Bounty

Chapter 3

Getting dressed for dinner was difficult, considering that nothing very elegant goes with athletic socks and sneakers. After a bit of searching, I settled on a sarong skirt and lace camisole. The outfit was pretty but not too pretty and detracted from my athletic wear.

The hotel restaurant was packed. Walking through the front door, I was hit by a wave of cigarette smoke and Spice Girls music. I spotted Montou almost immediately. He was sitting at a corner table, his back to the wall. Crazy bounced off him like body odor at the YMCA. He was in a snit over something, and he threw the condiments off the table with a swish of his arm.

Off went the saltshaker, landing on the next table. Whoosh went the candleholder, narrowly missing the waiter's head.

I re-thought the evening. I should come down with the flu in a hurry. I should at least change my clothes, preferably to something with Kevlar. Whatever I did, I had to get out of there fast.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" Montou called, spotting me as I was tiptoeing out. The diners turned toward me like heads at a tennis game, and there was no escaping. I gave a little wave and walked toward him.

He wasn't alone. The Adonis Jake Logan and tough-as-nails Iain Brodie were at the table with him, menus in their laps. Logan watched me walk the length of the restaurant and stood as I approached, but Brodie was more interested in the menu and stayed glued to his chair.

All three were dressed in well-worn, slightly dirty khakis. Logan was the only one without scars on his face. He was perfect, a Greek god. He could have been a Calvin Klein model or any kind of model, a movie star, anything.

"This is a wonderful surprise and pleasure," he said, extending his hand. I put my hand in his, and he brought it up to his lips and kissed my hand gently. Tiny shivers danced up and down my arms.

He noticed everything. "Cold? I'll get them to turn down the air-conditioning," he offered.

"No. No, I'm perfect. Thank you," I said and then, much to my horror, giggled.

Logan pulled out the chair for me and handed me a menu. "The steak is not bad," he suggested.

"Good evening," I said to the others at the table. Montou busied himself with two young hostesses that he had corralled. They couldn't have been more than sixteen years old and wore micro miniskirts and giant-sized pink plastic earrings.

Montou gathered them to him, one in each arm, and he regaled them with a story about meeting William Shatner. I was invisible to him, which was a good thing, and it only slightly injured my pride.

"Good evening." It came not from Montou or Logan but from Brodie. It was the first time I heard his voice, and it jarred me. Instead of rough and gravelly to match his appearance, his voice was smooth, rich, and deep, a posh English accent like Logan but deeper and less musical. His eyes were fixed on mine. An unwanted surge of s****l electricity jolted out of him and hit me square in my nether regions.

"Uh," I said. I grabbed my glass of ice water and drank half of it. No use. I was on fire.

A little song kept playing in my head. "We've got trouble, my friend. Trouble with a capital T." Brodie was trouble, all right. Any fool could see that.

At that moment, I deeply and totally hated myself. Why would I be attracted to a mercenary, a common thug, a president murderer and probably worse?

A couple of weeks earlier, I had fled my dead-end job as a cops reporter in New York. I was stuck in a rut, covering drug addicts and the worst New York had to offer. My dream was to cover the United Nations. I begged for the UN beat at least twice a year, but I couldn't get it.

My social life consisted of unwanted attention by married, middle-aged cops and reporters. So, when my old college buddy Deanna offered me the features editor position at her magazine in London, I jumped at it.

But jumped for what? This? Rambo, Rambo Junior, and Rambo's younger brother? I needed to rearrange my priorities. I needed therapy. I needed a daiquiri. Who heard of a resort that didn't serve daiquiris?

I looked around for a waiter, but they were avoiding us like the plague. I didn't blame them. My dinner companions were volatile and probably heavily armed.

"I'll get somebody," Logan said and snapped his fingers. A waiter appeared as if by magic and took our orders. Logan ordered for Montou, who was busy plotting a Roman Polanski evening times two with his hostesses.

