Page 57 of No Time Off

I wasn’t sure why he called me Sheila and what was so impressive about my hanging onto him for dear life, but maybe he was just thankful I hadn’t barfed down the back of his jacket…yet.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice sounding wispy and strained, probably on account of all the hyperventilating I did for most of the ride.

Finally, satisfied no one was around, Paul pulled out on the pavement, drove a bit down the road, and stopped near the beach.

Waves crashed against the surrounding reef, the pink sunrise illuminating the ocean’s expanse. A few boats dotted the water. Behind a dune and a copse of palm trees that hid us from the main road, he slid our bike to a stop alongside the others, putting his legs down to steady us. He turned off the bike, and the engine ticked as it cooled.

“What happened to you?” asked Petra, spotting us and coming forward. “We were worried when you took so long.”

“We had to do evasion, prime minister,” Paul explained, scraping the mud off his jacket. “Had one bloke following us on a bike with a gun. It was touch-and-go, but we lost him. The only thing he’ll be searching for in the immediate future is a hospital bed. Our escape is secure.”

“Thank God. Are you okay, Lexi?” she asked me.

I’m sure I’d looked better, but I wasn’t too worried about that at the moment. “I’m alive, thanks to Paul. What about the others and Rangi? Did they get away?”

Petra answered, “I don’t know, but I hope so. We haven’t heard anything from them yet. Rangi is a very resourceful man.”

I thought she sounded more hopeful than sure.

“Hurry now, Prime Minister, we need to get you off the beach where you are exposed,” the officer who had been Petra’s driver said to her.

As they hurried off, I took a better look around and saw we’d disembarked on the edge of a sand dune. One of the security guys mounted a bike and drove it off up toward the road, only to return several minutes later and pick up another bike. I noticed that none of the bikes had license plates. I wondered if that wasn’t a requirement in the Cook Islands or if they’d been taken off deliberately so they couldn’t be traced. Either way, they wouldn’t be easily linked to us if they were found—aside from the one with the bullet hole in the mirror.

Suddenly, I remembered about Slash. Panicked, I grabbed my phone, thankful to see I was still connected. I listened but couldn’t hear anything. My alarm rose with every passing minute, as I sent a quick text to Manny.

“Do not return to farmhouse. It’s compromised. I’m with the PM at the new location. Text me ASAP regarding your situation and what happened.”

“Let’s go,” Paul said, motioning for me to put my phone away and follow the others down a narrow pathway through some dune shrubs to the shore.

Petra walked ahead, holding her son Noa’s hand, while her husband had his arm protectively around their daughter, Lani. I hadn’t heard a peep from either of the kids and was impressed they had seemingly held up better than me. My ego hoped it was because their ride was a lot less scary than mine.

We quickly reached the shoreline, where there was a small skiff capable of seating five. One of the police officers hopped in and motioned for the PM and her family. They climbed into the boat, and the others pushed it out into the water, where the helmsman started a small trolling motor. The skiff headed out to a distant boat, moored just inside the reef. It was a large boat compared to the others I could see, but it appeared unoccupied, as I could see no lights or movement.

I sat down on the sand and set the bags next to me while we waited for the boat to return. I kept my phone nearby, listening, but still nothing. My stomach twisted into knots, worrying about Slash.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and looked out at the boat. The skiff was pulling alongside. The policeman guiding the boat tied it quickly to the larger boat and then leaped onboard. He was gone for a minute and then came back and began helping the others onboard. He must have been checking the yacht before letting them aboard.

The skiff departed the yacht after about ten minutes. Oddly, it didn’t return directly to our position but headed the opposite way along the beach.

“Where’s he going?” I asked Paul, who had sat down not far from me.

“He’s just being cautious in case someone is watching. If he headed directly toward us, someone who was observing him could get here before he could. Also, he’s trying to avoid attracting attention from a casual watcher who might wonder about successive loads of people being transported to the yacht. He’ll come back parallel to the beach at some point, so no one knows where he’s going. When he gets close, we head to the water and hop on.”

I was really beginning to appreciate the talents of the men who were protecting the prime minister. For a small island, they knew their job well.

Five minutes later I saw the skiff make a slow turn toward shore and then begin to head back to us.

“Get ready, Lexi,” Paul said. “Walk slowly and try not to attract any attention.”

Easy for them to say. “Am I going by myself?”

“No, I’ll go with you,” one of the other policemen replied.

“What about everyone else?” I asked.

“We’ll be watching from the shore,” Paul said. “That way, we can monitor any approaching threats and also be available to pick up people or supplies, as needed.”

I stood and casually sauntered toward the water. The skiff hovered closer. The small waves slapped the skiff broadside, causing it to rock a lot more than I was comfortable with.

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