Fancy resort destinations especially irritated him, with their persistent souvenir hawkers and fat tourists in gaudy clothes and stupid hats.
Passengers began to stream like ants from the luxury cruise ship, pouring down the gangplank and spreading out across the tropical town. He spotted a handful of Asians in the mix, a few Hispanic-looking types, but most of the crowd off the Long Beach-based liner were white Americans who looked they could have been his corn-fed relatives. Too bad they’d just arrived, because he could easily have blended in with this group. But he had to be in Puerto Vallarta by mid-afternoon, when this ship would just be starting to round up passengers for an evening castoff.
A second liner, the Galaxy Star , had dropped anchor the previous morning and was scheduled to depart at 7:30 a.m. It was smaller, cozy by cruise liner standards with only a thousand passengers, and that fit his needs better. Mammoth ships like the Carnival liner offered safety in numbers but they were less concerned about empty berths, whose costs they could swallow with relative ease. A smaller ship had to make every fare count and could usually be counted on to welcome a short-haul passenger with few questions asked.
Over the years, he’d learned that small liners offered an easy way to slip in and out of ports, staying well under the radar, allowing him to move money, goods and himself from place to place without official notice. Guns were occasionally a problem. These days, most ports had metal detectors, and even if one didn’t, most ships had installed them. That wasn’t a problem on this trip, however. Any weapons he needed would be available down there, while delivery of another package was already arranged. He needed only to get himself to Puerto Vallarta.
Liggett looked over the laminated, bilingual breakfast menu the waiter had left him, big color pictures showing what was on offer just in case English or Spanish descriptions weren’t enough. As a steak-and-potatoes Midwesterner, he viewed with suspicion all that mishmash—burritos, shredded meat, vegetables, eggs, God only knows what else. When the waiter returned, Liggett pushed the menu aside. He’d eat on the boat. He liked simplicity. Liked order and structure. His work was messy enough.
When the small cruise line’s office opened, he headed inside to arrange passage on the Galaxy Star . An hour later, just before it set sail, he joined a few stragglers who’d spent the night ashore—a couple of them doing a little more partying than could be healthy, by the smell of them. He carried a small duffel bag and, like a couple of others, sported two colorful bags that suggested he’d done some souvenir shopping in Mazatlán—a nice last-minute touch, he thought.
His quarters were located in the bowels of the ship and near the bow, where people complained of seasickness. But tight quarters and motion never bothered him. Except to observe, he had never been much influenced by his environment or by people around him. He slipped through crowds unnoticed. In his line of work, it was an advantage to be common looking—neither tall nor short, dishwater hair, average in every respect. Nothing about Liggett was exceptional, aside from an utter lack of the stupid fears that made lesser folk dare to take risks—and it wasn’t like there was any external mark of that.
Los Angeles
Hannah stood by her bedroom window, examining the ammo clip on her weapon, smacking it in place, double-checking the Beretta’s safety. She slipped the gun into the holster at the small of her back, then pulled on a lightweight linen jacket over her tank top to conceal it.
She patted the jacket. Her passport was in an inner pocket, while her wallet and the import permit for the Koon painting were stowed in a couple of the many zippered pockets on her cargo pants. Handbags, even her handy-dandy messenger bag, were a no-go. On the job meant remaining hands-free. Of course,
Passengers began to stream like ants from the luxury cruise ship, pouring down the gangplank and spreading out across the tropical town. He spotted a handful of Asians in the mix, a few Hispanic-looking types, but most of the crowd off the Long Beach-based liner were white Americans who looked they could have been his corn-fed relatives. Too bad they’d just arrived, because he could easily have blended in with this group. But he had to be in Puerto Vallarta by mid-afternoon, when this ship would just be starting to round up passengers for an evening castoff.
A second liner, the Galaxy Star , had dropped anchor the previous morning and was scheduled to depart at 7:30 a.m. It was smaller, cozy by cruise liner standards with only a thousand passengers, and that fit his needs better. Mammoth ships like the Carnival liner offered safety in numbers but they were less concerned about empty berths, whose costs they could swallow with relative ease. A smaller ship had to make every fare count and could usually be counted on to welcome a short-haul passenger with few questions asked.
Over the years, he’d learned that small liners offered an easy way to slip in and out of ports, staying well under the radar, allowing him to move money, goods and himself from place to place without official notice. Guns were occasionally a problem. These days, most ports had metal detectors, and even if one didn’t, most ships had installed them. That wasn’t a problem on this trip, however. Any weapons he needed would be available down there, while delivery of another package was already arranged. He needed only to get himself to Puerto Vallarta.
Liggett looked over the laminated, bilingual breakfast menu the waiter had left him, big color pictures showing what was on offer just in case English or Spanish descriptions weren’t enough. As a steak-and-potatoes Midwesterner, he viewed with suspicion all that mishmash—burritos, shredded meat, vegetables, eggs, God only knows what else. When the waiter returned, Liggett pushed the menu aside. He’d eat on the boat. He liked simplicity. Liked order and structure. His work was messy enough.
When the small cruise line’s office opened, he headed inside to arrange passage on the Galaxy Star . An hour later, just before it set sail, he joined a few stragglers who’d spent the night ashore—a couple of them doing a little more partying than could be healthy, by the smell of them. He carried a small duffel bag and, like a couple of others, sported two colorful bags that suggested he’d done some souvenir shopping in Mazatlán—a nice last-minute touch, he thought.
His quarters were located in the bowels of the ship and near the bow, where people complained of seasickness. But tight quarters and motion never bothered him. Except to observe, he had never been much influenced by his environment or by people around him. He slipped through crowds unnoticed. In his line of work, it was an advantage to be common looking—neither tall nor short, dishwater hair, average in every respect. Nothing about Liggett was exceptional, aside from an utter lack of the stupid fears that made lesser folk dare to take risks—and it wasn’t like there was any external mark of that.
Los Angeles
Hannah stood by her bedroom window, examining the ammo clip on her weapon, smacking it in place, double-checking the Beretta’s safety. She slipped the gun into the holster at the small of her back, then pulled on a lightweight linen jacket over her tank top to conceal it.
She patted the jacket. Her passport was in an inner pocket, while her wallet and the import permit for the Koon painting were stowed in a couple of the many zippered pockets on her cargo pants. Handbags, even her handy-dandy messenger bag, were a no-go. On the job meant remaining hands-free. Of course,
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