Page 98 of Desperate Justice
Rafe was certain it was Hernandez. He hoped Diana wasn’t involved, because if she was, Allison would be devastated.
He couldn’t think about that. He had a drug lord to capture.
CHAPTER 22
He returned to the cabin with Keith and Debbie’s packs. Both had been swept clean by agents and were deemed safe, since the drug hadn’t gone airborne.
Waiting for information proved tormenting. Rafe didn’t seem any better at it than she did. He went outside, checked the property and his bike, then came back inside. Finally, around five o’clock, she suggested going into town for dinner. Neither of them had eaten much today. She remembered the breakfast she’d interrupted.
Utterly exhausted, she felt as if weeks had passed instead of hours.
Keith and Debbie had headed to the vet clinic to check on their dog. Rafe agreed on dinner in town. But today was the last day of the bike run. Most of the bars and restaurants were packed with bikers celebrating. Tomorrow, Sunday, they’d be leaving.
Sunday, Diana and Paul’s wedding day.
They finally found a restaurant not overrun by locals or bikers. Nestled on the edge of a backroad about thirty minutes from town, and ringed by the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Country Diner resembled a throwback to the days of jiving jukeboxes. Rebellious tufts of weeds sprang up in the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. Peeling, sun-bleached letters on the sign proudly announced today’s special was honey fried chicken.
Suddenly hungry, Allison had a hankering for fried chicken. Or fried anything, as long as it didn’t move on her plate.
They parked and went inside, a silver bell over the door announcing their arrival. Everyone looked up, looked at them and then returned to their meals. A vintage jukebox warbled out a country tune about a man missing his dog and his girl.
Rafe headed for a vinyl booth patched with duct tape at the window, far from the other four diners, and sat facing the door. Bacon, coffee and fried chicken smells all mingled together, accenting her hunger.
The waitress handed them grease-splattered menus and took their drink orders.
While waiting, Rafe drummed his fingers on the linoleum table. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow. Intense, brooding, he looked ready for action.
Restless herself, Allison called Paul again. Voicemail. Maybe he’d gotten a late flight and neglected to tell her. She left another message.
He set down the menu. “Who are you calling?”
“Paul. Still no answer, which is odd. Unless he flew into Raleigh and is driving south to Georgia.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He owns a small factory for his furniture business in Randall. It’s in western North Carolina.”
To her surprise, the fried chicken was crisp and juicy, dripping with flavor, not grease. Allison focused on eating, not wanting to answer questions she knew he had for her. Certainly not here, where the other diners kept eyeballing them like aliens who’d landed in their midst.
Still, this silence bothered her. “I’m not one for artery-clogging chicken, but this is tasty. Usually I’ll grab whatever I can while I’m working. There’s a cute Cuban place near my apartment. I bet you’ve eaten there.”
He scowled. “I bet not. I seldom eat Cuban food.”
Allison blinked and sipped her tea. “You’re Cuban and you don’t like Cuban food?”
“I like American food. Hamburgers and chicken.”
“Next you’ll tell me you don’t like soccer.”
“I’m into American football. Not soccer.”
Another surprise. “Why? I mean, your family is Cuban.”
Rafe toyed with his fork. “My dad was American. Jeff Jones. Thus my middle name.”
“Was?”
He looked away. “You heard the story from my grandmother. Dad was a patrol officer in Miami. Got shot and killed when I was twelve. Drug bust gone wrong.”
