her hands to cover her crotch.
“I hate you,” said Robbie.
Sharkey appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.
“Has he calmed down?”
Robbie pointed up at Sharkey.
“My dad's going to kill you!” he shouted venomously.
“Robbie,” said Vicky, 'please don't say that."
She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.
“And you!” he shouted.
Sharkey started downstairs.
“There's no need to be stupid, Robbie,” he said.
Robbie backed away.
Vicky looked over her shoulder.
“Stewart, leave this to me. Please.”
“If he says anything to Den .. .”
“Shut the hell up!” she shouted.
“I'm just saying .. .”
“Don't say,” she yelled.
“Don't say anything. You've caused enough .. .” Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.
“Robbie!” she shouted.
“Robbie, come back.”
She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
“Shit,” he said quietly.
“What are we going to do now?”
The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.
“Thought I might get a boat, Carlos,” he mused, staring out across the water.
“What do you think?”
Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.
“I always get seasick,” he said.
“I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style.”
“I still get sick,” said Rodriguez.
Donovan started walking down the beach, his sandals digging into the sand. In the distance a line of loungers were shaded by pink and green striped umbrellas. Rodriguez hurried after him.
Donovan looked across at the road to his right. Barry Doyle was leaning against Donovan's silver-grey Mercedes, his arms folded across his massive chest. Doyle gave Donovan the merest hint of a nod, letting him know that everything was clear on the road. Donovan looked over his shoulder. The nearest person was a hundred yards away, and that was an obese woman in a too-small bikini, who was paddling with her toddler son and yelling at him in German every time he went out too far into the sea.
A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St. Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.
“How's everything?” Donovan said, keeping his voice low.
“The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening,” said Rodriguez.
“And the consignment?”
“The fuel tanks of the yellow ones.”
“The yellow ones?”
“We thought they'd be easier to spot.”
“Every yellow one?” asked Donovan.
Rodriguez nodded.
“Every one.”
“Isn't that a bit ... predictable?”
Rodriguez grinned.
“Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?”
Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the
“I hate you,” said Robbie.
Sharkey appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.
“Has he calmed down?”
Robbie pointed up at Sharkey.
“My dad's going to kill you!” he shouted venomously.
“Robbie,” said Vicky, 'please don't say that."
She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.
“And you!” he shouted.
Sharkey started downstairs.
“There's no need to be stupid, Robbie,” he said.
Robbie backed away.
Vicky looked over her shoulder.
“Stewart, leave this to me. Please.”
“If he says anything to Den .. .”
“Shut the hell up!” she shouted.
“I'm just saying .. .”
“Don't say,” she yelled.
“Don't say anything. You've caused enough .. .” Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.
“Robbie!” she shouted.
“Robbie, come back.”
She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
“Shit,” he said quietly.
“What are we going to do now?”
The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.
“Thought I might get a boat, Carlos,” he mused, staring out across the water.
“What do you think?”
Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.
“I always get seasick,” he said.
“I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style.”
“I still get sick,” said Rodriguez.
Donovan started walking down the beach, his sandals digging into the sand. In the distance a line of loungers were shaded by pink and green striped umbrellas. Rodriguez hurried after him.
Donovan looked across at the road to his right. Barry Doyle was leaning against Donovan's silver-grey Mercedes, his arms folded across his massive chest. Doyle gave Donovan the merest hint of a nod, letting him know that everything was clear on the road. Donovan looked over his shoulder. The nearest person was a hundred yards away, and that was an obese woman in a too-small bikini, who was paddling with her toddler son and yelling at him in German every time he went out too far into the sea.
A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St. Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.
“How's everything?” Donovan said, keeping his voice low.
“The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening,” said Rodriguez.
“And the consignment?”
“The fuel tanks of the yellow ones.”
“The yellow ones?”
“We thought they'd be easier to spot.”
“Every yellow one?” asked Donovan.
Rodriguez nodded.
“Every one.”
“Isn't that a bit ... predictable?”
Rodriguez grinned.
“Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?”
Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the
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