Page 28 of No Time Off (Lexi Carmichael Mystery #15)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Lexi

I t had started to rain, and the droplets pelted the corrugated-metal roof of the farmhouse with a steady pinging, obscuring most other sounds except for the weird squawking coming from my phone and Slash cursing and saying something about a parrot. A parrot?

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I’d just taken the security cameras and the door alarms down for his exit, but something had happened.

But what? I strained to hear above the pounding of the rain. Had he escaped? Should I turn the security systems back on? I waffled, then set them to come back on in thirty seconds using a timer. Just as I finished, I abruptly lost access to the network. I didn’t even have time to troubleshoot it when my phone pinged. I opened my messages and saw Manny had texted me.

“Slash captured. I’m on the run. Don’t hang up, he left his phone on so we could monitor.”

I was about to respond when the door to the office flew open and Rangi ran in without bothering to knock. He was out of breath, his eyes wide with urgency.

“Lexi, shut everything down,” he hissed, running a hand through his wet hair. I had no idea where he’d been other than somewhere out in the rain. “Government forces are headed this way. They’re searching all the homes nearby and will be here very soon. We must get the prime minister out—now!”

“But Slash?—”

I started to protest when Rangi grabbed my arm. “Now, Lexi. There’s no time.”

My heart skipped a couple of beats as I stuck my phone in my pocket without hanging up. I unplugged my laptop and shoved it in its bag. I swept the computer, cords, peripherals, and notes into the bag as well.

“How close are they?” I asked.

“Five minutes out at most. Come on. Hurry.”

There was no time to get anything else. My passport was in my laptop bag, as was some money and additional IDs. I passed our small duffel bag as I was leaving the room and grabbed that, too. It would have to do.

“I’m ready,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Rangi led me into the dark hallway where two of the prime minister’s security men were scrambling. They were coordinating using hand signals with other police officers out the front and back doors. The prime minister stood nearby, speaking softly with her husband and children. She looked composed but anxious. Out the back door, I could see one of the police officers shrugging into a bulletproof vest.

Things were getting serious.

Petra glanced over at me, and I could see the worry in her eyes. There was certainly concern for her country, but I knew the look of a worried mother when I saw one. I couldn’t imagine what she was going through right now. I gave her a quick nod of encouragement, and she smiled slightly.

“Let’s go, Prime Minister,” Rangi said grimly, and she gave him a brief nod. We quietly followed him toward the back of the house. Two armed guards fell into line behind us.

Rangi led us out the large wooden door at the back of the farmhouse toward a small shed where four off-road motorcycles, caked in mud, stood ready. The rain had blessedly softened to a light drizzle, but I had to blink to keep the water out of my eyes. I instinctively moved my backpack to my chest to protect the computer from the rain. The duffel hung on my shoulder, resting on my back. Two security personnel—men with rifles strapped across their chests—were already securing the camouflage tarps they’d used to hide the motorbikes and now rolling them into the woods behind the shed. The other pair of guards were barely visible in front of the house, wearing police uniform pants, but their upper bodies were masked by fatigue jackets. They were hidden in the foliage facing the darkened road that led to the house.

Rangi saw where I was looking. “They’re monitoring the searchers’ progress,” he said. “It is only a few men in a couple of cars and a motorcycle. They don’t know we’re here yet. We could stop them, especially with surprise, but if we attacked them, they would call for assistance and the entire area would be cordoned off, trapping us. If we can leave before they find us, then they may know we were here, but not how long ago.”

A motorbike roared to life, and I looked up to see Petra and her son sitting behind a policeman. They started off down a puddled path into the fields. I stared at Rangi. “Oh, please don’t tell me we’re escaping on motorcycles?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The road we came in on, it’s the only one passable by car. It is now blocked by the searchers coming for us. We are going to use farm paths to loop around them and get to the beach. They won’t be able to follow us.”

As he spoke, the next two bikes left with Petra’s husband and daughter as passengers, each behind a policeman. Finally, it was my turn and I carefully climbed onto the bike, behind the man who would be my driver.

“You’re staying behind?” I asked Rangi, panic creeping into my voice.

“I am. We’re out of bikes, but don’t worry about us. We’re not going to get in a shootout with them unless we must. You’ll be safe with the prime minister. But as soon as you’re able, let Slash and Manny know it’s not safe to return here, okay? Now get going.”

I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye or tell him about Slash’s possible capture before our bike jumped and I almost tumbled off the back. I grabbed onto the driver’s waist in panic.

“Hold tight,” the driver warned me in what sounded like an Aussie accent. “No matter what happens, don’t let go of me.”

