Hot-Blooded (22 page)

His sister breathed heavily. “We went to a hotel. He said he wanted to try our stuff before he left today, so I gave him some. He talked me into sharing. I shouldn’t have done it. I was stupid.

“You know I don’t imbibe very often. It hit me really hard, and I passed out. When I woke up, he was gone, and my cell was unlocked. I
always
lock the fucking phone, Manō. He had to have guessed my pass code or seen me type it in last night. What the hell are we gonna do?”

“Look through your apps and see if there’s any sensitive information aside from numbers. Once you do that, take out the battery to disable the GPS, and pocket the data card for later. I’ll pick up new phones for all of us this afternoon. Keep an eye on your throwaway email account in case I need to contact you, and tell Kai to do the same.”

“Okay, but Blake’s on his way back to Oahu, and there’s no telling what he’s gonna blab to his boss. Are you anywhere near Kahului? Can you try to track him down at the airport?”

Manō checked his watch. “I’ll head that way. He may have already left. There are dozens of flights to Oahu every day.”

“I know. Try.”

“If I find him?” He knew her answer before she gave it, but he needed verbal confirmation.

“Detain him. By any means necessary.” Her cold, resigned tone sent the message he expected:
Get rid of him if you have to.

“All right.”

Keahilani’s rushed breaths picked up speed. “Damn it, I really fucked up. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that asshole. I
knew
it.” The sharp pound of a fist hitting a steering wheel echoed through the speaker.

“What’s done is done. Notify anyone who may be compromised, and tell them to burn their phones. I’m on my way to Kahului.” He hung up.

Manō snuck back into the bedroom for some clothes and dressed in the bathroom. When he came out, his overnight guest waited for him, naked on the couch.

“You leaving already?” she said. Her short blond hair was tamer than usual. Less spiky. More like well-fucked bedhead. It looked good on her.

He avoided the full curve of her breast kissing the black leather sofa, the rosy nipples pointing at him, and focused instead on the doorknob across the room urging him to leave. “There’s coffee in the cupboard.”

“What was that name you called me last night? The Hawaiian one?”

“‘Eleu.”

“Yeah. That.” She sat up, snatching his thoughts away from business and luring them back to the bedroom. “What does it mean?” Though soft, her breathy voice hit him like a shockwave.

He rubbed his eye. “Spirited.”

“Fitting.” She laughed.

He barely nodded. “Lock the door when you go.”

“I will.” She hesitated. “And Manō?”

He tore his focus away from his escape and met her gaze. Beat down the beginnings of a shiver. Might have held his breath.

“Don’t tell him, okay?”

No problem there. None whatsoever. “I won’t.”

Her breasts snagged his attention one last time. Thoroughly distracted, he considered throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her back to bed like the thug he was, and mauling her again. Instead, he left.

The second the door shut behind him, he let out a lungful of air. In some ways, that woman was more dangerous than the gun-wielding, drug-dealing scumbags who usually darkened his door in the wee hours. Good thing she’d announced herself before coming over last night, or he might’ve welcomed her with a Glock to the face like he did to the rest of his “buddies.” Though, it probably wouldn’t have surprised her.

He hopped on his motorcycle and quickly made his way to Kahului Airport. He’d followed Blake before, thanks to a nagging hunch that he was an asshole who wanted his sister for a lot more than just a wild night in a hotel. Looked like he was right, though the likelihood of him showing up at exactly the right time and place at Kahului was slim.

Keahilani’s tastes always leaned a little toward the dark side, but lately she’d spent so much time in the shadows, she’d become a part of them. He missed her light.

The difficult years since Mahina’s death had dragged the two of them—and Kai, to some degree—into too many poorly lit alleys where only the lowest life forms dared to venture. Deals with the devil. Lives twisted and broken. Each temptation harder to resist than the last. Manō hadn’t just witnessed disturbing deeds done to others. He’d carried them out himself.

He often asked himself whether things would be different if their mother had lived. The answer was yes. Without a doubt.

Mahina had been the backbone of their ‘ohana. When she died, their foundation crumbled with her. All that remained were four pairs of unsteady legs, each relying on the others to bear a weight destined to crush them all.

Fatalistic? Yes. Realistic? Absolutely.

Manō parked his bike, stuffed his head inside a baseball cap, and tugged his hood up to cover his shark tattoo. He kept his sunglasses on as he scoped the scene at Kahului’s ground level. Tourists flitted this way and that, pushing baggage carts over the uneven brick patterns on the floor, running to catch planes, and hefting luggage on to the agriculture inspection conveyor belt. Like many places on the island, the airport was open-air, and the rustling autumn breeze was a welcome reminder that slightly cooler temperatures would be there soon.

He made his way to a mural painted on the wall, leaned against it, and pretended to text someone while observing the comings and goings around him. For nearly an hour, he stalked people from behind the safety of his wraparounds. Families, newlyweds, and businessmen made their way to concourses. Hippies, backpackers, and surfers visited the shops. People talked on their phones, wandered into and out of the restrooms, and argued with airline workers about weight limits on their luggage. On and on, time plodded. No sign of Blake. Manō hadn’t expected to see him, so it wasn’t a surprise.

What did surprise him, however, was a group of well-dressed men, decked out in designer everything with sunglasses similar to his own, marching out of arrivals like they owned the place. Three of the guys were obviously heavies guarding the one in the middle. Judging by his slower gait, he was older, but Manō couldn’t see his face to know for sure. Might’ve been younger with a limp.

The entourage broadcast a loud and clear signal about their purpose for being there: protect and serve. Their leader spoke quietly to one of the men as they headed toward the exit. Something about him seemed familiar, but Manō couldn’t place it. That bothered him. An inkling of something half-remembered was usually a portent of trouble.

