Second Chance (4 page)

The word around the hotel was that a small airplane had crashed into the Atlantic just up the coast from Miami. So far, Miami was not shaping up as the optimal location for me to get a little peace and quiet.

Boom
means one thing in the hood and another among Jamaican gangs. The Jamaicans didn’t use it as a lighthearted exclamation as in: “I lit your ass up on the basketball court. Boom!” Among Jamaican gangs, it meant: “Listen up, pay attention, or I’ll shoot your ass. Boom!” A big neon sign flashed BOOM above the entrance to Donovan’s club. It was north of Miami in an area you’d be well advised to stay clear of—unless of course you like to live your life on the edge, in which case,
sure, come on over
.

I needed a contact in Miami, someone who could give me information on Donovan in an unofficial capacity. I couldn’t call my boss, Sonellio, because there was no way in hell he would sanction my involvement and certainly would blast my ass. I mean I was on a leave for a reason—R&R in order to decompress after making a first fatal shooting on the job. I was supposed to be on a massage table having my supple skin anointed with hot oils while listening to Yanni, not chasing after dangerous characters like Donovan.

When in doubt, there was always Herbert Ambler, my dear friend, the G-Man. He and my dad went way back, and he had always treated me like family. I called him just after getting into my rental car. He said he would make some calls and get back to me with the name of someone who might help me out with some South Florida intel. I told him I was on my way to Donovan’s club. The G-Man didn’t think it was a good idea for me to go poking around before I spoke with his contact, but sitting around just isn’t my style. I opted to follow through with a little low-visibility reconnaissance work. Of course flying under the radar means different things to different people.

The dude in charge was picky about who he let into Donovan’s nightclub. The line to enter BOOM moved along at a snail’s pace. I felt uncomfortable without my gun, but everyone was getting a complimentary pat-down on the way in, so I was wise to have left my sidearm in the hotel safe. I figured my police training put me on more than equal footing with any of the other patrons in the club. It was Donovan and his crew that I was worried about. Flynn had given me the scoop on Donovan and his clan of thugs. They sounded like a ruthless bunch. I was a civilian for all intent, and the likelihood of having to use my gun was small. Still, there’s nothing quite as comforting as having thirty-five ounces of steel strapped to your ankle.

“So this is the drill, Flynn. You point out the players, have a drink, and then get the hell out of there fast. I want you out of there before Donovan or any of his men spot you. I hope there’s a room at the hotel you can crash in for the night, because I don’t want you going back to your own place.”

His Adam’s apple got stuck in mid-swallow. “That’s comforting to hear.”

“I’m just trying to think ahead. Better safe than sorry. So what about it, any rooms you can use?”

“There are a couple of rooms that are being redecorated. Technically they’re unavailable this week.”

“Good. Don’t tell anyone where you’ll be, not for tonight anyway, not until I have a solid handle on what’s going on.” The line was finally whittling down. Most of the women I saw were wearing … well, practically nothing. Skirts were short and heels were high. Positioned properly, there was enough glistening skin to effectively accelerate particles in a nuclear collider. “Gee, I hope we get in.” I opened the top button on my blouse, just for insurance.

Flynn checked my cleavage. His eyes widened. “Don’t sweat it. You’re good to go.” I still wasn’t sure as to Flynn’s sexual preference. By his appearance and actions, he was somewhere between gay and metrosexual. I was good either way. Gay men usually have great fashion and beauty instincts, and straight men … well, let’s just say
the girls
have never let me down.

“Are you sure? I can totally push them out further. I don’t look as slutty as the other girls.”

“No,” he insisted. “You’re good. There’s an art to understated dressing these Miami Beach
chicas
just don’t get.”

With fashion smarts like that
… Okay, I still wasn’t sure, and it was not the time or place to ask whether he liked boys or girls—anyway, what’s the difference?

“Why, thank you.” We were just a few feet from the door. “Now remember what I told you,” I whispered, “Point out the players and take a hike. Act as casual as possible and don’t draw any attention to yourself. Drive straight back to the hotel, find a room, and lock the door. Are you feeling me?” Flynn nodded emphatically. “Text me your room number after you’re locked in for the night.”

“Okay.” He seemed frazzled, understandably. “I appreciate what you’re doing,” he said in a soft voice.

