“Come on, come on. Let go.” She hit the man’s chest and felt embarrassed.
Clutching the top of the book, she rocked it from side to side, slowly freeing it from the icy grip of the coat. With an upward pull, the book started moving. Rocking and pulling until she caught the first glimpse of her prize as a corner of the book exposed through the opened buttons near the collar.
“Ashley? What are you doing in here?” Sam Connors was getting closer.
Regan worked it carelessly upward through the coat until she could get a two-handed grip. She grasped each corner of the book and pulled upward with all her might. The book let loose and Regan tumbled backwards onto the ice — book in hand.
“Ashley.”
“Dammit, Sam. I’m coming.” She eagerly wanted to look inside the book but had no time. Connors would want her to put it back and then let the authorities have it. She found it, it was hers now. She unzipped her backpack, stuffed the book inside, and zipped her pack secure. Then she returned to button up the man’s coat.
“Oh my God.” Sam’s voice was close. “What have you found?”
Ashley turned and saw Sam peering through the opening. “A frozen dead man.”
“What are you doing to the body?” Sam Connors pointed to the body. "We should get out of here."
“I was checking for identification, but he’s too frozen.” She lied. She'd done it so many times. Sam was always trusting and gullible. Ashley gave Sam an impish smile, another trick she learned that always worked. “We’ll report it when we get to the summit."
“Let's get out of here." The worry in Sam’s tone wasn’t lost on Regan. "This place is creepy. I can't believe you found a dead body."
Regan found it hard to contain her excitement, but she knew Sam would complain that the book didn't belong to them. Ashley didn't want to hear it. Finders — keepers. Sam would try to reason with her, say the book was evidence, perhaps it was, but Regan instinctively knew the book had an intriguing story behind it. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but her meddlesome nature would never allow her to give it up.
Regan slipped her backpack over her shoulder. "Lead the way."
Connors turned and walked back toward the mouth of the cave.
Ashley Regan smiled. The book's existence would remain her secret.
3
Abigail Love had been following Martin and Teresa Kingsley through the streets of Pointe-à-Pitre all morning. The wealthy New Hampshire couple arrived at their Pointe-à-Pitre condominium, one of the many homes they owned around the world, yesterday afternoon after a long layover at the San Juan Airport in Puerto Rico. Love knew because she was on the same flight. The couple, both in their mid-fifties, were here on business. Which is exactly why she was here.
Love was hired by the Kingsleys' competition, a successful businessman who didn't want outsiders taking his hard earned business away from him. Martin Kingsley and a local man from the nearby town of Morne Rouge had formed a partnership and planned to open a rum factory on Guadeloupe. Kingsley had recently sold a recording studio and planned to invest that capital into this new venture. Love was hired to ensure that never happened.
She found her appearance made it easy for her to get close to her targets, often to the point of befriending and socializing with them prior to the hit. She was attractive, physically fit, tanned, and heartless. Lure them into my web like a spider and then attack was her mantra. That's one reason she rented a condominium in the same complex as the Kingsleys.
The waterfront streets of Pointe-à-Pitre were lively early in the morning and the outdoor market crowded. A small cruise ship had deposited a few hundred visitors in town, which created a traffic jam in the narrow streets.
Love already knew the Kingsleys' schedule, Martin Kingsley's anyway, courtesy of her employer. He'd provided a package complete with all the details of the Kingsleys' itinerary. That's how she knew which flight they were on, which condominium they owned, and where Martin would be at any given time. Her employer had created a spreadsheet meticulously detailing her target's information. If only all her hits could be this easy. Many of her contacts left out vital information, which on occasion had put her in harm's way. She'd been tempted to pay those employers an unwelcome visit but the money was too good to jeopardize her reputation.
Her career was born out of violence. When she was twenty-two and in her final year of college, she began an affair with an older man. Although she didn't know it at the time, he turned out to be a drug dealer who had doubled crossed one buyer too many. One night, her jealous lover accused her of flirting with a young waiter. The quarrel turned into a shouting match until he hit her — a backhanded blow to her jaw that knocked her to the floor.
She touched her face and felt the warm blood spilling from her mouth. She stood and screamed. "You bastard!"
"Shut up, bitch." His next blow knocked her against the kitchen counter.
She felt her eye starting to swell. Blood trickled from her brow.
He walked up behind her, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled her upright.
His hot breath next to her ear, "pack your shit, bitch, and get the Hell out of my house."
She spotted a meat cleaver on top of a carving board in front of her. She grabbed the handle, spun around, and slammed the blade into the side of his neck. A fountain of blood sprayed the kitchen as the man fell to the floor in disbelief. Blood gushed across the tile floor. Within a minute he grew still. The blood flow slowed. His face turned ashen. Another minute later, he was dead.
While serving two years in prison on a plea bargained Involuntary Manslaughter charge, she met another abused woman and a friendship evolved. Along with their friendship, an idea emerged for a new line of work. Now, almost seventeen years later, she owned her own business — all women. All trained to kill. Love's Desperate Desire. She called them escorts.
At 9:00 a.m., Kingsley answered his cell phone. Five minutes later a car pulled to the curb. Kingsley kissed his wife on the cheek and folded his six-foot three-inch frame into the compact car. Love knew Kingsley and his partner were driving to look at the property they planned to buy for their rum factory. She also knew they had plans to attend dinner parties tonight and tomorrow night and were scheduled to close the real estate deal the following day. A date he would never make.
Love followed Teresa Kingsley the short few blocks back to the condominium complex. Twin eight-story buildings standing only four feet apart. She was in the East Tower and the Kingsleys were in the West. A six-foot concrete wall surrounded the complex with security guards at the main entrance to the complex and again at the entrances to each building. Security cameras monitored the lobbies of each building as well as the front gate. Security was state of the art at this upscale complex. Although violent crime wasn't a problem in Pointe-à-Pitre, burglary and vandalism were. Peace of mind for the owners outweighed the added cost of good security.
Love stood behind Teresa Kingsley at the complex's main entrance and waited while Kingsley looked for her identification and room key to show to the guard.
Kingsley turned to Love with an embarrassed look on her face. "I'm sorry. My husband has my passport. This might take a while. Why don't you go ahead?"
Love smiled. "That's quite alright. I don't mind waiting. I'm just going to the pool anyway." One large pool with a bar and a grill served the twin towers. Her employer had provided her with a detailed layout of the complex.