The Only Way Out. Susan Mallery
With any luck, Kray and his men won’t find it before you’ve left the island.”
“I think I used up all my luck getting Bobby,” she said and backed the vehicle up so that she could turn it around and head toward town.
Jeff didn’t answer her. She wasn’t surprised. She could feel the disdain radiating from him. He judged her by Kray’s standards. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She still judged herself for what had happened six and a half years ago. She should have known. She should have seen the clues. But she hadn’t. She’d been young and stupid, and now she and her child were paying the price.
The steering was stiff on her rental. Andie gripped the plastic wheel tightly and concentrated on the road ahead. There wasn’t any traffic this far out on the island. She hadn’t seen anyone when she’d driven in, either. That was something. The man beside her sat comfortably in the bucket seat. Almost as if he were relaxed. If she hadn’t noticed the watchful pose of his head or the way his right hand was never far from his gun, she would have assumed he wasn’t worried about what they were doing.
They rounded a bend in the narrow two-lane road. “Over there,” Jeff said, pointing toward a turnoff.
As she turned off the ignition, he opened the passenger door. He bent over and collected her purse from the glove box, then grabbed his backpack from the seat behind him.
“Through here,” he said, leading the way without bothering to make sure she followed.
Andie wondered if it was because he assumed she would trail after him, knowing he was her greatest chance at survival or if it was because he didn’t care if she came with him or not. Then she frowned. He’d taken her purse, which had all her cash. Subtle but deadly. That’s how she would describe Jeff with-no-last-name.
She opened the trunk and removed the small suitcase she’d brought. Bobby climbed out of the rental and stood next to her.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
She opened the bag of bread and pulled out a slice.
He grimaced. “I want a hot dog.”
“Later, honey. This is all we have now. When we get to San Juan, I’ll buy you a hot dog.”
“He needs to get changed,” Jeff said.
“Why?”
“Kray has a description of what he’s wearing. It won’t put them off much, but it may help if he has on different clothes.”
“That makes sense.” She opened the suitcase and took out the shorts and T-shirt she’d brought with her.
While she helped Bobby change his clothes, Jeff pulled away several large branches, exposing his Jeep. The vehicle was about ten years older than her rental. The tan paint had given way to rust. The tires were muddy, but closer inspection showed them to be new. The seats were torn and damp from the recent rains. There were a hundred vehicles exactly like this one in the capital city of St. Lucas, all of them belonging to poor locals. She saw instantly that between the new paint and rental sticker, her vehicle had stood out on the roads, even though she’d been trying to blend in.
“Did you buy that?” she asked, repacking the suitcase and zipping it closed.
“Yeah. It’s more expensive, but easier in the end. Cash can’t be traced.”
“I should have thought of that.”
“Why? You’ve got no experience at this.”
“And you have?”
He didn’t answer.
Figures. Rambo types were always monosyllabic. She wondered if they got a pay deduction every time they spoke.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Jeff said.
“I’m ready. Let me just get the box of food.” She set the suitcase down next to his Jeep, then returned to her own vehicle. After slipping the key under the mat, she did a quick check to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything behind. The rental agreement was still in the glove box. She pocketed that, then closed the trunk and picked up the cardboard box containing her meager supplies.
“There’s plenty of room,” Jeff said, jerking his head toward his open trunk.
She glanced inside, half expecting to see some powerful long-range weapon or a secret decoding device. There was nothing but an oily rag, a jack that looked rusty enough to collapse at the first sign of use and a baseball cap advertising a local beer. She set the box down.
Jeff pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. With the brim shading his eyes and covering his short, cropped hair, she hadn’t seen his coloring, but she’d expected him to be dark, like Kray. Instead, Jeff was blond with blue eyes and the clean-cut good looks of a California surfer. The image was so contrary to what she’d just experienced that she almost smiled. Almost.
Their gazes locked. She saw a flash of cold determination flicker in his gaze, the confidence and willingness to do anything to get the job done. He wasn’t some guy on holiday; he was a professional at this. She didn’t know why he was here, and she didn’t want to know. Better for both of them if she just got out of his way.
“I’m ready,” she said quietly.
He nodded, then dropped his gaze to her legs. “You don’t have any shorts, do you?”
“No. Why?”
“We obviously can’t pass as natives. The next best thing is to go as tourists.”
At that she did smile. “Yeah, right. No one’s going to notice your unusual outfit there, are they?”
Bobby, who’d been following their conversation, sidled over to her and peered at Jeff. “Why’s your shirt all funny like that?”
Jeff glanced down at the fatigues he was wearing. He winked at the boy. The friendly act, so incongruous when compared with who he was and what he’d done, made Andie feel as if she were trapped in a carnival fun house. Everything was distorted and nothing was as it seemed.
“I was playing hide-and-seek,” he said. “With this shirt and these pants, it’s harder for people to see me.”
“Mommy didn’t see you.”
“That’s right,” Andie said. If she’d seen him, she would have taken off in the opposite direction.
“There’s a baseball cap in the trunk,” Jeff said as he started unbuttoning his shirt. “Bobby can wear it.” He nodded his head toward the boy.
When he had unbuttoned the shirt to the waistband of his fatigues, he jerked it free. Andie didn’t know if she should turn her back or run like hell.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Trying to fit in. As you pointed out, I don’t look like a tourist. Yet.”
He pulled the shirt off, exposing a red tank top. He sat on the bumper and unlaced his military boots. After taking off the boots and his socks, he unbuckled the thick leather belt at his waist and laid it on the driver’s seat. He unzipped his pants and slipped them down. Underneath he wore wrinkled white shorts. He pulled the pistol from its holster. For a split second Andie thought she’d made a life-threatening mistake, but he tucked the weapon in the waistband of his shorts, against the small of his back, and pulled the tank top over the bulge.
From his backpack, he dug out a second baseball cap. This one advertised a local brand of rum. He slipped one on his head, then took the other from her hands and adjusted it to the smallest size, then gave it to Bobby. A pair of worn leather sandals completed his outfit. In less than two minutes he’d gone from trained military expert to beach bum.
He was tanned, with long legs and strong arms. She could see the ripple of muscles as he moved. The shorts fitted over his narrow hips, then hung loosely past his thighs. He was right—he did look like a tourist. She glanced at his face,