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“James. How about we take a stroll? I bet the guys are gonna take a while, and I wanna see more of Port Mrei.”
“Not an option. We’re staying here.”
“Don’t be a bore,” I whine intentionally. If he hasn’t heard about me, it’ll come across as girlie.
“You’ve seen enough. Case closed, young lady. Chill.”
And there it goes again.Hello, rude ass, Foreign Legion or not.
“I thought we could get along, James,” I say with that cheesy doll voice that even Margot would be proud of.
He spits loudly through his teeth and doesn’t acknowledge me, only tilts his head back against the headrest.
Oh, sweetheart…
I said I wouldn’t do it again. To Archer, that is. But this guy is just begging for it. He could’ve been a gentleman, but he wasn’t, and now I’m gonna be mean.
My arms are still wrapped around the base of his headrest, but I unclasp them, then swiftly loop them around his neck and squeeze.
“Night-night,” I say when, seconds later, the guy is slumped in his seat, his arm falling over the driver’s door, letting the cigarette fall from his fingers onto the dirt.
I jump over the door and onto the ground.
“Behave yourself, James,” I say, tapping the door with my palm, and head toward Coco Jumbo.
29
KAT
Coco Jumbo isa tavern just around the corner. A group of decently dressed guys smoke outside and nod to me as I walk through the swinging front doors.
It’s stuffy inside, the fans blowing around the flies. The smell of fried rice, roasted meats, and stale beer hangs heavy in the air. Reggaeton trickles quietly from the invisible speakers.
Over a dozen heads turn to me when I enter, everyone going quiet. I feel like I stepped into a vacuum, my steps too loud as I spy the bar counter and confidently walk toward it.
I don’t know why Raven is so paranoid. No one will know me here. I don’t have to acknowledge him. Thank you, cargo pants and my wild curls—I don’t exactly look like one of the Ayana elites.
I approach the bar and ask for a glass of water.
“Just waiting for a friend,” I say casually since I don’t have money or whatever they use as currency in this place.
I pull my sunglasses up on top of my head and turn toward the two middle-aged dudes at the bar counter who stare at me way too eagerly.
Easy, sweethearts.
The short plump bartender in his fifties with long hair, tattoo sleeves, and a towel over his shoulder passes me a glass.
It must be the worst water I’ve had in my life, like it’s been in someone’s mouth already, but I take slow sips as I lean with my elbow on the counter and turn around, studying the place above the glass rim.
People are scattered over the tables, some with empty plates in front of them, others with beers, on tap—I’m guessing that swill they make locally.
I spot Raven and two other guys at one of the tables with beer bottles, an ashtray, a plate of unfinished food and dirty napkins.
The shitty tour-guide guard stands behind Raven as three local guys lounge at the next table, their guns in holsters on full display. Three more guys lean against the far-end wall, pistols on their duty belts.
Holy shit.
This is not a casual meeting with partners or employees.
