Viper's Nest Read online

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to interrupt Ritchie, but equally she would be mortified if he thought she was ignoring him.

  Ritchie saw her and solved her dilemma. He beckoned her over with a friendly gesture. ‘Hey, Cate, I was just telling my uncle about you. Come and say hello.’

  The older man turned to greet her with a broad smile and, as Cate automatically put out her hand to shake his, she felt a shock of recognition. There, standing right in front of her, his lightly tanned face creased into a devastatingly handsome smile, brown eyes crinkling at the edges, was none other than Johnny James, possibly the most famous star Hollywood had produced in the last twenty years!

  Charming, debonair, eternally single yet always seen out with the most beautiful girls, Johnny James had, almost overnight, risen from being a bit-part actor in a cult medical TV drama to one of the most accomplished and sought-after film stars in Hollywood. Just about every film he starred in was a box office hit, and year after year he was voted the number-one heart-throb by women around the world. And now, this . . . this god was standing in front of her, smiling his famous lopsided smile.

  For a few seconds Cate thought her knees might just give out, but instead she managed to pull herself together and shake his manicured hand.

  ‘Cate – meet Johnny James, aka my Uncle Jack.’ Ritchie was grinning down at her, amused by her reaction. ‘Uncle Jack, this is Cate Carlisle, a great friend of the twins.’

  ‘Cate.’ His voice was like liquid chocolate. ‘So good to meet you. I hope the hotel has lived up to your expectations. How’s the room?’

  ‘Fantastic, thanks,’ said Cate, trying hard to sound as if she was perfectly used to chatting to world-famous film stars. ‘The view is amazing and I really love the mixing desk.’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Cate,’ said the film star. ‘The desks were a bit of an indulgence of mine. I’ve always fancied being a top DJ and I thought if I put them in my hotel I would get round to using them.’ He gave Ritchie a jovial nudge.

  ‘Are you off for a run?’ asked Ritchie, changing the subject.

  ‘Best way I know to work off jet lag,’ Cate said, smiling at him. ‘Otherwise there’s no way I’ll stay awake for your party tonight.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Ritchie. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  Cate went round the corner of the hotel, out of sight, and then jumped up and down on the spot for a good twenty seconds at the same time as trying hard not to scream. She, Cate Carlisle, had just met Johnny James. The Johnny James! And they had actually shaken hands! Santa Monica was amazing. This was going to be the best holiday ever!

  She punched the air, then reached for her phone and began to text Louisa. This her best friend had to hear.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was a few minutes before Cate felt composed enough to cross the sandy road at the back of the hotel on to the hot, dusty boardwalk to begin her run.

  The boardwalk was packed. The baby buggies that Cate had seen earlier were gone, replaced by more serious joggers making a big show of drinking water and checking their bulky watches. Some of the men were shirtless, their tanned biceps bulging as they pounded along. The women were sporting the skimpiest of sportswear, perfectly cut to show off their toned arms and tight enough to make their washboard stomachs clear.

  Cate thought she had never seen so much human physical perfection in one place. She glanced down at her pallid arms – she had a bit of catching up to do.

  As Cate began to run, she could feel the energy surging back into her body. She could hear music and smelled the aroma of freshly ground coffee wafting from the beachside cafés. The smell reminded Cate of her summer holiday in Antibes in the South of France, when she had been working on the yacht belonging to the supermodel Nancy Kyle.

  The boardwalk swerved inland through a leafy park then back out to the beach, passing a large sign for the Santa Monica Surf School. Cate felt like pinching herself. This really was the stuff of a hundred American TV dramas, from Baywatch to 90210. She wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised if Angelina and Brad had suddenly popped up jogging alongside her.

  South of Santa Monica, the crowds began to thin out and Cate pushed herself into a sprint, revelling in the feeling.

  Then she spotted a sign for Rose Avenue. As she turned up the road, she passed a trio of buskers – a bass guitarist, a trumpeter and a sax player. Beside them, a couple of black guys were making the most of the driving funk rhythms, breakdancing and body-popping as the appreciative crowd whistled and clapped.

