Guns, Not Roses

~Chapter Twenty: The Devil Wears Charcoal-Grey Suits~

“Enlighten me.”

“Nothing,” she told him, once they’d entered the kitchen, where she noticed the bags of groceries on the table. “Ooh, did you get chocolate for me, by any chance? And yeah, yeah, the island has its cocoa, but I’m dying for a Cadbury slab.”

Tony rolled his eyes at her as she rifled through the bags in search of her ‘oxygen’.

“Tony, you’re an angel.” Savannah produced a slab of nuts-and-raisin.

“I’m not. Far from it,” Anthony said darkly, staring into space.

Savannah bit her bottom lip. “Did the guy who hired you discover that I’m not pushing daisies?” she asked, trying to guess what was currently troubling the man sent to kill her.

Tony managed a cynical smile. “He thinks you’re dead, so I’m guessing you can never return home.”

“That’s OK. I want to travel anyway.” She let out a laugh. “Don’t you find this incredibly weird? You’re a hitman. I’m your hit. And we’re screwing each other in a jungle. Sounds like a bad sitcom.”

Anthony busied himself unpacking the shopping, listening to the sound of her ramblings. There was no reason for them to stay at his place any longer, so why did he buy groceries as if they were actually living together, sharing a home? Wasn’t he the same guy that didn’t want to be tied down?

“Earth to Tony,” Savannah was saying, snapping her fingers in his face.

“What?”

She held out the chocolate. “Want a bite?”

He shook his head in response and gave her a faraway look. “Why don’t you go –”

On impulse, Savannah pulled him in for a long, passionate kiss, meshing their lips together. She had been aching to do that all day, whether from loneliness or need, and Tony tasted amazingly perfect.

“Why don’t I go do what?” she asked serenely, when she’d pulled away.

“Huh?”

“You were saying?”

“Don’t do that, Savannah,” he said fiercely, and went over to the pantry, admitting to himself that he was unable to think clearly when she was around.

“Whatever, Jamie Oliver.” Savannah popped a brick of chocolate into her mouth. “You’ll confide in me sometime.”

“Mm-hmm. Not likely, Oprah.”

Savannah smiled at his back, turning on her heel to leave. Why didn’t he joke more often? Hell, why didn’t he act human?

***

“The Mother Teresa Outreach Programme is so happy to have you here, Pastor Dekker,” Julio Santiago said brightly, leading the other man to his quarters. “We have heard about your work from the UN, and, quite frankly, we are so honoured to be in your presence.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Santiago,” Berry Dekker said lightly, “but I am just a servant of the Lord, as are you.”

“I hope this bedroom is to your liking?” Santiago so desperately wanted to please this enigma. How often did bigwig men of God like Dekker come to Montepega? Literally none.

“Mr. Santiago, as long as there is a bed, I am more than happy.” Dekker gestured at the California king-sized bed before him. “This will do just fine.”

“I am glad.” It was only then that Santiago noticed the glaring lack of luggage. “No bags, Pastor?”

Dekker pasted a smile on his face. “Just as I am.”

“Tomorrow, I can take you shop-”

“Nonsense. I’m quite all right,” Dekker insisted, holding a large palm up. “Goodnight, Mr. Santiago. I shall see you tomorrow. I look forward to meeting the children.”

“As do they,” Santiago smiled. “Have a good night, sir.” He turned to leave, loping out the door and closing it gently behind him. It truly was a blessing to have this great man on their island. ‘Impromptu visits’ were rare from people like Dekker. Perhaps he would make a donation to the charity. Looking at the peeling wallpaper in the corridors, Santiago couldn’t think of a greater blessing, but even if Dekker didn’t contribute, they’d manage all right. Humming a hymn, he made his way to his own room, happy to see the light of the next day.

Meanwhile, Dekker removed the gun from his pants and concealed it under the poor excuse of a pillow on the bed. It was always better to be safe than sorry, in his opinion. Tonight, he had to think about how he’d drop the bombshell on his son the next day. If what Tony had said about his Marguerite – and he was doubtful about that one – being dead, it was up to him to do what she had clearly failed to do: Tell the truth.

If Anthony despises me now, Berry thought, lying back on the bed and kicking his shoes off, he’ll be one hate-filled missile when I’m through with him.