JAMAICA: R&R

Bonus chapter: As newly-minted members of the billionaire’s club, Randy Todd and Rachel Beal, also known as R&R, are living the high life in Jamaica, at a time several weeks prior to Tinker’s Revenge, but the fairytale is about to turn into a nightmare.

After dropping anchor in their seventh port in the past month, Rachel had been looking forward to staying put for more than a few days. She already had a golden tan and a sexy wardrobe of low-cut dresses to show off her stylish figure, so now she wanted to get out in style and enjoy all of the sights, sounds and flavors that Jamaica had to offer, without being constantly uprooted and forced into one of her companion’s self-imposed exiles. It was always for the dumbest reasons imaginable. “For the hundredth time,” she said, exasperated with her partner in crime, “we’re not being followed.”

“Like hell we aren’t,” Randy said, pulling her into a convenience store, having not necessarily told her everything about what he’d been up to. “This time I’m certain of it.”

“Just like every other time,” she said, having no choice but to let him tug her along, scurrying down the bread aisle. At barely half his size, there wasn’t much she could do about it but complain. “Do you have any facts?”

He grunted, constantly looking over his shoulder as he hurriedly moved them toward the back of the store, with the milk and other dairy items. “I’m telling you, this time’s different.”

Rachel sighed. As the saying goes, it’s another beautiful day in paradise … or it would have been under different circumstances. They were supposed to be living the dream, cruising from port to port in their luxury superyacht with more money than they could possibly ever spend. It was the lavish lifestyle she had always imagined one day living. Everything was perfect. Except that it wasn’t. In fact, it was a total fucking nightmare. “How is it different?” she asked, doing her best to keep her wits about her. It was her only hope of controlling the situation and keeping him from going berserk. “Be specific.”

“This time, I actually recognize the guy.”

“You know him?”

He nodded.

“Then why not stop and talk to him?” she asked, annoyed that the fighting was such a constant in his life, seeming to follow him around like a stray dog, and was getting worse. More frequent. More vicious. “Some people do that, you know? They have pleasant conversations about weather, food, the kids, all kinds of topics that have nothing to do with violence.”

“Not this guy,” he said, spotting him entering the front door and taking the aisle to their left. “He’s a thug.”

“How could you possibly know any thugs in this area?” she asked, thinking how just five short minutes ago that had been preparing to sit down at a beach-front table, intending to enjoy a meal, several bottles of wine, and a magnificent sunset. It was how her life was supposed to be playing out. “We’ve only been here a couple of days.”

“You’d be surprised by how easy they are to find,” he said, locating the door into the back room, getting them inside, weaving in and out of pallets of merchandise stacked eight-feet high. Having been kicked out of nearly every establishment he had frequented in Jamaica, he was running out of options and patience, not that it was his strong suit to begin with. Rachel wasn’t faring any better in that department, although he tended to be the source of her angst. Unfortunately, they were hopelessly bound together by circumstance. They had been reduced to slowly working their way around the island, trying to stay one step ahead of his explosive reputation. “Actually, they seem to find me.”

“That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said all day,” she said, never having realized the full extent of his inability to keep his violent impulses in check. Having to deal with Ranbo’s unrestrained temper on a daily basis, frustrated didn’t even begin to describe how she felt. “You attract trouble, because you are trouble.”

“That’s harsh,” he said, opening the door into the alley and pushing her ahead of him. Pausing, he waited until the big bruiser caught a glimpse of him before stepping outside, leaving the door ajar.

“Then tell me who this guy is,” she said, positioning herself firmly in front of him. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

“The situation is about to get out of hand,” he said, easily hoisting her up, spinning her around, and giving her a gentle smack on the butt to get her moving, “so get yourself down to the end of the alley and wait for me.”

Just then, the door opened and a massive Jamaican eyed both of them, giving her all the motivation she needed to start running. At six foot four, two hundred forty pounds of muscle, Randy could take care of himself, but his guy was huge. “Whatever you do,” she yelled, glancing back over her shoulder as the two men lunged at each other, “don’t kill him.”

With Rachel’s words ringing in his ears, he ducked under a vicious right cross, then planted his feet and countered with a wicked left uppercut to the thug’s solar plexus, doubling him over.

As the man known as Tafari backed away, he pulled out a knife, and in one fluid motion, he swung his arm in a wide arc, narrowly missing his opponent’s face.

Unarmed, Randy had no choice for his next move. Swiftly moving in, he grabbed the hand holding the knife, then pivoted the full weight of his body into his arm, cracking the elbow.

Wailing in agony, he dropped the weapon and staggered backward, refusing to go down.

Deciding to take Rachel’s words to heart, he planted his size-twelve boot in his crotch, spinning with the movement and slamming an elbow into the base of his neck, dropping him to the ground, out cold.

Satisfied he would be incapacitated for a while, Randy strode the fifty yards to where Rachel had been watching in dismay. “I know,” he said, taking her hand and heading back to the main street, “I’ve made a mess of things, again, but right now, we need to get back to the yacht and find a new place to hang out.”

“No,” she practically shouted, refusing to budge, “I won’t go any further until I get some answers, so like I asked you earlier, who is that guy?”

“He’s an enforcer for another guy, a really bad guy.”

She groaned. It was the story of Randy’s life, one bad guy after another, but somehow, this one actually did seem different than the others. “Does this have anything to do with those nasty notes we’ve been getting?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Relax,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s entirely unrelated.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” she asked, her spirits sinking to their lowest point since she’d become rich beyond her wildest dreams. “Why would you know a really bad guy?”

He shrugged, refusing to make eye contact. “I needed a few things.”

“Then go to the store and buy them,” she said, unable to comprehend how his mind worked. “That’s the point of having all of this money. You can buy anything you want, any time you want it.”

“What I want, you can’t buy in a store … especially in a foreign country.”

“No shit,” she snapped, realizing just how thoroughly he’d backed them into a corner. “I figured that out five minutes ago. I also figured out that you’ve once again needlessly put our lives in danger.” She glanced around, calculating their options, faced with the harsh reality … there were no options. “Exactly what is it you have to have that’s worth getting us killed over?”

“Stuff.”

“That answer isn’t going to cut it anymore,” she said, wagging a finger in his face. “I know it can’t be guns, because you’ve got plenty of those.” She hesitated, pondering. “Grenades?”

Silence.

“Explosives?”

Needing her cooperation to keep them ahead of the situation at hand, Randy finally decided he had no choice but to tell her. “RPGs”

“Rocket launchers?” Rachel asked, punching him in the arm, spraining her hand on his rock-hard muscles. “Why would you possibly need those?”

“When we’re out on the yacht,” he said, feeling naked out at sea, “just sailing around the Caribbean, it’s the only way to blow stuff up from a distance, before it gets too close to repel.”

“Repel what?” she asked incredulous, never having noticed any threats. “Pirates?

Once again silent, he sheepishly nodded.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, slowly starting to walk in the direction of the harbor, realizing they had no choice but to weigh anchor, again. “You’re the second-toughest guy I’ve ever known, yet we’re likely going to die because you’re afraid of a few pirates of the Caribbean. Do you realize how absurd that sounds?”

“They’re a real thing,” he said, growing increasingly defensive, “and that damn floating palace you insisted on buying can’t outrun speed boats, making it impossible to properly defend against them once they get near.”