Counterfeit, Cocaine and Death: Rebecca Jamse Thriller, #3

By tony lavely

Perverting the course of Justice.

 

An attack on Amy Rose pulls Beckie Sverdupe away from University to save her young friend from a smuggler boss desperate for his freedom.

In tracing the years' old connections that led to Amy's kidnapping, Beckie discovers a conspiracy to sway the results of the upcoming Peruvian Presidential election by the smuggler's gang. Videos documenting a plot to pervert the course of justice come into her hands putting her and every one of the team into the cross-hairs of the conspirators.

It's a helluva one-semester course. Pass-fail means live-die.

 

Counterfeit, Cocaine and Death is an exciting political thriller, the third of the Rebecca Jamse Thrillers.

 

Included is an excerpt from Coda?, the next offering in the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: tony lavely
• Release date: Aug 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393788874

Book preview

Counterfeit, Cocaine & Death

A Rebecca Jamse Thriller

By

Tony Lavely

All Maps by Tommi Salama

[e-mail]

Cover Image: Washington Monument by Night

by Ben Schumin via Flickr

used under terms of CC BY-SA 2.0

Copyright © 2015, 2020 by Tony Lavely

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Edition 200816.2

All rights reserved.

Publishing History: Previously published in modified form as Connections. This edition has a new cover and editing throughout.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-tailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Tony Lavely.

Description

Perverting the course of Justice.

An attack on Amy Rose pulls Beckie Sverdupe away from University to save her young friend from a smuggler boss desperate for his freedom.

In tracing the years’ old connections that led to Amy’s kidnapping, Beckie discovers a conspiracy to sway the the results of the upcoming Peruvian Presidential election by the smuggler’s gang. Videos documenting a plot to pervert the course of justice come into her hands putting her and every one of the team into the cross-hairs of the conspirators.

It’s a helluva one-semester course. Pass-fail means live-die.

Counterfeit, Cocaine and Death is an exciting political thriller, the third of the Rebecca Jamse Thrillers.

Included is an excerpt from Coda?, the next offering in the series.

Part One

Abby's Story

One: New York

October, 2012

About ten on a unseasonably cold October evening, Jolene Rochambeau walked out of the Dag Hammarskjöld Library at the United Nations. She wrapped her scarf tight and pulled her coat together as she hurried to the gate on 1·st Avenue.

New York spread out in all its nighttime glory. The wind cut through her coat and slacks; she shivered in response. Traffic was still heavy, though rush hour had passed. With a snort of disgust, she rejected the busses lined up along the avenue and walked west along 42·nd Street. She frequently did the mile walk to Times Square, though not usually when her breath clouded before her.

She stopped in MacDonalds for a bag of dinner she could eat on the subway. Briskly, she continued toward the subway station, where she could catch the number 1 train to 116·th Street, and Columbia University.

Approaching a small park, a scuffle ahead stopped her before she stepped into a streetlamp’s glare. She scanned the area, but saw no one. Most particularly, she saw no police.

Cautiously, she sidled up to the corner of the building and peered into the open space.

About fifteen feet away, two men were struggling beside a scrawny tree. For a moment, she watched them. Just as she decided to cross the street to avoid the unpleasantness, something in the shorter man’s hand glinted. By the time she’d recognized the knife, it had fallen three, four, five times.

Transfixed, she watched the wounded man slump against the tree. The attacker knelt beside him and began to rifle his pockets. The light gave her a good view of his face and the black rose tattoo on his neck. Her paralysis faded, though not her panic, and she looked around, hoping to see someone, anyone.

Thank God! she thought as one of New York’s normally ubiquitous blue and white police cars drifted toward her. She ran to the cruiser’s side. The officer stopped short and was out of the car in an instant. Breathless, she just pointed to the man lying against the tree.

The attacker had noticed the activity and was running. The officer told her, Stay here! He and his partner hollered Stop, Police! as they took off.

Jolene collapsed against the side of the car, clutching the door frame. While it seemed like days, it was two minutes before the first back-up unit arrived. In another minute, there were five units, and then ten. A policewoman ran up to begin the questioning.

Am I the only one who saw this?

I think you are, honey. Tell me what happened.