It was steak all around. And soda, too. I followed their lead. It was important to keep my head clear and my reflexes sharp.

"Are you enjoying our little island, Miss Williams?" Logan asked.

"Yes, I am," I lied. "The hotel is lovely."

"You make it so much lovelier with your presence," he said.

He was awfully handsome. I leaned forward.

"Do you like being Minister of Finance?" I asked.

He smirked, and his eyes twinkled. "It's better than digging ditches."

"That good, huh?"

"The pay is better, but I sweat as much."

"You have a lot of experience with ditches?"

Logan leaned back in his seat. "A little, not as much as Iain."

"Iain?"

"Yes, Iain Brodie. Our esteemed minister of-what are you minister of again, Iain?"

Brodie sat with his hands on the table, a picture of quiet reserve. He was scanning the room, aware of everything, but seemingly unaware of us.

"I think he's Minister of Justice," Logan said. "No, that's not right. I know. He's Minister of the Interior. That's the police and all that. He likes enforcement. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking he should be Minister of Culture."

I erupted in laughter and Logan joined me, delighted that I found his joke funny. I didn't dare look for Brodie's reaction.

I relaxed under Logan's attention. He was dashing and flirted openly with me. If I squished my eyes a little, I could imagine that I was on a date in a luxury hotel with a gorgeous man who was gaga about me, and block out the mercenary, violent coup, crazy people parts.

Dinner was steak and something I thought was rice. Montou ordered the two Simoran girls to feed him, and I was impressed and disgusted at how he could simultaneously take in forkfuls of food, swill his soda, and cop feels.

Brodie was all business. He pushed the rice aside with this fork and cut into his steak, releasing the blood juices over his plate. Brodie liked his meat rare.

"So, tell me all about Abigail Williams," Logan said. "I know you're the editor of High Life magazine."

"How did you know that?" I asked.

"We are a young nation. New. We make a point of knowing who comes to our island," he said.

"So, you know all about me then."

"Only that you work for High Life and you look great in red."

"You talk real pretty, Mr. Logan."

"You think so?" His eyes twinkled, the blue popping from his sockets.

"I do," I said. And I did. He was an odd type for a mercenary.

"Well, I mean it," he said, smiling. "We're delighted to have you here. How did you get in the magazine business?"

"It was a natural progression in my career," I said. If a fluke was a natural progression. Meeting up with my old college friend and her offering me a job out of the blue was some sort of miracle.

"How did you get in the military technician business?" I asked.

Logan shrugged his shoulders. "Natural progression. Born to it. I always enjoyed traveling, and I'm a military man from way back, you see. All the attention we're getting, it's exaggerated, you know."

"Is it? I think your story is pretty exciting. Lots of action."

"We're pussycats, Abigail. Nothing all that romantic or scary. If you want to hear scary stories, remind me to tell you about the hotel's driver. Crazy psychotic killer, but he's a good limo driver. Wouldn't want to be stuck in a dark alley with him, however."

The blood drained from my face and I gasped for air. When it was time to go back to London, I would have to remember to grab a taxi to the airport.

Logan and I spent a while in flirtatious banter. I was relaxed now, relatively sure that I was safe. Montou was occupied with his girls, Brodie was ignoring me, and Logan was friendly and harmless. He was flirting, but I didn't think he was interested in me for any other reason than polite dinner conversation.

"Time to f**k," Montou announced. He stood and grabbed the girls closer.

"Hold on," I said. A protective wave jolted me out of my seat. Coup or no coup, psychotic war criminal or no psychotic war criminal, I wouldn't let p********a run rampant under my nose. I pointed to the two girls.

"It's probably past their curfews," I said, looking at my watch. "They should be heading home."

My announcement was met with blank stares. Montou squinted, as if trying to make sense of what I was saying.

"Home," I repeated. "To study for tomorrow's chem test, make necklaces out of bubble gum wrappers, or trade Lip Smackers flavors. You know, kid stuff."

