Page 37 of Under the Radar
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Mac slipped out of bed and arranged the covers around Mo’s shoulders, smiling at the peaceful look on her face in the silky moonlight. The nightly waking from sleep had become a habit and habits were often unaware of the passage of time. They had a clock all their own.
But tonight, concern for Mo’s predicament woke him, demanding his attention. The fact that she’d shared her secret and hadn’t kept it to herself was a trust-builder.
He padded to the desk, pulled out a cigar from the top drawer, and rolled it in his fingers while his other hand felt around for a lighter. There it was. He shrugged into a bathrobe left on the nearby chair, poured a couple fingers of bourbon, and with barely a rustle, stepped onto the veranda and shut the door.
Leaning against the railing, he eyed the cigar. It was his last Cuban. Ethan had given him three of them at the wedding weeks ago. Mac held it up to the moonlight and studied the shape. This was one of the finer aspects of more normalized relations with Cuba. Their infamous cigars were starting to show up in shops in the States. They were expensive little buggers and stinky as hell. He lit the coveted thing and puffed until it glowed red in the dark. He’d probably need to shower before he crawled back in bed with Mo.
Maybe he’d troll the beach in Nassau for a purveyor of real Cubans. He’d haggle a little. That was always a fun time. In the end, he’d pay whatever they wanted for the genuine product. His thoughts meandered like swirling smoke in the night breeze.
After the steam had cleared from their shower, they’d enjoyed a late supper on the veranda and he’d prodded Mo for info about her situation. A few pertinent details nagged at his psyche. Mo’s coveted collection of drowned Jimmy Choos and the destruction of her grandmother’s dresser piqued his interest. They pointed toward a personal attack, not a random robbery. Someone knew her intimately and understood that in Mo’s world, those items were special.
And she’d angered several young up-and-coming political candidates by refusing to fund their campaigns. Two of them listed nothing on their platforms offering help to children and families. The other candidate had proposed a marriage of convenience because, according to him, she looked like the perfect political wife. How romantic.
Mac took a sip of whiskey and a pull from the slow-burning cigar. The low speed of the ship’s engines indicated they were close to port and idling until their 7:00 a.m. pier reservation. Sanctuary, Inc. had a depot in Nassau and several active operatives. He’d check-in like he’d previously planned. He’d also pick up a couple firearms, call Sanctuary HQ from a secure line, and call his contact in the Baltimore Police.
If only he knew the worth of the drugs in Mo’s car. That information would clarify things. A few million indicated a local or regional dealer. Much more than that and he’d be dealing with international smugglers who’d stop at nothing to exact their revenge.
Mac set his stogie on the table and slipped into the suite for his phone, grabbing the ashtray from the desk drawer. He scrolled the phone, searching media outlets in Baltimore. There was no mention of the seized drugs. Police departments liked to brag about large heists. It gave them credibility in the public’s eyes. The department was being quiet for a reason. For all he knew, they already had suspects in custody.
He texted Hugh Benson, his lead operative in Nassau, and requested a special tour of the island. Hugh knew exactly what that meant and would be waiting at the pier for them at 10:00 a.m.
Next, he texted his buddy at the Baltimore City PD hoping to discover the monetary value of the drug seizure. It wouldn’t hurt to poke around a bit. His friend was a straight arrow with a zipped mouth.
One thing was for sure—they were out of the US now. Maureen should be safe from pissed-off drug dealers. But would she be safe from his paranoia on the beach in Nassau? Although, he felt much better now that his system had dumped the valium. What he’d perceived as paranoia during their excursion to South Beach might not have been paranoia at all.
Perhaps it was time to resign from Sanctuary, Inc. and move on. His father had offered him many positions in the cruise industry over the years, and he’d declined them. Maybe he should accept full custody of Lily and be an everyday father to her. What if he could talk Mo into a house in the suburbs? She could freeze her ass off on a soccer field with a team of kids like she wanted. The idea made him smile. He’d get to warm her up in a shower when they got home.
“Ugh—it smells like pig crap out here.”
Mac wheeled around at the sound of her voice. Busted. She shut the veranda door and all but floated toward him in the long, pink, satin nightgown he’d purchased for her in the salon. Maybe it was the whiskey, but Mo reminded him of Freya, the Norse goddess of love and war. He’d seen the love side of her earlier. Would the cigar bring her war tendencies to the forefront now?
“Cubans? Whiskey? And you didn’t invite me to join you?” She made a tsk-tsk sound as she plucked the cigar from his hand.
Mac circled her wrist with two fingers. “Don’t throw it overboard,” he warned. “It’s bad for the sea life, and it’s my last one.”
She raised an eyebrow and laughed. “So, you think I’m a vengeful, self-righteous woman who would deprive you of your precious cigar? On the contrary, I simply want a puff or two for myself.”
Oh.“Don’t inhale—it’ll make you sick.” He released her wrist and leaned against the railing enjoying the spectacle.
“I know not to inhale. I didn’t grow up in the back of a turnip truck. My father smuggled Cuban cigars into the states for years in his long socks. He’d come home from business trips to South America acting like an eight-year-old on Christmas day as he transferred them to his humidor.” Mo handed the cigar back and crooked a finger to hand over the whiskey. She took a slug and pounded her chest until it slid down her throat. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” she wheezed. “It’s like swallowing a fireball.” She placed the drink on the table.
“You’re quite the sailor tonight, sucking on a cigar and downing good bourbon.” He looked her up and down. The mussed-up hair and smudged-eyes look was good on her.
“Nonsense. This is all in the name of self-preservation.” Mo sauntered closer and placed a hand on his chest. “I’m cold in that big bed all alone and hoping you’ll come back and join me. But since you stink of whiskey and cigar, I should too. That way, we won’t offend each other. Capiche?” She stood back, crossed her arms and hiccupped.
He smiled. “You look beautiful in that nightgown.”
“Thank you. You have very nice taste in sleepwear. It feels lovely on the skin. Do you think it’s too long?” She turned a quick spin.
Mo was just like a mermaid, showing up unexpectedly on his cruise, with the moonlight bathing her in a soft glow. “I like them long. It leaves more to the imagination. I can start at the ankle and work my way up.”
She gave him an exaggerated wink. “What an interesting concept. You’ll have to show me sometime.” After opening the door to the suite, she looked back and smiled. “Are you coming? Pun intended.”
“Most definitely.” Mac stubbed the cigar in the ashtray and grabbed his whiskey glass. Duty called. First things first. He’d haggle on the beach for another Cuban cigar tomorrow.