  For a few seconds, Cate felt the now-familiar pain crunching her stomach. Michel played the saxophone and loved busking in the streets of his hometown, Antibes. He would have so enjoyed this. She shook her head, trying hard to rid herself of the image of his handsome face.

  Cate realised she had now crossed into a more urban, grittier part of town. Huge art deco buildings rubbed shoulders with low-rise concrete cubes, a few luxury glass apartments jostled for position with clothes shops and internet cafés. A backpackers’ hostel sported a huge ocean mural, a wine shop was heavily barred, and graffiti was everywhere. A group of down-and-outs slumped in a doorway shouted out to Cate as she passed.

  But despite its edginess, there were unmistakable signs that this was still a highly desirable area. She turned down 7th, one of the wide avenues which bisected Rose Avenue, and all about her large brick buildings nestled next to modernistic glass-and-steel apartment blocks, their balconies all facing towards the ocean. Cate saw tennis courts, expensive convertible cars parked in gated driveways and, here and there, the unmistakable blue turquoise flash of a private swimming pool.

  She consulted the map. 7th led straight to Brendan Street via what looked like a small alleyway. Idly, she wondered about her mother’s shop. What kind of Mexican antiques did she mean? Cate would bet a year’s allowance that her mum’s boyfriend did most of the work.

  The alleyway was dark, the high walls covered with graffiti, the air oppressive and still. It was with some relief that she finally reached the end and headed back out into the light. Just as she did so, she spotted a road sign. Brendan Street. She had made it!

  She looked around with interest. In between the houses, several garages and outbuildings had been converted into studios and small shops. Cate spotted an art studio, a vintage clothes shop and an ironwork forge, their brightly painted doors and windows adding to the arty, almost bohemian feel of the street.

  A scattering of cars were parked on the pavement – a couple of gleaming sedans, and a dark-blue pick-up truck with enormous bull bars which stood opposite an old van with a spray paint portrait of a mermaid on the side.

  Cate slowed almost to a walk as she searched for her mother’s shop. She was concentrating so hard that she nearly fell over the legs of a man who was slumped on the pavement, his back leaning against an iron fence. His tatty jeans, holed at both knees, and his filthy hands gave him away as homeless and, as he sat still, eyes shut under the rim of a grubby white fedora, Cate thought for a terrifying moment that he might be dead.

  Then he opened his eyes and gazed at her with startling clarity. ‘Hey, watch it,’ he said in a not-unfriendly voice. ‘I was just having a doze.’

  ‘Sorry,’ apologised Cate. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  The man looked her up and down. ‘Got any money you can spare?’ he asked in a conversational manner. ‘Or a cigarette maybe?’

  ‘Sorry,’ repeated Cate. ‘I don’t smoke.’ She put her hand into her pocket and brought out a five-dollar note. ‘That’s for waking you up,’ she said, grinning, and laid it down on the ground beside him.

  Unlike many of her school friends, Cate didn’t find homeless people intimidating. She’d helped out in a soup kitchen in London last winter and, talking to them, she’d realised that all it took was a run of bad luck for your life to fall apart.

  ‘I’m looking for a shop called Mexicano Magic,’ she explained. �
�Do you know where it is?’

  The man took the money and put it into a backpack that was lying next to him.

  ‘Down there.’ He pointed to the end of the street and squinted up at her. ‘Watch your back.’

  Cate looked at him questioningly, but he had already closed his eyes again. She shrugged and set off in the direction he had indicated.

  She was almost at the end of the street when she spotted the shop, set back from the road on a dusty concrete patch between two tall apartment blocks.

  Mexicano Magic was barely more than a shack, low-lying with a flat concrete roof and timber frames holding up dirty, white, concrete walls. The door, which sported a large Closed sign, was made of thick wooden planks and had obviously once been painted a jaunty orange. Now the paintwork was peeling and the old-fashioned lock rusty. Next to the door, a single barred window added to the grimy feel.

  Cate stared at it with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment, and then immediately berated herself for being such a snob. Hadn’t her mother said it was a new business? They were probably ploughing their money into buying stock – and in any case, there were signs that someone was making an effort. The sign above the door was freshly painted and colourful, and the small lawn which edged the shop was neatly mowed.

