they even in the boathouse anymore, she discovered after a little exploration. She took off running past the line of boats and exited out into the dockyard.
The van was just pulling away down the gravel drive. At first she just watched it barrel down the alley toward the main drag. Reflecting back on all the trouble that had ensued a month earlier, after she’d rescued Serena outside the Bent Horseshoe Saloon, she couldn’t help but ask herself, Was she really about to interfere with yet another kidnapping in a windowless van?
Yes, she realized, and dashed around the building to where she’d stowed her scooter. Yes, I am.
She snapped her helmet on and twisted the key in the ignition, and the little scooter rocketed off, sending a fountain of gravel and dirt pluming out from under the tire and onto the boathouse wall.
Almost as soon as Ash pulled out onto the river drive, she had to veer to avoid an oncoming SUV. The driver blared his horn, and Ash offered him an apologetic wave as she cut across both lanes to keep up with the van, which was disappearing down a back alley.
Ash tried as best she could to take a cue from all of the espionage movies that she’d seen, and kept the Vespa a few spans behind the van, but never took her eyes off the license plate. When the van barreled down a narrow side street, Ash slowed to let it extend its lead. The Vespa rattled over the uneven stones, and she earned her fairshare of looks from the local residents, who were enjoying the summer heat outside of their apartments and houses. A few women crossed their arms in their fold-out chairs and appraised her like a king might regard a beggar in his court. A circle of five men in wife-beaters was throwing dice against a wall and into a chalk-lined circle, where the results caused one cheer and four groans.
Ahead the van rolled to a stop in front of a corner building with a low archway. Ash let the scooter drift to the right and parked in the shadows. Two boys clucked their tongues at her as they walked past. Ash avoided eye contact and gave them the finger.
At first she wasn’t sure how the men in the van were going to do the unloading. The street was far from desolate, and if the locals considered a Polynesian girl on a Vespa worthy of their attention, then a giant bound and shackled like a medieval prisoner would definitely pique their curiosity as well.
The van did a three-point turn so that its tail end rolled right into the overhang. The fit was so snug and the van maneuvering so graceful that Ash figured this wasn’t the first time they’d used this covert method of unloading.
When no one emerged from the van after a minute, she edged down the plaster wall. The glare from the streetlamps moved off the windshield enough for her to see that there was no longer anyone sitting in the driver’s seat. They must have all slipped out the back.
The sign over the archway read ROJA’S CIGAR FACTORY, and a half-size statue of a butler smoking a cigar guarded the entrance. The same ROJA’S CIGAR emblem decorated the van’s windowless side paneling.
Ash took one moment outside the van door to ensure that no one was watching her. She also acknowledged that what she was about to do outshined anything else she’d done in her life in terms of stupidity. And then she opened the driver-side door, slipped in, and crawled out the back.
The metal-striped wooden door to the cigar shop was still ajar, and Ash squeezed through the opening, for fear that the door might squeak if she pried it open any farther. Inside, the front of the shop was completely dark. A soft glow emanated from the computer screen above the cash register, illuminating a glass container that housed a collection of stainless steel lighters and cigar clips. The shop had an earthy sweet smell that would probably cling to Ash’s clothes and skin long after she left.
The voices were coming from around the corner (not to mention the faint clinking of chains tapping
The van was just pulling away down the gravel drive. At first she just watched it barrel down the alley toward the main drag. Reflecting back on all the trouble that had ensued a month earlier, after she’d rescued Serena outside the Bent Horseshoe Saloon, she couldn’t help but ask herself, Was she really about to interfere with yet another kidnapping in a windowless van?
Yes, she realized, and dashed around the building to where she’d stowed her scooter. Yes, I am.
She snapped her helmet on and twisted the key in the ignition, and the little scooter rocketed off, sending a fountain of gravel and dirt pluming out from under the tire and onto the boathouse wall.
Almost as soon as Ash pulled out onto the river drive, she had to veer to avoid an oncoming SUV. The driver blared his horn, and Ash offered him an apologetic wave as she cut across both lanes to keep up with the van, which was disappearing down a back alley.
Ash tried as best she could to take a cue from all of the espionage movies that she’d seen, and kept the Vespa a few spans behind the van, but never took her eyes off the license plate. When the van barreled down a narrow side street, Ash slowed to let it extend its lead. The Vespa rattled over the uneven stones, and she earned her fairshare of looks from the local residents, who were enjoying the summer heat outside of their apartments and houses. A few women crossed their arms in their fold-out chairs and appraised her like a king might regard a beggar in his court. A circle of five men in wife-beaters was throwing dice against a wall and into a chalk-lined circle, where the results caused one cheer and four groans.
Ahead the van rolled to a stop in front of a corner building with a low archway. Ash let the scooter drift to the right and parked in the shadows. Two boys clucked their tongues at her as they walked past. Ash avoided eye contact and gave them the finger.
At first she wasn’t sure how the men in the van were going to do the unloading. The street was far from desolate, and if the locals considered a Polynesian girl on a Vespa worthy of their attention, then a giant bound and shackled like a medieval prisoner would definitely pique their curiosity as well.
The van did a three-point turn so that its tail end rolled right into the overhang. The fit was so snug and the van maneuvering so graceful that Ash figured this wasn’t the first time they’d used this covert method of unloading.
When no one emerged from the van after a minute, she edged down the plaster wall. The glare from the streetlamps moved off the windshield enough for her to see that there was no longer anyone sitting in the driver’s seat. They must have all slipped out the back.
The sign over the archway read ROJA’S CIGAR FACTORY, and a half-size statue of a butler smoking a cigar guarded the entrance. The same ROJA’S CIGAR emblem decorated the van’s windowless side paneling.
Ash took one moment outside the van door to ensure that no one was watching her. She also acknowledged that what she was about to do outshined anything else she’d done in her life in terms of stupidity. And then she opened the driver-side door, slipped in, and crawled out the back.
The metal-striped wooden door to the cigar shop was still ajar, and Ash squeezed through the opening, for fear that the door might squeak if she pried it open any farther. Inside, the front of the shop was completely dark. A soft glow emanated from the computer screen above the cash register, illuminating a glass container that housed a collection of stainless steel lighters and cigar clips. The shop had an earthy sweet smell that would probably cling to Ash’s clothes and skin long after she left.
The voices were coming from around the corner (not to mention the faint clinking of chains tapping
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