Two: The Eastern Caribbean; the Keys

September, 2014

Amy's Lark

September 2 - 9

Amy Rose Ardan pushed her brunette hair out of her face for the fourth time, put her pen down and slid the letter into its envelope. She wrote ‘For Beckie’ neatly across the front, licked the flap and sealed it. She grabbed her duffel and held it while she rooted through it. Okay, she thought, got the special passport, and the GPS. Guppy’s papers are… here, good. She rustled through the documents making sure they were complete.

The duffel went back to the floor and Amy stretched out on her bed, ready to lie there for the next six hours. Waiting. As she’d been trained, she went over the plan one more time. The weather forecast was good, with atypical north-westerly winds fresh enough to move Guppy, her sailboat, at seven or eight knots. Her charts predicted sunrise on September third at 6:40. When the sun broke over the horizon, she wanted to have been underway for at least thirty minutes headed on course 097 for Providenciales Island.

The noise of the alarm shattered her pleasant dream; it slipped away as she got out of bed, dropped her nightshirt on the floor and dressed in the clothes she’d set out. She hooked the duffle over her shoulder and left the room. As she passed her mother’s bedroom, she blew a kiss in that direction. Almost under her breath, she said, Bye, Mom. See you in a week or so.

Aboard Guppy, she did a quick check of everything. While she expected the trip to be a day sail, it would last at least eight hours, and maybe all the way to sunset. Or longer, though that could throw off the plans Abby’d so carefully made. No matter. She checked the diesel fuel and the fresh water, the batteries and, most vigilantly, the rigging.

Happy, she cast off the lines to the dock, and pushed out into the little cove where the team kept most of their small craft. She used the engine to navigate to open water, but when she reached the marker buoy, she raised the jib and the main sail and set the autopilot to hold her course.

She turned back toward the island and, looking directly at one of the security cameras, waved for almost a minute before turning back to the water ahead of her.

The next eight hours were exactly what she expected. I hope the rest of this trip goes this well! She relaxed on the cushion to the left of the tiller and enjoyed the vista. Guppy was heeled over a few degrees, the main and jib both full of the wind. No need for tacking yet, she thought with a smile.

Mid-morning, she scanned the horizon’s circle before going below to fetch sunscreen, which she applied to her arms and legs, and midriff once she’d doffed her shirt. While coming up the ladder, clouds lined the western skyline, to the east the cloud-free azure sky met the sun-lit deep blue of the Caribbean Sea, where a small pod of dolphins played in Guppy’s bow wave before diving for better fun.

She had her radio on⁠—like any good sailor⁠—but had no intent of using it except for listening. There were no warnings, and while a few boats were hull-down to her north and south, there were none within three miles. She stretched her five foot-five height along the cockpit bench seat and thought about Abby.

Abby Rochambeau. She smiled. We’re almost like twins: same height, almost the same weight⁠—though her boobs are a little bigger⁠—I’ll ask if that’s where her weight is! She cast her mind’s eye over their distinguishing features. We both have brown hair; hers is a lot shorter, she mused, pulling her longer-than-shoulder-length tresses to her front. She teases me about my hazel eyes, but the only real difference is her skin; mine, pasty white; hers, a delicious shade of mocha. In that white swim suit…

A chance encounter at the gym had led to running together on Bon Secours Cay’s western beach. And swimming, though Amy admitted some would have called it skinny-dipping. Out of the water, in a gap between the security cameras, kissing had led to caresses, but nothing more. Until now! she thought. This will be so much⁠—"

The jib rattled, and Amy jumped up to see the wind’s shift around to the east had begun a little earlier than she’d hoped. She’d been underway for seven hours, and had about twenty-five miles to go. The headlands of West Caicos Island were visible, south of her course. That will be okay, she thought. No later than nine tonight. But it’s time to adjust for the wind. She checked the sails and adjusted the wind vane auto pilot for a more southerly course.

The wind had backed further around toward the east by the time she was south of Providenciales, and she wasn’t making the speed over the bottom that she wanted, but it wouldn’t be a problem. The plane didn’t leave til tomorrow afternoon; if she got in too late to clear Customs and arrange Guppy’s storage, she could do it in the morning. She planned to sleep aboard in any event.

An hour after sunset, she approached the buoy marking the entry to Caicos Marina. She motored out of the channel and dropped both fore and aft anchors, though little wind was forecast. She ran up the Quarantine flag until she could enter the marina and clear Customs and Immigration. She didn’t even undress before falling onto the bunk and passing out.

