Free Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) by Wayne Stinnett

he didn’t look very happy. “You can start now, Deuce,” I said to Andrew.
    As Claude approached with his three men, I could tell that they were all carrying handguns tucked into their pants under their shirts. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tony reach up and scratch his cheek with two fingers, while looking out over the marina entrance.
    “Which one a yuh is McDermitt?” Claude asked as he approached. His three men spread out and stopped short behind him.
    Slowly, I looked up from the menu I was pretending to read. “I told you four men, Claude. And here you show up with you and five others. Is that any way to start a successful business relationship?”
    He started to say something, but Andrew slid his chair back suddenly, causing all four Jamaicans to reach for their shirtfronts. They froze as Andrew’s windbreaker discreetly fell open, revealing his hand on the grip of the ugly-looking machine pistol under it. These guys were amateurs. It’s a wonder Pat didn’t take them all out herself.
    “Tell one of your men to leave now and to take one of the lookouts with him. He can tell the other lookout to join us. Do it now, or the deal’s off and my man here might decide to just open you up from crotch to Adam’s apple, just for the hell of it.”
    Andrew’s MP5K wasn’t up, but it was right there in plain view of all four men and pointed loosely at Claude’s feet. The gang leader must have remembered the devastating firepower from the previous day. He slowly turned and nodded to the man on his right, who then turned and left the deck.
    “Sit down,” I said. “You look like someone trying to sell dope or pick a fight.” I picked up one of the reel cases and slid it partway across the table, along with my sat phone.
    Another of Claude’s men approached the table, looking all around the deck area. The waitress serving Tony had sat down next to him and they were both laughing about something. Of all of Deuce’s team, Tony’s probably the best at improvising and making himself look like something he’s not. Claude’s man’s eyes passed right over Tony and looked out over the boats in the marina, discounting Tony and the group on the other side of the steps from him as no danger.
    With my foot, I shoved a chair out across the table from me. “Sit or we walk.”
    Reluctantly, Claude sat down, his eyes never leaving mine. I expected him to have the dreadlocks most of his type did. His men all wore them in various lengths. Cautiously, they too sat down around the table. Claude’s hair was cropped short and he sported a thin mustache, with a soul patch below his lower lip. His eyes were a very light shade of brown and his skin the color of cinnamon, indicating mixed ancestry.
    “Open the box,” I told him.
    With his left hand, Claude slowly slid the box closer and opened the lid. Reaching in, he thumbed the bundles, counting them. When he looked up, there was a grin on his face.
    “All I and I do is make dis phone call? Blood clot, mon, I go up dere and kill dis man for dat much.”
    “I don’t want him dead,” I said. “Not yet, anyway. You have to make it believable, though. He has to think me and my men are dead, you’re pissed, and you still have the women and will turn them over to the authorities if he doesn’t pay up double. It has to be in person, just him and you. And it has to be in Beaufort. Tell him Waterfront Park at noon in two days. His private cell number is in the phone’s memory—just hit redial.”
    “Tot you say I only ha to make dis call, mon. Now you want I go all di way to bumbaclot ’Merica.”
    “You won’t have to go,” I said. “Unless he knows what you look like.”
    “Neva met di mon.”
    “Good, you just tell him what I told you to say. Make it believable and you’re three hundred grand richer.”
    “Lemme see di rest of di money.”
    I reached down to the deck, not taking my eyes off his, and picked up the second reel case. I opened the lid and tilted it