Fuck, what was I doing?
It was too late. Gus was probably somewhere on the beach, heading to the house like a lost beachcomber and without a diversion, Ellie’s chances of getting out of there would get a lot more difficult. I had to keep going. One foot in front of another. A gun tucked in my jeans. A new weapon in my backpack.
I walked down the bend of his driveway, past moody, weeping trees and went straight for the front door. Half of the house at the back was on stilts, leaving a spot big enough to park two cars – the black SUV being the only one there – and to the side a stone walkway led to the front door, trimmed by flowering pots. It was surprisingly well-maintained.
I stopped on the low stoop and fought the urge to hesitate. If they were gang members worth their salt, they’d already have spotted me and were watching my every move. If I looked to the window to the side of the door, I’m sure I’d see the venetian blinds move. But I was there to see Dana and no reason to cast a suspicious eye upon the house.
Seeing there was a doorbell, I rang it, a loud chime that nearly made me jump out of my shoes. I had to, had to, had to watch myself. I needed to do this for her sake, my sake, Gus’s sake.
Be cool.
The door opened and a short Hispanic man appeared, dressed casually in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. Did we even have the right house? He didn’t look to be much older than me and his posture was relaxed. The only thing that gave me a hint right away was the fact that he had a bandage across his temple, the area red and raised.
“Can I help you?” he asked. He was polite too, though I detected a hint of suspicion in his tone.
I smiled. “Hi, is Dana home?”
He frowned. “Dana? No.”
“She does live here though, right? 425 East Beach?”
The man crossed his arms and I got a glimpse of some pretty bad-ass tribal tattoos on his biceps. I could take him, easily, but he’d put up a good fight. He leveled his stare at me. “This is 425 but there is no Dana here. Sorry.”
He was about to close the door when I raised my hand to stop him. A ballsy move but I wanted to make sure Gus had enough time.
The man eyed my hand, then fixed his eyes on me. He didn’t look relaxed anymore. He looked annoyed. I was pressing my luck.
I kept grinning like an idiot, like I wasn’t picking up on the obvious signals he was giving me. “Do you know if there’s a Dana in the neighborhood? She’s supposed to offer computer services.” I patted my backpack. “Got my laptop right here.”
“All I do know is that if you don’t get the fuck out of here right now, I’m going to break your balls with my foot.”
I let my smile fall because that’s what anyone would have done. I was half-tempted to break his balls. Instead, I raised both hands as a peace offering and gave a meek, “Sorry man, sorry,” while backing away.
The man didn’t move. He kept staring at me. I started thinking, maybe, just maybe he already deduced something about me, maybe something was given away.
Then I heard a gunshot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELLIE
“So, how would you like to kill Travis, Ellie? A bullet to the head or something more subtle?”
I turned and glared at Raul. It was day two at sea and the massive yacht was already starting to feel too small. I was alone only in my cabin. Everywhere else I went it was either Raul, or the other guy, or one of the crew boys. Unlike the other two, the crew boys were nice enough and kept their distance lest they incur the wrath of Javier, but I could tell they were watching me. Little matching spies all in black.
Oddly enough, Javier hadn’t been around a lot. Most of the time he was at the helm of the ship, even though one of the crew boys seemed to be extremely adept at handling a sailboat, even one of this size. Javier always had a thing for control, but I started to get the feeling he was avoiding me. It was somewhat unwelcome and I couldn’t figure out why.
“Who said I’m killing Travis?” I shot back at him and took a large, medicinal gulp of my wine. I had been sitting in the “theatre lounge” area, hiding out from the relentless sun and trying to occupy my frazzled mind with books. The peace didn’t last long. Raul had sat down across from me, leaning back in the seat, one leg crossed, drink in hand. His eyes had gotten extra lecherous, even though I was wearing breezy pants and a flowing peasant top. His eyes were so much more intrusive than Javier’s.
Raul tipped his chin down and smiled. “I suppose you think Javier will be the one to do it, that you’re just the trap. The bait.”
“Something like that,” I muttered and looked down at the book I was attempting to read, Stephen King’s Duma Key. It seemed fitting, the storm and boat on the cover.
“Doesn’t that bother you,” he continued, “knowing he only sees you as a pawn.”