In the morning, her phone went off again, but instead of interrupted dreams, aches and groans accompanied her fumbling around to swipe the noise off. She scrubbed her face, wiped off her sunglasses and sailed the short channel to the marina. At the pier the shore-hand indicated, she tied up, then visited the Customs office.

As Abby had instructed in her message, Amy used her own Bahamian passport to enter the Turks and Caicos, and arrange for Guppy. The special passport would be used later, at the airport. The officer was friendly and polite. What’s your boat?

"She’s Guppy. A Contessa 26." She pointed out the window.

He nodded as he followed her finger; when he turned back to her documents, his bushy eyebrows shot up. Fifteen’s a little young for this kind of sail, don’t you think?

Well, no. If you look in your computer there, you’ll see I first did this two years ago. Then, I was too young. She rubbed the seat of her shorts. Mom made that real clear. But now, nope, no problem, especially if you watch the weather. Yesterday was beautiful!

He had been typing the whole time she’d been speaking, perhaps looking up the record Amy claimed. He didn’t say anything more to her no matter what he’d found, just handed all the papers back and wished her a pleasant stay in Blue Hills, visiting her friends.

Arranging to have Guppy hauled out of the water for the duration of her visit, the bottom painted and restocking her with fuel, water and the like took a nice chunk of the cash she’d brought, but she wouldn’t have to worry about her till she got back.

A taxi provided a speedy ride to Providenciales International Airport with plenty of time to stop at Gilley’s for a sandwich. As she ate, she read Abby’s note again, simply to enjoy the words, certain that she’d gleaned every iota of information already. She smiled again as she read, You can be my sister, Amy… Hope we’ll have some non-sisterly fun! This time she laughed at the way Abby proved herself not a sailor: Sail to Providenciales and park your boat someplace… Abby’d ended with I’ll send a big white limo for you; we’ll meet down at Key West. XOXOXO!!

A limo! This will be so much fun! It’ll even make up for the beating I’ll get from Mom when I get home⁠—at least I hope it will.

The flight to Miami was peaceful and as close to on-time as she’d hoped. Customs welcomed Amy Rochambeau back into the country from her Caribbean vacation and she followed the small crowd out the door into the humid South Florida evening.

Her wait was no more than a minute; once the other arrivals had dispersed, a white limo approached the curb, stopping ten meters from the doorway. She saw a sign in the windshield reading ‘Amy R’ and waved. The car shot forward to stop beside her.

As the door opened she heard a harried voice, It’s clear, but hurry!

Hop in, Amy, a different, more agreeable male voice said.

As she ducked her head beneath the door frame, two hands grabbed her head and pulled. As she landed she felt a sharp prick at her shoulder.

The door slammed and she was yanked around to lie half on the seat, half on the floor. The scream she wanted heard across the land was only a gargle in her relaxing throat. She felt her shirt pulled away from her and the chill air raised all the goose bumps that the introduction had missed. No! the harried voice demanded but she was getting further and further away. Play time is⁠—

A bitter, acrid smell brought Amy back to living, though once she’d taken stock, she wasn’t much pleased by her situation.

From what she could see and feel, she was nude. Her head ached. Her face was sore. Cuts and scrapes burned on her torso and legs. The ties holding her hands and feet prevented more than token motion.

For four days, those ties kept her from attacking the five men who, over and over, used her in ways she’d never thought of. Never wanted to think of. She’d fought the first few times, but being beaten and having her mouth filled with an evil tasting gag, forced in until she could neither breathe nor choke, had faded her fight, like a bright scarf left out in the sun. The sun. She couldn’t see it, but the light and heat from it soothed her, let her know that somewhere things might still be normal.

After the pain had been driven into submission by repeated assaults, she’d protected what was left of her sanity by hiding inside her head, only coming out when a slap to her face, or breast, or leg enforced a demand.

The slaps usually meant a bottle of either Ensure or water was about to be poured down her throat. The first couple of them had almost drowned her, but splashing the man when she choked had been an effective remedy; they now poured carefully. A couple times a day, they brought in a five gallon pail of salt water and sluiced all the blood, urine, semen and shit off her. The room still didn’t smell very appetizing.

She guessed the men had gotten bored, or the smell bothered them too; the attacks went from continuous to hourly till now only one of them used her, and only once daily. She’d lost track of the days, though she could see the light and dark as the sun passed overhead and beyond the horizon. Where she wanted to be: beyond the horizon.

