Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller) (14 page)

Favreau gestured to the woman on stage. “You mean like dog face over there?”

“I’m sure some men find her very appealing. But if she isn’t your type, there are bound to be others on the island who are. A tourist, perhaps. There’s quite a selection this time of year, and they all have money.”

“The only money I’m interested in right now is Valac’s. Either he wants what I’ve got to sell or he doesn’t. Tell him I expect an answer by tomorrow.”

“I’ll be sure to relay the message,” the tall man said as he got to his feet. “We’ll be in touch again. Very soon.”

“You’d better be. Or competition or not, I’ll withdraw my offer and leave.”

The tall man gave him one last smile. “I’m afraid you might find it difficult to secure a flight, Frederic. You can certainly try, but I wouldn’t recommend it at this point.”

Favreau felt something stir in his intestines. “Is that some kind of threat?”

“Now why would we feel the need to threaten you? We all want the same thing, don’t we?”

He nodded to the other man and the two crossed the bar and exited.

When they were gone, Favreau let out a long, shaky breath, then flicked the hair off the rim of his glass, knocked the rest of his scotch back, and ordered another.

From his table across the room, Cooper watched Favreau down his drink and said into his comm mic, “Deuce, you out front now?”

“That, I am.”

“There are two guys coming your way, one tall, mid-to-late fifties, curly gray hair. The other mid-thirties, dark, looks like muscle.”

“I got ‘em, they just exited. The tall one looks a little familiar but I can’t place him. I’ll take photos for facial recognition.”

“I’m guessing they’re Valac’s men, so you’d better follow them.”

“I figured as much, but how can you be sure?”

“Because Favreau looks like he’s about to drop one in his pants. Once he leaves, I’ll catch a cab, see if I can keep up. But from the look on his face, I figure he’s done for the day.”

“You sure he isn’t done for good?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing exchanged hands. No money, no merchandise. So I think we’re okay.”

“Roger,” Deuce said. “I’ll be off comm for a while. Talk to you on the other side.”

Keeping his gaze on Favreau, Cooper touched the transmitter inside his pants pocket and sent a signal to Alex.
 

After a moment, she responded. “You rang?”

“How are things going back there?”

“Hunky-dory,” she said. “I’m babysitting a naked rock star, and the twit with the fancy glasses is banging around inside the ventilation system as we speak.”

“You’re in the
rock star’s
suite?”

“That would be a yes.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Favreau booby-trapped his door so we had to improvise.”

“Jesus,” Cooper murmured. “Warlock, are you on comm?”

“The twit with the fancy glasses is a little busy at the moment,” Warlock told him.

“Just give me an assessment.”

“All right, but you won’t be happy. I have limited choices up here, meaning one. I can snake a single cam into Favreau’s living room through the AC vent, but I don’t know how good the signal will be. He has some all-purpose jammers in place that’ve buggered up my equipment. Which means a compromised picture and little or no sound.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“I’m afraid it is. The vent is too small for physical access to his room and the rest of the vents are cut off.”

Cooper sighed. “We’ll just have to get you in there somehow.” He saw that Favreau had finished knocking back another drink and was climbing to his feet. “In the meantime, Target One is on the move, so unless he makes a stop, you’ve got about ten minutes to get that camera in place. I don’t want to chance him getting even a
hint
of what we’re up to.”
 

“Almost there,” Warlock said.

“Good. See you soon.”

Alex had hold of Warlock’s legs and was helping him climb out of the crawl space above the toilet—and trying to avoid the blinding sight of his butt crack in the process—when the snoring abruptly stopped in the bedroom behind them and the rock star groaned.

“Shit,” she said.

She left Warlock hanging and sprinted out of the bathroom, closing the door just as Liam Bellamy came awake.
 

He blinked groggily at her, his expression a mixture of drunken confusion and outright surprise. “Who the ‘ell are
you
?”

“You don’t remember? I’m insulted.”

He frowned and thought about it. “Did we shag last night?”

Alex swallowed a tiny bit of bile. Between Warlock’s butt crack and this guy’s almost hairless body, she was beginning to have her doubts about the UK’s male population. Surely they could do better than this.

She put on her best post-coital smile. “We did, and it was amazing.”

“Brilliant,” he said. “You up for another go?”

She almost choked. “Sorry. I have to get to work.”

He shrugged and wagged his fingers at the door. “All right, then. You can see yourself out.”
 

Without another word, he rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and was snoring again within seconds. Relieved, Alex pushed the bathroom door open, and found Warlock still hanging there, his pants threatening a plunge toward his knees.

Maybe agreeing to take this job hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

D
EUCE
FOLLOWED
THE
gray-haired man and his muscle-bound buddy as they drove several blocks then took a turn onto St. Cajetan’s only highway. According to his GPS, the road wrapped around the entire island, with only a single gap on the south side that would require a four-wheel drive to traverse. Not something in large supply around here.

