Caitlin looked up. Lakshmi shoved the camera into the bag, put the strap around her shoulder, started climbing down.

“Pull.”

The next boom came straight toward the trees. Lakshmi struggled for footing. The camera bag slipped off her shoulder. Caitlin caught the bag before the gear hit the ground, but Lakshmi landed hard. Something made of bone snapped.

Chapter 37

CHAPTER

37

New Providence Island, The Bahamas

THE WAVY LADY, a red and white catamaran, sat anchored off the eastern shore of New Providence, the island home to seventy percent of Bahamians, and Mike Roman’s hotel room. A breeze pushed an aggressive cloud of pot smoke back toward the ship and dulled the steady thud of party music.

Drunk Allison from Chicago touched Mike’s arm, her bikini top jiggling enough to be noticed. “Ed?”

Any one of the horny drunks around him on the deck would have appreciated that jiggle, but Mike stayed true to his character—Ed Thompson from Toledo, recently dumped.

“Allison, you’re great, but I’m not in a party mood.”

“Because of your fiancée?”

“Who told you?” He looked back to the main cabin. A writhing clump danced in front of a bar where Adam Fodor, wearing a Doctor Greenthumb wig and all, dispensed booze in plastic cups, lit joint in his mouth.

Mike had met the elder Fodor the day before, pitched him a sob story about being left at the altar, tried to get a refund for a honeymoon scuba package. Not only did Adam grant the refund, he shared his bottle of dark rum, then guaranteed Ed Thompson a good time on his midnight booze cruise. Compared to Kieran Michelson, Fodor seemed like a pretty good guy.

Drunk Allison grabbed Mike’s hand. “Let’s go dance.”

She pulled him to the cabin, then dove into the meat hurricane. More sweat than standing room. Mike worked his way to the bar, took a corner spot. Fodor approached.

“Big Ed.” He tossed his dreads around and slapped the bar with his palm. “Having a good time?”

Mike shrugged. “Good enough, buddy.”

Fodor grabbed two cups and a bottle. “I party for a living. I can tell when someone’s not having fun. Do a shot with me.”

Mike smelled the dark liquor in the plastic cup. His nostrils said no, but Fodor raised his own cup and yelled, “No regrets.”

Mike did the shot, regretted everything.

Fodor handed his wig to a second bartender, pointed Mike aft. They climbed up to the captain’s deck.

“Adam, you’ve been cool and everything, but you don’t have to look after me.”

“Time for my break anyway.” Fodor reached into a pocket, came back with a tiny baggy and a ring of keys. “You want a bump?”

He tapped some coke onto the end of a key, did his impression of the eighties.

Mike wanted Fodor to trust him but didn’t want to push too hard. “Truthfully, I want to go home.”