Page 41 of Under the Radar
Hugh chuckled. “He’s one crazy mudder-fuck, mon. If you met him for a beer, he’d be about 5’9”, 170 pounds. I’ve seen him dress up and resemble a linebacker, and an hour later be a skinny homeless guy. Dude changes his hair on a weekly basis. I’d have to look in permanent records to find out what his real hair color is. You can relax. He’s one of those invisible types. You eat at a restaurant? He could be the construction worker three tables away flirting with the waitress. I’ll show you his picture, but he won’t look anything like it today. He’s spooky sharp, like you.”
“I haven’t been feeling too sharp lately, my friend. Post-traumatic stress.”
“Ah yes, a bitch of a mistress, no? I had a bout after Iraq.”
“What did you do to get over it?”
“Took a medication for a few months and talked a therapist’s ear off until I made peace with the memories and myself. Liquor makes it worse, by the way. Keep up your exercise, the endorphins help. And a steady diet of shagging doesn’t hurt either.” He shook his head. “I still hate the sand. It reminds me of the desert.” He walked toward the back of the cavernous facility. “C’mon, let’s find you those earrings. I think I’ve only got them with GPS and audio. You sure you’re stable enough to handle the hardware you’re signing out?”
“Yes. I’ve had that conversation with myself a half-dozen times already. The paranoia subsided once Mo told me her situation. I’m pretty sure we were tailed in Miami and hoping they stayed there, but I can’t be sure.” Mac shrugged. “The ship’s itinerary is public information.”
Hugh opened a jeweler’s display case with a dozen pairs of earrings, some casual and others elegant looking. “Take your pick, mon. I’ll fine-tune them when you’re done.” He walked over to another case. “How many earpieces do you want?”
“Two. Just in case.” Mac eyed the earrings and chose a pair of round blue studs. Elegant like Mo, but not flashy enough to draw attention or a second look from a thief. He handed them to Hugh who was working on the earpieces at a metal table.
“Tell me how this pair works.”
“Those,” he glanced at them, “have GPS in one earring and audio in the other. You can’t turn them off. Once I activate them, they’ll run for approximately twenty-one days. They’re meant to be worn all day and night. Water doesn’t affect their performance, except the audio won’t be as clear when worn in the shower or surf. The water muffles the other sounds. This earpiece is also waterproof and allows you to listen in real time. Your phone will give you access to both GPS and audio records for all twenty-one days. If you lose or discard the phone,” Hugh said, waving a hand toward the sky, “The information is stored in the cloud. You want them gift wrapped?”
“No. Just a box. I’m going to tell her exactly what they are.”
“Good idea. Honesty is the best policy, though, I’ve never met a woman who didn’t balk at someone listening in on her twenty-four hours a day.”
* * *
Mo poured herself a second glass of the limeade concoction the Bahamians called Switcha. Delicious stuff. The mixture begged for Puerto Rican rum and a sunset. Hopefully, Mac would agree to stop and buy a few bottles before returning to the ship.
She was browsing a travel magazine that advertised tours of the Amazon when deep voices and laughter interrupted her fantasy river tour. The guys emerged from the hallway. Hugh carried a briefcase and Mac had a large paisley bag slung over one shoulder.
“What’s in the bag, Mac?” She placed the Amazon tour information on top of the neat pile of magazines on the coffee table.
“Beach sustenance. Do you like the Switcha?” He sauntered over and helped himself to her glass.
“Love it. Very refreshing. I’d like to buy a few bottles to take with us.” Mo took one last sip and handed it back to him to finish.
Mac patted the bag hanging from his shoulder. “Already done. There’s a six-pack in this cooler. It’s terrific with vodka.”
Hugh chimed in. “Spoken like a true Bahamian. You and me, we’ve polished off quite a few bottles, eh?”
Mac rolled his eyes. “You can outdrink me any day of the week with that Caribbean tolerance for the spirits, my friend.”
“True, but you will always be a Conchy Joe to me.”
Mo scrunched up her face. “What’s a Conchy Joe?”
“A white Bahamian,” Mac bellowed.
“Follow me,” Hugh instructed. “I promised my customers a nicer ride this afternoon, and I will keep my word. We’ll leave by the upstairs garage. The newer van is up there.” He opened a door, flipped the light switch, and proceeded up the stairs. She and Mac followed. The whoosh and snick of a solid door shut behind them.
Her eyes widened as she surveyed the garage. It was massive and held all the traditional lifts and mechanical tools. There was a Mercedes sedan, a Hummer, and a white van all parked at the far end, still leaving enough room for ten more cars. The walls contained built-in polished wood drawers and, in the back, there was a small but beautifully equipped kitchen with stainless steel appliances.
This was no ordinary garage. Her parents had a top-of-the-line ordinary garage with nice flooring and curtains on the windows. Mo perused the ceiling and glimpsed at least eight security cameras and wall monitors as they walked to the van. This was some kind of facility.
The newer van was super-comfy, and the air conditioning bathed them in fresh air as they wound down the incline to exit the garage at street level. Hugh glanced at monitors on the driver’s side of the garage doors before pushing a button on the ceiling of the van. The huge steel doors swung open to allow them passage onto the street.
Mo turned around and watched the doors shut. They had to be eight inches thick. Hugh’s travel agency seemed like a normal hurricane-proof cinderblock building on the outside, but she’d bet anything it was used for way more than oil changes and tune-ups.
Mac tapped her knee, rousing her from her thoughts. “What did you decide? Are we going to eat first or go to the beach?”
“You game for lunch? I’m kind of hungry and would love to try some conch.”
“Absolutely.” He turned to Hugh. “Drop us off at the hotel by Cabbage Beach that serves conch five different ways.”