Bounty (14 page)

I
feel
like my heart is in a headlock. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. If Liam finally understood that he didn’t rape me — and I can’t believe he thought that — that he would… just somehow magically fall into my arms?

Instead, he’s acting weird. Standoffish. Even after the fun we had on the plane, he seems, I don’t know. Distant.

I don’t know why I thought a blowjob would change anything. We’re still in this shitty situation where we’re at the mercy of my gangster father, in the middle of nowhere and completely lost, and under constant surveillance.

It’s no wonder he’s acting a little strange.

I put on my favorite orange bikini, the one that makes me feel like a Bond girl. Who says redheads can’t wear orange? Then I get some towels to hit the sand.

The entire afternoon is an exercise in self-restraint. In studied innocence. In strange acting.

We have to act normal, relaxed, and cute for my bodyguard observers. Who, if I’m guessing right, are sizing Liam up for my father, and are meant to control our behavior as well as protect us.

But I also have fun joking around with Liam. He teases me, hops in the waves with me, splashes me. The sun on my skin, the salt, the sand — I adore the beach. And over and over I’ll spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes just enjoying his company at face value, relishing the warm weather, forgetting all the larger issues at hand, forgetting my… my heartache. My fear. My father.

Only to have it all crash down again. It’s fucking exhausting. And then I go quiet. And Liam, he asks if I’m okay, but he’s distant too, and we’re not quite connecting.

Even out in the waves, where I think, maybe we can talk candidly. They surely can’t overhear us here. But we don’t.

There’s nothing more to talk about, I guess.

On our way back to the hotel, just a two-hundred meter walk, since the resort boasts the best beach in the region, we bump into a man selling hats. Liam buys the biggest and most ridiculous looking one, and plunks it right on his head.

I can help but laugh.

“Yeah, definite dork,” I say.

Liam turns to the man selling it. “Quo pinensa usted?" He asks.

I don’t speak any Spanish, but it looks like Liam is trying to get fashion advice from the street vendor. I can’t stop giggling as they talk.

But then I hear the guy say something very distinctly: “Sí, Señor. Panama, correcto.”

“Panama,” Liam whispers to himself, then quickly glances at my bodyguards, who are a few dozen yards off. Liam stares into space for a second, and his face is completely unreadable.

“Liam?”

He snaps out of it, thanks the guy with a handshake, and we basically bolt back to the hotel. When we get to the front desk, Liam starts firing off in Spanish again, and I have no idea what’s going on.

“Liam, what’s wrong?”

He turns a bright smile on me, but I know him. I can tell it’s not real.

“Nothing, I’m just realizing that I haven’t done work in three days and it’s a Wednesday. Want to send a message to my employers.”

“Don’t you work remotely, anyway?” All I know is that he does some boring statistics contract work for the state government.

“Yeah, but I’ve been totally incommunicado. I just wanna get in touch.”

I’m not totally sure if my father will allow it, but I just wish him good luck and retreat to my room.

I wanted to invite him up with me, but… he seemed distracted. And the sex we’ve already had was probably a mistake, given the way this has to end. There’s no use in getting more attached, getting more obsessed with his body, his mind, the way his hands feel on my skin.

Yeah. No point in that.

I should probably just concentrate on covering up my bruises before dinner, so dad doesn’t flip out. There’s no way he won’t see the ugly marks on my face from… memories of the gloved hand clawing against my skin and pulling me back cause me to shudder.

Now I
really
wish Liam were still here.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that these… these flashbacks, sure, I can call them that, that they seem to happen less when he’s around.

I am such a mess.

And tonight I have to convince my father that everything is perfectly fine.

Great.

P
anama
. We’re in fucking Panama. I don’t know if I was wrong the first time, if I fucked up my geo-location, or if Sullivan moved, but I am not prepared for this.

Vicente and I didn’t prepare for this. I have nothing with me. No way to coerce Sullivan at all. I cast about the room for inspiration. What could I bring to dinner that could help me? There are knives for room service, but I’m sure they’ll search me again before letting me in the presence of Sullivan, and a knife tucked into my back pocket… yeah. Not great.