She cursed Beckie and everyone for not coming to get her. She’d left the note; what had happened? For hours, she wondered about what the two men had said: She’s no good dead. Make sure she’s alive so she can talk.

The other man had grinned when he told her, Your little lezzie lover, you think she’ll do what she needs to? Or will she try and rescue you? His laugh didn’t leave any doubt about what he thought that would result in.

But it didn’t make any sense, even if she accepted that these men knew about Abby. What could Abby have done to attract… people⁠—she guessed they were people⁠—like this? And what could she do? What would she do? Amy was pretty sure Abby’d be on her way to find her. If she knew. If anyone knew.

That one thought, that Abby’d be there for her, kept her company in the backside of her mind while the men raped her, while the drink meal splashed over her face and neck and chest, while the cold salt water sluiced over her injured flesh, leaving its own legacy of pain and irritation.

A slap, not as hard as usual, called her out. Hey, wake up. The wind was making unpleasant sounds as it blew through the shack.

Leave her. She’s dead meat. It’s over and we don’t need her any more. We gotta get out before the storm hits; it’s s’posed to blow the Lower Keys back into the ocean.

Her eyes met the man’s before skittering away like a mouse surprised at its foraging. She saw a look she didn’t recognize. Sorry, he said, and tugged at her bindings before leaving.

That had been morning. Or after the dark had passed; she was no longer sure of anything except that she was about to die here. And that her hands felt cold while her wrists hurt again. The light was dropping and the birds were no longer singing. The big yellow shades were moving in the wind. They’d never done that before, at least not swinging out almost to the bed. All four of them were swaying.

The wind grew in intensity as the light failed. Inside the chickee, Amy could no longer make out details. Her feet, tied at the floor so her legs wouldn’t interfere with the men’s exercises, were even colder than usual. When the wind slackened, she could hear water lapping. Yeah. My feet are in it. And it’s getting deeper. Depression followed, sure as she was about the paucity of favorable outcomes.

She silently railed at Beckie, at her mom, at everyone who’d left her here. By now, even Abby had come under attack. The men who’d used her, the gods who had forsaken her, they all deserved the abuse she heaped on them.

Her legs told her the water kept rising, until her back and butt also felt the cold water. She went back into herself, asking forgiveness for whatever she’d done to deserve this.

Missing

September 2 - 3

The Nest, on seven Out Islands in the Bahamas, had been purchased by Ian Jamse as home base, not only for him, but for his mercenary team.

And it is aptly named, Go Shen thought as he dropped into his comfortable desk chair. As security director, it is my task to keep it safe. Although, he admitted with a smile, this Tuesday in early September hasn’t been much of a challenge! He opened his laptop to check for messages. According to Ian, the flight from Nassau to the Nest presented no difficulties and he and Beckie Sverdupe, his fiancée, would be deplaning on Port Cay. Shen glanced at the clock and thought, I should hear the plane landing pretty soon.

Fifteen minutes later, he did, and checked his monitors to make sure everything was in order. With a smile, Shen mentally joined the small crowd greeting the couple. Not every business trip gets that degree of welcome, he thought. Won’t take me long to straighten up here; I can get Ian’s final update on Reverend Billy’s arrest.

Before Shen finished, however, his phone rang. When he answered, the front desk person said, Doctor Ardan is out here; she’d like to see you.

Send her back. Doctor Millie Ardan, trauma specialist, ran the Nest’s hospital for Ian, in addition to traveling with teams going into situations where injuries were likely. Before he’d decided he had no idea why she’d visit him rather than Ian, she rapped the door frame and entered. In green scrubs, she held her head high but tipped slightly. "Thanks, Shen. I came by to see if Amy’s been in touch. Guppy’s not in the anchorage and it’s getting late. I expected her way before now."

He regarded her with what must have been a completely stupefied expression, based on her next words: You remember my daughter? Her mouth quirked up in a twisted grin. Fifteen years old? So tall? She held her hand a little above her own head. Long brown hair? Sailing a white Contessa 26?

"Sorry. Of course, I remember Amy. Guppy too. My expression reflected my surprise, nothing more. He paused to consult the computer. The morning watch’s log noted she left the anchorage before six, but nothing since. Sit down, please. He tapped the keyboard and looked again. No, nothing. It’s not all that late, though. Didn’t she leave a note or something?"

No, but that’s not unusual. But she always calls when she’s later than I expect. We talked yesterday, and today after lunch, we’d planned to begin her junior year courses. She shook her head. I’m worried, Shen. What could have happened?