We shot out of the clearing, leaving the farmhouse behind. We were moving much faster than my paved-road comfort level as we raced along a muddy, single-track path tracing the edge of a pineapple field. I struggled to adjust my packs without falling off as the bike lurched and bumped. I was sure if my mother could see me now, I’d receive a healthy scolding for not wearing a helmet, though that was the least of my concerns.

“Use your legs,” my driver yelled at me. “Try and keep your butt off the seat and use your legs to absorb the shock like you’re riding a horse. It will make the bike steadier for both of us.”

I considered mentioning to him that I had no intention of climbing on a horse or camel ever again, but that mental debate was ended when the bike hit a hole that momentarily tried to reposition my anus to my collar.

As I recovered and tried to follow the driver’s instructions, I dared a glance over my shoulder. We made a sharp turn and I saw we were being chased by the one motorcycle that had apparently been part of the search group. The rider was wearing dark clothes and a black helmet with the visor down. Since his bike was carrying only one rider, he was closing on us, about fifty yards behind.

“We’ve got company,” I shouted to the driver.

We hit another bump, and my driver took a big, skidding turn, forcing me to concentrate on staying aboard the bike instead of tracking our pursuer’s progress. On a smoother stretch, I momentarily hazarded another peek and saw our pursuer was much closer. So close that I could see he held a gun in his hand.

“Gun!” I screamed.

While I watched in horror, our pursuer raised his arm and aimed at us. My driver abruptly swerved to avoid a huge puddle just as the gun fired, missing us. The gunman, however, failed to miss the puddle, and fountains of water and mud sprayed into the air and on him as he followed.

I fervently hoped the puddle would make him crash, but he emerged from the other side still on the bike. On the upside, he had significantly slowed and was covered in mud spray. Once he got his bearings and wiped his visor, however, he began rapidly accelerating after us again.

“He’s still following,” I shouted at the driver.

“Don’t worry,” my driver yelled back. “It’s hard to hit a moving target.”

I wasn’t as confident as he was, but for the moment, I just held on for dear life. Thankfully, the foliage thickened as we left the fields, and the tropical jungle closed around us. Thick vines and massive ferns whipped at our shoulders as my driver maneuvered down narrow and overgrown paths. Rainwater pooled in hidden depressions, spraying muddy arcs high into the air as we sped through them. The trail occasionally forked and rejoined as generations of people and animals sought the easiest path.

We wound back and forth beneath the canopy and ferns. I’d lost sight of our pursuer as I gritted my teeth and pressed my face against the driver’s back after being whacked by a branch several times. I was starting to get the hang of anticipating the bumps and leaning in concert with the driver. My eyes narrowed into slits against the mud sprays, and my hair was snagged with leaves and twigs.

The faint sound of our pursuer echoed behind us until finally I couldn’t hear him anymore. I let myself relax slightly, praying we’d finally lost him.

Suddenly, a gunshot snapped through the undergrowth, the hum slicing the air inches from me. I gasped as wood chips exploded off a nearby tree trunk. I spotted the dark silhouette of a motorbike on a parallel path to the left of us, still weaving in pursuit.

“I thought you said he’d never hit anything,” I shrieked at the driver.

“He didn’t hit anything,” the driver shouted back. “Why are you screaming? He just got lucky that once. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

The bike’s left-side mirror exploded, hurling glass fragments all over the driver.

“Okay, maybe it will happen again,” the driver conceded. “Just keep your head down. I’m going to try and go a little faster.”

A little faster? Was he insane? We were already careening through the jungle at suicidal speeds, like a cheetah on a coffee high.

Another shot came perilously close, but my driver appeared to be quite experienced and maneuvered expertly, making us a difficult target. I kept an eye on our pursuer the best I could, but I expected a bullet through my back at any moment.

At some point, the paths merged again, and once again the shooter was behind us. Thankfully, he had stopped shooting…at least for the moment. He was either having trouble keeping up with the increased pace we had set, or he needed to reload his gun and couldn’t do that while driving so fast. Nevertheless, I tried to squeeze myself into the tiniest target I could while I held on tightly.

“Hold on!” my driver yelled, as if I wasn’t already squeezing my arms around his waist with all my might. Then, without warning, he slowed and suddenly swung the motorcycle around in a 180, facing the gunman and returning fire in short bursts. It forced our pursuer to throttle back and guide his bike into the jungle for cover.

“What the heck?” I shrieked as he wheeled us back around and throttled forward again, putting some important distance between us. “How about a warning next time?”

“I did warn you,” he yelled.

“Not that you had a gun and were going to shoot him.”

