called them “tycoon taxis.” The carts conducted guests from the check-in desk to their rooms, and later to just about anywhere they wanted to go on the property. Two of them would be parked under the porte cochere in front of the Plantation House, but the other six or eight would be pulled into the squatty pole barn that was hidden from curious eyes. The keys were kept locked up because kids came to the island with their parents, and kids were born with the ability to sniff out joyrides that never ended well for the equipment involved.
Keeping his fingers across the flashlight’s lens, he made his way to the door and scooped all of the keys from the board and into the front pocket of his khakis. You never knew which cart would be parked in front and which would be blocked in. Plus, why make it easy for the terrorists to get around?
Jaime had installed a heavy-duty dead bolt on the back door because it was so secluded from view, and he worried about vandalism. Tyler couldn’t remember seeing Jaime use the door even once. Well, there’s a first time for everything.
The bolt slid smoothly from its keeper, and the knob turned easily. Tyler pulled on the knob while pushing with his shoulder to keep the door from bursting open or squealing on rusty hinges. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when the heavy steel panel pushed open with only the faintest whisper of a scraping sound.
He killed the flashlight as soon as the door was open, and peeked out with one eye through the tiniest crack he could manage. The wash of the pool lights provided enough illumination for him to see where he was going, which meant that there was enough illumination for others to see him going there.
He widened the opening just an inch or two at a time and scanned the full range of his vision over and over again. He could hear the movements and muffled conversations of the prisoners and their captors, but saw no faces. Back here, he was easily ten feet below the level of the pool deck, making the shield of the shrubbery even more effective. When he finally stepped clear of the doorway and still saw no one, he decided that his greatest enemy now was noise. He watched the placement of his feet as he moved down the sidewalk toward the pole barn with the tycoon taxis.
To his left, the
