Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (17 page)

“How’s he going to know?” Amos grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

“I think he’s having me watched.”

His eyes widened. Wheels turned. “What is he, a mobster or something?”

She tilted her head side to side in a neither yes or no gesture. “Something.”

Amos stared at her for a moment and then sputtered over a nervous laugh. “Hey, no swing no foul, right?” He let his arms drop away from her. Whatever gruesome retaliation he imagined was probably more effective than anything she could invent.

“I guess that’s tough on you,” he said. “Having to toe the line. Even when he ain’t available to…you know.” He hip-thumped her, as if she needed a demonstration.

She gently pushed him away and moved out from behind the stairs. “It is rough. I hope you understand, Amos. Nothing personal.”

He winked at her. “Gotchya.” 

                                          17

In Charlotte Amalie, Mercy tucked a brief report for Margaret Storey under the waterside barstool at Tickles. It still seemed odd not to just text a message, but she supposed Red Sands’ concern over electronic surveillance and keeping an ultra-low profile made sense. Next, she returned a call from Clive Boyle, the yacht broker, who suggested he show her a couple more yachts. She told him she thought she’d found one she liked but it wasn’t for sale.

“Do you know the builder and model name?” he asked. “I can get you mechanical specs, floor plans of the decks, everything you need to make a decision including upholstery choices. If you want a twin of the one you saw, I can order it for you, as long as it’s not a one-off. Even if it was custom made, I can probably track down the designer. You could get something similar built for you.”

A detailed map of the interior, she decided, might come in handy. She described the Bellamy yacht and told him where to find it so he could check it out. “Don’t bother the owner or crew though. I’m sure you can track down a model number once you see the boat. How soon can you get me the plans?”

“I’ll fax them to the Ritz before the end of the day,” he promised.

After returning to the hotel that afternoon, Mercy tried to rest in her room but she felt as if her body was running in high gear. Soon, as she stretched out on her bed, her mind raced with disturbing images of her mother. She envisioned the photograph that had come to her weeks ago from an unknown source. In it the wasted, helpless skeleton of a woman sprawled, shackled to a filthy mattress. Mercy’s chest tightened and she began hyperventilating in response. This same image had meant many a sleepless, ceiling-staring night. She couldn’t stop thinking about Talia. And now she feared she’d lost Sebastian too by refusing to stay in Washington as he’d asked.

Finally, she gave up trying to nap and changed clothes, opting for cropped white cotton pants and a breezy gauze blouse, perfect for the cooler evening temperatures. She flung around her shoulders a crocheted shawl the color of red hibiscus blooms then strolled down the hill from the Ritz-Carlton toward Red Hook. The waterfront was crammed with old wharves, and warehouses that probably stood where 18th-century privateers had once unloaded their loot. Immense rust-red cranes waited to unburden ocean freighters that lumbered into the port. It was a place of sweaty labor, not at all a scenic tropical wonderland—and not a place meant for tourists. But these were the shipyards where the mysterious, and as yet unseen, Agent Sea Turtle was supposed to be hanging out.

In her impatience to move the mission forward, and since he hadn’t presented himself to her, Mercy decided she’d hunt for him. Arriving at the bottom of the hill, she peered through chain-link fencing at a collection of elephantine container ships floating in the harbor. Their hulking black shapes were silhouetted against a glorious tangerine sunset. Only two ships appeared to be tied up to the wharf. The rest were secured to mooring balls on either side of the channel, awaiting their turn for unloading. Halogen lights mounted throughout the yard spotlighted men moving like industrious insects, hooking up cranes to crates that she imagined weighed hundreds of pounds if not tons. Apparently, work continued through the night.

Anything could be in those containers, she thought. Anything at all―even millions of dollars’ worth of opals.

If the precious Australian mineral had come to port here, by way of either ship, how would the rocks pass customs’ inspection? With the help of a hefty bribe? She knew customs agents would already have boarded the Bellamy yacht the day it arrived. They would inspect Amos’s and his wife’s passports and the ship’s registration—that was
de rigueur
for private passenger ships. But they wouldn’t normally search the entire boat unless the agent in charge became suspicious. Margaret had implied that knowledge of the gemstones’ possible arrival in the VI hadn’t been shared with local law enforcement. Was Red Sands afraid that local officials might be corrupt and involved in the crime? Might warn off Bellamy or whoever had possession of the opals?

She continued strolling around the outside of the perimeter fence, brushing strands of hair out of her eyes as the sea wind whirled around her. She took from her purse a compact pair of night binoculars and read off the ships’ names: ARUBA II, THE VICTORY, CRYSTAL COAST, MORAVIA. And, barely visible because it was moored far out in the middle of the harbor, SEAFARER.

Her pulse skipped, danced. She smiled. The second Aussie ship had arrived! But where was her supposed partner, Sea Turtle? Whoever he was, he was proving to be as slow in making himself known as his namesake. It made no sense to her that Geddes hadn’t given her a photo of him.

Mercy hiked up a long hill bordering the fence line. She came to a row of crude shanty cafés, thrown together from what looked like weathered boards that had drifted in on the tide. Some roofs were palm thatched, others sported corrugated iron sheets flaking rust. Strings of bare light bulbs illuminated makeshift patios—rickety folding chairs and metal tables set on cement slabs. Faded canvas umbrellas, folded like batwings for the night, tilted over a few tables. Hand-lettered signs hung over a few establishments that were in better condition. But nowhere did she see any attempt to entice tourists into the bars.

Swallowing over a nervous lump in her throat, she chose
The Love Shack
.

The patio side of the structure was open to the sea breeze. The closer she got to the wobbly walls, the less they seemed capable of standing up to a serious wind.

