The RX Factor

The RX Factor - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

William Craven made sure the drapes were closed before answering the door to his hotel room, which, like his accommodations back in Nassau, was tailored to the needs of a businessman who traveled first class. His new room had a better view, of course, and a more tranquil setting, but that was to be expected of any place worth the real estate it was sitting on here in the heart of tiny, picturesque George Town.

He opened the door and invited inside his Haitian contact and the man’s two thugs. “You must be René,” he said to the taller of the two assassins. “René Edmond.”

René, bald-headed and wearing a clingy wife beater that accentuated his muscular frame, nodded menacingly.

Craven turned his attention to the other assassin, who was a few inches shorter than his partner, the sky-high afro atop his head notwithstanding. Dressed in a loose black T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans, he was smaller and leaner, but looked just as tough.

“You’re Manno Sanon.”

Manno shrugged indifferently, but his cool stare spoke volumes. He didn’t appreciate the scrutiny and obviously felt he didn’t need to impress a soul.

I can work with him, Craven thought. Craven knew men. Their posture, the way they returned his gaze—everything told a story. He could tell a poser from the real deal in a heartbeat. He shifted his attention to the man who until now had been his go-between, the flunky who had cowered in front of him at the bar back in Nassau.

“I gave you forty-eight hours,” Craven said. “But you’re just now introducing me to your boys, and the job’s still unfinished.”

“Who you calling boy?” Manno asked in a hard-to-decipher patois of African, French, and pidgin Creole. He took a step toward Craven.

But before Manno could move another inch, Craven was propping up the assassin’s chin with his Glock. Craven motioned to René to take a seat on the bed behind him, and the man did so grudgingly. He then caught Manno’s gaze, still unflinching, not an ounce of fear on his face.

“I like you,” Craven said. “Go take a load off next to your pal there.”

The look on Manno’s face—somewhere between fury and amusement—slowly morphed into recognition. Perhaps he, too, could read men. Perhaps he understood that Craven, far from being an empty suit, was no stranger to death. Manno slowly, cautiously, sat down beside his partner.

“Show me the goods,” Craven said.

The two men on the bed exchanged glances with each other and then stared back at Craven.

“I want to see,” Craven explained, “what you’re going to use to finish the job.”

A faint smile spread across Manno’s lips, and he produced from beneath his black T-shirt an exquisitely carved bowie knife that gleamed in the hotel room’s artificial light.

René followed suit, gingerly exposing the handle of what looked to be a semiautomatic pistol hidden in his baggy shorts.

“Less messy than explosives,” Craven mused. “Definitely more efficient.” With that settled, he picked up where he’d left off with the only man still standing. “Now Junior, where were we? Oh, yeah. Forty-eight hours. I’m still waiting for an explanation. I should have been on a plane two days ago. Instead I’m here. With you.”

The Haitian unleashed his patented gap-toothed grin. “But,” he stuttered, “the islands are crawling with authorities. We can hardly move about. Even this meeting places us all in grave danger.”

“I gave you forty-eight hours,” Craven said, “and you give me excuses.” He pulled from his blazer a silencer and fit it snugly to the muzzle of his gun.

Junior’s eyes widened. “But, sir . . . no . . . wait—”

Craven, raising the gun level with Junior’s forehead, didn’t waste any time pulling the trigger, and the man crumpled in a heap, dead before he hit the carpeted floor. Craven turned to the bruisers, neither of whom betrayed a hint of emotion.

“Men,” he said, emphasizing the word for Manno’s benefit, “clean up this mess. You work for me now.”