What else? I’m flying by the seat of my pants here.

But at least they didn’t take my little tracker stickers from me. Leaving them in my spiral notebook, one of the few things they let me keep, was a lucky break.

Someone at the hotel brings me a suit. How they knew my size, I have no idea, but it’s three-piece and looks pretty damn sharp.

Why would Sullivan bring me a suit? Some kind of power play? Or maybe just being polite, after taking all my clothes?

I try not to let it get to me, I’m just on edge after the clusterfuck this trip has already turned into. He may or may not be trying to get in my head — but even if I wasn’t secretly a bounty hunter trying to bag him, I’d be a nervous boyfriend, simply only knowing what April has told me about him.

Boyfriend. Wouldn’t that be much simpler.

I go down to the lobby to meet April, armed only with a small wrapped parcel, tied up with a bow made out of a bit of twine I found wrapped around one of the towels in my hotel room.

The ride to dinner takes longer than I expected. The sun slowly slips closer to the horizon, the light tilting further and further to the side, going from harsh white to a warm yellow to a bright copper-gold.

April looks amazing. Of course. I almost can’t look at her.

And her bruises and cuts are almost gone. I didn’t have quite as much luck on mine.

“You got any more of that makeup?” I ask her.

“Oh hush. You’re lucky,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“Injuries are sexy on a man. Women have to have perfect skin no matter what.”

“Aren’t you just hiding your —”

“Shh,’ she hushes me with a hiss and subtle gesture towards the driver.

“ — Blush?” I finish smoothly. “Since you’re so flustered to see me?”

She rolls her eyes, but then gives me a waggle of her brows.

We finally arrive at a tiny restaurant positioned on a sea cliff, and it’s not at all what I expected. I thought Sullivan would be dining somewhere fancy, somewhere black-tie, what with the suit and all. Lots of glass and delicate china.

But this restaurant is simple. Almost a shack, hanging halfway off the cliff side.

Before we’re allowed in, I get searched one more time. They find my little package, as I expected, but allow me to keep it after giving it a little shake. It’s obviously too small to be a bomb and not shaped right to be an obvious weapon.

“April’s gonna love it,” I say, trying to sound conspiratorial. One of the bodyguards even smiles, just for the briefest moment, as he hands it back to me.

When we enter through the front door, I’m hit by a waft of sizzling fish and rice. Something fruity, too. And the sea breeze, hitting us straight through from the source, because there’s no wall, no window, no screen blocking the interior of the restaurant from the ocean view.

And then there’s Sullivan himself. A man only seen in grainy security-camera footage from the FBI, but I recognize him immediately. Sitting alone at the only occupied table in the entire place.

Still, he’s not quite what I expected. I thought he’d be a bit larger, maybe balding, or even just thuggish in some way. Most of the men I deal with, in the end, are. But Devlin Sullivan, he’s something else. It’s hard to tell with him seated, but he doesn’t seem very big, yet he does seem cut, almost hungry – a predator that relies more on stealth than sheer force.

He doesn’t look that old, either. He has a long, sharp face with a strong jaw, just a bit of salt and pepper in his beard, and the kind of bright, intelligent eyes that always warn me a mark is going to be difficult to nab.

Yeah, that’s putting it mildly. A bodyguard in each corner of the room, a man like Devlin Sullivan, and April as potential collateral damage.

I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Sullivan stands, extending a hand to me. “Welcome! Welcome. Such a pleasure to meet ye, Liam.” His handshake is firm, warm. Friendly, even. “A good, solid Irish name.” His accent is more charming in person than it was over my hacked audio feed.

“It’s a pleasure, Mister…” I suddenly realize I don’t know what to call him, but luckily he interrupts me.

“You can call me Devlin, son,” he says. And I don’t know what I was expecting. Of course he’ll use his real name. Is this another head game? “Please, make yourself at home. So sorry about all of the security measures, I’m sure April made you aware of the situation.”

