Under the Carib Sun: An Adel Destin Crime Novel

PART 2: Chapters 93 - 98

● 93 ●

“There he is.”

Seb appeared around the bamboo grove, jogging on the flagstone path, bare-chested under his suit jacket.

“How’d it go?” asked Adel.

“It was awesome.” Seb smiled as he reached them, out of breath. “Everybody heard it. Charnier, too.”

Adel pitched the DJ’s cordless mic into the darkness and uncocked the Glock he was holding against Jason de La Salle’s forehead.

“I was worried we’d be out of range.”

“Nah.” Seb shook his head. “That DJ knows his stuff. And as the crow flies, the terrace is really not far.” He glanced down at de La Salle’s son, still kneeling on the ground. “Nicely done, douchebag.”

“Okay,” Adel slid the gun in his waistband, “Daphnée, you go with Seb. I’ll meet you back at the car.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Adel looked away. She still didn’t know about Eric. He nodded toward Jason. “Just gonna go tie him up inside the bungalow, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll be right there.”

“All right. Be careful.”

She kissed him, then hugged him, hard. Adel watched them until they were out of sight, then grabbed Jason by his hair.

“On your feet, motherfucker.”

Jason was still naked with his arms tied behind his back.

“You’re gonna kill me now, aren’t you?” he said, his voice shaking.

Adel shoved him down the path toward the bungalows.

“Come on. Let’s get this shit over with.”

● 94 ●

Whoever had been hiding behind that column was gone by the time Charnier made it down to the DJ booth. He stood there glancing around, cursing under his breath. Bright pain throbbed through his shoulder and ankle from a tumble he’d taken down the staircase.

Okay. Calm down and think.

First thing he had to do was to find de La Salle and his bodyguard. Figure out if there was still a way to salvage his arrangement with the old man. If not, he needed to cover his own ass.

Charnier walked up to the DJ, a man in his mid-thirties with short curly blond hair. High as a kite, his clothes reeking of marijuana.

“You see a guy hiding back there?” He pointed toward the gallery’s columns.

The DJ looked at him and shrugged, then took a sip of his Heineken bottle.

“Someone was just using your microphone. Where did he go?”

“Huh?”

Charnier grabbed him by the shiny fabric of his shirt. “Where did he go?”

“Whoa, man,” the DJ raised his hands, “the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“I’m a fucking cop. Now who the fuck did you give that microphone to?”

“Jesus, man, calm down. I don’t know who he is. Dude walked up to me, handed me this fat roll of cash, said he wanted to borrow my mic. Asked me to turn the music off for some kinda prank. I said, Sure, man.”

A prank. Good.

“What did he look like?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” The guy couldn’t even focus on Charnier, his eyes looking like corks bobbing in the water. “Some dude in a suit.”