Inside, the décor featured old fishnets, green blown-glass bobbers, faded wooden floats, and a few broken fish traps. No gracefully leaping swordfish graced the walls as in the more elegant establishments on the island. A rough bar, barely five feet long with two steel stools pushed up to it, was populated by a few locals. All male. They looked as though they’d just come off of their shifts on the docks. Or they might be foreign sailors.

The skin tones of laborers in the islands, she’d noticed, ranged in color from the deepest of African ebony to Eurasian ochres and Norwegian ivory. Her artist brain automatically translated the marvelous variety of flesh hues to pigments she’d select from her box of creamy pastel sticks, if she were painting this scene.

“Miss?” A wiry, gray-haired bartender eyed her doubtfully.

“Do you have something cold and fruity?” She remembered a luscious drink she’d been served at the hotel—a frosty glass, plastic sword thrust through cubes of fresh pineapple, mango and cherries. Her waiter had said it was a traditional island favorite. “A pineapple-rum swizzle?” she ordered.

The bartender stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. Right, she thought. This isn’t the Ritz. “A rum cola then?”

He nodded, plucked a glass from a row beside his tin sink. The glass looked to be still milky with soap residue—at least she hoped it was soap. He slopped a scant inch of amber rum into the bottom then topped it off with cola from an already open can. No ice.

Mercy slid coins across the bar to him, which he accepted without offering change. She sipped from her drink. The brown liquid was as tepid as the evening air; the carbonation had died hours ago. She sensed the bartender watching her.

She smiled up at him meekly. “Thanks.”

As Mercy turned back toward the harbor view, considering the wisdom of drinking any more of her tasteless beverage, she glimpsed movement. A figure stepped back into shadows at the rear of the bar. She’d only caught a quick look. It took a moment for the familiar shaved head and anvil jaw to register. Her breath caught in her throat. Her stomach clenched.

Yegorov?

She imagined his eyes glowing like heat-seeking missiles, fixed on her from his hiding place. She hadn’t thought about him in days. Margaret had reassured her that the possibility of running into the man in the islands was miniscule. But now she wondered if it really might be the Russian.

Abandoning the bar and her drink, she moved out from beneath the thatched roof and weathered plywood walls. She walked quickly, aware of dark-skinned men loitering in front of other shanties. They sat on the ground, smoking and drinking, following her with their eyes. All strangers, they had no reason to come to her aid if she were attacked.

Her hope was to find an entrance into the shipping yards and throw herself on the mercy of a security guard. With a bit of luck one who was armed.

Even the subtlest sound seemed amplified in the night. The chirps of night toads, the slosh of seawater against the dock’s pilings, the ever more frantic patter of her heart in her chest.

How the hell had Yegorov found her?

Doesn’t matter,
Mercy told herself. He was here.

She plunged on into the night, her strides lengthening. She tried to remember drills they’d practiced at camp, techniques for losing a shadow. But a professional killer wasn’t just a watcher. He would have come with one purpose in mind. Her spine prickled, as if her body sensed him behind her even though she couldn’t see him. She changed direction three times, zigzagging away from the long line of industrial fencing, between low buildings with peeling walls, through hard-scrabble yards. Hoping to lose him.

Her stomach cramped with tension. Each breath she drew seared her lungs as if she’d walked into a furnace. But she didn’t dare run for fear the slapping of her feet would give away her location. As long as she kept to a walk, she could move almost soundlessly.

Sweat dripped down her forehead and into her eyes, stinging, clouding her vision as she looked around in desperation. If she could just find a damn gate! With a fortune in cargo shifting off of and onto ships, there had to be a formidable security detail.
Shit!
Maybe she should just make a run for the Ritz. How far could it be? Less than a quarter of a mile?

She’d text Margaret from the hotel lobby where there were bound to be plenty of people as witnesses. Surely she’d be safe enough there until help arrived. It wasn’t the method of contact they’d agreed upon, but what good would leaving a stupid note under a bar stool do her tonight?
Ridiculous!
If Red Sands expected her to work for them, they’d have to get rid of the Russian goon once and for all.

She glanced over her shoulder again. Saw nothing moving behind her and turned back toward the hotel with a sense of relief. But it was a short-lived reprieve from worry; not twenty feet ahead stood her nemesis.

Yegorov lifted his fleshy lips in a grotesque smile.

                                          18

Mercy fell back a step even as she saw the Russian's hand come up from his side with a gun in it. Her brief firearms training triggered a name. Kalishnikov. Semi-automatic. Deadly at close range.

This was pretty close.

Mercy threw herself into a woody hedge beside the path. Thorns caught at her shawl, pierced her thin cotton pants and the flesh beneath. But the thick foliage gave her coverage as she forced her way through the tangle of branches.

A soft pinging sound, and wood chips flew out of the trunk of a tree inches from her head. Heavy shoes struck the ground like a volley of cannons, and then crunched through the ground cover and jungle-like growth behind her.

Too close…too close!
a voice in her head warned.

She burst out on the other side of the hedgerow, scrambled to her feet and ran, streaking toward the bright-white lights of the commercial harbor. Stevedores, guards and foremen must be working there. She would throw herself on their mercy.

Almost immediately, she saw the gate she’d been looking for earlier. But no guard. And the gate was closed and padlocked.

Grasping the rusty wire mesh, she shook it and shrieked. “Help! Someone, help me!” Nothing. A glance over her shoulder—Yegorov had negotiated the thicket and was closing in on her.

Her heart in her throat, Mercy sprinted away, gasping for air that seemed too thin, too depleted of oxygen to sustain her.
Keep moving!
Bull’s voice.
You prima donna. You wimp. You fuckin’ princess!

She pumped arms and legs—flesh pistons—leaving Yegorov more precious yards behind, buying herself time to find another gate and help. Workers had to get in and out somehow.