Chapter 37
Remi opened the door to the wooden deck and saw the duffel bag where Everett had told her it would be.
The black canvas sat near the edge by the stairs, half-hidden beneath the shadow of a palm leaf, ordinary enough that she might have missed it if every muscle in her body hadn’t been tuned to find it.
An hour earlier, the satellite phone had rung.
For one sharp second, she’d dug it out of the closet and stared at it. She had turned it off after she’d used it to call her dad. She was certain. If it was on and ringing, that could only mean one thing.
Everett was trying to reach her, and it was important.
She answered the phone and heard Everett’s voice.
“Duffel bag arriving on the deck in one hour. We move tonight.”
The line went dead.
The abrupt call sent a wave of dread through her.
He was changing the plan they’d discussed only hours ago before he’d left to deliver the theory about Donald Eastman to Chief Brown.
Something had gone wrong. Maybe the police chief hadn’t believed him.
Maybe more planted evidence had been discovered to solidify the frame job against her.
Whatever it was, she wasn’t safe here anymore.
The cops were coming after her.
The hour had passed with brutal slowness.
She’d waited until the minute he’d given her, then opened the door and spotted the bag.
She hadn’t heard a sound all afternoon. No footsteps crossing the deck, rustling of the trees, or shift in the shadows to prove anyone had been there.
She knew the men of Stingray Security were good. She didn’t realize how damn good.
Remi clutched the handle and walked across the deck to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Dropping to her knees, she unzipped the bag and peered inside.
Black leggings lay folded on top with a long-sleeved, hooded black shirt. Thin metallic strips crossed the fabric in strange, deliberate lines. Beneath the clothes sat a Glock 9mm in a padded sleeve.
Her breath caught at the sight of it.
Everett had taught her to shoot when he’d been reassigned to the Palmchat Islands by the DEA, back when he’d decided loving her meant making sure she could defend herself even if he wasn’t there.
He insisted she learn the feel of the weight, the discipline of the grip, and the way to breathe through recoil instead of flinching from it.
He told her to go to the range every few months to keep her skills sharp.
She had done it religiously, even after she married Bobby.
She lifted the weapon and saw a folded paper beneath it.
Putting the gun aside, she unfolded it with care and stared at the drawing etched inside.
She recognized it instantly. It was the view from the wooden deck down to the black sand beach, the same view she stared at every morning from the table tucked in the shadows.
The bungalow had been marked with a thick X.
From there, a route was highlighted through jungle beacons that she could picture with her eyes closed.
The end of the map was of an area she hadn’t seen before.
An alcove near the edge of the black sand beach.
She knew she could get to the beach on the map and prayed the alcove would be obvious once she got there.
Beneath the drawing was one last message, written in Everett’s neat handwriting.
Pick up in thirty minutes.
Her pulse kicked. She didn’t have much time. Moving fast, she stripped out of her clothes and spread the new gear across the bed. She crossed to the closet to grab her hiking boots, then turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Her scars remained where they had always been. Mottled skin stretched across her abdomen in uneven patches, rough with ridges, dimples, and gouges left by men who had tried to break her and failed.
Remi pressed a hand over the damaged skin, slowly caressing each spot as a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
She’d refused to claim this part of her for so long, not seeing the truth that was reflected back at her.
Each mark was a record of survival written into her skin.
Proof of the fighter inside of her who’d never cowered or given up in the face of terrible odds.
If she’d survived Jamaica, she would definitely survive this.
She would prove her innocence and get her life back.
Remi spun around and grabbed the clothes, pulling on the leggings and the shirt.
The fabric fit close and cool against her skin, the hood settling flat between her shoulder blades.
She ran a brush through her hair, gathered the thick waves into a low ponytail, then braided the length with quick, practiced fingers and secured the end with another band.
The Glock slid into the holster sewn into the leggings.
She checked the map one last time, then tucked it into her bra. Checking her watch, she had about fifteen minutes to make it down the steep mountain terrain to the beach and be reunited with Everett. Leaning over, she tied the laces of her boots, then froze with her fingers suspended in the air.
A low rumble rolled through the distance.
Remi trained her ears on the sound. It could be the low rumble of thunder out over the water, but it kept going, rough and … mechanical. Motorcycles or possibly motorized dirt bikes. The noise grew with every passing second, coming closer.
She laced up her other boot, then darted out to the outdoor bath. Leaning over the railing, she scanned the jungle below. A shifting mass of shadows, vines, and branches in the late light. Headlights flashed between the trees, brief white cuts through the green-black tangle.
Her stomach dropped.
They were already here and coming for her.
From the angle of the lights, they weren’t close to the path Everett had drawn for her.
At least not yet. If she left now, she could beat them to the alcove.
Escape before they figured out she had been here.
But that meant leaving from the back of the house, not the stairs leading from the wooden deck out front.
Grasping the railing, she gauged the distance of the drop to the tangled growth beneath the bungalow. It was further than she would’ve liked, but she didn’t have many choices. Actually, she had no other choice.
