Zero Escape Read online

  “Buck.” Marshall commanded his attention. “Do we have an agreement?”

  Buck dragged his eyes from the money long enough to give a nod.

  “Okay then.” Marshall stepped over Dumb and Dumber and strode back to the bar. Red was shaking his head with a look that said he’d enjoyed the show more than he wanted to admit. “Hey, Red, buy these guys a side of ribs, will ya? Actually, make it two.” He slid a fifty over the counter.

  Red slipped the note into his top pocket. “Sure thing. Hey, I hope she’s worth it.”

  Marshall glanced over his shoulder to see the woman watching through the glass. When she saw him looking, she spun away, showing him her back.

  “You know what. I think she just might be.”

  The dazzle in Red’s eyes had Marshall laughing as he strode away from the bar.

  She greeted him with hands on hips and a crease in her brow. A silver cross, nestled in the dip of her throat, glinted red from Pirate Cove’s tacky neon sign. “Is that the way you settle all your disputes?”

  “Only with those three. They don’t listen to reasoning.”

  “Reasoning.” She huffed. “Is that what you call it?’

  He narrowed his gaze at her. “What would you call it?”

  “Railroading.”

  “Well . . .” Her forthrightness was a refreshing change, yet it still caught him unawares. “I was actually doing you a favor.”

  “Really?” It was sarcasm rather that a question.

  “When you see their boat, you’ll be thanking me.”

  “And what will I do when I see your boat, Mr.—”

  “Crow. Marshall Crow.” He held his hand forward. “And you are?”

  She hesitated for a little too long, and he couldn’t decide if she was nervous about giving her name or touching his hand. But when her eyes met his and he saw both the gold flecks in her caramel irises and the determination in her glare, he decided it was neither. There was something else going on behind the scenes. Which, he realized, was blatantly obvious given that she wanted to do a covert run to Cuba.

  “Charlene Bailey.” Her grip was firm enough to show that she wasn’t a pushover.

  “So, Charlene, I understand you need to get to Cuba.”

  She nodded. “Fast.”

  “I can do fast. But I have to know why didn’t you approach me in the first place, rather than those three goons?”

  She hesitated, seemingly stewing on her answer. “You looked too intelligent.”

  He did a double take, and his brows shot up. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  She glanced about, and her wavy brown hair fell around her bare shoulders. “It is . . . if you plan on asking too many questions.”

  Nicely played. In one sentence she’d both flattered him and told him to keep his nose out of her business.

  “Alright then. Meet me at the marina entrance over there at nine tonight,” he pointed toward the arched metal gateway over the main wharf. “And I’ll have you in Havana before the sun comes up.” He didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he turned on his heel and pictured her blazing eyes throwing daggers in his back as he strode away.

  He didn’t usually go for dramatic exits. But he liked this one. There was something about her that riled him, and it wasn’t until he’d nearly reached his shack on the beach that he realized what it was. For the first time in years, he felt the need to protect someone.

  Lucky for him, she was a feisty beauty who promised to make the next day or so very interesting.

  The midnight run had never looked so enticing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlene had to walk several streets before the anxiety snaking through her brain subsided. She’d seen men fight before, but they’d been drunken bouts of wild fist throwing after an ugly exchange of insults and profanity. Usually it was over a woman. What Marshall and the three brothers did, though, seemed almost practiced. Choreographed. From the limited verbal exchange to the physical one, it was obvious it wasn’t their first brawl.

  She half expected to see Marshall around every corner she rounded. Or the three brothers, but so far, so good. She did feel a bit of a fool for choosing them. Her desperation had made her reckless. Her choice had been based purely on their half-witted behavior. They seemed a long way from intelligent, which would’ve played into her plans for utilizing her feminine touch to get them to do anything. Including not asking too many questions.

  But if it hadn’t been for Marshall, she would’ve climbed aboard a boat with three men with the intention of making an illegal trip across a hundred miles of ocean. Three!

  She could handle one man, possibly two, given that they were so scrawny. But three at once, was highly unlikely.

  Shaking her head, she bristled at her stupidity.

  Her brain snapped to a mental image of her body being washed up on a beach. With no ID and nobody to report her missing, she’d be labeled a Jane Doe and live out the rest of eternity in a nameless metal tube. As much as she hated that her brain went there, she needed that reality check.

  The fact that nobody knew where she was going was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it gave her the freedom to make the illegal move unhindered. On the other, she could vanish forever and nobody would know. Not one person.

  She could’ve told Detective Chapel, she supposed. But she didn’t want him questioning her motives. When she’d found the Cuba connection, it’d taken a few days of debating before she’d decided to leave without communicating her intentions to Chapel. It might take a few days of zero communication from her before he went around to her apartment. It might take him another day or two before he convinced the landlord to open the door.

  Once he did, though, he’d find the place empty.

  By now, all her father’s clothing would’ve been farmed out to worthy recipients via the Daughters of Charity donation service. A share of her clothing had made the charity bin too, reducing her total assets down to just one suitcase and a bundle of money that was now in a tin she’d found at a secondhand shop. She’d kept the cane too. For some reason, she couldn’t part with it. The wise owl was her last connection to the life she’d lived until three months ago.