Ah. There it is. Friendly, yet slippery.

“It’s fine,” I say. Acting naive will be the best and only way to get through this, as tempting as it is to call him out.
The situation
, of course, being that he is a notorious gangster on the run from the law, and appropriately paranoid of bringing any strangers into his inner circle.

He nods, once. “But ye fill out the suit I bought ye, lad! Looks sharp.”

Yes. Definitely a demonstration of power. So friendly, so welcoming and generous. And so controlling.

No wonder April has control issues.

“Thank you.”

“And Fernando will see to it that you have everything you need there, lad.”

A waiter comes out immediately to take our jackets, pull out our seats for us, and bring us water. The service is like at any fancy place — immediate, accommodating, professional and unobtrusive. But maybe that’s out of fear. We’re the only ones here, and I know that’s not by accident. There won’t be any other diners tonight.

Fernando takes us through the fresh seafood options and the house specialties. He explains that it’s a family establishment, and how honored they are to have such distinguished guests.

Yeah. Definitely fear.

Without asking for our opinions, Sullivan chooses a few items and then orders what sounds to my untrained ear like an extremely fancy vintage of wine.

“Thank you, Fernando,” Sullivan says. Perfectly pleasant. But Fernando takes it as his cue to immediately retreat to the relative safety of the kitchen.

Leaving me as the central point of scrutiny.

“So what do ye think of my favorite restaurant in the world?”

“It’s lovely,” I say honestly.

“Favorite, eh? How come you’ve never taken me here, then, Da?” April asks, grinning at him, deflecting his attention. And, I notice, sounding just the tiniest bit more Irish than usual. It’s distractingly adorable.

“I have!” Sullivan defends himself. “You were six. It’s not my fault you don’t remember.”

And they’re off in an engaging patter of conversation that leaves me almost entirely left out. Their back and forth is enjoyable to watch. They’re clearly close, teasing each other, enjoying the same appetizers (I’m left with the crab cakes that they both deem “too British” to consume.) It’s clear this is a reunion long in coming — I seem to disappear from the room while they catch up.

Fine with me.

It’s actually fascinating to watch. She asks after his health, whether he’s eating right, doing his exercises. He asks after her clocks, with specific questions about specific pieces that shows his interest level isn’t just about laundering money. He seems to care about her art.

He cares about
her
. And not in a superficial, possessive way, the way some men in power care about their families: as a status symbol, as an item in need of curation, honor to defend. He cares about her as a person. Her likes and dislikes, her feelings, her needs.

And no matter how annoyed she seemed with him earlier, how willing to buck his control and hide from the bodyguards to plot with me, I realize I will never have her allegiance. Not from this man, who has cared for her for two decades, whose world clearly revolves around her.

The food is delicious, of course, though I notice there’s nothing that requires a steak knife. I see where April gets her control issues.

“April, darling.” The tone shifts, and Sullivan finally turns the focus back to us both as a unit, instead of just his daughter. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Dad, we already talked. I really don’t want to —“

“Liam?” He turns his gaze on me, and in his eyes I see a father in need of answers. I focus on this look, and overlay his criminal persona, and it’s like holding two fundamentally incompatible mental images, juxtaposed over one another. The father and the criminal.

To the father, I must answer honestly.

To the criminal, I must answer such that my response elicits more information, gets his guard down, and maybe just gives me the opening I need to make my move.

I take him through the story, using language that’s as plain as possible in order not to upset him, but it’s no use. It’s clear he’s getting angry all over again, particularly when I describe the way they manhandled her.

“She fought beautifully, sir,” I say, and glance at April. I’m sure she doesn’t like to be talked about like she isn’t there. “I didn’t mention it before,” I say to her, instead. “But you were so fast, you hit so hard. You’re a fucking fighter.”

“Goddamn right she is,” Sullivan agrees. “Goddamn right.”

“It wasn’t enough,” April says bitterly. “Dad, after all those years you encouraged me to take self-defense, to learn to shoot… it didn’t end up mattering. It didn’t help.”

