Route B11, outside Clark’s Town
The idea of spending a night or two in an Airbnb that doubled as one of Brutus’s safehouses did not sit well with Eddie. The last place was compromised, so why should he expect this place to be any different? Given that he did not have another location in mind, the address Brutus gave them was the only safe spot to go to. Eddie only hoped that Brutus had taken care of the mole. Candace turned on the radio and went through the stations, then stopped in the middle of a reggae song. This was a welcome change that Eddie needed, and he wondered why he did not think of this before. He recognized the song “Pressure” by Koffee, having heard it several times on the reggae playlist Corey had made for him. He glanced at Candace and saw that she was bobbing her head to the beat before she sang along. “‘Under the pressure, under the pressure, yeah. Under the pressure, under the pressure. If yuh poor, trouble tek you. When yuh rich it nuh settle. Cuh we all under the pressure my friend.’”
It was the first time he’d heard Candace sing, and she wasn’t bad. Before he knew it, he began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while nodding his head to the rhythm. “‘Sometimes you feel it you cry on. Hurt yuh heart enuh. But do not stress it, yessah. ‘Cause it haffi fi better. Cause you have to live ina the ghetto…’” Eddie noticed that the volume was turned down and that Candace was no longer singing along. He shrugged his shoulders. “What?” “Where did you learn those lyrics?” asked Candace. “I hear them all the time.” Candace shook her head while she made a face. “No, sah. Yuh never hear Koffee sing it like that. She never sing: ‘But do not stress it, yessah.’” “I’m pretty sure that’s what she sang.” “No, sah. You don’t even know the words.” “Jesus, you’re just as bad as Corey,” Eddie mumbled. “What?” “Nothing.” Candance rolled her eyes.
“Whatever.” Eddie saw a set of taillights that were not moving. He honked to signal to the driver that he was about to overtake him—a common practice among motorists in the Caribbean—until he saw that there was a traffic backup of at least six cars. He hit the brakes and came to an abrupt stop, missing the car’s bumper by about a foot. There was a construction crew ahead who appeared to be working on the road, reducing the two-laned road to one. A road worker was up ahead with his flags, waving oncoming traffic through. They were a stone’s throw from a gas station on their side of the road where Eddie saw four brothas talking among themselves. One of them had a cigarette. His attention was then drawn to the sound of Candace unbuckling her seatbelt. “What are you doing?” “Just making a quick stop.” “Where?” Eddie nodded to the gas station. “There? To do what?” Candace opened the door. “I just want something to drink. You want something?” “I’ll pass, and so should you because you’re just putting yourself on display for the station’s CCTV cameras,” said Eddie. “Next thing you know Weiss’s hitmen will have the town surrounded.”
“I’m sure their cameras are just there for show.” “You want to take that chance? Besides, I’m sure there are drinks where we’re going. And if they don’t have any, then I bet they’ll get some for us.” Eddie was interrupted by loud laughter coming from the brothas up ahead. He looked toward them to see two of them jumping up and down, another hunched over slapping his thigh, while the other two ran around. He cringed at the thought of what may happen if they spotted Candace. By the time Eddie turned to her she was already standing outside the car about to close the door. Eddie’s hand shot out in her direction. “Wait.” Candace lowered her head to look inside. “What now?” “I have a bad feeling.” Candace shook her head. “Just pull over and wait.”
“Since we’ve met, how many times have I been wrong?” Eddie looked toward the brothas to see that one of them was staring in their direction. No, there was no way the brotha could see him, it was too dark and they weren’t close enough to the gas station’s lights. It was then Eddie realized that the brotha was checking out Candace. “Yo,” the brotha said. Eddie turned to Candace. “Get in.” Candace glanced at the brothas. By then they were all staring at her. “Candace, get your ass in the car now!” Eddie looked back at the brothas to see that they were walking toward them. He then fixed his gaze on Candace, who hurried to get back inside while they continued to call out to her.
“Yuh nuh hear mi a call yuh?” the same brotha said as they got closer. Eddie blasted the horn, but that did not get the traffic to move, nor did it deter the man from approaching. “Is there another way to the Airbnb?” Candace shook her head as she rolled up her window. The car shook as the brotha slammed the hood of the car with his palm, twice, startling them. “Mek yuh nuh ansa mi when mi a talk to yuh?” Something changed in the brotha’s facial expression as he looked at Eddie. From where he stood, he could get a clearer view of Eddie’s face. His stomach tightened when he saw the brotha grab his mobile, tap the screen a few times and stare at it before looking back at him. “A him, yuh know,” the brotha yelled anxiously. “Who bloodclaat Vanessa Pusey a pay out the reward fah.” Eddie grabbed the stick and threw it into reverse then stomped down on the accelerator, scaring the brothas into jumping away from the car. The car rocketed backward for a second until Eddie stomped on the brakes the moment he saw headlights in the rearview mirror. Eddie spun the wheel violently to the right before throwing the gear into drive and stomping on the gas, launching their vehicle into a U-turn. An oncoming car blasted its horn as it screeched to a halt. Again, he threw the gear into drive and floored the gas. He wasn’t successful and had to reverse once before completing the hairpin turn before speeding off...