  The aromas drifting from a burger bar overlooking the ocean smelled so good that she decided to pause for dinner. She hadn’t eaten since the pie she’d wolfed down at the bus stop at seven o’clock that morning. After ordering the special—cheeseburger, curly fries, and onion rings—she chose a seat at the far edge of the eating area, where she could see both the diner and a 180-degree, uninterrupted view of the Atlantic Ocean.

  According to the brochure from the travel agent, Cuba was approximately a hundred miles across that stretch of blue. It was hard to believe that’d be her next destination. It’d taken just one day to find someone willing to take her to Cuba, and that was either pure luck or because she’d asked the right people the right questions to direct her into that bar. One thing she hadn’t thought to ask any of those men, though, was how long the journey was expected to take. Could it be days?

  The longest train trip she’d ever taken was from Chicago to Portland, approximately twenty-two hundred miles. And that had taken two days. It wasn’t really a comparison, but surely crossing a hundred miles of ocean would take only a couple of hours, not days. It’d be one of the first questions she’d ask when she met Marshall again.

  Marshall hadn’t discussed his fee either, and she mentally debated whether that was because he assumed she had a lot of money or because he could tell she was desperate enough to pay anything. Or maybe it’d slipped his mind. She was convincing herself of the latter when her meal arrived courtesy of a young woman in denim shorts and a T-shirt that would’ve been better suited to playing Frisbee on the beach.

  It was a rare occasion when the burger that arrived on her plate matched the burger displayed on the menu board. But this one did. It smelled divine too. Wrapping both hands around the squishy bun, she bit into the burger and groaned at the delicious co
mbination in her mouth. It’d been way too long since she’d ordered a decent meal. Wracking her brain, she realized that the last restaurant meal she’d eaten was the entree she’d shared with her father. Peter.

  With the information she now had, confirming that he’d lied on many occasions, she was fairly certain Peter wasn’t his real name. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was also not her father. It suddenly occurred to her that she’d put zero thought into who her real father was. She’d been so fixated on finding out more about Peter that following up on her own lineage had slipped her mind.

  With a bit of luck, she’d have all her answers within a couple of days. If Marshall came through. Once she finished her burger, she turned her attention to the fries and onion rings. As she stared out over the ocean, she wondered what the crossing to Cuba would be like. And, in particular, what it’d be like sharing that limited space with a complete stranger . . . Marshall.

  She’d met enough armed forces personnel to know one when she saw one. Yet there was something about Marshall that set him apart from the others. First, he had tried to talk those silly guys out of fighting. Every other military man she’d met would’ve been itching for a fight. Then, the way he’d handled himself afterward, talking the third brother down and paying for their drinks and food. Now, that was new to her.

  And she’d worked in more than enough bars to know that Marshall wasn’t drunk, and not just based on the pale soda he was drinking. He was in control of all his faculties, and he didn’t smell of alcohol. That was strange too, given where they’d met.

  But that wasn’t all. Marshall had an unusual demeanor about him, simultaneously awkward and confident. Like he knew what he had to do but was embarrassed by it. He’d also said he had no choice but to help her.

  Whatever that meant. She just hoped he had that same feeling come nine o’clock tonight.

  When she’d made the decision to cross to Cuba illegally, she hadn’t actually thought it through enough to realize it’d be done under cover of darkness. It made sense now. But it also hit home just how risky her plan was. Worst-case scenario, she’d vanish from the face of the earth. Best-case scenario, she’d find out who her parents were. She decided she’d be happy with anything but her body being washed up on shore. Besides, Charlene had absolutely nothing to lose. The money maybe, but then she’d been penniless many, many times before.

  The one big thing that was about to change was that for the first time in her life, she was about to break the law. Big-time.

  Charlene didn’t even jaywalk.

  That aspect of her plan hit her with such brutality it felt like a hive of bees had exploded in her stomach, and she couldn’t swallow the onion ring already in her mouth. Pain nipped at her insides—once, twice, a thousand times—as she contemplated that winding up in jail would be worse than her lifeless body floating up onto a deserted beach.

  She’d always had freedom.

  Freedom to do whatever she wanted.

  Being caged up would kill her.

  She wanted her old life back. To be curled up with her feet on the sofa, watching reruns of Friends with her father. Back when running out of popcorn was a major catastrophe. Back when the worst day of her life was a figment of her childhood imagination.

  But it wasn’t a young child’s fabrication. Every single bit of it seemed to be true.

  She was ripped from her mother’s arms. By Peter. The man who claimed to be her father.

  Charlene swallowed the onion ring and shoved the plate aside. She needed answers.

  No matter what happened in the next couple of days, she would never be the same. Then again, she hadn’t been the same since that woman had plunged the knife into Peter’s chest. Now Charlene literally had nothing to lose.

  Quite the contrary—she had everything to gain.

