Clive Cussler - Pirate

He drove around the corner, reasoning that there were a dozen or more restaurants in the area and someone would have to pop into a lot of doors to locate them. That at least would give them time to eat in peace.

The walk to the restaurant took about three minutes. If anything, it seemed even hotter now than it had when they left the rental lot. The high humidity level didn’t help.

Remi wiped a sheen of perspiration from her forehead, then ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail, the sunlight bringing out the vibrant auburn color. “What are the chances this place is air-conditioned?”

“In this part of town? I’ll be happy with a good working ceiling fan.” But when they entered the purple, stuccoed building, the lone ceiling fan didn’t seem to move much air.

A woman greeted them as they entered. Tall, with short dark curls cropped close to her head, she picked up two menus from the counter.

As suggested, Sam asked for Melia.

“I am Melia.”

When he mentioned Kemar’s name, it brought a smile to her face.

“Kemar?” she said in the same lilting accent. “A good man to send you here. Please, come this way. Our special guests sit on the patio. Much cooler, with the breeze that comes in from the ocean.”

Melia led them through the stifling dining room to a side door, then up a creaking, narrow staircase that led to a rooftop patio overlooking the street below. As promised, a cooling breeze swept in from the south.

She set out the two menus, both on the same side of the table facing out toward the rooftops of the neighboring buildings. “Much cooler beneath the umbrella.”

“Lovely,” Remi said, taking a seat.

Sam walked over to the edge of the second-story rooftop, eyeing the cars driving below. No sign of any white SUV or any suspicious-looking pedestrians milling about. Satisfied that they hadn’t been followed, he returned to the table, grateful that they were far enough back where they wouldn’t be seen by anyone walking on the street below.

Of course, that wouldn’t stop Avery’s men from doing a door-to-door search, should they happen to notice their rental car parked around the corner. Just in case, he took out a hundred-dollar bill. “Melia. Is it possible to warn us if anyone should come in and ask if we’re here?”

She pushed his hand away. “That is far too much for such a small favor. Keep your money, and I will be glad to tell you should anyone come looking. Now, what is it you’d like to eat?”

Sam picked up the menu. “What do you recommend?”

Melia smiled. “On the menu or off? You tell me what it is you like and I will see it done.”

Exactly the sort of restaurant they preferred. In short order, they were dining on jerk chicken — smooth, moist, and served with a fiery Scotch bonnet pepper marinade.

Melia returned before they finished, her dark brows etched with worry. “You said to warn you should someone come asking?”

“Yes,” Sam said, his gaze moving to the doorway. “What happened?”

“It is as you said. A white man walked in, asking if we have seen a man who would be with a beautiful woman with red hair.” She smiled apologetically. “We told them no. You can see for yourself.” She motioned for Sam to approach the balustrade, pointing down to the street. “There on the corner?”

Sam looked out, saw a short, broad-shouldered man, his back to them, talking on a cell phone. Unlike everyone else in the vicinity, who seemed to be wearing shorts or khakis and short-sleeved shirts, this person wore dark slacks and a leather coat. Jak. The same thing he’d been wearing when he robbed Pickering’s bookstore. A second man stepped out of a restaurant across the street, looked around, then made eye contact with Jak.

Sam stepped back out of view. “Any chance you have another way out of here?”

“The fire escape,” she said, pointing to the opposite side of the roof. “A ladder leading down into the alley.”

“Works for me,” Sam said. “Remi?”

“I’m in.”

He left several hundred dollars on the table, and Melia started to protest.

“Worth every penny,” Sam said. “Trust me.”

He walked toward the ladder, Remi right behind him. The alley looked clear. Even better, there were two large dumpsters, one on either side of the ladder, and he climbed over the edge, then waited for Remi. Once she was safely on the ladder, they started down. “Sorry about lunch,” he said as they descended.

“You realize that chicken was to die for?”

“But not worth dying for.”

“We’ll simply have to go back.”

“Let’s lose our tail before we start making plans.”

The ladder stopped about four feet off the ground. An easy jump for him. At the bottom, he waited for Remi — very much enjoying the view as she climbed down.

She noticed. “We’re running for our lives and you’re watching me?”

He grinned as he took her by the waist, helping her to drop the last few feet. “At least I’ll die happy.”

They stepped from the relative cover of the dumpsters. Remi looked both directions. “Which way?”

Good question. If Avery’s men just started their search from where they saw the rental car parked, they’d be heading to their left. “Right.”

At the end of the alley, he poked his head around the corner, then ducked back just as the white SUV turned onto that street. They’d be caught in seconds. On the other side of the alley, he saw several doors, the second one closed only with a screen, undoubtedly to let the breeze flow through the shop. “This way,” Sam said, running across the alley, hoping the screen door wasn’t latched.

Remi followed Sam into the building, the screen door clattering shut behind them. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior as they rushed down a hallway, its dingy white walls covered with a mix of graffiti and scrawled names and cities from past visitors. The beat of reggae music thrummed louder as they emerged into a barroom. Judging from the look of the rough clientele — Jamaica’s equivalent of a biker bar, Remi presumed — it was not the sort of establishment she and Sam tended to frequent. At least eight men and two women eyed them over the tops of their beer bottles. Most wore leather vests over sleeveless black T-shirts, their burly arms covered with tattoos, though some were hard to see against their dark skin. Remi smiled, hoping they weren’t being sized up as an easy mark.

Sam dug some money from his pocket, slapped it on the bar. “Drinks for the house, Mr…?” He gave a questioning look toward the bartender.

“Jay-Jay to my friends,” he replied in a melodious accented voice. “That amount of money, my good man, makes you one of them.”

Sam introduced himself, then extended his hand. The bartender shook it. “My wife will be safe here? I won’t be gone long.”

“Very safe. You have my word.”

Sam turned to Remi. “I’m going to see if I can get to our car. Back in a flash.” He walked to the front door, peered out, then left.

Remi glanced at the bartender, then his customers, who regarded her as they drank, and she told herself that Sam was very good at reading people — he wouldn’t leave her anywhere he didn’t think was safe.

Even so, she found it hard to sit and wait.

Alone.

Jay-Jay smiled at her. “Who are you running from, pretty lady?”

She swiveled around on the stool and faced him. His long dreadlocks were pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a black T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo on the front. His dark eyes held no malice, and she realized this was probably what Sam had noticed. “A couple of men who apparently think we’re better off dead.”