BOSSY BROTHERS: JOHNNY Page 9

  “That’s what I’m calling it.”

  I nod and smile. “OK. Got it. Got it.”

  “What’s your plan?” Logan asks. “I mean… that list of shit you gave me? Kinda implies finding this Charlotte woman is a big operation.”

  “Could be,” I say.

  My gaze once again wanders out to the ocean. I wish I lived down here. Everything is so much slower. This place is no different than the city as far as crime orgs go. Probably worse with all the drug smuggling. But it’s different in all the other ways. In the Caribbean, even the cities have that easy-going island feel. I could get used to it.

  “Not sure yet,” I add. “Just want to be prepared. That island where I found Megan was the only asset I’m familiar with, but she gave me a lead to another one. So that’s where I’m headed next.”

  “Megan is the pale girl, I take it?”

  “Yeah. Megan Machette. But she’s from here. Does business down here. Some kind of researcher. That’s why I’m keeping her around. She says this island is the only one she knows about. Used to work there or something. But…” I shake my head. “She’s lying. I can spot a fucking liar like nobody’s business and I know for a fact that she’s lying.”

  He raises his eyebrows at that last part. “Is she worth it then?”

  I shrug with my hands. “She’s all I got, man. Not much else to go on.”

  “Research, huh? What kind of research?”

  “I’m not quite sure yet. She’s lying about that too. Not all of what she told me was a lie, some of it felt real. But she left a lot of shit out, that’s for sure. Anyway, it can’t be good. Nothing they do is good.”

  “Well, you can’t go today. You just have to wait until tomorrow when I have your whole list of supplies. So why don’t you just relax and…you know, get to know this girl a little better?”

  I take a deep breath, slouch down in my chair a little, and let the stress of the past five years settle for a moment. “I think I can do that.”

  “You got anyone else helping you?”

  “Jesse and Joey are on Key West right now. So they’re close.”

  Logan puts up a hand. “Hold up here. Your brothers? That’s your backup?”

  “They know, Logan. I told them what was up last month.”

  “But they’re not like you, Johnny. They’re not like us.”

  I shrug. “They’re really all I got.”

  Logan pulls out his phone and starts texting. “Well, you just became my client. Consider it a gift. I’m gonna get a team together.”

  “Nah, man. Just stay out of it. We can—”

  “You cannot,” he says, still texting. “Jesse and Joey aren’t pussies. I’m not saying that.” He leans forward in his chair and locks eyes with me. “But have they ever even killed anyone?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Logan leans back. “My point. Let me take care of it. I have a nice, tight team going here.”

  “AJ?” I ask.

  “Fuck, no.” He laughs. “AJ is Mr. Father of the fucking Year these days. Dude hasn’t killed anyone since I took one for the team and sent him to Mexico. He’s been living the normal life for too long to bring him in on this. Plus, if something ever happens to me at least Yvette and the kids will still have him.”

  “Well, Jesse has this girl. Emma’s her name. And Emma’s got these brothers, you know? Big fuckin’ dudes. They run some deep-sea fishing, diving, adventure shit down on West. She kinda offered up their services last month. So I could enlist them if I need to.”

  Logan is shaking his head the entire time I’m talking. “No civilians. And anyway, it’s done. Stop talking and just let me handle it.”

  I sigh. Because you know what? Fine. I will let him handle it.

  I don’t trust many people in this world. Hell, I don’t even really trust my own brothers. But I trust Logan. He and I have shared too many seductive secrets. We know way too much about each other to change sides now.

  It feels good, actually. To let someone else be in charge for once.

  I could get used to this.

  CHAPTER EIGHT - MEGAN

  The first thing I do after Johnny takes off is buy a pair of pink flip-flops with huge plastic flowers popping up between my first and second toes from a street vendor. Probably not the best place to buy footwear, and these things will probably fall apart by nightfall, but I’m barefoot, so not gonna be picky. I will switch out later. I want to know more about Johnny Boston and I can’t afford to lose him in the winding alleyways near the marketplace.

  He takes his time. Strolling casually through the streets. Exuding confidence and self-assurance in a way only men with power seem to be able to pull off.

  What must it be like to be him? Bankers are no joke inside the Way. Every part of this planet has been claimed, divided into sectors, and assigned to a banker by the Way. And each banker is in charge of a whole lot of money. I don’t know the exact number of dollars (or euros, or pounds, or yen or insert your favorite currency here) that are collected each month from the contributors, but obviously, it’s a lot.

  The one cool perk about being a banker—at least this is what I hear—is that all the money they collect goes into accounts with their names on it. They are rich beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. I also hear they can spend as much as they want, on anything they want, whenever they want.

  Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. But the point is… billions of dollars find their way into Johnny Boston’s accounts every month.

  So he can afford that confidence. He can afford that self-assurance.

  I have a certain measure of confidence and self-assurance too. Because I have a few things in my back pocket. I could take them out and wave them around if the situation called for it.

  But if I do that, then there’s no turning back. Shit gets real and I don’t want that to happen until I have no other options.

