Hot-Blooded (23 page)

An extra fifteen to twenty million a year apiece would make him and Scott very happy men.

“You said you cut the plants and transported them. Where to?”

“A warehouse on the outskirts of Kula. We hung the cuttings from the rafters to let ’em dry for a couple weeks. The shit was everywhere, like a fucking jungle. There wasn’t enough room for all of it. Anyway, they called me back a week ago to help package the stuff. Had some deadline, I guess, so they gave me a little extra for getting it done quick.”

“Whatever they paid you, I’ll pay more.”

Green greed flashed in Pekelo’s already dilated pupils, and he half-smiled. Tipping up his bottle, he polished off the remains of the beer in a couple gulps, wiped his mouth on his arm, and said, “Let’s go.”

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot in five and follow you to the site. Gotta make a phone call,” Blake lied. Truth was, he didn’t want to be seen leaving with the guy, and he had less of a chance of being noticed in a poorly lit parking lot than a busy bar. Pekelo nodded and headed out the door.

Ten minutes later, Blake left the enclosed, safe comforts of laughter, camaraderie, and tinkling glasses in the bar and stepped into the wide-open darkness of uncertainty. Pekelo led Blake south on Honoapi‘ilani Highway toward Haleakalā, a dormant volcano and the tallest mountain on Maui.

The path to riches lay at the foundation of the House of the Sun.

Skin tingling and left foot tapping the whole way, he couldn’t stop thinking about what a slacker like him could do with the fuckload of money about to fall into his lap. New car. New house. All the drugs and babes he could ever—

Shit. Keahilani.

She was a steep price to pay for those luxuries. She’d never forgive him after the clusterfuck he was about to hit her with. Not
ever
.

But it wasn’t like they were a couple. Their relationship was based on sex and not a damn thing else.

And how is that different from any other relationship you’ve had in your life?

Not different at all. Exactly the same.

So, why did he keep reminding himself of how devastated she’d be tomorrow morning? Because he couldn’t bang her anymore after tonight? He could get pussy anywhere. If all that bound the two of them together was sex, why did he care? The cost of relationships fell way outside of his budget.

Not that he and Keahilani could ever be together, even if he wanted it. She was a closed-off, selfish she-devil who had probably never let anyone in past the gate between her legs.

He shook his head. Yeah, it was time to forget about her. Let her be pissed. When he was rolling in her dough and she begged for money on the street, he’d toss her a few coins and say, “Shoulda taken the deal while you had the chance, sweetheart.”

It would serve her right.

The phone rang, and “Jezzy” popped up on the caller ID. About damn time. “Hello, beautiful.”

“I got the info on the license plates from the other day and the phone numbers you gave me this morning.” Her clipped tone suggested she was distracted. Maybe irritated.

“Lay it on me.”

“Pāʻia. You get the details when my bank account shits enough golden doubloons to give a pirate a hard-on.”

“Time is of the essence here. I kinda need to take care of business tonight.”

“Then make it rain.” She hung up.

Blake stared at the words “call ended” and grunted. Why were all the women in his life such bitches?

New plan. As soon as he finished with Pekelo, he’d transfer the funds to Jezzy’s account. Assuming he could get cell service in the middle of East Bumfuck. Then he’d take care of Scott’s personal business and fly the hell away from Maui. By this time tomorrow, he and Scott would be popping champagne corks, smoking Cuban cigars, and finalizing plans for their hostile takeover of Pele’s precious farm.

Boo-yah!

Blake ignored the churning in his gut and the instincts flaring yellow caution lights in his chest. His nagging conscience warred with the promise of a rich future at the expense of something better.

Kea.
Always goddamned Kea.

She’s no good for you. And you’re no good for her.

Shadows converged on his car, staining the light black. The red taillights before him mimicked the eyes of a monster as Pekelo’s vehicle bounced over rough terrain. Out of nowhere, the gaping maws of angry tikis materialized and silently screamed at him to turn back.

“What the fuck?” Blake hit the brakes and slowed down. He blinked. Nothing but darkness. He hadn’t smoked any weed today and had only drunk one beer at the bar. Fine time for his mind to start playing tricks on him. He resumed his course.

