The Catch: A Novel by Taylor Stevens

Author:Taylor Stevens [Stevens, Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Action & Adventure, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Women Sleuths, Thrillers & Suspense, Suspense, Thriller
ISBN: 9780385348942
Amazon: B00HXYKZ56
Publisher: Crown
Published: 2014-07-15T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 25

Mary returned to the house late in the morning and Munroe greeted her with a smile and open friendliness. Accepted the offer of coffee and sat on the threadbare couch enduring the tedium of small talk until enough time had passed that she’d fulfilled social obligations and so offered another five thousand shillings if Mary would watch over the captain again.

She used the promise of real food and the last of the sedatives to put the captain under and stayed with him until his eyes closed. On the dirt floor, her back to the wall of sticks, she ordered and reordered pieces on a mental game board, fighting for checkmate against an invisible army and a king she couldn’t see while on her side she had but three pawns: Amber; the captain; and the hawaladar, who, because of his connections and business, could just as easily be one of the financial backers in the Favorita’s hijacking or, for that matter, responsible for Sami’s death.

Munroe left the compound for the highway, for another matatu into the city. This would be the last time. She’d already kept up patterns for longer than was prudent and every time she returned to her host family she increased the odds of bringing death with her. By tonight she’d have to have a better place to stash the captain.

Unwilling to squander what little strength she had, she stayed off her feet, took a taxi to the nearest Internet café, and there set out the chessboard again, pulling up satellite images of Mombasa. Hunted through the maps for Nehru Road and, finding her target, enlarged over Bishara Street, a smaller road to Nehru’s west, gauging rooftops and building shapes, judging distance and pattern, searching out the closest match to what she’d come up against in the hawaladar’s alleyway.

She paid for printouts of the maps and, with the pages in hand, left for sidewalks teeming with the daily hustle; made another trip by taxi, this time to the mouth of Bishara Street, and from there followed the narrow road, crowded with smells and heat, squeezing between humanity: measuring, comparing, judging in person and in real time what she had scouted online until she located the match and stopped in front of a white four-story colonial building that angled off the road and stretched back far enough that it abutted against and possibly encroached on the buildings on Nehru Road.

Out of breath and hurting, Munroe found shade and a wall to lean against, dry swallowed another dosage of ibuprofen, and when she could finally push through once more she studied the printouts again, then folded a page and tucked it away. She was close. If this wasn’t the building, one of the others nearby would be.

Munroe opened the door and stepped into a long and unlit hallway, where the smell of acrylic lingered, as if the place had recently been painted, masking the age and must that permeated every part of the building. Scuff marks and dirt streaks

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