  So right now it’s very important that I just toe the line and do my job.

  Some of my acceptance of this life came from being sheltered. I didn’t have much exposure to the outside world. I didn’t learn other people’s norms and socially acceptable ways of life. Living in what amounts to a massive whorehouse was just part of my life. Who I was.

  But it’s no excuse. We have TV. We have internet. We have news. I know right from wrong. Everyone I knew seemed to also know right from wrong. We at least knew enough about it to pass judgment on others.

  The prisoners the Way keeps on these islands, they’re not innocent. None of us are innocent, not even me. And while I don’t really know what’s going on with them or the specific reasons why they’re locked up on those islands, I know enough.

  My father told me a little bit about the program we were running. I went through a short rebellious stage when I was a teenager. Very short. Like literally lasted a few minutes before my father put me in my place. By this time I had been working in his lab on Osprey Cay for a long time and I started asking questions about the people I used to log into the database over on the prison island.

  At first my father said nothing. He just refused to talk about any of it. But eventually I threw a tantrum and made some outlandish demands that came with threats about leaving and going to America. He, in turn, told me I had no passport, I had no birth certificate, I had no choices.

  Revelations like this don’t often go over well with hormonal teenage girls, so I responded in anger, and he responded by grabbing both my arms, shaking me so hard I heard a pop in my shoulder, and then he bent down, his face up to mine so he could seethe out the words, “Shut your fucking mouth, Megan Machette. Or one day you will find yourself walking off a boat, onto an island, and some other pretty young girl will be filling out intake forms on you.”

  I shut my fucking mouth.

  I did what I was told.

  I never brought it up again.

  I might not know what specifically happened to those people I entered into the database on the prison island. But I knew it w
as wrong. I knew they went down to the underground facilities and I never saw them get back on boats.

  It wasn’t hard to trick myself when I was younger. I only went there four days a week. I convinced myself that they all departed on the days I wasn’t there.

  I still don’t know that’s not true.

  But… it’s just not true.

  They killed them.

  We killed them. I’m part of it. That’s the data I was entering in the computer every afternoon. The results of some tissue and blood samples.

  I don’t know what they do with the bodies. I have nightmares about what they do with the bodies. And a part of me wants to go back and look. Is there a cemetery? A crematorium? Do they ship them out? What? What do they do with the bodies?

  I don’t want to know what they do with the bodies.

  Johnny ends up at the big all-inclusive resort on this side of the island. I get a few weird looks from the various people monitoring the lobby as people get out of cars and haul luggage up to the reception desk. But no one stops me to ask if I belong here.

  He meets a friend in the lobby, chats, then they both walk outside to a table facing the beach and start having a conversation as I casually hide behind, and peek through, the large fronds of a short palm tree.

  A tall, massive local man approaches their table, nods his head a few times, then walks off, speaking into his phone as his eyes search the area.

  Security, I deduce.

  Johnny and his friend resume their talking and I start counting the cash he gave me. It’s a little over four hundred dollars. Then I glance back at the way I came. Because I passed a few boutiques, one general store, and one electronics store.

  A phone, I decide. I need a phone.

  I backtrack through the restaurant, go inside the electronics store, and start browsing the small selection of pre-paid phones. One comes with some pre-paid minutes, and best of all, it’s only forty-five dollars. Probably a ripoff, since this is a resort and up-charge is everything, but it’s Johnny Boston’s dime, anyway, so I take it to the counter and pay in cash.

  I stop in front of a trash can outside the store, rip open the box, flip open the phone, power it on—it has one bar of battery, presumably so I can activate it—scratch off the silver stuff on the minutes card, press the activation number, wait for the recorded instructions, and start entering the access code. Then I balance it between my shoulder and ear while I stuff the charger into my pocket and throw everything else in the trash can.

  Once the activation is complete I press in the number I want to call and turn to look back towards the restaurant to see if I can spot Johnny and his friend from this vantage point.

  But that’s when I see the tall, broad security guy who was with them at their table—heading straight for me.

  I flip the phone closed and shove it into my pocket just as he comes close enough to call out, “Megan? Are you Megan?” in his Caribbean accent.

  Confused, I crinkle my face at him.

  “Miss Machette?” he says, closer now. “I was sent to find you and take you to your friend.”

  Normally I’d be super suspicions of this guy. My friend? Really? But I know he’s telling the truth because I just saw him at their table and pegged him as security. Still, I feel the need to play it off. I don’t want this guy to know I followed Johnny over here. Though… it is pretty obvious.

  “I’m Megan. But I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “I am Thane. My boss is a friend of Mr. Boston’s. You came here with him.”

  It’s not a question so I don’t bother replying.

  “It’s important that you come with me. For your safety.”

  “Where is Johnny?” I ask.

  Thane nods his head in the direction of the restaurant. “At a table outside. Would you like to come with me? Or should I call Mr. Boston so he can assure you that this is all legitimate?”

  I probably should make him go through the motions of doing that, but I don’t want to make a lasting impression on this man. Argue with him and he remembers me. Go along amicably and maybe he forgets all about this small task he was assigned.