He didn’t answer and pushed onward for what seemed like forever but was probably only another mile. As best I could tell, we had swung away from the mountains and were headed back toward the beach. Our pursuer had dropped farther back, and I couldn’t hear him anymore over the roar of our bike and the jungle’s natural soundtrack—chirping insects and shrieking birds.

Just as I thought we might have shaken our pursuer, an unexpected slope flung us down a small ravine. The path curved to the left, and the driver angled our bike sharply to avoid slamming into a boulder. I clung to him with the last of my strength. Finally, we came to an abrupt stop.

The driver twisted around on the seat. “Are you okay?” he asked me.

I considered. “I don’t know. I might not be breathing at the moment.”

He grinned. “You’re doing good, and we’re getting closer to our destination. We either need to lose our friend for good or we’ll have to lead him away from the prime minister. This part is going to be tricky, so just stay with me, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Hold tight.” I gripped him around the waist as he maneuvered the bike slowly around the boulder and drove slowly and carefully down the rest of the ravine.

Even going slowly, it was challenging, with the tires skidding on the wet and slimy rocks and the driver fighting to keep our bike upright. My heart was pounding. Miraculously, he somehow kept control of the bike until we finally exited the ravine.

Just as we reached the rise on the far side, we pulled to a stop and saw the dark rider come into view. He had obviously been pushing high speeds to catch up with us. Carrying the extra speed, he couldn’t control his bike, and he and his bike slid down the ravine, heading directly for the boulder we’d barely avoided. When impact was imminent, he threw himself off the bike just as it hit the boulder with a grinding crunch, parts of the bike scattering around the ravine.

I gasped, covering my mouth. I couldn’t see the driver at first and wondered if he was dead. But after a minute, I saw him stagger into view. His clothes on his right side were shredded and bloody from the gravel where he slid with the bike. His visor was up and cracked, and he was limping badly, holding his right arm. He was alive, but it would be a while until he could get back to civilization, and he would have no idea in which direction we were headed.

Our pursuit ended, we sped away, following the path at a sedate pace until we soon came out of the dense foliage and onto a crushed-shell road. Shortly we could see a paved road ahead. The rain had stopped altogether now, though there were puddles remaining everywhere, but not for long, based on my experience with sandy soils. My driver pulled off to the side and waited and watched cautiously, scanning for trouble.

“We’re close,” my driver said, his eyes continuously searching the road ahead. “We just have to follow that road for a short distance, cross over towards the beach, and we’re there.”

“So, why are we stopping here?”

“Just being extra careful. It would be most unfortunate to get caught now. What’s your name?”

“Lexi,” I said.

“Ah, so you’re Lexi. I’m Paul. Well, Lexi, you held it together quite well. Good on ya, sheila. I’m impressed.”

I wasn’t sure why he called me Sheila and what was so impressive about my hanging onto him for dear life, but maybe he was just thankful I hadn’t barfed down the back of his jacket…yet.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice sounding wispy and strained, probably on account of all the hyperventilating I did for most of the ride.

Finally, satisfied no one was around, Paul pulled out on the pavement, drove a bit down the road, and stopped near the beach.

Waves crashed against the surrounding reef, the pink sunrise illuminating the ocean’s expanse. A few boats dotted the water. Behind a dune and a copse of palm trees that hid us from the main road, he slid our bike to a stop alongside the others, putting his legs down to steady us. He turned off the bike, and the engine ticked as it cooled.

“What happened to you?” asked Petra, spotting us and coming forward. “We were worried when you took so long.”

“We had to do evasion, prime minister,” Paul explained, scraping the mud off his jacket. “Had one bloke following us on a bike with a gun. It was touch-and-go, but we lost him. The only thing he’ll be searching for in the immediate future is a hospital bed. Our escape is secure.”

“Thank God. Are you okay, Lexi?” she asked me.

I’m sure I’d looked better, but I wasn’t too worried about that at the moment. “I’m alive, thanks to Paul. What about the others and Rangi? Did they get away?”

Petra answered, “I don’t know, but I hope so. We haven’t heard anything from them yet. Rangi is a very resourceful man.”

I thought she sounded more hopeful than sure.

“Hurry now, Prime Minister, we need to get you off the beach where you are exposed,” the officer who had been Petra’s driver said to her.

As they hurried off, I took a better look around and saw we’d disembarked on the edge of a sand dune. One of the security guys mounted a bike and drove it off up toward the road, only to return several minutes later and pick up another bike. I noticed that none of the bikes had license plates. I wondered if that wasn’t a requirement in the Cook Islands or if they’d been taken off deliberately so they couldn’t be traced. Either way, they wouldn’t be easily linked to us if they were found—aside from the one with the bullet hole in the mirror.

