Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [10]
The long and short of it was that, for the snitch fee, one weasel had probably whispered something about some drug deal or something else equally rotten that was about to go down into another weasel’s ear, who then whispered it into Tyler’s ear, who then hit the ground running without checking the details—his usual MO.
As Kate leaned against the wall and listened to the hurricane outside, she wondered why she’d agreed to return to Florida after she’d spent twenty years of her life living elsewhere. She’d been days away from resigning and going to work in the private sector. Her resignation was typed and printed and in her purse. She’d given the DEA twelve years of her life, and because of people like Lawrence Tyler, she wasn’t where she wanted to be. That was the bottom line. That, and the money sucked. She could make twice as much as she earned now with less danger to her person in the private sector. She had no social life, and at thirty-eight, her biological clock was ticking faster than she’d like; it was time to make some hard and fast decisions and stick to them.
Yet here she was. One last shot? Her swan song? Maybe one last time to get into Tyler’s face? More than likely agreeing to come here was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. Not that she’d had much of a choice. The only way she could have avoided this assignment was to have handed in her resignation. Then again, maybe it was the fact that Tyler had said he might lend her out to the Coast Guard. Why me? she’d asked herself a hundred times since leaving Phoenix. She smiled at the thought that maybe Tyler planned on drowning her in the Gulf. An evil smile twisted her lips. He could try. Kate shined the beam of the light onto her wrist. Tyler was five hours late. “Which just goes to prove,” she muttered, “if you want the job done and done right, send a woman to do it.”
Two hours later, Kate’s legs gave out, and she slumped to the floor. Not knowing if there were any rats in the abandoned building, she opted to keep the high-powered flashlight on, knowing she had spare batteries in her go-bag. Eventually, her eyes closed, and she dozed. From time to time she’d jerk to wakefulness to listen to the storm, which gave no indication it was abating. With no sleep the night before and traveling cross-country, she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Hours later, Kate woke to an eerie quiet. Something had wakened her. Her hand immediately went to the gun in her shoulder holster. She looked around at the brilliant sunlight blasting through the louvered windows to see what it was that had pulled her out of her deep sleep. She crab walked, one eye on the doorway and the other on what she could see through the windows. She blinked at the elegant palms that were uprooted and piled in a pyre as though a bonfire were imminent. Crumpled aluminum lawn chairs were scattered over the narrow stretch of beach. A child’s skateboard stood upright in the sand. An ice chest, the lid hanging drunkenly from one of the still-standing palmettos, lay on its side. She craned her neck and saw a motorcycle farther down the beach, the front wheel in the water, the back wheel buried in the sand.
Kate wheeled around; the Sig Sauer in her hand was steady, the safety off, when the door opened. Disgust whipped across her face when she saw Lawrence Tyler standing in the doorway. “A little late, aren’t you?” she snapped. “Fifteen hours to be exact.” Her hand dropped to her side, but she didn’t holster her gun.
Lawrence Tyler was GQ handsome, with black hair that she’d happily noticed was thinning and clear blue eyes. Six-two, 170 pounds, and impeccably dressed, he was soft-spoken and as hateful as anyone she’d ever met. Classic nose, dimples, and a dentist’s dream. Basically, Tyler