She swung one leg over the railing, then the other. For one breathless second, she hung from the edge with both hands gripping damp wood and nothing beneath her but air, rock, and shadow.
“Do not break your neck,” she whispered to herself.
Before she could think about it too long, she flexed her hands, releasing the railing, and dropped.
Impact slammed up through her feet and knees.
Pain radiated through her body, but she swallowed a scream and stumbled forward, one hand catching the side of a support post. The underside of the bungalow smelled of damp earth, old wood, and salt rot.
She ducked low, pushing through ferns and thin branches until the crawlspace opened into the forest beyond.
A heavy fist pounded against the bungalow door.
“Police! Open up, Remi! We know you’re in there!”
Her lungs seized as she held her breath.
Another blow hit the door.
“Open up!”
Wood cracked as the door gave under a hard kick, the sound tearing through the bungalow above.
She didn’t need to hear anymore.
Ducking beneath a low branch, she shoved through the last tangle of ferns and ran.
The path was narrow and barely cut through the growth, more animal trail than proper route, but she recognized every marker Everett had drawn. She pushed her legs faster until they burned with protest. Slowing down wasn’t an option.
Branches slapped her arms and caught at the sleeves. Her instincts urged her to look back, but that would cost her speed. Speed was the only thing she had. She pushed deeper into the trees, boots skidding over loose soil, the Glock heavy against her thigh.
A flashlight cut across the trail ahead.
Remi jerked to a stop.
Too late.
The beam swept over her chest, then her face.
“Got her!”
She stumbled backward and launched herself off the trail, plunging between trees where the brush grew thicker.
Leaves whipped across her face. A branch scraped her cheek.
She kept going, heart hammering, breath tearing hot through her throat.
She shoved past the trees, leaped over tangled roots, desperate to reach the alcove.
She had to get to Everett.
Footsteps thundered behind her.
She counted the cadence, the same way she could count goats scattering across a hillside by the pattern of hooves. Humans were heavier, less chaotic, and easier to track. One set, then another, and a third broke through the brush in staggered rhythm.
At least three police officers closing in on her.
“Stop, Remi!”
“You won’t get away!”
“Trail’s blocked!”
She refused to believe them.
Couldn’t afford to.
The ground dropped hard, then leveled.
Salt hit the air.
Remi pushed through a stand of low palms, then sprinted between two dark rocks. The black sand beach opened before her.
For one impossible second, the sight was beautiful.
Dark volcanic sand curved against pale surf. The water flashed silver beneath the dusk sky. The hidden alcove cut into the rocks where the map said it would be.
Then the beach moved. Men in tactical gear rose from the shadows, rifles trained on her from every angle. SWAT had the beach covered.
“Hands in the air!”
“Do not move!”
“Do not take another step!”
The commands came at her with lightning speed.
Remi froze. Her gaze flew to the alcove.
Standing half in the shadows, she saw him.
Everett. His face was carved tight with concern and fury.
Someone else was with him. An arm outstretched, holding him back from leaving their safe place.
She was glad he wasn’t alone. She could only imagine the helplessness he felt as the SWAT team closed in on her.
Every part of her ached to run to him, and she knew he felt the same way.
But that would be the worst thing they could do.
Her heart twisted in her chest as she slowly raised her hands in the air.
Please, Everett … stay where you are.
Do not come out.
A hand squeezed Remi’s arm and yanked her sideways. She looked into the hard face with dark eyes and instantly recognized Detective Desmond Francois. The Francois Family was police royalty on the islands, and Desmond was the resident prince in St. Basil.
“You’re under arrest,” Francois said. He patted her down, roughly, ripping the Glock from the holster on her leggings. “You won’t be using this anytime soon.” He tossed the gun to another officer nearby.
Remi barely heard him. Her eyes stayed locked on the alcove, where Everett was arguing with the person holding him back.
Whoever it was didn’t let go. Gratitude cut through her trepidation.
If Everett came out now, the cops would figure out he’d been the one helping her hide all along.
It was inevitable that she would be arrested.
She wouldn’t let Everett be dragged down with her.
Francois said, “You have the right to remain silent.”
The mask came down clean and cold, covering all the emotions warring inside of her.
Francois tightened his grip. “You have the right to an attorney?—”
“I know my rights,” she said, her voice sharper than she expected.
Francois paused, one eyebrow lifting.
Remi turned her glare on him and jerked her arm from his grasp. “I said I know them.”
The detective’s mouth curved with the faintest hint of amusement, as if she had entertained him.
That made her want to hit him.
Instead, she extended both wrists.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out handcuffs and clamped the metal around one wrist. He jerked her arm behind her, turning her away from the alcove as he secured her other wrist within the cuffs, as he continued reading her rights.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“I already told you I did.”
He turned her back to face him. The cocky smirk deepened.
Remi looked past him into the alcove and exhaled softly.
Relief flooded through her.
Everett was … gone.