Deuce kept a healthy distance from them, enjoying the view of the ocean as he drove, not particularly concerned about being spotted. His car looked like a hundred others he’d seen on the road today, and he doubted the gray-haired man or his buddy would notice him. He was just another tourist exploring the island.

The two men made no stops, keeping a steady pace until they’d traveled about thirty miles into a less densely populated area, where they finally turned onto a narrow road that looked very much like a long driveway.
 

Whatever it led to was hidden by dense tropical foliage.

Deuce sped past the turn, drove for a few seconds, then pulled to the side of the road and waited for the highway to clear before making a U. He headed back and came to a stop at a roadside fruit stand located only yards away from the driveway.

After cutting the engine, he grabbed his camera, and filed through the shots of the two men he’d taken outside the strip club. The muscle didn’t look familiar, but he was positive he’d seen the gray-haired man’s face before. He just couldn’t remember where.

He got out of the car and approached the fruit stand, which was manned by a local boy of about nine or ten. He raised the camera and kept the driveway in frame as he took several shots of the boy climbing off his perch and approaching with a plate of sliced mango. “You like a taste?”

“Sure.” Deuce fingered a slice and popped it into his mouth. Damn, it was good. Gesturing toward the driveway, he asked, “You have any idea where that goes?”

The boy nodded and grinned, showing him big white teeth. “Pappy Leo’s house.”

“Who?”

“Pappy Leo. King of St. Cajetan.”

Deuce realized he was talking about Leonard Latham, the billionaire who owned the island.

The kid pushed the plate toward him. “More?”

Deuce ate another slice and said, “Have you been up there before? To the house?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Pappy Leo asked me to bring him fruit. Paid me twice what I wanted. He’s a very nice man.”

“So what does the house look like?”

“Big,” the boy said. “Very big.”

Deuce gestured toward the driveway again. “And is that the only way in?”

The boy shook his head. “They have a service road in back. No trucks allowed this way.” He pushed his plate forward again. “The mango is good, yes?”

“Yes,” Deuce said after sucking down another slice. Probably the best he’d ever tasted.

“Will you buy some?”

Deuce tucked the camera under his arm and reached for his wallet.

“I do believe I will,” he said.

Deuce found the service road on a street full of rundown shacks at the rear of Pappy Leo’s estate. He parked the car in front of an abandoned lean-to and traveled on foot, stepping past a sign at the mouth of the road that read
PRIVATE. DELIVERIES ONLY
.

About a quarter mile in, he heard the echo of voices and the slam of a door. A moment later, an engine started and accelerated in his direction. He backed away from the road and hid in the underbrush as a van rumbled past, the name
ST. CAJETAN MAIL SERVICE
printed on its side.

When it was gone, he waited for a moment then returned to the road, and continued traveling along it until it widened slightly and began to rise up a small hill. He moved into the bushes again and worked his way to the crest of the hill, then crouched amidst a cluster of coconut trees and peered down toward a large white mansion that looked as if it belonged on a Southern plantation.

Though he saw no fence around the perimeter, there was a checkpoint manned by two uniformed security guards at the end of the service road.

He heard voices again and shifted his gaze. Three men sat at a table on a large veranda at the rear of the mansion, drinking beers as they talked.
 

Deuce raised his camera to study them more closely through the telephoto lens. The one facing him was the gray-haired man he’d been following. To his left was a man Deuce recognized from photographs—Leonard Latham, or, as the kid had put it, Pappy Leo. The man sitting directly across from them had his back to Deuce, but his gray-streaked hair was pulled into a ponytail.

Valac?

Deuce wished he could hear what they were saying.

He snapped off several shots of them, then trained his lens on the mansion and its lush grounds. He counted four exterior CCTV cams covering the courtyard and walkways and the lap pool at the rear of the house. He didn’t see any more guards, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. If ponytail really
was
Valac, Deuce didn’t imagine he’d go without protection.

As Deuce lowered the camera, the gray-haired man jerked his head up, looking in his direction.

Shit
, Deuce thought as he ducked out of sight.
 

Did he see the reflection of the lens?

Deuce heard a shout that sounded like a command, and the jungle around the mansion came alive as uniformed guards rushed out from behind trees and started toward him.

Son of a bitch.
 

Slinging the camera around his neck, he headed back the way he’d come. Fast.
 

Not wanting to chance using the road, he made his way through the underbrush, hacking at it with his hands to clear a path. He heard a radio squawk behind him, closer than he expected, and dove to the ground, rolling under the protection of a large bush as he reached toward the small of his back for the piece Cooper had given him.