South American contact stole Luc’s attention.
“Why have I not heard from you? You were supposed to call by now. What’s your position?”
Luc’s eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. But as he stared at the annoyed inspector standing in front of him on the pier, it did not take long for him to realize—
He’d been pirated and put out of business by a slick operator.
“I c-can…” He choked on words he’d never believe himself. “…explain.”
The Haitian patrol boat set course for Tortuga Island, the historically infamous Pirate Island across from Port de Paix. En route, every decal, flag, and uniform that designated the identity of the boat and its personnel would be removed, bagged, and thrown overboard with weights. No evidence of their piracy would remain.
In his cabin belowdecks, Jackson Kinkaid stripped out of his uniform to his skivvies and stared at the age- ravaged face and thinning gray hair of Inspector Gerard Heriveaux in the mirror one last time. Being a chameleon, he admired his work. His best disguise to date.
What had taken him hours to create would be gone in minutes.
Kinkaid removed his brown-tinted contact lenses and dug his fingernails into the skin at his cheek, tearing at the latex until his own face emerged, dotted with adhesive. He bent over a small sink to scrub off the last remnants of the disguise and wet down his dark hair. When he looked into the mirror again, familiar green eyes stared back. And he straightened his spine and shoulders to regain his youth…and attitude.
“You won’t have to worry about old age, Kinkaid,” he smirked at his reflection. “You won’t live that long.”
Before he dressed, he sat on his bunk with eyes closed and listened to a digital recording on an iPod. He needed to hear it like he was compelled to breathe, and he’d made this special time a ritual—a self-inflicted reminder of how much he had changed. The recording also never let him forget that his life hadn’t always been empty.
While he took his personal downtime, his team headed for Tortuga Island, where his men would separate, and a helicopter awaited him. Not too long ago, the island had served as the filming locale of a sequel to
Forty-five minutes later
“Boss, we’re here.” The voice of his number one man, Joe LaClaire, called to him from on deck.
Kinkaid knew from the plan that they would be docking in a discreet cove on the island, away from curious eyes. For security reasons, they randomly selected the location, but this spot had a unique attribute. A helipad was nearby, and a Bell 210 helicopter awaited his arrival.
By the time he emerged topside, Kinkaid garnered his men’s attention when he came out wearing a navy Armani suit with a light gray shirt and burgundy-striped tie. The stark contrast of dress attire on board generated a flurry of whistles and verbal abuse he found hard to ignore.
“Cut the crap, you bastards,” he yelled. A rumble of good-natured laughter from his men made Kinkaid smile. He gripped the shoulder of the short, dark-haired man standing in front of him and lowered his voice. “Get the cash where it needs to go, Joe. You’re in charge now.”
He trusted Joe with his life, so relying on him to secure what they had plundered wasn’t an issue. The drug money taken off the trawler had been easy pickings, especially with an inside track to the drug cartel. Eavesdropping on the international maritime satellite communication network helped determine what cargo to hit and the level of risk involved—all part of their usual meticulous homework. And the anxious trawler captain had given him plenty of time to break into the safe when the man left him alone in his cabin.
But commandeering the trawler’s private cell phone—pretending to be the captain’s smuggler contact—had been a stroke of genius Joe had orchestrated. It had saved the trawler crew from having to face Kinkaid’s plan B if anyone had resisted.
“I’ll see you at the rendezvous point tomorrow morning. Eight sharp,” he said.
These days he had few friends. He’d severed ties and kept moving to avoid dealing with the baggage. Friends expected too much. And they knew when he was lying and called him on his shit. LaClaire understood the way things were. He rarely pushed and didn’t take it personally when he drew the line. And that was okay, most days.
“Just watch your ass.” Joe narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to dip into my hard-earned funds to bail you out.” He leaned in and whispered, “There was close to a half million in that safe.”
“Good haul.” Kinkaid forced a smile. “I gotta go.”
“I hate not leaving together after an operation. You sure you won’t need me to stick around?” Joe asked.
“No, I have obligations.” Kinkaid adjusted his cuff links, thinking about the second half of his evening. He was already late.
After his helicopter touched down, he had arranged for a taxi to get him to his next stop. A taxi service in Port de Paix was a high-risk sport. Most vehicles were nothing more than unmarked junk heaps without meters. But given his timetable, he didn’t want to risk not finding one.
The charity event he’d be attending was an affair put on by a determined Catholic nun.
“People are waiting for me, Joe.” He raised an eyebrow. “Hell, I’m the damned guest of honor.”
CHAPTER 2
Port de Paix, Haiti
When Kinkaid arrived late to the party, the fund-raiser for the St. Thomas Aquinas Academy was in full swing, an occasion that marked the tenth anniversary of the missionary school. With its aqua stucco walls and red-tiled rooftop, Dumont Hall was a civic building on the fringe of town and near the academy.
Port de Paix was not much more than an impoverished village with dirt streets, but the school was situated close enough to the children who really needed it and was bordered by growing commercial establishments that might support the academy.
The town had seen a growth spurt, and the organizers had done well to have their event at one of the newer civic buildings. Partygoers could be seen through the windows and on the front steps of the building. Women in fancy dresses accompanied men in suits with children playing dress-up. And the music of a small quartet wafted into the night air as Kinkaid’s taxi pulled to the curb.
He cringed at the thought of walking into an event at which he knew he didn’t belong. And if he believed in divine intervention, the course that had led him to this fiasco had a real hinky vibe to it, like an unavoidable retribution for his sins.
Four years ago, he’d crossed paths with a very persistent Catholic nun, Sister Mary Katherine, when her need for cash outweighed her common sense. Their meeting had been a surprise for both of them. It had not been their first. After his arrival in Haiti—under the guise of an American businessman traveling the islands—the woman had tracked him down, looking for donations. How she’d found him, she never said. And she’d followed his lead in not talking about the past. She had left that up to him, which meant the topic never came up.
The nun had no idea what he’d become. And he never told her otherwise, but being with her was a constant reminder for him.
Standing on the curb with the taxi driving away, he delayed making his entrance. He took a breath of fresh air to dispel the smell of the taxi from his nostrils. Despite his usual swagger—a product of the flamboyant public image he had cultivated out of necessity over the years—he hated being the center of attention. But tonight he’d have to put up with it. If Sister Kate hadn’t specifically asked him to attend and made such a big deal about it, he would have turned her down flat.
“Only for you, Kate.”
Killing time, he avoided the main hall and headed for a spot in the garden to the left of the entrance. Dirt and gravel crunched under his shoes when he entered a courtyard. The pungent aroma of flowers mixed with the scent