We were finally at the club entrance. A velvet rope and an unsightly gent chewing tobacco stood before us.
Ugh!
His
stanky
breath hit me right between the eyes.
Really, this is the guy deciding whether I get in or not? Is this a nightclub or a hoedown?
He was small and bony with the physique of a squab and a grisly wad of chin whiskers.

“Hey.” I smiled at him as if he was the last man on earth. “You gonna let me in?” I said in a seductive voice.

His eyes said, “Mama,
you
is caviar,” but that’s not what came out of his mouth. “I’m thinking about it,” he said in his heavy Jamaican accent, making it seem as if he was in the process of deep, soul-searching deliberation. He unclipped the velvet rope and tapped his cheek. “Ya got a little sugar for old Scruff, princess?”

No. Gag. Like I might ever put my lips on your scuzzy werewolf face.
I blew him an air kiss and hustled past him, pulling Flynn by the hand.
Shoot, that was close.
Scruff? I mean that had to be a nickname, right? I mean his parents couldn’t possibly have been that intuitive. I didn’t look back to see if he seemed disappointed. We forged forward into the belly of the beast.

BOOM was hot, ungodly hot, tropical-rainforest hot—so hot I wanted to peel off my clothes and douse myself with a bucket of ice. The air carried a rugged smell, as if some mad scientist had synthesized a uniquely putrid odor from beer and BO. Reggae music blasted from the DJ’s loudspeakers so forcefully that I thought the bass would cause blunt-force trauma. The dance floor was jammed. Everyone was sucking down the suds, Red Stripe, Jamaican brew. I was sweating pretty good. “Now I know why the girls are almost naked.”

Flynn fanned his face with his hands. “God, it’s like a sauna in here. Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Sure, just make sure it’s cold. Better still, maybe I’ll just stand in the freezer for a while.”

I was tempted to chug my beer, but I sipped at it slowly to stay clearheaded. Flynn was not as cautious; he proceeded to hydrate with reckless abandon.

“Easy on the suds, my friend.” I scanned the room and found what appeared to be the VIP section. An unsavory-looking fat man was having a drink with a pretty little girl. It certainly didn’t look like a match made in heaven. She was young, way too young for him …
or am I just being ridiculously naïve?
She didn’t look like the fast-and-loose type. Not that you can go by looks. She could be a butt crazy, Lolita-esque slut. Somehow I didn’t think so. He had his huge paw on her taut, young thigh, and she continuously glanced down at it with a look of concern. I had a feeling she was in way over her head.

I tapped Flynn on the shoulder and pointed. “Is that Mr. Big?” Flynn shielded his face with his hand and glanced over. He nodded. There was a second, tough-looking hombre at the table with Donovan. “Who’s the other lug at his table?”

“Lyndell,” he whispered, “They call him Dell. He’s the muscle.”

Lyndell was monster-sized. He had a neck the size of a steam pipe. “He looks like he can bench press a Volkswagen.”

“Ya think?”

Great, not only is Flynn in danger, but apparently he’s prone to sarcasm when he’s stressed.
Stupid me, I’ll help him anyway.
Donovan’s hand was like a compass, now pointed north in the direction of the young woman’s nether region. I saw her squirm, and then she made her move. I watched as she walked through the crowd toward the restrooms. Lyndell handed Donovan a small bottle and then … “Classic.”
He roofied her drink. Son of a bitch!

“What’s classic?” Flynn asked.

“A metallic-blue 1963 split-window Corvette.”

“
What?”

“Never mind. It’s time for you to take a powder. I’ve got work to do, and the longer you stay here the more likely it is that you’ll be spotted.”

“No argument.” Flynn placed his empty beer bottle on the bar. “Good luck.” He ducked out of the club.

I hotfooted it into the ladies room the moment Flynn was gone. Donovan’s gal was washing her hands when I walked in. Close up and in better light, I could see that she looked even younger than I’d originally thought. I didn’t know what her story was or why she was with Donovan, but I had to say something. Whether or not Donovan had murdered Keyla was uncertain, but he looked like a whole lot of trouble, and this girl needed an abrupt wakeup call. “Is there a back entrance, sweetheart?”

“Say what? Do I know you?” She sounded even younger than she looked. If I had to guess her name, I’d have to say Ivy or Lily or one of those flowery, girly names that are evocative of innocence.

