WALKER, ARIANE
28 YEARS OLD
WEXFORD, PA
JULY 2
Wow, he thought to himself. She died earlier today. That’s pretty quick for someone to be moved across state lines.
He continued to flip through the documents, hoping to find a cause of death or the reason she was going to be examined, but the sheets were filled with numbers and other data that he was unable to comprehend.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced at his watch again. They would be here soon. And the last thing he wanted was to be caught snooping. Not only would they refuse to pay him, but he realized he might end up in one of the coffins as well.
AFTER leaving the ambulance, the small boat navigated the narrow channel of the cypress swamp, carefully avoiding any logs or stumps that would puncture its bow. As it eased against the moss-covered dock, the captain of the vessel tossed a rope to one of the guards, who quickly attached it to its anchoring post.
The craft was now secured.
Octavian Holmes emerged from the shadows of the stern and shouted terse orders to the men on cargo duty. The workers, dressed in black fatigues and carrying firearms, hauled the two wooden crates to a waiting truck. Once Holmes climbed into the back of the vehicle, the driver started the motor and maneuvered the shipment through the thick camouflage of the island’s foliage. A short time later, the flatbed truck burst from the claustrophobic world of leaves into the neatly manicured grounds of the Plantation.
“Stop here,” Holmes growled with authority.
The workers lifted the wooden crates from the vehicle and placed them on the charred remains of the burned cross. As Holmes watched closely, they tore into the crates with crowbars and within seconds the boxes were reduced to shreds. Cautiously, the men lifted the two unconscious prisoners from the dismantled containers and placed them in the cool grass.
“They’re all yours, sir.”
Holmes nodded while studying the paperwork of his new arrivals. Satisfied, he bent over to examine their sleeping forms and immediately liked what he saw. The first captive was an elderly man with a strong jaw, thinning white hair, and a deep surfer’s tan. He was in amazing physical shape for his age, possessing great muscle tone despite his seventy-one years of life. His wrists were thick, his shoulders broad, and his stomach carried little flab.
“Jake Ross,” he mumbled as he nudged the man’s hip. “I bet you’re still a pit bull, huh?”
When he was done with the senior citizen, he turned his attention to the drugged female, and her beauty instantly overwhelmed him. Her chestnut hair flowed over her rosy cheeks, cascading down her neck and onto her slender shoulders like a tropical waterfall. Her bosom, concealed under a bright red golf shirt, danced with each life-sustaining breath, and the image stirred something deep within Holmes. Her legs, tanned and athletic, were in full view since her white skirt had been torn during her cross-country journey. But even in rest, they possessed the fragile grace of a master ballerina’s.
And her face-her gorgeous face-was the most beautiful he had seen in a very long time.
After catching his breath, Holmes dropped to his knees and kissed the girl on her lips. “Ariane Walker,” he whispered, “it’s a pleasure to have you on my island.”
With a smile on his face, Holmes scooped her off of the turf and gently folded her frame over his left shoulder. As her arms dangled against his muscular back, he carried the unconscious girl toward her cabin with little effort. His eighteen years of work as a mercenary, which required stamina, strength, and discipline, guaranteed a level of physical conditioning that few men could ever hope to achieve. His missions had taken him through the severe warmth of the equator, the extreme cold of the Arctic Circle, and all the milder climates in between. In the process, he had learned how to survive anything that this world was capable of throwing at him.
And because of that, invincibility radiated from him like heat from a flame.
When he reached Ariane’s cabin, he paused briefly, letting one of the guards unlock the exterior deadbolt. “You go in first,” Holmes ordered. “Make sure her roommates are facing the wall in the back corner of the room.” The guard did what he was told, threatening Tonya and Robert Edwards until they were properly positioned.
“All clear, sir.”
Holmes walked into the cabin and eased Ariane onto the hard ground. Then, before either captive could see his face, he turned from the room and disappeared into the dark night, leaving Tonya to take care of another family member.
This time, her unconscious baby sister.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday, July 3rd
IN
New Orleans, St. Louis Cemeteries #1 and #2 are referred to by locals as “cities of the dead.” Designed in the eighteenth century, both graveyards feature elaborate aboveground vaults and French inscriptions that are both poetic and charming. Unfortunately, a nighttime visit to either burial ground is liable to add to the body count of the sacred lands. Located west of Louis Armstrong Park, this area is known as one of the most dangerous in the city. Gangs and criminals control the territories to the north of Rampart Street, and they use the popularity of the graveyards to ambush unsuspecting tourists.
Before leaving the safety of their Mustang, Payne, Jones, and Greene gazed at the terrain like antelopes surveying a water hole. They carefully searched the shadows of the land, looking for predators that lay in wait, hunting for a clear passage to their intended destination. When they were satisfied, they crept cautiously from their vehicle.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Greene stated, “the tattoo shop should be right ahead of us.”
The men continued their walk in silence until they found a small shop with a flickering neon sign that said
Sam’s Tattoos
in the window. Like most tattoo parlors, this one stayed open after midnight to cater to the bar crowd. Glancing at a historical plaque that was fastened to the building’s front, Greene pushed the door aside. Chimes from a small bell announced their presence.
A tall white man, dressed in an elaborately tie-dyed shirt and baggy denim shorts, emerged from behind a wall of dangling beads and greeted his customers with a nod of his head. As he did, his braided orange hair fell across his pale green eyes while his shaggy beard bunched up in the folds of his neck. Tattoos covered the tanned flesh of his arms and legs.
“What can I do for you dudes?” he asked in the syntax of a stoner.
As Payne studied the employee, he realized it looked like a box of Skittles had thrown up on the guy. “We’re looking for a man named Jamaican Sam. Can you tell us where to find him?”
“Dude! You’re in luck. Sam, I am!”
The three men looked at each other in confusion. They were expecting their contact be a little more Jamaican and a little less Dr. Seuss.
“You mean you’re the owner?” Payne asked. “You don’t look like I pictured you.”
“Is it the nickname, dude? People always get thrown by my nickname.” The three men nodded at the walking rainbow. “Damn! I gotta get me a new nickname.”
Jones knew he was going to regret asking it, but for the sake of curiosity, he had to know. “How did you get the name Jamaican Sam?”
“Well, dude, the Sam part was easy because, you see, that’s my name. But the Jamaican part, well, that’s a little more complex. A couple years ago, a bro from the islands came in to get some ink done. I did this bitchin’ drawing of a naked hottie and put it on his back. Once I was finished, he was pretty stoked. In a heavily accented voice, the dude said, ‘Ja makin’ Sam’s name known t’roughout da city, mon!’ Well, some customers overheard it, and they lumped