Montou looked at me like I had grown a second head and was speaking in tongues.

"They're young," I told him. Sheesh. Did I need to spell it out? I gave up and spoke to the girls.

"He's old," I said. "Way too old for you. He could be your grandfather or at least your uncle. An old uncle."

The girls ignored me, giving all their attention to Montou's lips and neck. With me forgotten, he clutched them tighter and walked away from the table without ever saying a word to me.

"Wait," I started.

Brodie grabbed my arm, gentle but firm. Something in his expression shut me up. It was more warning than threat, and somehow, I realized it was a gift.

"It's different here," Logan said, leaning close to my ear. "Like Jesus on crack. You don't question him."

It was a money quote. The kind of quote that sold papers, and it made me regret that I was only writing a travel article and was no longer a hard-hitting journalist.

"Check on Smythe. I'm making the rounds," Brodie told Logan.

The niceties were over. They left without saying goodbye. I was alone at the table, and I didn't know if I should be relieved or insulted.

"Interesting company?" John Grant put his hand on my shoulder and took the seat next to me. "I can't imagine what you all were talking about, but I'll buy the first round if you tell me."

Good old John. We went to the bar where the press corps was busy decimating the stock of booze.

"Tim from Newsweek discovered a great drink. Vermouth, Kahlua, and beer. I know it sounds disgusting, but he swears by it," John informed me.

We sat down in the midst of the action. They were good guys. They enjoyed my story about Montou and the teenyboppers, and they promised to tell the world. They had their share of stories about the mercenaries, too, and we spent hours talking and laughing. No one came up with anything about Brodie, however, or perhaps they were unwilling to talk about him, like it was bad luck to say his name aloud.

"Just stay away from him," John said.

"I have every intention of staying away from Iain Brodie, John," I said. "Don't worry about that."

I was going to throw up. I was sure of it. It was the worst case of nausea since an ill-fated Grateful Dead concert I went to with Steven Bauer in ninth grade.

My stomach pitched and roiled. I fought the urge to vomit all over myself.

I was going in and out of consciousness, I realized. I kept slipping into inky blackness that swam around me and sucked me in, spinning me around and around. I tried to wake up, but each time I was sucked back in. It went on for a long time until the nausea was stronger than whatever was making me black out, and I came around.

After becoming aware of the nausea, I noticed the stabbing pain through my skull and joints. I couldn't open my eyes, but the pain was waking up my senses. I hurt everywhere. I tried to move, but I was immobile.

It was the world's worst hangover. The only trouble was that I didn't drink anything the night before. I was too smart to try John Grant's concoction of vermouth, Kahlua, and beer, and besides, I had decided that one day of drinking was enough for me. It was going to be soda and bottled water for the rest of the trip.

I couldn't figure out why I was nauseated, in pain, and paralyzed. Unless I was dying. I had read about people who became paralyzed out of nowhere. They got some kind of virus and became paralyzed. That had to be it. I had the flu. I was bitten by some kind of African bug, and I was going to die alone in my hotel room.

I whimpered. I tried to dab at my eyes, but I couldn't move my hands. Actually, I could move them, but I couldn't move them much.

Ah, I was bound.

I searched my memory, but I couldn't recall any bondage. In fact, I wasn't a kinky sort of girl. Ever. Besides, bondage or no bondage, last night I had gone to bed by myself.

My eyes opened. It took a couple of minutes for me to focus.

I was lying on a metal floor, and half of my body was stuffed in a burlap bag with what looked like "Aid From Your Friends in the USA" written on it. My arms and legs were wrapped in duct tape.

I was trussed like the proverbial Christmas goose.

My head started to clear, and a dim memory appeared in the recesses of my mind of a swatch of stinky material being forced hard onto my face.

Then, a struggle. Then, nausea.

Oh, crap. I was abducted.