Suddenly, I remembered about Slash. Panicked, I grabbed my phone, thankful to see I was still connected. I listened but couldn’t hear anything. My alarm rose with every passing minute, as I sent a quick text to Manny.

“Do not return to farmhouse. It’s compromised. I’m with the PM at the new location. Text me ASAP regarding your situation and what happened.”

“Let’s go,” Paul said, motioning for me to put my phone away and follow the others down a narrow pathway through some dune shrubs to the shore.

Petra walked ahead, holding her son Noa’s hand, while her husband had his arm protectively around their daughter, Lani. I hadn’t heard a peep from either of the kids and was impressed they had seemingly held up better than me. My ego hoped it was because their ride was a lot less scary than mine.

We quickly reached the shoreline, where there was a small skiff capable of seating five. One of the police officers hopped in and motioned for the PM and her family. They climbed into the boat, and the others pushed it out into the water, where the helmsman started a small trolling motor. The skiff headed out to a distant boat, moored just inside the reef. It was a large boat compared to the others I could see, but it appeared unoccupied, as I could see no lights or movement.

I sat down on the sand and set the bags next to me while we waited for the boat to return. I kept my phone nearby, listening, but still nothing. My stomach twisted into knots, worrying about Slash.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and looked out at the boat. The skiff was pulling alongside. The policeman guiding the boat tied it quickly to the larger boat and then leaped onboard. He was gone for a minute and then came back and began helping the others onboard. He must have been checking the yacht before letting them aboard.

The skiff departed the yacht after about ten minutes. Oddly, it didn’t return directly to our position but headed the opposite way along the beach.

“Where’s he going?” I asked Paul, who had sat down not far from me.

“He’s just being cautious in case someone is watching. If he headed directly toward us, someone who was observing him could get here before he could. Also, he’s trying to avoid attracting attention from a casual watcher who might wonder about successive loads of people being transported to the yacht. He’ll come back parallel to the beach at some point, so no one knows where he’s going. When he gets close, we head to the water and hop on.”

I was really beginning to appreciate the talents of the men who were protecting the prime minister. For a small island, they knew their job well.

Five minutes later I saw the skiff make a slow turn toward shore and then begin to head back to us.

“Get ready, Lexi,” Paul said. “Walk slowly and try not to attract any attention.”

Easy for them to say. “Am I going by myself?”

“No, I’ll go with you,” one of the other policemen replied.

“What about everyone else?” I asked.

“We’ll be watching from the shore,” Paul said. “That way, we can monitor any approaching threats and also be available to pick up people or supplies, as needed.”

I stood and casually sauntered toward the water. The skiff hovered closer. The small waves slapped the skiff broadside, causing it to rock a lot more than I was comfortable with.

“Go on, Lexi, off with you now,” Paul said. “And try not to trip and fall. Your husband warned us about you.”

My mouth dropped open. “My husband did what?”

“He urged us to keep a close eye on you because sometimes unexpected things happen around you.”

“Wait. He told that to how many people?”

Paul considered. “Everyone, I think. I’m sure he was just trying to look out for you, love. Well, and maybe for us, too. I think he used the word accident-prone , and we all got the message.” He chuckled, and the other policeman also wore a broad smile.

I narrowed my eyes. I was definitely going to have to talk with Slash when I saw him again. For now, I tried to balance the bags evenly over each of my shoulders. The skiff pulled up close to the beach, but the water was so shallow I was going to have to wade a couple of steps to the boat. While I paused to consider this challenge, Paul swooped in and picked me up from behind. Before I had time to do more than squawk, he took two quick steps into the water and set me down in the boat.

“Hey, I could have done that on my own,” I complained. “I’m not afraid of getting my feet wet.”

“Wasn’t as worried about you, Lexi, but I intended to keep those bags of yours safe, just in case you took a spill.”

Oh, yes. Slash and I were going to talk.

When we finally got to the yacht and I climbed aboard, they led me into the small main cabin. Though compact, the yacht was polished and luxurious: warm wood paneling, plush seating, and a table that could seat four comfortably. Stairs led down in the back of the cabin to what I suspected was a galley stocked with supplies. The curtains were drawn tight, and there were only a couple of small lights turned on. I could hear a thrumming sound coming from below.

The prime minister and her husband, Henry, were sitting on a bench seat under the curtained window with their kids on either side. Henry rose in concern when he saw me.

“We’re so sorry for dragging you into this nightmare, Lexi,” he said. “I understand you were shot at. Are you okay? Do you need to clean up?”