Does she have a sat phone?

Millie shook her head. I tried her cell, but it went right to voice mail.

He nodded and worked the computer’s keyboard again. Yes. Unless she’s close to an island, there’d be no coverage. He gazed at the display for a moment before spinning the computer to face the doctor. Here’s the twenty-five mile radar image, with an hour’s tracking data. I can’t see any of these targets being her.

Do we have earlier data? Could we see her leaving?

Hang on, I’ll check. But don’t get your hopes up. He picked up his phone. Unless there’s something suspicious, we only keep an hour or so of this data. He talked for a minute, confirming the display on his computer represented all the data they had. Sorry.

She caught her breath. What else can we do, Shen? She must be in trouble. I’m certain she’d have contacted us if she could. You didn’t see her yesterday. She was excited about studying the new material, and my promise to take her to Disney if she did well.

I’ll ask if Jean-Luc is available to search⁠—

Thanks. While you do that, I’ll talk to Ian and Beckie. Millie rose and headed to the door. Amy was emailing back and forth with her; maybe she knows something.

They’re at Ian’s home. I’ll meet you there after I see about Jean-Luc.

As he walked her to the dock, he wondered about Amy. Disappearing didn’t feel like something she’d do; it didn’t fit her personality. But, getting entangled amorously with Abby Rochambeau didn’t seem to fit her either. I don’t know, he thought, and his worries slipped to his own adopted daughter, approaching the age of independence. With a sigh, he continued toward the airfield office on Port Cay to find Jean-Luc.

Inside Ian Jamse’s home, Beckie Sverdupe sipped her glass of champagne. She stepped aside to the lanai railing and looked over her friends, all come to welcome her and Ian back from their week in London tying up loose ends. The railing caught her at the waist; at five foot nothing and a smidge under a hundred pounds, she didn’t worry about it holding her safe from the four foot drop to the beach.

The flute in her right hand, she reached back with her left to pull her chestnut ponytail around to trail over her bust down to her belly. She finished the wine and placed the glass carefully on the rail. Her lips curved upward as she observed their guests.

Ian, her fiancé, stood nearer the slider into the house. Beckie didn’t see what he’d noticed; her attention was fully taken by him. His tan slacks matched her shorts; they had chosen white polo shirts. His ice blue eyes contrasted with her bright green irises, flashing now with pleasure. She could feel her love flowing across the ten feet between them. He rubbed his short blond hair. No, it looks white this afternoon. She really enjoyed running her fingers through it, almost as much as tucking her head under his chin and cuddling him.

Her heart beat harder, and she clenched her jaws to calm herself. Don’t need that here, she thought with a giggle, what would the kids think? Ian turned to step into the house; with a moué of disappointment, she walked toward Shalin and Kevin deVeel, their special friends.

Across the lanai, Millie had collared Ian; she was upset about something. Before Beckie could decide she needed to join them, they approached her. The upset on Millie’s face had morphed into something else: her jaw trembled, her eyes were slitted and her brow was furrowed.

Beckie’s heart jumped. Why is she scared? Who… Her mind leaped to the teammate who’d been injured in the last operation. Elena? Is she⁠—

Ian touched her arm. Ms Rios is fine. It is⁠—

Amy! Amy’s disappeared!

Damn! Beckie thought. That’s the last thing we need. Calm down, Millie. I heard what you said, but what?

Ian took Millie’s arm and led her to the sofa. Beckie accompanied them, taking a seat next to the distraught woman.

Go Shen hurried across the lanai to them. Talking about Amy? When Ian nodded and both Millie and Beckie turned to him, he said, "I told Millie most of this, but… She sailed out of the anchorage before six this morning. Waved to the camera like she always does. We thought nothing of it. We’ve had no signals from her, and there are no reported weather issues for, well, anywhere within her range in Guppy."

There’s nothing? I’m afraid… Millie’s lower lip was quivering, she had pulled her arms tight to her torso; Beckie grasped her around the shoulders and hugged tight.

Nothing. Specifically, no maydays. Jean-Luc and a crew are taking the copter, but with night coming on, they’ll only be able to search a little while.

Does it seem early to send Jean-Luc? Ian asked, looking at his watch. She’s been out less than twelve hours.

Millie convinced me. Shen snapped a glance to the woman.

She pulled herself up and glared at Ian while reviewing the reasons she’d earlier given Shen.

