Kingston Kidnappings (What Happens In Vegas Book 3) by Matt Lincoln (great book club books .txt) 📗

to me. It had been a few hours since Charlie left, which meant that it would be a few more still before he finally landed in Las Vegas. I shifted the bags I was carrying higher onto my shoulder. We’d headed straight to the hotel that Davis was staying at as soon as we left the airport, and Charlie had left all his things behind when he raced back home. I was left carrying both our bags from the station to the hotel Nelson had arranged for us. Luckily, his things weren’t very heavy, but they did serve as an unpleasant reminder of what had happened.

The streets were still alive with the sound of revelry, and I decided to take the long way back to the hotel so I could take in some sights. I knew that this wasn’t the best time to celebrate, but sitting around and worrying wouldn’t do anyone any good, so there wasn’t really any harm in taking a walk down the main street for old time’s sake.

I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I strolled through town. The smells of street food and the sounds of traditional music playing brought me back to my childhood. I didn’t have a lot of good memories of my parents, but I could distinctly remember walking down this same street, hand in hand with my mother, as we watched the costumed dancers and ate massive fried fish sandwiches. Bermuda was a tropical island, and seafood dishes could be found on every corner. Especially during festivals, it was common for food trucks and street vendors to set up shop every few feet along the parade avenue so they could sell their fare.

I suddenly found myself craving one of those enormous fish sandwiches, so I took off down the street in search. I didn’t have to go far and soon found myself overwhelmed by the number of choices I had. Enticing aromas drifted all around me as vendors baked, fried, sizzled, and smoked various kinds of fish and other seafood. It had been a while since I’d eaten anything, and everything I spotted looked appetizing.

Finally, my gaze landed on my intended target. Behind a small wooden stall, an older gentleman was stooped over a portable stove. He was frying fish cutlets before piling them high with coleslaw, thickly sliced tomato, and an exorbitant amount of melted cheese, all sandwiched together between two lightly toasted slices of bread. I made a beeline for the stand as soon as I saw it.

“Hello, ma’am,” the man smiled warmly at me. “Are you enjoying the festival?”

“Oh, yes,” I lied awkwardly. I didn’t really feel like explaining that I was here investigating an international crime and not to enjoy Carnival.

“Good, good,” the man nodded empathically. “What would you like?”

“Just one, please,” I smiled politely.

“No chips to go with it?” The man asked, nodding toward the large vat of boiling oil behind him. I could see he was making french fries in it.

“Sure,” I shrugged. The longer I stood there staring at the food, the hungrier I felt.

“Just one moment,” the man said as he deftly constructed a sandwich. He wrapped it in brown paper and used a large metal scoop to pull some fries out of the pot and into a paper cup. “There you go, dear. That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

I handed the money over. It was a steep price for a sandwich and a small cup of fries, but it wasn’t surprising considering it was the middle of Carnival, and the man was probably selling to a lot of tourists. In any case, it was a price I was willing to pay for a bit of nostalgia.

I maneuvered my way through the crowd toward an empty storefront. There was a short set of steps leading up to the door, and I took a seat on the highest step so I’d be able to eat comfortably.

I looked up at the mass of partygoers as I eagerly unwrapped the sandwich. The crowd was a mixture of locals and tourists, and everyone seemed to have a smile on their face. It was getting late enough that most people seemed at least a little intoxicated, and I made a mental note to hurry back to the hotel as soon as I was finished eating. Federal agent or not, it would be foolhardy to wander around alone in a foreign country full of drunk people in the middle of the night.

I bit into the sandwich and relished in the rich and savory taste. The fish and tomatoes were extremely fresh, and I had no doubt that the coleslaw was as well. It was the kind of food that one could only taste here in the Caribbean, where vendors sold food the same day it was caught or picked.

“Drat,” I muttered to myself as a glob of melted cheese dripped off the sandwich and onto my shirt. I looked down to wipe the offending food matter away and blinked in surprise at the tacky t-shirt I was wearing. I’d completely forgotten I’d put this one over my bloodied top.

I burst into an uncharacteristic fit of giggles. The fact that I’d cowed Davis into submission while wearing such a stupid shirt was so preposterous that I couldn’t help but laugh.

A drum circle formed across the street as I continued to dig into my food. I bobbed my head to the beat they were playing, and I finished my fries. The food had been delicious, but the bread and potatoes had been dry, and my throat felt parched. I stood up, intending to go find something to drink before heading back to the hotel.

“Naomi?” I froze at the voice that suddenly called my name. I snapped my head toward the source, my hand flying to the gun at my hip instinctively. I almost gasped when I realized who had spoken.

“Anya?” I asked hoarsely. She had changed. Of course, she had. It had been over ten years since I’d last seen her.