  Cate was dying to see what her mother was selling. She had always loved the history and culture of the Incas and the Toltecs, ancient tribes that had built amazing temples and elegant towns, invented complex languages and used sophisticated medicine at roughly the same time as the Northern Europeans were wearing animal furs and living in mud huts. It would be amazing, thought Cate, if her mother was actually selling original South American artefacts. Maybe some tiny stone statues of long-forgotten gods, perhaps some beaded jewellery. But then, Cate supposed, if she was doing that, she wouldn’t be dealing out of a small concrete shack in the backstreets of Santa Monica. No, it was a nice dream, but the reality was that her mother’s shop would probably be repro city. But hey, thought Cate, everyone had to start somewhere.

  Cate was about to text her mother and tell her she had found the shop when her eye caught a movement from inside the building. She moved closer to the window and stared through the dirty panes. There was no light on inside but she could definitely see something – or someone – moving around at the back of the room.

  Cate wandered up to the orange door and tried the handle. It was locked so she rapped loudly and waited. There was no reply. Only the parrots cawing from the pine trees above her and the cicadas rasping from their clumped grasses disturbed the silence.

  Puzzled, she looked through the window again, but this time she couldn’t see anything. Maybe she had imagined it, she thought, or seen a reflection. Reluctant to leave so soon, she went up the small pathway that led around to the back of the shack to a narrow strip of tatty garden, which ran back fifty metres from the building.

  Litter lay everywhere – dirty rags, old cardboard boxes and wooden crates that had been piled into a precarious mountain against the back wall. An open fridge had been dumped against the fence next to the wreck of a motorbike.

  At the end of the garden stood what looked like a concrete bunker. Just a few metres of the building was above ground and, at the front, steps led down. It reminded Cate of the old bomb shelter a friend of hers had in his back garden in London. Today, Cate’s friend used it as a sleepover den and rehearsal room for his band, the thick concrete walls proving the perfect soundproof barrier, keeping his parents and the neighbours happy.

  Suddenly Cate felt, rather than saw, a movement behind her. She wheeled round to see a man carrying a wooden crate emerging from the shop. For a few seconds the two of them stared at each other before he let out a bellow.

  ‘Whaddya doing? Get outta here.’

  Shocked at his vehemence, Cate stood her ground. ‘What are you doing here?’ she countered. ‘This is my mum’s shop. Does she know you’re here?’

  The man walked menacingly towards her. ‘I’ll tell you one more time, lady,’ he said, quieter this time, his Latin American accent sharp and distinctive, ‘you get outta here or you’ll be sorry.’

  Cate knew that the sensible option would be to back away, leave him to whatever he was up to, maybe call her mother once she was at a safe distance from the shop. But she couldn’t help herself. Looking at his narrow eyes flickering nervously, it was obvious he was up to no good. Was he stealing something from her mother’s business? She felt a surge of adrenalin and clenched her fists, noting his flabby stomach and puffy face. He wouldn’t be expecting an attack and, she thought, he probably wouldn’t put up much of a fight.

  She took a step towards him. ‘Put that box down.’ She was surprised at how angry she sounded even to her own ears. ‘It doesn’t belong to you.’

  To her surprise he did just that, laying it carefully on the paving slabs that edged the back of the shop. But Cate’s relief was short-lived. As he stood up, Cate saw his eyes dart over her right shoulder. She spun round and found herself face to face with a small man who barely came up to her shoulders, but who, to her horror, was carrying a baseball bat.

  Trapped between the two men, Cate made a split-second decision. She launched herself towards the little man, kicking the bat and flicking it up and over the fence behind him. For a few seconds he stood silent, rooted in shock. It was long enough for Cate to grab his still-outstretched hand and spin it around and behind him, forcing his arm high up his back. He was helpless in her determined grip.

  ‘Don’t take me on,’ she barked at the taller man who was staring at her with disbelief on his face. ‘Not unless your friend here wants a broken arm.’

