A chill swept through Max, right then. His insides turned ice-cold. There was a note from Paul inside the envelope:
Max-We found this in the villa you were staying in. On the pillow. He got away from us. I didn't tell you then, because of what was happening. We're looking for him. Don't worry. He won't get away again. Be safe. VP No you won't. You won't get him, thought Max. You should've killed him when you had the chance.
Max looked back at the photograph and studied Boukman's face.
They'd meet again, he knew it-not tomorrow, not even soon, but sometime down the line. It was inevitable, the way some things simply are. They had unfinished business.
Christmas Eve.
Max walked out of Miami airport and found a cab. He put the bags in the back and got in.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Max hadn't given his next move any thought. He considered going back to the Radisson Kendall again, maybe for a week, to get his head together and a few things straight.
Then he thought better of it.
"Home," Max said, giving the driver the address of his house in Key Biscayne. "Take me home."