Another grim face passed, and another. Uncontrollable shudders held his muscles hostage. He stopped the car and looked back. Not a damn thing there but the dead, imposing volcano. Blake’s pulse shot off at a full-blown sprint. Shit, he either needed to lay off the pot or start sacrificing to the Hawaiian gods to make amends for whatever he’d done to piss them off.

Shaking his head seemed to relieve him of the hallucinations.
Focus. You got business to do.
He toed the gas and caught up to Pekelo, who parked and got out. Blake would have to come back with somebody tomorrow to remove Pekelo’s car.

He switched off the engine and exhaled heavily, letting the stale air out as he marked the location in the GPS on his phone. Stuffing his knife in the back waistband of his shorts, he opened the door and eased out. He dipped his nose into the cool current that wafted over his skin like a threat and inhaled the rich scents of earth and cinder and weed and cold, black death.

This place gave him serious heebie-jeebies. Wrapping his arms around himself, he stamped his feet to generate a little warmth. It was colder than it should’ve been here even with the time of day and higher elevation. He wished he’d brought a hoodie, though somehow he doubted it would’ve helped.

“This is the place,” Pekelo said. He turned away and trudged through the thick brush, snapping twigs, pushing leaves, and ducking limbs.

Blake followed. The hairs on his arms lit up like a lighthouse, hypersensitive to every kiss of wind, every minute drop in temperature. Something red shot past the corner of his eye. Grabbing the hilt of the knife, he twisted his upper body right, ready to draw the weapon. Nothing was there. Maybe coming here at night wasn’t such a good idea.

Ahead of him, Pekelo seemed oblivious to whatever bullshit hallucinations tortured Blake. The guy was still as shifty as he’d been in the bar, but no more wigged out than the average tweaker jonesing for his next fix. Probably just wanted his money so he could blow out of here and score some more meth. Too bad he’d already snorted his last hit.

The pine-like smell intensified, and the vegetation thickened the deeper they plundered. After about ten minutes, they emerged in a recently culled field of shriveling marijuana stalks. Greed knocked fear off its pedestal, and under the cover of night, Blake slipped the knife from his shorts, keeping it behind him.

Pekelo scratched his head and faced him. “Can I have my money now?”

“About that …” Blake lunged at him. “No.”

One of the advantages of being cranked up on crystal meth was increased reaction time, but Blake proved quicker. He tackled Pekelo to the ground and punched him in the face a couple times. The guy struggled under him, howling, slapping, and kicking. Blake held him down with one hand as he lifted the knife over his head with the other.

“Don’t kill me!” Pekelo shouted, arm braced over his face to fend off the blows. Thunder broke nature’s silence. Or maybe it was the mountain rumbling.

He paused, unsure which threat was greater: letting this asshole get away or being eaten alive by tiki monsters summoned by a pissed-off extinct volcano. A vision of the goddess Pele rising from newly opened crags in the rock, surfing down the mountain on rivers of lava, filled Blake’s mind. Her eyes glowed red. Her hair raged like wild, bloody streams. Her skin ignited with the flames of vengeance.
I’ll make you pay for your transgressions.

Indecision paralyzed him.

“If you do this, Pele will find you, and she’ll kill you,” Pekelo blubbered, choking on a sudden spring of tears.

Sure enough, she would.

But she’d kill him regardless of what he did to Pekelo.

The choice was clear.

“Do you see her? Do you see Pele?” Blake craned his neck toward the mountain. The goddess—vision or reality, he wasn’t sure—continued her relentless trek toward him. Stomping bare feet shook the ancient rock. Brilliant lava oozed like an open wound from the sunken mouth of the peak. The next wave followed an explosive trajectory into the sky, striping the blackness with the red seed of its release.

He turned back to Pekelo and barraged him with another round of punches. “DO YOU SEE HER?” The muscles in his neck pulled tighter than wires under the strain of his scream. He didn’t care if he sounded crazy. Real or not, she was coming for him. He had to know if he was losing his mind.

“I don’t see shit, man!” The tweaker’s face was a mess of pulpy flesh. He dropped his arms to his sides and shook his head back and forth. “Don’t see anything. Let me go … Please …”

Another rumble, this one deeper than the last, pounded Blake’s eardrums. Time to fly.

He brought the knife down hard until hilt kissed ribs. Pekelo’s eyeballs bugged out. His body choked. His mouth opened with a failed cry that drowned in his lungs as the severed artery exchanged the air within for blood.