“No, we don’t know each other, but I’m about to do you a huge favor. Run out the rear exit and never look back.”

She frowned—not completely unexpected. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Look, I don’t know you, but from the little I’ve seen, you don’t seem like the kind of girl who should be messing around with a dangerous character like Donovan.”

“And why not?” she huffed. “So you can make a move on him yourself? Go find your own money tree.”

Sure, that’s exactly what I had in mind; getting horizontal with a fat, sweaty Jamaican gangster like Donovan, who doesn’t wash the barbecue sauce off his lips before giving you a kiss.
“No, because he just slipped something into your drink. So unless you’re okay with being unconscious while he waters your lady garden with his love fertilizer, I’d get lost real fast.” She stared at me blankly. “You don’t get it? You’re about to get raped!” The color drained from her face, and then she ran past me out of the restroom.

Okay
, I figured,
not subtle, but I got the job done.
I took a deep breath and made my way to the door. I glanced over at the VIP area as soon as I was out of the restroom.

Oh shit!
I had figured it wrong, dead wrong. Lily or Ivy or whatever her name is stood in front of Donovan, stomping her foot, and pointing in my direction. I ducked out of sight just as Donovan turned toward me. I didn’t think he saw me, but I knew it was only a matter of seconds before his men closed in around me.

I glanced at the front entrance and the avalanche of people surrounding it.
Not that way.
I was about to make my move to the rear exit when I felt a huge hand grab me by the wrist. I expected to look up into the eyes of Arnold
Schwarzenegger and hear the
Terminator say, “Sarah Connor, take my hand if you want to live.” I was pretty damn close.

“Hurry!” a man said. “Let’s get out of here before they kill us both.”

Chapter Seven

I glanced at the man who had me by the wrist, and I yanked my arm free.
“Your friend sent me,” he said with urgency. “Ambler.”

Ambler. Thank God. I love that man.
He had sent someone to my rescue, and it was a good thing because I hadn’t planned an escape option. I followed my rescuer through a nearby doorway, which led into a storage room filled with cases of beer and liquor. I was on his heels as he weaved around the aisles of stacked booze. We hit the street on the side of the club. A car was parked just outside—I’m an enthusiast, but even if I wasn’t, I would have recognized the make and model instantly. It was an ’86 Buick Grand National, an old high-performance muscle car. He cranked the ignition. The exhaust burble sounded like the rumble of an approaching storm.

“Get in,” the man yelled.

“I’ve got my own car.”

“There’s no time,” he warned. He signaled for me to get in. I heard the club door creak behind me, raced around the Buick, and jumped in just as the wide tires squealed and caught on the pavement. A billowy, white cloud of smoke rose from the burning rubber. I heard the crackle of gunfire as we hit the road and sped off.

“You’re Chalice, right? Just want to make sure I didn’t risk my life for the wrong person.”

“Yeah, I’m Chalice. Thanks for coming to my rescue. And you are … ?”

“Rick.” He checked the rearview mirror, shifted, and mashed the accelerator. The Grand National accelerated like a torpedo. I checked the speedometer—we were over a hundred. “Short window of opportunity,” he blurted. “I hope you’re not afraid of high speeds. We need to create some distance while we still can.”

“High speeds?” I said through chattering teeth. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

After about ten minutes, he switched off the lights and downshifted. The car jerked and slowed abruptly. He swung the car onto a small road, and then his foot was back on the gas. He shifted the car twice, and the main road disappeared behind us. We were now thundering forward on a road that wasn’t built for speed. At first, the speed felt exhilarating, and then the car’s pace felt just plain crazy—it had that runaway-train kind of feeling, like a rollercoaster ride at a rickety, old amusement park. I wasn’t sure if we were going to fly off the tracks.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m saving our lives,” he said. “Our only chance is to disappear before Donovan has men searching every road in South Florida. “Maybe you want to fasten your seatbelt.”

Seatbelt?
I hadn’t even thought of it, but I buckled it as soon as I was reminded. We were on an unlit tributary road, doing eighty in the pitch black. He was driving like the getaway driver from
The Brinks Job
. His focus was on the road as he piloted the rocket ship at frightening speed. My heart was still pounding when we finally slowed down and turned onto an unpaved road. Rick pulled over to the side, lowered the windows, and cut the engine.