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed with the way you’ve been able to evade us for as long as you did. This chase you led us on across Jamaica—your Jam Run —is over.”
Corey travels with Eddie on his book tours. In fact, past trips have resulted in some problems where, if Corey had not been there, Eddie might not have lived. So getting to Jamaica was hopefully going to be a fun trip and the first night Corey talked Eddie into going to the nearest party. This trip was for pleasure since Corey had never been to Jamaica and he didn't want to spend the first night at the AirBnB.
As soon as they got into a local club, in a ghetto on a nearby hill. Eddie wanted to at least get through the evening and be ready and wide awake to sign books tomorrow. Corey had wanted to party in what could be called the real Jamaica--well, he certainly had found that place! Eddie was already hearing the potential gun fire in his head before the night was over.
Eddie saw her almost immediately:
A sista caught Eddie’s attention, clearly not hiding the fact that she was eyeing him. The woman’s jet-black hair with blond highlights reached the top of her midnight dress—one which conveniently stopped just below her thighs. When she turned to the side it was as though the world moved in slow motion. Yeah, she wanted him to notice her, especially her peach-shaped booty. Eddie’s eyes then dropped to her feet, and he nodded in appreciation. A wicked pair of stilettos. This sista had polished herself literally from head to toe. He no longer thought of getting a rum drink because his nerves were calmer than ever. He gazed around now. There must be at least a dozen brothas there, all ready to jump her bones. Eddie shook it off and found Corey—lost in his own world—doing the Gully Creepa. At least the crowd wasn’t as dense, and the air was less tainted by the smell of sweat and perfume.
“People say that Jesus speaks through our pastor. But I never knew Jesus to show anyone so much hatred.”
In fact, it was that night, when the individual with whom Eddie had danced was murdered, that the story really takes off. It was because Jalissa, his fan's sister who he met the next day at his book signing, that Eddie was told what had happened and was asked, by Jalissa, to find out who and why her sibling was killed.
Getting into the book, I was intrigued that an author is actually the amateur detective, sans cozy. The breadth and complexity of the story, plots and sub-plots is far beyond a mystery. Yet, by having an author as the amateur detective, he ablely presents the nuances of a truly great writer in his development of characters, scenes, and integration of multiple situations. Though the character, Eddie's writing is not actually shared in the book, I noticed the character, Eddie's, writing expertise because of the character created. Eddie Barrow feels life, experiences incongruities even though he doesn't exactly know what or why, and has the intellectual capacity to weave the possibilities and arrive at exactly what the issue is, was, or could be. Frankly, I haven't noticed this in Brooks' earlier books and I am excited and fascinated to watch this writer move forward in this writing career!
Palais Garnier, Place de l’Opéra, Paris, France (Two nights later)
The asset known as Hansel chilled in his private box as he watched renown operatic soprano, Kathleen Battle, unleash some of the most powerful yet soothing, vocals he’d heard in weeks. He’d heard enough reggae and dancehall music to last him a lifetime. What graced his ears now was serenity.
It’d been five days since he left Jamaica and he was ready to lose the sling. As for the person responsible for it, that was a lucky shot. He was fortunate that he had hit him at all, as the bullet passed through his shoulder without leaving any permanent damage. He’d heal in no time. Switching from one plane to the next while island hopping was not only tiring but frustrating.
He turned to the vibrations he felt in the floor behind him. Someone was approaching, and quick. But not as quick as Hansel clutched his steel pen from the upper pocket of his blazer—ready to gouge out the eyes of whoever was going to rush in here. If they’d managed to get past security with a weapon, then he’d disarm and neutralize his assailant, popping off a single head and chest shot in the same breath.
Ms. Battle and the Paris Opera Orchestra would drown out the kill shots—especially if his would-be assailant brought a noise-suppressed gun. A shot from a regular gun may go unnoticed, but only an amateur would be dumb enough to use one. Then again, an amateur wouldn’t even get past the security. The curtains drew, and Hansel relaxed his grip on his pen when he saw that it was one of the female ushers whom he had already analyzed and determined not to be a threat.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” said the young woman who handed him an envelope. Hansel took the envelope and nodded. “Merci.” It was so good to be able to speak again in public. That one screw-up at Citrusville was a potential hazard. Never let anyone hear you...
Coming Next!
With all the arrests or deaths of those involved in the various events which occurred during Jam Run, only one man remained alive to escape the country. This man is not somebody you would want to have after you! But it seems we will be seeing him again in the next book!
Watch for what this brilliant wordmaster has coming for all of us in the near future, (I hope.)!
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