Page 3 of Heist in Paradise

JAX

A bumpy plane and a humid car ride later, we arrived at our first destination: Puerto Morelos. Mexico.

Already, our new job felt like a punishment. It was scorchingly hot, the locals were bitterly distrustful of tourists, and a dodgy sandwich at the airport was wreaking havoc on my guts. All in all, not the best start.

And that didn’t even factor in my beloved crew of hellions.

“Why are you walking like you sat on a garden rake?” Nate asked Ryle as we headed to our boat. The sun had barely risen, but already the locals were crowding the boardwalk. The smart ones kept clear of us.

Ryle stumbled up ahead, his eyes bruised with exhaustion. “Funny you mention it,” he snapped back at Nate. “Guess who was stuck in the room next to yours?”

Beside me, Callum snorted. “Poor kid.”

Our cash-in-hand motel had paper-thin walls. It wasn’t just Ryle who’d suffered—twice I’d woken up in a cold sweat to wailing moans and ramming headboards. It took everything I had not to punch straight through the drywall and kill them both.

The loud fucking I could handle. It was the screeching arguments in between that tested my patience. Nate and Zola fought like it was foreplay. The more they hurt each other, the harder they tried to make up for it.

“Don’t be a downer, dude,” Nate chirped back. “It’s my pregame ritual. I got to keep it up.” He slung an arm around Zola. “We took one for the team, right, baby?”

Zola shrugged him off. “Idiot.”

Ryle glared at them, looking like he was two seconds away from kicking them both off the boardwalk. I debated letting him right as my gut twinged.

Never trust airport tuna.

Thankfully, we made it to the boat and took off without a hitch. I separated the idiots and tried to catch some much-needed shut-eye by curling up on some fishing crates. That brilliant idea lasted until my tuna-baby kicked through my large intestines. Groaning, I took up an irritable pace on the bow.

“At least it’s not a rowboat this time,” Callum remarked cheerily when he joined me.

“Barely,” I muttered. The trawler was made for fishing, not transporting six thieves and a cargo full of weapons and tech. Discretion was necessary, albeit often unpleasant. The deck was oily with fish guts, the smell an unwelcome prod at my uneasy digestive track.

“You look like shit,” Callum said without preamble. “More than usual.”

I rubbed the grit from my eyes and flipped him off with my other hand.

Then the wind changed, and with it came snatches of fresh foreplay from Nate and Zola. Give me a fucking break.

Callum cracked his knuckles. “Them two are doin’ my head in. They’re like siblings who fight and then fuck.”

I grimaced. “Can it with the incest talk. I’m already feeling woozy.”

“Seasick or sandwich?”

“Still sandwich. It’s putting up a fight.” I pressed my hand to my navel and felt the growing rumbles. “Pretty sure I’m losing.”

“Here.” Callum fished the box of camels from his pocket and revived the severely squashed soldiers within. We smoked in silence for a bit. My eyes grew heavy, lulled by the gentle rocking.

“I got a bad feeling,” I muttered. Part of me hoped he hadn’t heard me.

Callum took a long drag, then exhaled. “Me too.”

I wasn’t expecting that.

Any semblance of calm was instantly wiped out at his admission. Callum wasn’t superstitious. He was my strategy guy. He liked puzzles and riddles and won every single board game, a sore winner that was never humbled. Scottish-born and stubborn as a mule, Callum would sooner stick pins in his eyes than admit defeat.

My gut cramped hard, adding insult to injury. “You haven’t said anything.”

Callum shrugged one massive shoulder. His ginger-blond hair glared white under the sun. “You know I don’t put much stock in feelings. I’m just a paranoid old fuck.”