Very well, Ian said when she’d finished. Advise him to communicate anything needed to advance the search.

Shen pulled a chair over and sat. "He’s got radar, and Amy had the reflector and the masthead antenna; Guppy should show up bright and clear."

So he’s actually looking… for… debris… Millie broke down, sobbing into her hands.

Is that true, Shen, that they are looking for… if she sank?

They’re using the radar and the big binoculars, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Including, he murmured, a debris field. But if she capsized, it’s far more likely the mast is in the water, but the hull isn’t submerged. He rose. I can’t help find her here. If you want information thirty seconds earlier than I can call, the conference room is available. He walked around the sofa and took Millie’s hands. I’m sorry I don’t have any good information for you.

Ian gazed at Beckie; his eyebrows were raised and his head canted slightly even before he spoke. There was no hint of Ms Ardan doing anything unexpected?

Millie stared at Ian, but said nothing.

Beckie clutched her tight again. Not a word. You both know we talked, and exchanged e-mails while you and I were in London, but nothing to suggest this is more than Amy taking a day sail. She looked at Millie. She was excited about the stuff you were gonna start in her classes.

I know, Millie said, though her voice was breaking. We talked about it all weekend, and I thought… I thought with Abby gone, she was ready to begin the year eleven lessons.

Ah, Ian said. Abby. The elephant in the room, perhaps.

No, I really don’t think so, Millie rejoined. Amy was okay with her leaving and already planning a reunion for when she got back.

Beckie sighed and gripped Ian’s hand. Let’s go over to Shen’s conference room to wait. She took Millie’s hand.

About ten, Jean-Luc returned with his eyesore crew. Nothing but water. We circled the Nest in a spiral out to about fifty miles, then a grid from west to east. A few boats, but none like Amy’s.

At first light, Beckie joined the crew when Jean-Luc again lifted off to search. Shen had advised the Coast Guard of Amy’s failure to return or report, but without better information, they too were left to make wide area searches, searching for anything unusual.

By sunset, Beckie’s eyes were aching; she was ready to soak her head in drops. The rest of the crew felt the same, she was sure: grateful to be back at the Nest, worried sick over not having seen anything that hinted at Amy’s fate.

I’m not ready to hold a memorial! she snapped at Ian when he tried to ask how she felt. You listened to the same boring radio traffic I did; you know there’s nothing! He straightened; his face paled and his mouth dropped open. She buried her face in her hands and apologized. I love you, guy. She pulled him close for a kiss, then looked into his face. I’m so worried about her. Is there anything else we can do?

Let us talk with Shen. He’s been in contact with the Coast Guard. Perhaps they have a new bit of… He sighed. I doubt it, having listened to them all day also.

Hand-in-hand, they made their way to Shen’s office. Beckie said, I’ve gotta wash my face, as she turned off to the ladies room. Inside, she found Millie, crying over the sink. Beckie spent a few minutes attempting to comfort the doctor before taking her along to the conference room.

She gathered two cups of coffee and set one before Millie. Just as she raised her cup to her lips, Shen ran into the room.

She’s ok!

Beckie cheered with the others, but quickly realized Shen hadn’t finished. Where is she?

Shen’s voice was now rife with hesitation. This morning, she landed at Caicos Marina, Providenciales, in the Turks and Caicos. She probably arrived last night. The Customs officer said she told him she was headed to Blue Hills to visit friends.

Millie almost dropped her coffee. She doesn’t know anyone⁠—

I guessed as much because at Providenciales International Airport, there’s video of her getting on a plane to Miami. Her ticket was booked in the name of Amy Rochambeau and the passport she used matched.

Beckie fell back in her chair and let the voices flow over her. Well, what the hell? she thought. This came up over the weekend? While Ian and I were flying back?

By the time Beckie tuned back in, Millie was stomping out the door. While she appeared to be happy Amy wasn’t dead, Beckie saw no guarantee most of Millie’s relief wasn’t because she’d now be able to kill the girl herself.

The others, Ian included, came to rapid agreement that Amy was a simple runaway, chasing Abby. Beckie shook her head. A runaway didn’t fit Amy’s personality, but with love involved… Who knew, she thought, recalling the conversations she’d had with the girl about her relationship with the older team member.

Ian looked at his partner; Kevin deVeel reached for his phone. His brief conversation with Barbara Saunders in Peru provided one bit of news: Abby was working incommunicado in Arequipa, so Barbara wouldn’t be able to ask her about Amy until she checked in, Unless you want me to interrupt the surveillance? she asked.