  I go along. “No. It’s fine,” I say. “Lead the way.”

  Thane gives me an equally amicable smile and pans his hand towards the restaurant in an understated ‘after you’ gesture. I know where Johnny and his friend are sitting so I spy them long before they spy us.

  They both stand up as we approach—like they are gentlemen and not a Way banker and his arms dealer. Because even though I don’t know his friend, I know his type. And that’s what he is.

  “That was fast,” the friend says. “She was close, huh?”

  “Right outside the electronics store,” Thane tattles.

  I ignore the friend and stare at Johnny. “Did you shop?” he asks.

  I lift up a foot and wiggle it at him. “Got these bad boys.”

  He smiles. Chuckles a little. “Nice.”

  “Well,” the friend says, extending a hand towards Johnny, “I’ll call you tonight and we’ll go over details.”

  Johnny takes his hand, steps around the side of the table, and they embrace. Not like casual friends, but like old friends.

  Interesting.

  “Good,” Johnny replies. “Great. And thank you. I appreciate this and I owe you, Logan. You ever need anything—”

  “Forget it.” Logan laughs. “I will never ask a Boston for a favor.”

  “Dude,” Johnny says, laughing it off. “Freebie.”

  “No such thing in your world, my friend.” Then Logan gives Johnny a one-fingered salute and says, “You’re in cabaña three just down that direction. Talk later.”

  He turns away and walks off. I follow him with my eyes until the tank called Thane blocks him from view, following along behind him.

  “You followed me,” Johnny says, once again taking a seat.

  I look at him and he gestures to the seat. So I sit and nod. I try to be truthful most of the time. When I can. Honesty is almost always the best policy. That’s one of my father’s favorite proverbs. So I say, “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s pretty obvious why.”

  “I like things spelled out.”

  I shrug. “I don’t trust you.”

  “I don’t trust you either.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be surprised that I followed you. I’m actually kind of surprised you didn’t follow me.”

  “So we could follow each other?” He laughs. I think it’s a real laugh and that might be the most surprising thing about the last thirty minutes. Nothing about what’s happened recently has earned a real laugh. “Classic comedy right there.”

  “Um… yeah,” I say. “Sure.”

  “Anyway,” Johnny says, tapping two wristbands on the table in front of him. “Logan got us a room here at the resort. So we’re not going to stay on the yacht. And a security team too.”

  I look around, pick out at least four people who could be said security, and pull myself together. “A room?”

  “Yeah, I know. Just one, I guess. And you might not trust me in any other way, but you can trust me not to bother you. I’m not that kind of man.”

  His tone gets a little dark and heated when he says those last few words.

  “No,” I say quickly. “I got that.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just… you had an opportunity to do that kind of thing last night and you didn’t. So…”

  “You were disappointed?”

  I wait for the smirk. That’s usually what comes next, right? When a hot guy thinks you want him and he didn’t meet your expectations. But there’s no smirk. His mouth is just a straight line of seriousness.

  “I wasn’t disappointed. I was just… you know what? Forget it. But… but I’m not sure I want to stay here at this resort. I’m actually more at home on a boat.”

  He nods. Like he gets it.

  He doesn’t, though. He doesn
’t get me, or it, or anything.

  But then he stands, swipes up both wristbands, and says, “Let’s check it out anyway. You never know. People like us tend to adjust to new situations rather quickly.”

  The rest of that goes unsaid but I hear it anyway.

  People like us adjust to new situations quickly… or we die.

  I push that thought away and walk forward, half expecting him to place a possessive guiding hand on the small of my back as he falls into step beside me.

  But he doesn’t. Gonna play the aloof bad-boy gig to the end, I guess.

  Cabaña three is nice. Very nice. So nice I take my time looking it all over. Especially the beachfront ocean view out the patio doors.

  And it’s a two bedroom so all that talk about him keeping his hands off me? Pointless. He gestures to the open double doors of the master bedroom and says, “You can take that one.” Then he nods his head to the other bedroom across the living room and adds, “I’ll be over there.”

  I glance at his room, then back to mine. “You don’t think we should go back to the yacht to get your clothes?”

  “Why? I can just buy what I need from one of those overpriced boutiques we passed.”

  I nod my head slowly. “OK. Fine with me. It’s your money.”

  “Not really,” he says, walking over to the French doors that lead to the patio. “But no one seems to mind when I spend it.”

  He opens the doors and suddenly the room is filled with the scent of the sea. Salt, and wind, and sunblock.

  Smells like home for some reason. I don’t know why I think that. The whole island smells like home. But suddenly everything that’s happened over the past few weeks becomes this scent right here and all the things I’ve lost start flashing before my eyes.

  The mansion. The pools. My own bedroom. My father. And my job with him. Our lab. Our work. It was important work. So important. And secret too.

  “Megan?”

  “What?”

  “I said, do you want to come with me? Or wait here?”

  “Where?”

  “Jesus. Were you just ignoring me? I said I want to go shop for some swim trunks and then spend the entire afternoon on the beach.”