Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [9]
“Does anyone check on it?” Pete asked.
“You mean aside from the Coast Guard? Maybe the DEA, the DOJ; hell, maybe ICE has an eye on that thing. Aside from all the drive-bys I’ve heard, no one else has been poking around, at least to my knowledge. Why are you so curious about an empty building?”
“You live just down the beach from it, Tick. Those drug people shoot first and ask questions later. I would think with your background, you’d be a bit more curious.”
“You trying to spook me, Pete?”
“Hell yes, I’m trying to spook you. You need to keep your wits about you. Jesus, there’s not a soul to be seen except for you and me. If no one checks on you, you could be shot dead, and no one would know but that damn parrot, and I doubt you’ve taught him how to call 911.”
Tick turned around and started back the way they’d come. “I think we’re both tired, and it’s time to go to bed. If you like, we can check it out tomorrow in daylight.”
“Yeah, let’s do that. You’re right, it’s been a long day.”
Chapter 2
Kate Rush stood in the middle of the filthy room as she strained to see outside through the louvered glass windows that were a quarter of the way open, the handles to close them long rusted. Outside, sheets of rain blasted the building in hard-driving whacks of sounds. The palm trees, nearly bent in half from the ninety-mile-an-hour gale-force winds, slapped at the building, adding to the deafening barrage of sound. Visibility was zero. And it was going to be dark soon.
There were few things in life that frightened Kate Rush and, while she wasn’t exactly frightened at the moment, she was uneasy. She’d been through a hurricane before and hadn’t liked it then. And she sure as hell didn’t like it now. Uneasy because the moldy, smelly building was empty of furnishings, her contact was a noshow, and a hurricane was raging just inches from where she stood. There was no place to sit, no place to hide or take cover. She’d been leaning against one of the mildewed walls for over two hours as she waited for her contact to show up. Her hand crept inside her jacket on the left side. The comforting feel of the Sig Sauer almost wiped away the uneasy feeling.
Little storm my ass, she thought as she remembered Tyler’s words when he had called to tell her to meet him. She’d mentioned the word hurricane, which he’d pooh-poohed, saying, “We get these little storms all the time. This is Florida. Get used to it, Agent Rush.” As if she didn’t know this. She’d spent her childhood and teen years living in Florida. Of course, schmuck that he was, he’d probably forgotten that small detail.
So, she’d packed her bags, driven to Phoenix, parked her car in the long-term lot at the airport, and flown to Miami, where she’d rented a car and driven here through a hurricane. The big question was, where in the hell was her handler, the macho Lawrence Tyler, who was to meet her two hours ago? Hopefully in a ditch somewhere, never to surface again. Or, maybe, washed away out to the Gulf, never to surface again. Or stranded on someone’s roof fighting for his life from the raging waters, only to be swept away, never to surface again. Oh, be still my heart.
Kate hated Lawrence Tyler. All the agents who worked under Lawrence Tyler hated him. If he threw himself a going-away party, no one would attend. Tyler was a sneaky, slick, obnoxious glory hound who used his agents to make a name for himself. He was the show horse, and the rest of them were the workhorses. She knew in her gut this assignment was a payback for the last confrontation she’d had with the nattily dressed special agent. She’d won that round, and Tyler had been transferred from the Phoenix office to Florida. But Tyler had a long arm, he knew how to kiss ass, and he had an all-powerful protector in his father, who just happened to be Florida’s governor.
Kate fished around in her go-bag until she found the powerful Maglite she was never without. The bright light didn’t help her mood. She shifted