No, Kevin replied. Not for what we know now. But Abby should call either Ian or me once she reports in.

Beckie stood and touched Ian’s shoulder. Nothing more to be done here, is there?

I believe not, he replied.

Quietly, they left the conference room. Out on the crushed shell walkway to the dock, Beckie took Ian’s hand. I’m sorry.

Whatever for?

Thinking I had an inkling of what was going on in her head.

That blame is shared among many people, most closer to the girl than you. We were some distance away.

I know. Just, it seems like something should have given it away. I spent time with her; she’s not that good at hiding things. She’s pretty open, in fact, so I’m at a loss.

He handed her into the skiff and motored across the channel. On the way, she smiled at him in the half-light of the setting sun, then looked at her phone. Well, tomorrow I should head to school. Classes started last week, so I need to make up some work already.

In Two Venues: Starring Amy

September 6

At eight forty-five the Saturday after Amy’d disappeared, Beckie skipped down the steps of the air taxi from Miami. School was out for the weekend, and with Tropical Storm Eight brewing off the coast of South America, it might be out for a week. Maybe Amy’s back. That’d make it a great weekend, she thought.

Until Maurice Boynton, Ian’s factotum, opened the door for her. His face, his body sagged before he straightened. She could tell he had no smile to greet her. He nodded his head toward the slider opening on the lanai. Bad news, I’m afraid, he said. Ian did not sleep well last night… No one slept well. I’m not sure this was a good time to visit.

Why? When the man didn’t answer, she said, Don’t act like Ian, please.

No, no. It’s simply… You’ll see. He sighed and turned away.

Beckie looked after him, completely befuddled. She shook her head and went to the lanai.

All conversation stopped when she stepped through the sliding door. She met each face in turn: Kevin. Millie. Shen. Ian.

Ignoring the message of the taut faces, she went to Ian and kissed his cheek. Hello, love. She looked him in the eye. What the hell have I walked into?

Faces turned away; gazes fell to the owner’s hands. She snorted and pulled the last chair out. Dropping into it, she looked, first at Ian, then focused on Millie. If you’re here, this is about Amy. What?

The silence held a moment more until Shen, still staring at his hands, said, "Amy was not the runaway we wrote her off as. Is not a runaway. She’s being… tortured, somewhere."

Augh! Beckie slammed a fist on the table, but then counted three slow, steady breaths. What happened? When⁠—

Ian touched her hand. Shen intercepted a message addressed to Ms. Rochambeau. Do you have it there? As he gestured toward Shen’s laptop, Beckie realized he was as angry as she. Boynton’s words made more sense, now.

Yes. Shen opened his computer, typed a few commands and spun it so the display faced Beckie. She spent a moment reading the short message.

‘Naughty?’ Who even talks like that anymore? She read it again. Jolene… Does that mean… Abby? Shen nodded. Back to the note. What’s this mean? She read aloud: ‘You know what to do to free this girl.’ Her voice rose to signal her confusion. What girl? Silence followed, except for a choked sob from Millie. So, it’s Amy. Must be. Even as she said, What’s the link to? she slammed her finger on the touchpad. Got to stay calm, she thought, as she sucked on her knuckle.

However, when the image changed, any calm Beckie’d pressed on herself evaporated like dew on sun-baked pavement.

The small, fuzzy image was too clearly a woman spread-eagled on a platform, and a man having brutal intercourse with her. Unbelieving, she expanded the viewer to fill the screen and clicked the start button again.

Beckie sucked in her breath and forgot to exhale. In the expanded picture, Amy Rose’s features showed through the bruises, cuts and blood. Her lips were split, as was her left eyebrow.

The shock of seeing Amy’s beaten face was overcome by the horror of her rape. Damn! Those guys are so dead! Her breath whooshed out and she grabbed at her pony-tail, yanking it around to cover her chest. Someone touched her arm; she jerked away before seeing Ian’s hand.

She blinked tears away and tuned out the assault; it would have been boring if not for Amy being there and the brutality the men displayed. But she didn’t turn it off. After the window closed, she looked up. The others had been discussing ways to track Amy, to locate her now.

There’s something there, Beckie said. Something familiar. Not sure what. I need to think.

While Beckie pondered the background scenery in the video, she listened with half an ear as Barbara reported Abby