Racking his brain for a wisp of a memory and straining to hear the guy’s voice, he plundered his circuits for the connection, the name, or the event that would bring the man’s identity into focus. Naturally, luck didn’t favor him.

Whoever this guy was, he carried himself with an air of authority and importance. Not your typical businessman on a day trip to solve a company’s computer security problems. No, this guy probably
owned
that company, and maybe twelve others.

Rich
didn’t describe people like this.
Millionaire
did.

Yet no one else seemed to pay him much attention. Manō glanced around. Sharks always recognized their own kind. They picked up the familiar scent like a secret handshake for members of an elite club. He casually scanned the place once more in hopes of catching Blake before following the suit posse to the exit.

A man wearing a chauffeur hat stood outside the door and gestured to a long, sleek car parked at the curb. Bulletproof, no doubt. “Your limo is waiting, Mr. Lowden.”

Lowden
. Still, no bells rang. Manō slunk closer. That’s when a logo taunted him from one of the guards’ bags. A steaming cup of coffee emblazoned across the top of a folder. Waialua Kope Company.

We have a winner.

The guy Keahilani killed had stored numbers in the contact list on his phone from those offices. So, what kind of business would a coffee grower from Oahu have with a drug dealer on Maui? And what were the chances that the big man’s arrival here happened to fall on the same day the Alana ‘ohana had a meeting with the biggest cocaine dealer on the island? Coincidence? No way in hell. All the more reason to take extra precautions tonight.

Blake forgotten, Manō jogged to his motorcycle. He shot glances over his shoulder to keep an eye on the limo but lost track of it in the stream of cars coming and going. Most businessmen conducted their meetings in the vicinity of Kahului. Lowden probably wouldn’t go far. He and his companions had small overnight bags, so they’d likely only be here a day or two at most. A trip to the business district might prove insightful.

Engine rumbling, Manō headed that way and scoured the streets. The Courtyard Marriott, while nice, didn’t strike him as the kind of place a guy like Lowden would stay. That was pretty much the only business hotel in the area. Maybe he had a condo or a vacation home in Kahului. Or maybe he went somewhere else entirely.

After searching in vain for an hour, Manō gave up and headed to School Street. He parked the bike at the Kahului Public Library and logged into his dummy email account on one of the computers. He sent a message to Keahilani and Kai:
Change of plans. See you at 7:00.

His sister and brother would understand he meant they were to meet him at their secluded beach spot early and that something was up. They’d be extra vigilant.

While he was there, Manō conducted an Internet search for “Waialua Kope” and “Lowden” and hit the jackpot. Grant Lowden was the CEO and largest stockholder of the coffee company. An elusive man, he rarely did interviews or made public appearances. When Manō searched for him in Google images, a lot of pictures popped up, but none of them matched the face—or the shadows of the face—he’d seen this morning.

He sat back in the chair and stared at the mysterious figure hidden behind dark glasses, looking for a sign, a clue, anything that might help him unravel the man’s identity.

Something about him wouldn’t let go of Manō. He’d met his share of lowlifes in his time, but Lowden played on a totally different field than most. Maybe Manō had done a job for him. He certainly could’ve afforded it.

Regardless of his position as CEO, it was clear Grant Lowden was into more than just keeping the citizens and tourists on the Hawaiian Islands happily caffeinated. If he grew coffee beans, maybe he grew other things on the side, which would put him in direct opposition to the Alana ‘ohana’s short- and long-term goals. Money and drugs were a potent combination. But so were ambition and family.

His timed Internet session over, he pushed away from the computer and left the library. As he swung his leg over the motorcycle seat, uneasiness collected in his gut like beads of pooling mercury. Heavy. Poisonous. Elusive.

Too many convenient coincidences, yet not enough connections to make sense of them. One thing was certain. He’d have some answers after Pele and her Enforcers met with Lui tonight. One way or another.

Chapter Twenty-One

Blake couldn’t believe his luck. As he sat across the table from Pekelo, a friend of a guy he’d met on his quest for information last week, he sipped his beer and silently rejoiced. “So, you work for them?”

Pekelo nodded. “For a year now.” His gaze shifted from Blake to the people laughing at the next table over, then played hopscotch with the others sprinkled throughout the bar. “You’re not,” he lowered his voice, “DEA, are you? Because I just did it for the money. I didn’t actually sell anything myself.”

Blake shook his head. “Not DEA. I’m actually a friend of the family.” Well, not after today, but his new buddy didn’t need to know that. He leaned closer. “You helped them harvest the weed yourself?”

“Yeah. They paid me real good to keep quiet about it. But you said you’d pay more. That’s why I’m here.” He scratched his palm and jerked his head toward the loud guffaws bubbling from the bar’s back corner. Lip twitching as he turned back to Blake, he said, “You’re gonna pay me, right?”

Blake smiled. “Oh yeah. You show me where the farm is, and you’ll soon be trading in the title on that piece of shit car you drive for a brand new upgrade.”

Spit pooled at the corners of the guy’s mouth. Stupid tweaker. Although Blake was salivating a bit too, for totally different reasons.

“They blindfolded me, but I peeked. I know where it is. So, when do you wanna go? I need my money, man.”

Of course he did. “Relax. Finish your brewsky.” Blake gestured to the amber bottle. “How much do you think was out there?”

Pekelo shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe three thousand plants over a few acres.”

Almost spraying his beer, he caught a little dribble with the back of his wrist. That much “normal” weed would probably move for about five million bucks, give or take. The stuff Keahilani had was far superior—definitely the best Blake had ever tried, and he considered himself a connoisseur. Three thousand Pāhoehoe plants might bring in as much as ten mill. And that was from just one harvest. They could probably turn around three or four complete growing cycles’ worth of weed annually if they managed it right.