The RX Factor

The RX Factor - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

One hundred and twenty-five nautical miles northwest of George Town, William Craven stepped outside into the muggy Nassau air, leaving behind the air-conditioned comfort of his hotel lobby.

No sweat, he thought. He was cool, meticulously cool, from the top of his balding head to the soles of his black leather oxfords. He wore a black Armani blazer over a white dress shirt, sans tie, and had artfully slung a small carry-on bag over his right shoulder. The sleek black bag housed his golfing apparel, but he had a different game to play this morning.

He pointed at a lime green cab as it approached, and jumped in before it had come to a full stop. “Take me here,” he said as he handed the driver a matchbook with an address scrawled on the back.

The driver, sporting dreadlocks and chewing on an unlit, hand-rolled cigarette, lowered his shades as he studied the address. “You sure you wanna go here, mistah?” he asked.

“Go,” Craven said, and he settled back into his seat.

“Yes, sir, mistah, sir.” The cabbie jumped on the gas.

Nassau, the capital city of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas, was home to nearly a quarter million people, roughly 70 percent of the island chain’s inhabitants. Despite the languid heat and the tropical vibe, it bustled with a dirty, frenetic energy, the kind of manic, fast-paced oomph that Craven craved. The overflowing sidewalks bulged with tourists, hawkers, and businessmen and women, the professionals in suits chewing up the pavement as they hurried off to their next important place.

Craven, for his part, never hurried. He moved quickly when needed, but hurrying meant losing control, and Craven, whatever he did, never lost control. He planned methodically and executed ruthlessly. His trigger finger never paused long enough for him to ask what if, because he had already studied all of the options, mapped out an entrance and exit strategy, and walked himself through every contingency a dozen times. He was a professional, in every sense of the word.

As the cab left the hotel district behind, the palms lining the streets grew sparser and the road rougher. The cabbie, no doubt an experienced hand who knew every corner of the city, looked uneasy. Given his profession, he probably lived out here, on the outskirts of Nassau’s disintegrating concrete jungle, but how many times had he taken a Westerner into this urban inferno?

Craven lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

The cabbie glanced into his rearview mirror. “You like me to turn on the air-conditioning, mistah?”

Craven spotted a bead of sweat forming on one of the cabbie’s sideburns. “No need.”

The streets narrowed to mere alleys and the street-side buildings towered menacingly close when they finally arrived at a nondescript bar. The place could have been one of many anonymous flats in the shabby neighborhood, save for the neon beer signs hanging in the two front windows, each of which sat securely behind bars.

“Wait for me,” Craven said as he got out. He eyed his bag in the backseat. “And lock your doors.”

He approached the front door, which was propped open with a garbage can and camouflaged in a cloud of hazy smoke, and paused just long enough for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. In the back of the mostly empty bar, seated at a table beneath a yellowing map of the islands, was his contact, a Haitian man with short cropped hair and a gap-toothed grin. The man stood up to greet him, but Craven’s frown put him back in his seat.

“Hello, Mr.—”

Craven raised his hand to cut the man off. “Don’t talk,” he said. “Just listen.” He pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat with his arms resting on the back, ready to interrogate the man before him. The Haitian averted his narrow eyes, still smiling, as he waited for Craven to begin. As the clock ticked on without a word being spoken, the Haitian began to fidget in his chair. When he opened his mouth, Craven once again cut him off before the man could complete an audible word.

“I don’t need an update, Junior.” The man’s name wasn’t actually Junior, but it was a favorite pet name Craven reserved for his underlings. “I know all about your punk’s fuck-up.”

“But—”

Again, Craven cut him off. “I arranged for this meeting simply to watch you squirm and to give you one more chance to get it right. You’ve got forty-eight hours to tie up the loose ends.” He let the sentence end abruptly.

“No loose ends,” the man said, nodding, his eyes now widened with a grimace replacing the smile. “We’ll fix everything. You’ll see.”

“Yes, I will see. And if the mission is not accomplished by then, you will become the loose end, and I will handle it personally.”

Sweat began to drip down the Haitian’s forehead and his right hand started tapping on his leg, but Craven was not ready to release the man from his attention yet.

“And no more explosions. Christ, the whole commonwealth is ready to come undone, which doesn’t make your job any easier. How are you planning on communicating with your men, now that security has tightened on Exuma?”

The Haitian scratched his clean-shaven face. “I will travel to George Town tomorrow morning and speak with them personally.”

“How will you travel?”

“There is a passenger service. . . .”

Craven shook his head.

“I suppose I could charter a fishing boat.”

Craven nodded in the affirmative, though still unimpressed. He stood up, reached into his blazer, and tossed a hotel business card onto the table. “Call me when you have the charter arranged and I will meet you at the docks. I’m coming with you.”

The Haitian squirmed in his chair before reaching for a paper napkin sitting on the table next to him and wiping his sweating forehead. He composed himself to a degree before responding. “I understand your concern, but that is not necessary. I already assured you that I will make sure all loose ends are tied up in short order.”

Craven lifted his eyebrows and offered a snarl of a grin. “You assured me the last time and that did not work out so well, now did it?” Craven did not wait for a response before continuing. “I think you need supervision, Junior. And lucky for you, I just happen to be here. Call me with our travel details tonight.”

Back outside, he dialed his secretary on his cell phone as he ducked into the cab.

“Fisher Singer Worldwide, this is Angela Marks,” a woman answered. “May I help you?”

“Hey, Angie,” Craven said.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Craven,” she said cheerfully. “How’s everything going at the convention?”

“Swimmingly so far,” Craven said. “Listen, I need you to postpone my flight to Puerto Vallarta.”

“But aren’t you scheduled to meet with the clinic director tomorrow?”

“Yes, but things have changed. And the director can wait