Free Caribbean Hustle (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain Page B

three shelves of CDs. An open case on top of the player said Aitch-M – Closer to Nowhere on red lettering over a gray background that, on closer look, depicted a gargoyle flying over an evil city with a half-naked woman clutched in its talons. Teffinger leafed through a few CDs on the shelf and found them equally unknown and obscure.
    Come on.
    Who hired you?
    An old VHS player was wired into an equally old boxy TV, not a flat screen by any stretch. For grins, Teffinger fired them up.
    What he saw he could hardly believe.
    He popped the tape out, gripped it like it was life itself, and got the hell out of there.

    25
    Day Four
    June 7
    Saturday Afternoon
     
    Teffinger headed to Modeste’s apartment on the chance she’d returned, to find her huddled behind closed curtains, surprised beyond logic to find him showing up alive, but equally as ecstatic, which she proved by gripping him in a tight full-body hug and softly trembling with her head on his chest. He told her what happened after she ran off—how he’d killed the man in the red shirt, took his wallet, left the scene and then broke into the guy’s apartment.
    “This,” he said tapping the videotape, “was in the guy’s apartment. I only watched a little of it but it’s a voodoo scene.”
    “Voodoo?”
    He nodded.
    “We need to get to a player. I want to see what happens and I want you to tell me if Janjak is in it.” He paused and added, “Mister Red Shirt was someone for hire. That mean’s he’ll be replaced and my guess is sooner than later. Grab whatever you need from here. We’re not coming back.”
    Two minutes later they were down the fire escape and leaving the vicinity.
    “You’re mixed up in voodoo,” Teffinger said. “Tell me what’s going on. Who’s after you and why?”
    She shook her head.
    “There’s no voodoo,” she said. “Have you ever heard of the rock group Her? They’re from England.”
    “No.”
    “Well, the front man for that group is a guy named Johnnie Rail. Does that name ring a bell?”
    “No.”
    “Well, Rail has a seaside villa here in Haiti,” she said. “A couple of months ago, during a flight, a pretty young woman named May-May struck up a conversation with me. It turns out she was Her’s manager. We hit it off pretty good; she liked me, and ended up offering me a job as her assistant, right there on the spot. She needed someone as an interface for anything Haiti related, someone who knew the lay of the land. But when Rail wasn’t here in Haiti, which would be most of the time, I would be on tour with the band.”
    “Sounds fun.”
    “That’s what I thought,” she said. “But I really don’t know anything about the music industry and had a suspicion that I wouldn’t be able to earn my keep. I pictured myself getting fired. So I told her thanks but no thanks.”
    “Personally I would have taken it,” Teffinger said. “Unless the group is a bunch of holes.”
    “I don’t know if they are or not, but May-May said if I ever changed my mind, just stop by the villa. It was a standing invitation.”
    “Do it now,” Teffinger said. “It’ll get you out of Haiti.”
    She frowned.
    “Unfortunately, something happened.”
     
    Teffinger glanced over his shoulder. Walking thirty steps behind them was a man in a white T who looked like a fighter.
    “So what happened?” he said.
    “One day about a month ago when I was coming back from a flight I saw May-May across the terminal,” she said. “She was out the door and in a cab before I could get to her, but I knew she was in town. Seeing her made me reflect on my decision. I figured I’d been cutting myself too short. If I tried, I could make it in any business, including the music industry.”
    “I believe that.”
    “So that afternoon I went over to the villa,” she said. “No one knew I was going. When I got there I found five dead bodies.”
    “Really?”
    “Really,” she said. “There were four dead men and May-May, she was there dead