Page 91 of What Doesn't Kill You…

Rodrigo looked at the screen of his phone. It told him there was no cell coverage one minute, then those precious bars were back the next. His phone rang again.

"Rochelle?" he said answering straight away.

"Cell coverage is affected by the storm," she said. "Evan said it could cut out entirely. I've got him working on the two-way radio Violet got off the guard, hopefully he can boost the signal enough to communicate with you."

"That's good, we'll get our hands on another couple of radios at this end," Rodrigo said.

"Be safe," Rochelle ordered before the line went dead.

Rodrigo immediately dialed Violet, to let her know the op was on and he was heading her way. There was no reply. So he tried Max. Nothing. He tried Violet again, but this time his phone said he didn't have cell service. It was clear the phones weren't reliable anymore. He'd have to tell her in person.

Once back in the bar, he leaned in close to Katrina to talk in her ear. "That was Rochelle," he said. "The meet is happening on the island as planned. The partner should be arriving soon. I'm going to round up the team and head out now. I tried to get ahold of Violet, but she isn't answering, plus we're losing cell phone coverage. It's cutting in and out. So I'm just going to head over there."

As he spoke, he scanned the bar for trouble and his eyes found Violet's grandmother, who was staring at him with interest. He smiled at her. She cocked an imperious eyebrow. Oh, yeah, she was suspicious.

"What do you want me to do?" Katrina asked.

"Keep an eye on the family. Harris will help. If there's even a hint of trouble, get them to safety and hole up until we come for you."

"Okay." She nodded, worried now. "What do I tell her family if they ask what's going on?"

"If it gets desperate, tell them the truth." Rodrigo straightened and squeezed her shoulder before striding off to pick up Logan and Abasi.

All the while, he could feel Lian's stare burning a hole between his shoulder blades.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was dark and dusty in the attic. And the rough edge of the vent hole scraped Violet's bare stomach as she wriggled further into the crawlspace. She silently catalogued every injury and inconvenience. Max would make payment in full for each one of them.

Once inside, she aimed for the bathroom. She noted there was a proper extractor fan over the shower and was glad she hadn't been stuck trying to get past something like that. There were a couple of loose bricks at the edge of the fan, left over from construction or put there for some other reason she couldn't quite figure out. She helped herself to one of them and discarded the toilet brush.

Dust tickled her nose, making her sneeze as she kept her weight on the beams beneath her and not on the ceiling panels. They didn't look secure at all, which was what she was counting on.

Someone had made a path in the crawl space, using rough plywood that acted as a bridge between beams. She slithered over it, aware of every scratch, graze, and splinter that damaged her exposed flesh.

"I am so going to torture Max when this is over," she muttered.

Guessing she was over the sinks, Violet lifted the brick and pounded at one of the spotlights until it fell from the ceiling. She then did the same with the one nearest it. Now, she had two holes looking down at the bathroom sinks.

Dust clung to her lungs, making her sputter and cough. Her eyes stung and her fingers were raw from gripping the brick. But Violet didn’t let up. She used the brick to knock out what was left of the ceiling panel between the two holes, and it crumbled like confetti, leaving a gap big enough to slip through.

About time.

Holding onto the beam, she turned around until her legs were dangling through the hole. Slowly, cautiously, her upper body screaming with the strain, she lowered herself until she felt the sink counter beneath her toes. Gingerly, she let go of the ceiling until she was standing on the sink.

A dizzying sense of relief swept over her as she climbed to the floor. She glanced up at the mess she'd made of the ceiling and smiled. Damien Poole deserved worse.

Quickly, Violet rushed into the bedroom to get her phone. And found it was missing. Along with her gun. She spun toward the room phone, but when she lifted it, she discovered there was no dial tone. The wire had been cut where it joined the wall. Max really hadn't wanted her to stop him.

She raised her chin and howled yet again.

There was nothing to do but get dressed and hunt him down. Stealing a moment to rinse her scrapes and apply antibacterial ointment, because the humid weather would hasten infection, Violet dressed in the black cargo pants and T-shirt she'd initially worn to the airport in Houston—before Katrina had made her change into something more holiday appropriate. She slipped on her running shoes and tied her hair back into a low ponytail. Once done, she ran for the door.

Horizontal rain lashed the island as palm trees were whipped about by the wind. Overhead, thunder rumbled menacingly. Between the cloud-induced darkness, and the waterfalls of rain, it was hard to see even a few feet in front of her. And she was soaked through by the time she'd taken half a dozen steps. The only mercy was that the rain and wind were warm, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to feel her fingers and she'd have been no use to anyone.

As she ran down the path, she caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun to face the threat, lifting her fists as she shifted her weight, ready to fight.

The large, nondescript man she'd spotted watching them at the karaoke dinner, and again at the wedding, stepped out from the shelter of the bungalow next door. His gray shirt and khaki pants were soaked through, telling her he'd been standing in the rain for a very long time. Damien needed to hire some smarter henchmen. She took a breath, steadied herself and waited for the attack.