Page 52 of Murder Island

The bodybuilder slid his arm around the girl’s waist and started to pull her away.

“Wait!” I said. “Shaba? Is that your name?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “It’s Sheila.” British accent. Sounded like Kate Winslet.

I looked at the bodybuilder. We’d spoken a few times. A Russian. Broken English. Not a bad guy.

“Give me two minutes with her,” I said. “And I’ll pay for your whole night.”

“Two minutes?” the Russian said. “Can I watch?”

“Be my guest,” I said. “All we’re going to do is talk.”

The Russian and the woman looked at each other. Then she looked at me.

“Right then,” she said. “Start talking.”

We didn’t waste any time. Sheila covered her life story in about twenty seconds. She was born in Amsterdam. Went to boarding school in London. She had just moved to Dubai from Tanzania, where her father ran an import business.

“All the salons there are doing this shade,” she said, tugging on one of her curls. “It’s because of the girl inthe Congo. The one with the copper hair. She’s a bloody legend.”

“Why? For what?” I asked.

“She kills people,” said Sheila, eyes wide. She leaned forward and whispered, “But only people who really deserve it.”

“Like vigilante?” the Russian asked.

“Shut up,” I said. I grabbed Sheila’s arm. “Where did you hear this?”

She waved her hand over her head. “It’s in the air down there. Everybody knows.”

I took Sheila by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. Then I pointed at the Russian. “Wait here.”

I ran up the beach to my shack. I rummaged through the wall and the ceiling and pulled out my cutlass and my money bag. I ran back down to the boat as fast as I could.

“How much is he paying you?” I asked Sheila. “For tonight.”

Sheila bit her lip. “For him, five hundred, US.” She looked a little embarrassed. “I charge more in the city.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out two thousand in cash. I handed a thousand to the Russian, and another grand to Sheila. “Enjoy your night,” I said.

The boat operator was still sitting on the prow of the boat, puffing on a fresh cigarette. I noticed that he’d turned around to face us. Probably heard the whole conversation. Not sure if he understood it.

I climbed back onto the deck and walked straight up to him. “You speak English?”

“I speak money,” he said. Guttural Moroccan accent.

“Good,” I said. “Then we can communicate.”

I pulled out a stack of bills and waved it in his face.

“I’m officially hiring this boat, with you as captain. We’re heading south.” I jumped off onto the sand and single-handedly pushed the boat back into the surf. “And we’re leaving now!”

CHAPTER 62

Democratic Republic of the Congo, 6 a.m.

KIRA WOKE UP sore and miserable in the crook of a sapele tree. She was about forty feet off the ground. Her sling hammock had sagged during the night and her butt was bumping on the branch below.