  He nodded wordlessly.

  ‘Now sit down, right there.’

  He did as she said, lowering himself stiffly on to the grubby paving stones.

  ‘Missy,’ the man found his voice, ‘this is a big mistake. We’re allowed to be here, I promise you. We’re just helping a friend out, shifting stuff.’

  ‘So why the baseball bat, huh?’ Cate asked tersely.

  Cate tightened her grip on the man in front of her, who shuffled uncomfortably but stayed silent.

  ‘We’ve been given a key and were told to collect some boxes from this place,’ his colleague continued. ‘We get a lotta trouble in this job. Thieves, bandidos, druggies. They rob our van and threaten us. Maybe my friend here thought you were stealing from me. He don’t talk English good.’ His sweaty face took on a pleading expression. ‘Come on now, missy, we don’t want no trouble. Just let my friend go, we’ll get on with our job.’

  Cate looked at them speculatively. In their cheap, shiny tracksuits, with sweat pouring down their faces and their hands shaking, she had to admit they looked harmless enough. Perhaps they were helping Burt out after all? But on the other hand, they seemed very jumpy – too jumpy.

  ‘We’re just shifting stuff from over the border,’ the man repeated stubbornly. ‘Doing a job. You understand?’

  Her anger subsiding, Cate shrugged. She wasn’t going to push it any further, not now. It would be best to get out of there, then call the police, she decided. They could sort this one out.

  As she walked away, she took her phone out. A flock of parrots screeched upwards and across the sky, shattering the silence and distracting her for a few crucial seconds so she didn’t hear the footsteps that were coming up fast behind her.

  Her stomach lurched as she felt something hard and cold being jabbed into her back and a low menacing voice hissed in her ear. ‘Drop the phone, kid, or you’re dead. Drop it.’

  The air inside the bunker was damp and cold, cutting through Cate’s thin T-shirt and giving her goose pimples. The smooth walls were just two metres high, the ceiling a slab of endless grey, giving the place the feel of a prison cell.

  The three men were standing at the top of the short flight of stairs, out of Cate’s sight, arguing furiously in Spanish. Cate listened intently, trying hard to work out what they were saying. She could speak European Spani
sh fluently, but Latin American Spanish was a little different.

  ‘She didn’t see nothing, boss, I promise,’ the first man whined. ‘She called out just a minute before you came. She saw nothing.’

  ‘How do you know that? I only just got here, and you two estupidos don’t know how long she might have been there watching you, maybe checking out the boxes when you were inside.’ That flat, unemotional drawl again. ‘And if she has, if she’s seen what’s in those boxes, then the whole operation is blown. Finished. And all of us with it.’

  The other two were silent now.

  ‘We take her with us,’ the man continued, sounding almost pensive. ‘We kill her and dump her somewhere up in the hills. She got a good look at you both, remember. We can’t risk anything going wrong, especially not now.’

  ‘No!’ one of the other men shouted. ‘We don’t want no killing. We were paid to deliver those boxes, not to kill. Brother . . .’ He was pleading now, desperate. ‘Brother, I only just got out of that hellhole of a jail – I don’t want to go back there.’

  Cate could hear her heart thumping so loudly she thought the men must be able to hear it too. She looked frantically around her for an escape route, or something she could use as a weapon to defend herself. There was only a pile of wooden crates, stamped with Spanish instructions, piled up in one corner. Cate shuddered. But one thing was certain. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  ‘She’s just a kid. I can’t kill kids. Especially not a girl. Look, man, we lock her here and go, OK? She’ll be there a day, maybe two, maybe three. Who cares? A few days will calm the vixen down. By then we’ll be back over the border, long gone.’

  ‘Yes, he’s right.’ The other man was almost gabbling now. ‘Come on, shut the door, leave her.’

  The man, who was obviously their boss, snorted. ‘You Mexicanos,’ he sneered. ‘No balls. Not like us Columbians. We show no mercy.’ He paused. ‘Still, it might be less trouble. OK, this time I’ll listen to you. But any more screw-ups and it won’t just be that kid who is lucky to be alive.’