  Crossing to Cuba illegally was a dangerous risk, but not only was it imperative, it was also her last card. If she still had no answers after Cuba, she had nowhere else to go. She’d still be lost.

  With her belly full and the sun kissing the horizon, she left the café and forced her feet to maintain a stroll along the road that skirted the beach. It would’ve been more natural to run. She was good at it too. The only times she’d ever stood out in a crowd was when she’d won the track event at school, which happened several times in her childhood. Running was her therapy. All she had to think about was placing one foot in front of the other and concentrating on her breathing.

  She needed to conserve her energy. She had no idea how tonight would play out, but she intended to be awake through every second of it. So far, everything she’d planned before she’d left New Orleans had come to fruition. Getting rid of her excess things. Making her way down to Key West. Finding someone who’d take her across to Cuba. It was the next step in Havana that threw all the questions in the air.

  But it was a waste of energy to even think about it. One step at a time.

  The setting sun was busy transforming the sky into shades of citrus when she returned to the transit station. Another busload of people was disembarking, and mingling in with the crowd, she made her way to the lockers and removed her suitcase and Peter’s cane. After a couple of minutes in the bathroom, she’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and put sneakers on her feet. With her teeth brushed, she was ready to get moving again.

  The only practical way to carry the cane was to hold the silver owl. So, with her satchel handbag secured diagonally across her torso and her suitcase trailing behind her, she used the cane like it was her own walking stick and sauntered out of the bus station.

  The trek back toward the marina was now familiar; however, the setting sun had transformed the streets into intimidating gauntlets. During the day, they hadn’t felt so uninviting. Drunkards spilled out of dim doorways and showed her enough unwanted attention that the hairs on her neck bristled. She’d run if she needed to. She’d fight if she had to.

  Her decision to keep the cane shifted from being just a sentimental choice to a brilliant one, as it elevated the sturdy wood from being a link to her past to an efficient weapon. Should the need arise. With her grip intensified on the owl, she picked up her pace and had the wheels of her suitcase sounding like rolling thunder on the uneven pavement.

  She arrived safely at the marina at 8:30 that evening with a cool sweat and a dominating thirst. Ignoring both, she slinked into the shadows, eager to spot Marshall’s arrival. From her vantage point, she could watch the entire marina complex and the entrance to the main wharf. There were a few people about, mostly couples and small groups who, based on their laughter and wobbly legs, appeared to have been drinking for hours.

  Several boats were lit up like Christmas trees, displaying both their owners’ opulent wealth and their blatant disregard for precious energy. Some of the yachts were so enormous they were as big as mansions. The one closest to her was called Slave to the Ocean. The giant ship had sleek lines and polished chrome railings, and although she didn’t have much experience with marine vessels, she guessed it would be worth millions. The one beside it was just as big, as were all the other ones she could see from her position. It had her pondering if her crossing to Cuba was going to be surrounded by sheer luxury. It’d be a nice change.

  Nine o’clock came and went, and with every passing minute, her hopes sank lower. She hadn’t even considered that Marshall would renege on his commitment. He didn’t strike her as that kind of guy. Then again, she’d been wrong before. Peter was a perfect example.

  It was another twenty minutes before she conceded she’d been duped. With her cane in one hand and the handle of her case in the other, she left her concealed spot and headed away.

  “You’re late.” The first words she heard from Marshall were not friendly ones.

  She spun to the voice and saw him striding up the central wharf, toward the main entrance. Halting her stride, she unclamped her jaw. “No, I wasn’t. You are. Nine o’clock you said, and it’s half past.”

  He
pointed at the wrought-iron arch. “I told you to wait there. So, I’ve been looking for you there.”

  “What? I haven’t seen you.”

  “Of course, you haven’t. You were hiding in the shadows. Why?”

  Even if she had a good answer, she didn’t want to tell him anyway. “I thought our agreement was that you wouldn’t ask questions.”

  “Lady, I don’t know what agreement you’re referring to, but it ain’t with me. We haven’t even agreed on a price.” His eyes were enigmatic and his face utterly masculine, especially when he clamped his jaw.

  She strangled the silver owl in her grip and angled her chin up to him. “Okay, Mr. Crow, what is your price?”

  Something flitted across his gaze before his shoulders softened and his eyes drifted skyward, as if he was searching for the answer. She found herself admiring his strong jawline and snapped her eyes away before he returned his attention to her. “How about I show you my boat first?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t need to see it. I just need your assurance that you can get me there fast and at a fair price.”

  The edge of his mouth curled, bordering on a smile, yet his eyes showed surprise. Maybe Mr. Crow wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a woman who spoke her mind? If that was the case, then they were in for an interesting trip.

  He collected himself by placing his feet shoulder width apart. “You want fast, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “In that case it’s going to cost four hundred.”

  “Done.”

  His eyebrows launched upward. “That’s not how this is supposed to work, you know.”

  “What’s supposed to work?”

  “Haggling. I say a price, you undercut me. Eventually we meet in the middle.”

  Nerves and confidence became one in her brain, and she didn’t want either to show her naïveté. “I assumed you were a man I could trust.”