Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

Paris sat back, sighed and said, “So it’s show time.”

“They really do have this sort of thing down to a science. As long as the crooks don’t get suspicious before they start to load the crates, we should be okay.”

“Worst case scenario, they get spooked and someone calls Spain—or whomever.” She covered her face with her hands and said, “Oh God!”

“Don’t borrow trouble. We’ve done all we can. Did the best with what we had.”

“I know, but the stakes are monumental. I still keep hoping I’ll wake up and find I’ve only been having a nightmare.”

“It is a nightmare, but we’re not in it alone. Remember, Ben’s already there. And as I said, he’s intelligent and resourceful.”

“He also may be putting himself at risk, depending on what he’s found out. We haven’t heard from him since yesterday. Last time I spoke with Ana she was still waiting for him to return.” She began to shake her head back and forth in disbelief. “It’s too much—it’s just too much.”

The pilot announced they would soon begin taxiing to the runway and were cleared for takeoff within ten minutes. The pair settled back and fastened their seatbelts. Hugh reached for Paris’ hand and she leaned to the side, resting her head against his shoulder. Soon they felt the pull of the plane gaining speed, and then the moment of smoothness as the wheels retracted, confirming the plane was airborne.

* * *

It was barely light when Lenny’s alarm sounded, and he rolled out of bed grumbling. Young revelers making the most of the festival atmosphere had robbed him of a decent rest. He had been forced to trust Gareth with controlling the women while he returned to his shabby room for the sleep he had needed but didn’t get. Shaving was too much trouble. He splashed cold water on his face then rummaged through the few clothes he had packed. Soon he was ready to go, wearing his uniform of ratty jeans, faded tee shirt sporting some sort of biker logo, and the battered old motorcycle jacket that was his armor. Last but not least he pulled on the heavy Dingo harness boots that he viewed as a weapon second only to his revolver. His waist felt naked without cold metal pressed between his back and the waistband of his jeans. Gareth had his revolver. He had left it with him—just in case. Lenny would have liked nothing better than to use it on the young smart ass. The only way he could be controlled was with frequent reminders of the threat to his younger brother. Whatever works, he thought as he felt around in the bottom of the duffle for his spare weapon. He soon found the small pistol that slipped easily into an ankle holster hidden inside the top of his boot.

Lenny’s accommodations were sparse, but the small hotel was within walking distance of the house. He pulled his phone from the charger, pocketed his wallet and left. Stepping out onto the sidewalk he felt the cool morning already giving way to another hot July day. The cafés wouldn’t be open for a while and he badly needed coffee. His sour mood grew with each step, although the distance to his destination was short. He rounded the last corner and was relieved to see the house just up the block. Picking up the pace he was soon at the door, key in hand. He went inside, re-engaged the lock then called to Gareth, who would be told only what was necessary regarding the events taking place in London. He had spoken with Lyle the night before but wanted an update on the morning’s progress and his final orders. Whatever Gareth might hear wouldn’t really matter once he had no further use for the man.

* * *

In another part of the city, Ben was also up at first light and ready to go. He came out of the elevator and headed for the doors leading outside. The car and baggage attendants were not yet on duty, so he collected the rental car keys from the concierge, who was doing his best not to nod off as he leaned on the long wooden counter. The night before, Ben had asked the attendant where his car would be parked and requested the closest spot possible. Its location was only a short walk from the hotel entrance, and within a few minutes Ben was on his way to the neighborhood where the small house was located. The traffic heading in the opposite direction seemed unduly heavy for such an early hour, yet thankfully sparse on his route. He easily remembered the directions from the previous day, and soon he was turning into the street, proceeding at a snail’s pace toward the house.

On his first trip to the house Ben had stopped the car some distance away. This time he took a chance and parked directly across the street. He slightly lowered one window then inched down in the seat far enough not to be noticed but still able to see across to the front of the house. It was quiet—no people or movement for what seemed like a quarter of an hour. He heard a gate clang then sat up and checked the street. A young woman was hurrying along, heels clicking on the sidewalk—heading to her job, Ben assumed. He settled back to watch the house, and as the minutes passed there was still no sign of life. Doubt inevitably began to creep into his thoughts. He questioned the decision to focus on this house, to depend so completely on the description of a man given to him by that woman, a stranger.

* * *

Ana had neglected to close the drapes completely before falling into bed the previous night, thus allowing an intrusive beam of sunlight to cut a path across the carpet, onto the bed and across her face. She sensed the light and woke with