I wasn’t remotely okay, but I couldn’t blame him or the prime minister. All of this was out of their control, obviously.

I reached up to touch my hair and realized my hands and arms were covered with mud. There were sticks and leaves in my hair, and it felt like I’d blow-dried it straight up and sprayed it with glue. My shirt, jeans, and shoes were covered in mud spatter. I had no idea how my face looked, but from the way people were staring at me, it wasn’t good. I probably smelled, too.

Petra handed me a towel. “The bathroom is that way.”

“Thanks.” Resigned, I put my bags on a chair, took the towel, and went to clean up in the tiny bathroom. A glance in the mirror indicated I looked remarkably similar to a cartoon cat who had just climbed out of a pigsty and saw a ghost. My hair stuck out in several places. Mud and grime streaked across my cheeks and forehead. There were strange dirt balls in my hair, and a piece of a vine hung off my left ear. My eyes were like two white pinballs in a face that was hardly recognizable, even to myself.

I turned on the water and washed and scrubbed at my face, arms, and hands until the brown water finally turned clear and my face was pink from all the scrubbing. The towel was a complete loss, so I tossed it in the bottom of the shower stall so as not to track any more dirt around. I did my best to remove the sticks and leaves and wound my hair back into a ponytail. There wasn’t much more I could do short of a full shower, and there was no time for that now.

I returned to the main room, where everyone was waiting.

The prime minister sat calmly, but I could see how deeply the morning’s ordeal had shaken her.

Henry reached into a small mini fridge, pulling out bottles of water and handing them to us. I screwed off the top and took a long drink.

“How are you guys holding up?” I asked them.

Petra glanced worriedly at the kids. “We’re…ah, holding up. Where’s Slash and Manny?”

My stomach twisted again, but I didn’t want to worry anyone regarding what was going on with them yet. I decided to keep it simple until the children weren’t present and I could talk to Manny to get the full story.

“They went to the compound this morning to plant the recording devices. I texted Manny that the farmhouse was compromised. Hopefully, he’ll text me when he’s able.”

Thankfully, no more questions came my way. I felt nauseous, so I took another long drink of water before setting the bottle aside. I dragged my laptop bag onto the table and pulled out my laptop and cord, looking for a place to plug it in. When I found one, I was grateful the outlet on the yacht worked. The thrumming must be the generator.

I needed to plan my next move. If Slash had been captured, I had to figure out what to do about that. But I needed more information from Manny, and he was likely on the run and not able to respond to my texts. I put my phone on the table and plugged it in, too, listening to the open phone line with Slash. Still nothing. Wherever Slash had planted his phone, he wasn’t with it now.

There was nothing I could do on that front for the moment, so I needed to check in with Xavier and Elvis to let them know I was okay after we’d terminated contact so abruptly. They were likely going crazy.

“Is there any chance this boat has Wi-Fi?” I asked. “I can’t use my phone as a hotspot because I’m monitoring communications with Slash and Manny.” I avoided mentioning my phone was my last link to Slash.

“I think I saw a small sign with a password by the TV in the big bedroom,” Lani said. “Let me go see.” She darted down the stairs and came back seconds later with the paper in hand.

Indeed, it had the Wi-Fi and password listed. I just hoped it ran when the generator was operating. It didn’t take long to confirm it was indeed operational.

I reached out, my hands flying across the keyboard, to connect with Elvis and Xavier. I sent a quick encrypted text explaining the situation. When I looked up, I saw Noa had come to stand behind me. He looked remarkably calm, considering what we’d just been through.

“What are you doing?” he asked me.

“Not gaming, unfortunately,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Just trying to get us out of this mess.”

“Can you?” he asked. “Get us out this mess?”

“I’m sure going to try.”

He shrugged and returned to his seat. My gaze met Petra’s across the table, and she gave me a slight nod.

I returned to the matter at hand, realizing time was ticking. I didn’t know what was happening to Slash in that compound or where Manny had gone. I had no idea what was going on back at the farmhouse since we’d left, and I didn’t have a clue how long it would be until the bad guys came back to recheck this boat. But there was one thing I did know: Slash needed my help, and he was going to get it. It was just a matter of time until I figured out how.

Outside, the ocean lapped softly against the hull, while inside the cabin walls, Slash’s predicament weighed heavy on my mind. I needed to lock in and focus on what I could control, not what I couldn’t.

It’s what Slash always said to me: Stay with the mission. Worrying doesn’t solve anything. Planning does.

It was clear I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to save my husband, the Cook Islands, and my honeymoon, and in that order.