fact that Jarrett shared such information warned he was deadly serious. In their years of marriage, he never told her anything about his work, his missions or the scumbags he encountered.
Lacey called Paul, telling him she’d handle Monsieur Augustin. As she hung up, wished she could light a fire beneath the bottoms of the State Department workers who were processing the paperwork. I need more time...
The car radio blasted out the news. In St. Marc, Lacey always listened to the radio to get reports of possible protests or roadblocks. But today seemed peaceful, and even more so as they drove farther south.
They entered a small town where a man led a donkey through traffic, ignoring the red light on the main road. A parade of motorcycles streamed past their vehicle like water. Bright red umbrellas with a local phone company’s logo lined the sidewalks, shading the vendors who sold mangoes, breadfruit, candy, gum and other wares. The mountains rose to their left, dotted with trees.
They got stuck behind a tangerine-colored bus. A goat and a man perched on top of the bus, enjoying the view. Two men jumped onto the bus as it pulled into a small town. One held a clear plastic bag filled with bread. The other clutched plastic baggies of water.
Jarrett navigated through a local market, people milling in the street as they examined fruit for sale. Behind his shades, he seemed to study the mood of the street. Outside the city it was peaceful and normal. No torqued crowds. No danger.
Please let it stay that way. Last week someone had firebombed her best truck when she’d parked outside the compound to check out property she’d thought of purchasing. Lacey was doing all she could to expedite the paperwork, but it hadn’t come through yet. Damn red tape...
“See how peaceful it is here?” She needed to assure him she was fine, and he could leave her once he’d driven her home.
“It’s deceptive. The radio said there are strikes planned for Monday. The president is planning to raise fuel prices again and the people are going to march.” Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Marching people usually equates to violence, Lace.”
“In the city.”
“There’s been a few protests in the country, as well, along this road.”
She knew it and had taken great care to monitor reports to avoid roadblocks. “Not recently.”
“And that will change when the president raises fuel prices if he’s reelected. The poor are desperate and things are getting worse. I don’t like it. Everything in this country points to another coup and it’ll turn into a royal goat fluster. You really want to take a chance with your life?”
“You’re as bad as my father. He wants me to come home, as well.”
But she couldn’t leave, even if he paid her. Frustration bit her because she suspected Jarrett was right, but she was trapped here. Lacey fished her mobile out of her backpack and thumbed it on. “You don’t like it here? You need to book the next flight out for yourself? Use my credit card.”
He ignored the jab. “Tell me what’s been going on with the locals where you live. Any hot spots?” He lifted his right hand and pantomimed a gun and trigger. “Bang bang much?”
“There’s been hot spots in Danton, the city closest to us, but there’s always hot spots flaring up.”
Mango and palm trees flanked the road as they drove south, past hand-painted signs advertising auto part repairs, billboards in French for local hotels, past the small concrete “banks” where lottery tickets were sold. They passed a herd of motorcycles, their riders waiting for passengers. He glanced to the right and noticed the gas station with its bright yellow-and-green sign remained open.
Calm. So calm. But she knew the peace could shatter as quickly as a fired shot.
Jarrett glanced at her. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye while I drive? You’re nodding off.”
She didn’t want to admit he was right, but he was. Lacey closed her eyes and dozed off.
When she opened her eyes, he was turning onto the unpaved road leading to her compound lined with dusty mango trees. A few dump trucks loaded with rocks rumbled past.
Sitting up straight, struggling to snap to attention, she pointed to a turnoff. “Turn at the sign that says Mangoes For Sale. There’s a quarry not far from here. Reason why the road is so bad. But we got the land very cheap, and it’s right off the main highway to make it easier to find us.”
The vehicle bounced up and down as he drove. “Bounce factor,” he mused. “Makes you feel like a bobble-head doll.”
“You get used to it.”
He gave her an amused grin, pushed down his sunglasses to peer at her. An impish look of mischief and sex gleamed in his green eyes. “I give great massages to work out the kinks in your body.”
A shiver raced down her spine. Jarrett did give great massages, and the smooth glide of his big hands over her naked skin had always been so arousing, leading to him getting naked, as well, and then...
“I have a vibrator,” she shot back and then flushed as his grin widened.
“A BOB doesn’t substitute for the real thing, Lace.”
“I didn’t mean a battery-operated boyfriend kind of vibrator. I meant a massager. For my neck.”
“Still,” he murmured.
He drove toward the handmade sign, passing several mango and palm trees. Small wood houses peeked through the trees, as goats grazed in the scrub. An abandoned building came into view. Painted on the building was a mural of rows of corn, with happy children peeking out among the stalks.
“Originally that wall had a mural of a young woman being led on a chain before the devil. The man leading her clutched her beating heart.” She sighed, remembering all her hard work to convince the locals she was committed to staying and helping them. “I found the artist, paid him to paint the cornfield because the mural kept spooking people. This farm kept spooking people. They said hoodoo rituals were conducted here, ones where a man cut out a woman’s heart for good luck. We’ve managed to overcome some of the tainted superstition, but it’s been a long process, with lots of patience and working with the locals.”
“You always did have a lot of patience.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You did with me, especially when I was gone so much. Maybe if I hadn’t been gone all those times, we’d still be together.”
Lacey had wondered the same at times, wondered if he had stayed that one time and given her the support she needed, would they have worked out their problems? But she’d vowed to not regret the past.
“Maybe. Or not. You can’t go back, Jarrett. We’ve both changed and moved on.”
Jarrett drove until reaching a tall concrete wall with an imposing red gate. Lacey’s heart went still. Panic clogged her throat as she stared at the gate.
“You were saying something about hoodoo?” Jarrett turned to her, his expression grim. She’d been gone only a day, and this was bad news. Lacey had thought the other little things that had happened, like the graffiti warnings, were just some kids fooling around. Not this.
The white, hand-painted sign reading Marlee’s Mangoes had been obscured with a splatter of crimson paint. But it wasn’t the vandalism that worried her.
It was the dead chicken impaled on the iron spikes of the gate. The bloody entrails were draped over another spike, along with a clear warning painted on the gate in French.
American, go home before you end up like this.
Lacey swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She beeped the horn and a man in gray trousers and a blue shirt came out, opened the gate. Pierre waved at her, twirling the shotgun in his hands as if it was a baton.
“That’s your security?”
She