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Authors: Robert J. Mrazek
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back just once,â said Colonel Wong as he and General Li boarded the command helicopter.
âWhy do you say that?â demanded Li.
âIt would seem more honorable . . . less like . . .â
âLess like what?â shouted Li. âLike butchering a herd of pigs?â
âForgive me, General . . . I just meantââ
âYou are not cut out for this task,â interrupted Li. âI will so inform my father.â
FIVE
14 May
Caribbean Coast
Dangriga, Belize
Steven Macaulay came up out of the dream to the moaning wail of a rising wind. It rattled the shutters and drove fine particles of sand through the open bedroom window to gently prickle his face and upper body. The air was hot and humid.
Without opening his eyes, he contemplated his latest hangover. It was a thing of beauty. His head felt like a bowling bowl rolling down a wooden staircase. But it hadnât blotted out the dream. Rum only went so far.
It was always the same one. The Lexy dream. Alexandra Vaughan. Her face invaded his hangover with astonishing clarity, moving right past his defenses, the only woman who mattered, the woman who had left him. After nearly a year, it was still too close, too raw. It was the finality of it all.
Opening his eyes, he sat up slowly in the bed andglanced through the window. The fronds on the royal palms along the beach were thrashing wildly back and forth in the wind. Macaulay figured the gusts to be about twenty miles an hour, and that was in the sheltered part of the harbor.
He remembered it was his day off and that he wouldnât be flying today. Frank Jessup had the duty. Macaulay was on standby. It didnât matter anyway. With a wind like this one, the old Grumman Goose couldnât be trusted to get passengers in the air, much less land safely on the water. The wealthy tourists who had flown into Dangriga that morning would have to wait for their rides out to the resorts on the emerald belt of offshore islands.
Trudging into the bathroom, he stood under the shower a full ten minutes, letting the cold water massage his scalp and body. Toweling off, he put on his khaki cargo shorts and faded tennis sneakers. It was his regular uniform in the tropical heat along the Belize coast.
Knowing what would cure the hangover, he headed straight over to Lanaâs Retreat. Set back from the beach and protected by a dense stand of Caribbean pines, it was a thatch-covered chikee hut built on a foundation of coquina rock.
Lanaâs was a favorite drinking spot of locals and tourists, many of whom just came to ogle her. Under the cascade of naturally blond hair, she had the face of a Texas angel and her skin was a rich golden brown. Barefoot, she was wearing a cream-colored shift that came down to her thighs and accentuated her breasts, thin waist, and dancerâs hips.
âMorning special,â said Macaulay with a pained grin.
It was her signature hangover cure, a sixteen-ouncetumbler filled with vodka and juice she blended from root vegetables, spinach, fresh parsley, horseradish, and tomatoes. The good earth.
âYou sure you donât want coffee?â she said in her slow drawl.
Lana had arrived in Dangriga on a vacation visit ten years earlier and fallen in love with the coastal scene. She had paid cash for the chikee bar and never gone back to the States. Frank Jessup had once told Macaulay that she had been one of the highest-priced call girls in Manhattan and was now frigid when it came to men. Of course, she might just have been frigid toward Frank, who portrayed himself as a dedicated family man while continuing to sample the local talent.
While she put together his drink, Lana glanced at the network of pencil-thin scars on Macaulayâs forehead and neck that remained livid against his deeply tanned body. There were deep weather wrinkles around his sad blue eyes. She wondered when he had last eaten.
âIâm taking a break in
âWhy do you say that?â demanded Li.
âIt would seem more honorable . . . less like . . .â
âLess like what?â shouted Li. âLike butchering a herd of pigs?â
âForgive me, General . . . I just meantââ
âYou are not cut out for this task,â interrupted Li. âI will so inform my father.â
FIVE
14 May
Caribbean Coast
Dangriga, Belize
Steven Macaulay came up out of the dream to the moaning wail of a rising wind. It rattled the shutters and drove fine particles of sand through the open bedroom window to gently prickle his face and upper body. The air was hot and humid.
Without opening his eyes, he contemplated his latest hangover. It was a thing of beauty. His head felt like a bowling bowl rolling down a wooden staircase. But it hadnât blotted out the dream. Rum only went so far.
It was always the same one. The Lexy dream. Alexandra Vaughan. Her face invaded his hangover with astonishing clarity, moving right past his defenses, the only woman who mattered, the woman who had left him. After nearly a year, it was still too close, too raw. It was the finality of it all.
Opening his eyes, he sat up slowly in the bed andglanced through the window. The fronds on the royal palms along the beach were thrashing wildly back and forth in the wind. Macaulay figured the gusts to be about twenty miles an hour, and that was in the sheltered part of the harbor.
He remembered it was his day off and that he wouldnât be flying today. Frank Jessup had the duty. Macaulay was on standby. It didnât matter anyway. With a wind like this one, the old Grumman Goose couldnât be trusted to get passengers in the air, much less land safely on the water. The wealthy tourists who had flown into Dangriga that morning would have to wait for their rides out to the resorts on the emerald belt of offshore islands.
Trudging into the bathroom, he stood under the shower a full ten minutes, letting the cold water massage his scalp and body. Toweling off, he put on his khaki cargo shorts and faded tennis sneakers. It was his regular uniform in the tropical heat along the Belize coast.
Knowing what would cure the hangover, he headed straight over to Lanaâs Retreat. Set back from the beach and protected by a dense stand of Caribbean pines, it was a thatch-covered chikee hut built on a foundation of coquina rock.
Lanaâs was a favorite drinking spot of locals and tourists, many of whom just came to ogle her. Under the cascade of naturally blond hair, she had the face of a Texas angel and her skin was a rich golden brown. Barefoot, she was wearing a cream-colored shift that came down to her thighs and accentuated her breasts, thin waist, and dancerâs hips.
âMorning special,â said Macaulay with a pained grin.
It was her signature hangover cure, a sixteen-ouncetumbler filled with vodka and juice she blended from root vegetables, spinach, fresh parsley, horseradish, and tomatoes. The good earth.
âYou sure you donât want coffee?â she said in her slow drawl.
Lana had arrived in Dangriga on a vacation visit ten years earlier and fallen in love with the coastal scene. She had paid cash for the chikee bar and never gone back to the States. Frank Jessup had once told Macaulay that she had been one of the highest-priced call girls in Manhattan and was now frigid when it came to men. Of course, she might just have been frigid toward Frank, who portrayed himself as a dedicated family man while continuing to sample the local talent.
While she put together his drink, Lana glanced at the network of pencil-thin scars on Macaulayâs forehead and neck that remained livid against his deeply tanned body. There were deep weather wrinkles around his sad blue eyes. She wondered when he had last eaten.
âIâm taking a break in
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