The empty feeling that had begun to fade as she approached the Tropico slammed into her chest the moment she stepped into the street. Reeling from the sensation, she groped for the wall, the rough clapboard scraping her palms. She slumped against the bar front, trying to regain her equilibrium.
“Miss?” The raspy masculine voice was tinged with a foreign accent.
She jerked upright, opening her eyes.
A pair of hazel eyes stared back at her from a craggy face only inches away. It took a second to realize she’d seen the man before. He was the sandy-haired man with the Vandyke beard she’d seen earlier outside the café, talking on a cell phone.
“What do you want?” she asked, apprehension clenching her heart.
The man bent closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I may know something about your missing friend.”
Iris stared at him, suspiciously. Had he been following her? “What are you talking about?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“My friend Hana Kuipers was at the St. George for the conference, too,” he said. “She disappeared yesterday, just like your friend Miss Beck.”
Iris couldn’t tamp down a flutter of hope. But before she could speak, the door of the Tropico opened, and an enormous Mariposan biker emerged, his gaze moving immediately to the bearded man.
“You botherin’ the lady?” The biker towered over the man.
The bearded man shook his head. “I’m just talking to her.”
The biker stepped forward menacingly. “Go back to fancy town, Dutchman.”
Iris slumped against the wall of the bar, overcome by the fierce anger coming from the biker. The bearded man looked her way, his eyes darkening. For the first time, the sense of emptiness around the bearded man disappeared, filled in by a flutter of emotion she thought might be concern.
She looked up at him, releasing a small hiss of surprise.
The emotion cut off immediately, as if she’d suddenly run headfirst into a brick wall. The bearded man’s gaze shifted.
The biker lunged suddenly, driving the bearded man against the front wall of the bar. The impact made the clapboard rattle. As the biker reared back to deliver a punch, the bearded man rolled to the side in one nimble movement. The biker’s hand slammed into the clapboard, splintering the wood. He yelped in pain.
Iris gasped as shattering pain sped through her hand. She pressed her fist into her belly, trying not to cry out.
The bearded man delivered a pair of vicious jabs to the biker’s kidney, grunting with satisfaction at the man’s howl of pain. The biker slid face-first down the wall, landing on his knees. Iris fell with him, her back aching in sympathy.
The bearded man knelt by Iris. She stared at him, realizing he was no ordinary tourist. “Who are you?”
He didn’t answer. The door to the Tropico was opening, about to spill a dozen of the Creole biker’s comrades to join the fray. Somewhere down the street, a feral growl of a motorcycle approached, getting louder.
The bearded man gave Iris one last look and took off running.
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