Free Gone Tropical by Robena Grant Page B

“We’d like to check out your accommodations,” she said to the young man, and smiled. “For a small wedding party.” Brian walked over. “This is my cousin. My husband is American and will arrive any day now. It would be a small group for a renewal of vows, six or eight of us. We’d need three or four cabins.”
    Brian stood back, flipping through a couple of local magazines and newspapers. By saying she was checking on accommodations for a group, Amy figured she’d have a greater chance of looking over the cabins, and maybe getting a peek at the register. She’d find out how many cabins were occupied and for how long, and maybe she’d learn the names of the guests.
    Seconds later she jingled cabin keys. “We can take a look at cabins number six and ten. Then we’ll have lunch.”
    ****
    Stuart heard the iciness in Col’s voice. He imagined him pacing around his sophisticated office talking on speaker phone, lifting items up off shelves, replacing them, stopping to drum his knuckles on the edge of the table. He waited, the mobile pressed against his ear so tight his earlobe throbbed. He missed Meg. They should be on the island together, relaxing, enjoying the scenery. How had that bitch, Amy, found him ?
    “Would you care to discuss the situation?” Col asked in his precise Oxford accent.
    Stuart gritted his teeth and cast a quick glance at Hadi. He wasn’t sure how much he could say in front of Col’s man. He grimaced and eyed Hadi again.
    “Yeah, give me a minute. I’m going to take a walk. Reception isn’t great in this outdoor café, too noisy. I’ll call you right back.”
    Stuart strolled across the street from the row of café’s thinking about his partnership with Col Braxton. The educated, rich-Brit boy, and the street-smart Aussie who’d met in college in the States right after Col’s folks had cut him off. They’d told him to clean up his act or he was on his own. Col figured he could make it quite well on his name, smile, and drug money.
    From a park bench, Stuart stared at the café full of beautiful young people, mainly scantily clad women. He and Col had started out chasing skirts, progressing to recreational drugs and booze, then poker nights where they’d fleece rich kids of their allowances. They were a couple of scammers back then, but slick scammers. Now they were a druggo and a skip.
    He made the call. “I wasn’t sure how open I could be in front of Hadi.”
    “Hadi is my right hand man,” Col said. “He told me the lead on Amy has frozen. To make matters worse, two men asked questions and circulated a photograph of you, and one of Amy.”
    “When?” Stuart asked.
    “Last night. At the hotel nightclub. Hadi thinks it’s the same two blokes who were in Sydney.”
    So, now Col is willing to believe he’d been tailed in Sydney? “What did they learn?”
    “Precisely nothing. It was an old photograph. Your hair was dark, no beard, it was pre-surgical intervention. I doubt sincerely they’d know your alias.”
    Col spoke calmly now, but Stuart knew he was pissed. He could imagine the little twitch at the side of Col’s mouth; the tic when he gritted his teeth. His old college buddy had taken that final spiral into harder drugs. He could tell by the skinny frame, the deep lines etched into his forty-year-old face, and his edginess.
    Stuart glanced across the street. This whole deck of cards would come crashing down around them, if they weren’t careful. He was getting too old for this shit, and living on the run for the past year had fucked with his mind. He’d hoped the island life would help him to relax, that along with the security of having “men” to do the rough stuff. He shouldn’t be out here on surveillance, that’s what grunts were for.
    “So it was the P.I. and his buddy, right?” Stuart asked, listening to Col tap his desktop.
    A few moments passed in silence. “If there was no mention of Bungumby, or Braxton Island,” Col said firmly, “it will