“There’s nothing you could have done,” I interject. “There were four of them. Nobody could have —“

“You did,” she says, point blank.

“Aye, Liam, tell us how you did it.” For the first time, Sullivan looks suspicious. Open, but just the smallest bit wary.

“I’m honestly not sure, sir. It happened in a… a daze. Or maybe a rage is a better word. I’ve... You know, I’ve been in scraps before. I’m from Southie, after all.”

He gives a warm nod there.

“But I’ve never fought like that before. There was just something… when I saw them hurting April, I just lost it.” I shrug. “I really hurt my hand. And I think… I think at one point I picked up an old pipe. Added to my reach.”

Would I believe my own story? It’s the truth, after all. Mostly.

It’s just not the whole truth of who I am.

“Did you know you put two of them in the hospital?”

“No sir.”

“One passed away this morning. Brain hemorrhage.”

April looks horrified. I feel grimly pleased.

“Good,” I say, the truth coming out of me once again before I can control it.

This job is nothing but a constant blurring of the line between lies and reality. If I don’t inject as much truth as I can, it’s harder to keep track of all of the stories I make up.

“Yes,” Sullivan says, his face curling into a grimace of rage to match my own. “These thugs. Think they can get away with anything.”

The irony.

“Well, I apologize to you for any damage they caused. It’s my fault those men approached April in the first place.”

I’m shocked. I didn’t think he was going to discuss this.

He takes a deep sigh, looking for all the world like a troubled father.

“Some of my business practices step on toes. And I am very successful. April herself is very successful. These things combined can create a lot of anger in those who aren’t doing as well.”

“Yes, sir,” I keep it safe. Unwise to say more at this point when my anger at the irony is beginning to boil. The anger at the men who attacked April is starting to blur into the anger at her father for causing it. Our camaraderie has begun to curdle, our eyes laser-focused on each other, sizing each other up. He can tell there is more that I’m not saying, but whether he thinks it’s important at all is beyond me.

“You understand my drift, then. Being from the South End.”

“Aye, sir,” and it’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to sound Irish at all. I think it’s the right move.

“That’s a good lad.” He says, a condescending yet polite smile dawning across his face. But whether it’s antagonistic or genuinely pleased, I can’t say.

“Right, then. This is grim. Shall we turn to lighter topics for dessert?”

And just like that, I feel like I’ve passed some test. I’m in.

Now it’s just a matter of making my move.

As we wind down the evening with a little Irish coffee, my hand drifts to my package. Inside is an earpiece radio, nabbed from one of his bodyguards that got lax on the job. Easy enough to pickpocket for me. It’s tuned to a frequency that will be standard emergency protocol — if I get my hands on Sullivan, I will need help making it to the embassy. This isn’t part of the plan, Vicente said his team will be monitoring such emergency frequencies, just in case. But will they get a signal coming from Panama when they’re looking at Costa Rica? My only hope is that they’ve realized by now that I’m not in Costa Rica and are casting a wider net in their search for me.

Also nestled in the package is a particularly sharp fountain pen. Not an ideal weapon, but threatening enough when pressed into the jugular.

The wrapping paper is, of course, the tracker stickers. I place two on the back of my hands without looking. It’ll be easy enough to transfer them to my palm when I need them without looking suspicious. Now that Sullivan has proved he’s a handshaking type of man, it will be simple to get in a handshake goodbye.

And then there’s the twine. I tested it — it’s synthetic, not natural. Which means it’s unnaturally strong, as well. Long enough such that, tied correctly (and I know how to tie it correctly), it could keep a man’s hands bound behind his back.

From what I can tell, Sullivan is unarmed. As he should be, given the security he has around here. His main defense is the muscle in each corner of the room. And they do have guns, so this will have to happen as we’re making our way back through the door, when there is a log-jam of people, no more than one of them could get at me at a time, no sight lines to shoot without accidentally catching April or Sullivan in the cross-fire.