Read The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) for Free Online Page B

considered what was, after all, fish bait a delicacy?
                  He toyed with the idea of taking his chances with a few spins of the roulette wheel in the hotel’s casino and opted for an early evening. He scratched his name on the credit card receipt, annoyed again at the mandatory “gratuity” for what had been at best indifferent service and headed outside, all but oblivious to the multicolor decor.
                  He never saw them coming. He was turning a corner defined by a hedge of shoulder high hibiscus when a fist smashed into his stomach and sent him to his knees. The blow was hard enough to spurt bile from his recent dinner into his mouth. Training at the FBI academy years ago made him instinctively roll away from his attacker to get to his feet. The assailant anticipated the move and sent a toe cap crashing against his rib cage.
                  “You’re smart, mate, you’ll stay right where you are.”
                  Definitely a British accent.
                  Phil did as suggested. Level with his eyes were a pair of ankles.
                  “You’d be even smarter to be on the Delta flight for Atlanta tomorrow.”
                  Phil took a deep breath and had to bite his lip not to cry out in pain. The bastard had cracked, if not broken, at least one rib. “I was just getting to like it here.”
                  This time it was Phil who anticipated his enemy’s next move.
                  As a foot drew back for another kick, he snatched the ankle of the other with both hands. The natural imbalance of one foot off the ground and the other being pulled in the same direction had the desired effect: The man stumbled. Before he could catch his balance, Phil delivered his own kick. From a prone position, the effort was not all he could wish but it was well aimed.
                  There was an expulsion of breath as the man doubled over to grasp his crotch.
                  Phil was on his feet. He lunged forward and there was a sound like metal hitting wood and he felt as if his skull had spilt. His knees would no longer hold him and he almost dispassionately watched the grounds rise to meet him.

9.
    472 Lafayette Drive
    Atlanta, Georgia
    4:27 am the Next Morning
                  A ringing phone in the wee hours rarely heralds good news. It was, then, with some trepidation Lang Reilly reached for the opening chords of Glen Miller’s Chattanooga Choo Cho o, the ring tone of his iPhone.
                  “Umph?”
                  Gurt rolled over, covering her head with the pillow.
                  “Lang, is that you?”
                  “That part of me that’s awake at this hour. Who’s this?”
                  “It’s Phil, Phil McGrath.”
                  Lang sat up. “Doesn’t sound like Phil McGrath.”
                  “That’s because my lips area little swollen where I had a tooth knocked out.”
                  “Tooth knocked out?”
                  “Yeah. Goes right along with a couple of broken ribs, twenty four stitches in my scalp, a concussion and the meanest fucker of a headache you can imagine.”
                  “Phil, I wanted you to find a girl, not take on whoever beat the shit out of you.”
                  “Wasn’t my idea, believe me.”
                  “So, where are you now?”
                  “Doctors Hospital, Nassau. They say they’ll let me go if I’m non symptomatic in twenty-four hours. Don’t intend to wait that long.”
                  By now Lang was fully awake. His feet searched the floor for his slippers, found them and he padded out of the room in case Gurt was able to go back to sleep. “Tell me what