Before he could finish the thought, Alex lifted her chin and added, “You go on and do your thing. Find Gellman. And while you’re out chasing the bad guy, I want you to think about what I’ve said. Then when you come back home, if you’re still convinced you don’t want to take a shot on seeing where this thing between us will go, fine. We’ll find a way to be friends. But if you do feel like taking a shot, then I’ll be there. Waiting. Hoping. Get it? Got it? Good.”
With a decisive dip of her chin, she turned and strode down the hall, leaving him standing there like a spare prick.
For a couple of seconds, he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. There was too much confusion in his head. Then, without conscious thought, his feet began inching forward of their own accord. They carried him down the hall to the elevators.
When he stepped out of the hospital three minutes later, he couldn’t feel the brush of the breeze through his hair or the warmth of the sun on his skin. He couldn’t feel the beat of his own heart inside his chest or the rush of air through his lungs.
He couldn’t feel anything because Alex’s words had stunned him, leaving him completely numb.
Chapter 29
Eight days later
“This car is a POS,” Doc grumbled. “It couldn’t outrun a dairy cow.”
From his position behind the wheel, Mason glanced over to find Doc’s haggard face covered in a week’s worth of beard stubble. His hair was lank and listless from the wind and salt spray. And his nose was peeling from the sunburn he’d received the first day of their hunt when they’d landed in the Bahamas and spent twelve hours in the subtropical sun running from one boat rental shop to the next until they’d finally found the one Gellman had used to rent a forty-foot catamaran.
Since that first day, they’d barely stopped to eat. They’d slept in shifts. And the islands they’d visited while closing in on Gellman’s trail were so numerous they were nothing but a blur.
In short, they were running on fumes. And Mason felt as bad as Doc looked.
Probably look as bad too, he thought, and then winced when he tried to shift into third gear and the transmission on the little Nissan hatchback they’d rented from the guy in port put up a fight. After a few seconds of grinding, he found the gear and told Doc, “Not like we had a lotta choices. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Mmph” was all Doc allowed before pointing. “Hang a left. The bar the dockhand said he told Gellman to hit should be on the next corner.”
Mason did as instructed and was gifted with a view of the mountainside. Pastel-painted houses climbed up the incline. They looked cool and crisp compared to the dirty streets and brightly colored umbrellas shading the carts of the street vendors lined up and down the avenue in downtown Port-au-Prince.
The last time Mason had been in Haiti, he’d still been in the navy and working a security detail for the president. Apparently, there’d been rumors of an assassination plot and the Secret Service had called in the big guns, a.k.a. the Navy SEALs.
“Place hasn’t changed much,” Doc observed as Mason found an open spot near the curb and parallel parked the Nissan.
“In my experience, most places don’t,” Mason said before pushing out of the car. The door hinges screamed as if in agony.
Once he was on the street, he was accosted by the smell of frying plantains and car exhaust. Making sure his tank top covered the small of his back where his handgun rested against his spine, he joined Doc on the curb and headed toward the run-down watering hole on the corner.
The neighborhood wasn’t one for tourists. He and Doc got plenty of curious looks from the locals, but their expressions succinctly stated that any questions would not be welcome.
“What d’you suppose the chances are of him still being here?” Mason asked wearily, feeling every single one of his missing meals.
“That dockhand said he sent Gellman this way barely two hours ago. Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”
Mason grunted. They’d been hoping to get lucky for over a week. And for over a week, they’d come up empty-handed. He was starting to lose hope.
He blinked after pushing through the open front door of the bar. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he took a quick glance around and then cursed low and long beneath his breath.
There were two dozen people lining the plywood bar and sitting at rickety tables. But none of them was Rory Gellman.
Beside him, Doc sighed tiredly. “Let’s head to the bar for a nip or two and see if maybe Gellman was here. If he was, maybe he let slip to the bartender where he plans to head next.”
Mason figured it was an exercise in futility but followed Doc to the bar nonetheless. The bartender took one look at them and then asked in heavily accented English, “What will you have?”
Mason didn’t pay attention to what Doc ordered. He was too busy using the mirror behind the bar to keep an eye on the door. It was habit. One he knew he’d never break.
He downed the drink the bartender set in front of him, and then coughed and fought the tears that pooled in his eyes. Whatever was in the shot glass burned all the skin off the roof of his mouth.
He turned to Doc to ask what the fuck he’d just put down his throat. Before he could get a word out, however, the door to the bathroom opened and out walked the man of the hour.
Rory motherfucking Gellman.
Doc spotted him at the same time Mason had. A split second later, Rory spotted them. For a couple of interminable moments, no one moved. No one dared breathe.
Mason felt the weight of his pistol against his back, the metal warm from being next to his skin. But he didn’t dare pull it. Not in a bar full of Haitians. He was many things, but dumb as a Maryland stump wasn’t one of them.
A muscle twitched beside Rory’s left eye.
Mason knew what came next and felt his own muscles tense in response. “He’s gonna rabbit on us,” he told Doc from the side of his mouth.
“Yep. There he goes.” Doc nodded when Gellman leapt over a table where two men were smoking and playing cards. Three more steps, and the former Army Ranger dove headfirst through the open front window. “I hate it when they make me run,” Doc added.
Even as he was finishing the sentence, Doc was sprinting for the door. Mason was hot on his heels, noting that the locals looked on with only mild interest. Apparently, squabbles between foreigners didn’t concern them much.
Out on the street, they turned on the speed and rounded the corner in time to see Gellman dart into an alley a block and a half ahead. Mason had no hope of keeping up with Doc’s long-legged strides. But then an elderly woman wearing a head scarf and pushing a shopping cart suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and landed right in Doc’s path.