The only time Blake had ever experienced true remorse had been with Jonathan. Even his first kill didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have. But the reflection of Pele’s eruption blaring in this guy’s dying eyes elicited something far worse. The twitchy tingle of skin meeting fate. A deal drafted in blood and sealed with soul. Whatever was happening, this shit was bad.

Blake’s hand trembled, but he held the knife in place—held Pekelo’s dimming gaze before him in an unbreakable visual lock—until the last glimmer of occupancy faded into vacancy, and the body expelled its final breath.

When it did, the vision ended abruptly—except for the swirling red form spinning upward from the corpse. Spirit, soul, life force—whatever you wanted to label it, the ghostly image coalesced into the shape of a frightening tiki, eyes wide, mouth agape with a freakish snarl for a second before dissipating into nothing.

Blake gasped, shoulders heaving. He’d been holding his breath. He climbed off the body and sat on the ground beside it. Reluctant to look back at the mountain, he did anyway. Nothing but jagged outlines and hints of white clouds grayed by night. No tiki men. No steaming lava. No pissed-off volcano goddesses. Just him, a dead guy, and a massive, empty field, fragrant with the scent of freshly cut marijuana.

Shaking, he dropped his knife to the dirt and grabbed a fistful of hair. “You’re losing your fucking mind, Murphy.” When he lowered his hand, something dark caught his attention. He studied his skin under the anemic light of the half moon. Blood. Everywhere.

Well, of course he’d be covered in it. He just drove a hunting knife through a man’s chest. He staggered to his feet and assessed the damage to his clothes. Most of the blood landed on his hands and arms, but there were several obvious splotches on his shirt and shorts. Good thing he brought all manner of cleaning supplies and a change of clothes to every gig.

Getting rid of the body would be a little more problematic than making himself presentable. He checked his watch. Eleven already. Lui said he’d call when he heard about the meeting with Pele. Maybe he’d forgotten? Or maybe shit went south.

“Come on, asshole. You got a body and a car to get rid of, an assassination to execute before bedtime, and blood all over your clothes.” He shut off access to the whiny bitch portion of his brain and shifted into hitman mode.

First things first. The body. Wearing a pair of gloves from his rental, he emptied Pekelo’s pockets of keys, a few coins, and an empty wallet. No phone to be found anywhere on his person or in the car. It wasn’t surprising. The guy had probably sold off most of his shit, including his cell, to feed his addiction. No phone meant nobody could use GPS to track Pekelo or locate the farm. Perfect.

Disposal of the corpse would be tricky. Couldn’t put it in his rental. That would be tied back to him. So, into Pekelo’s trunk the dead guy went, along with the cleaned-off murder weapon. Blake had a spare hunting knife in his glove compartment for the hit later
.

Once the body was safely stowed, he locked the car. He’d come back tomorrow with one of Scott’s cleaners and tie up the loose ends. Jesus, Scott was gonna be so fucking happy.

Next on the agenda: his own cleanup. He peeled off his shirt and shorts and used baby wipes from his trunk to get rid of the blood on his skin. Then he donned a fresh set of clothes—the old ones were chucked with the wipes and gloves into a plastic bag for incineration later.

The dirty part of his job complete, he climbed into his rental, accessed his PayPal account from the phone, and sent over Jezzy’s payment. He forwarded her the confirmation email. Should hear back shortly.

He was in the middle of texting Scott when the phone rang. Lui. Finally.

“Lui. You have good news for me?”

“Thirty minutes. I’m on my way.”

“Don’t worry about getting the location of the farm. Just keep ’em busy as long as you can, and then give ’em the shaft.” He needed plenty of time to get to his destination and had a few stops along the way.

“Ooh, I like shafts. I’m bringing a boom box and planning to dance the can-can for them. You think they like pink? I bought a new petticoat for tonight’s special occasion.”

Blake shuttered his lids tight. “Keep your hands to yourself, Lui.”

“Fine. I’ll save these fat little sausages for you, Blakey. Muah!” The line went dead.

Propping an elbow on the steering wheel, he dropped his head in an open palm. Everything was under control on the outside, but after the weird visions, a shitstorm of guilt raged within. The trophy he’d busted his ass for all these years was within his reach, but he had to give up a woman he cared about—yeah, it was time to admit he
did
care about her—to cross the finish line.