Pirate (Fargo Adventures 8)

“It was a suggestion, Sam. It doesn’t mean it was.”

“Everything that has happened to us happened after Bree set it up.”

“She was also a victim.”

He looked at her, then back to the road. “Are you sure?”

“How can you think otherwise?”

“You said her uncle wasn’t even expecting you. And you were robbed at gunpoint. You left a message for her that we were staying at the Ritz-Carlton, and the gunmen appeared there. Then she’s supposedly kidnapped—”

“Supposedly?”

“—and she asks us to bring the book to her cousin’s. The book’s taken, we’re almost shot trying to rescue her. And then she tells us this story about Oak Island, and we’re nearly killed there.”

“I refuse to believe it.”

“Remi . . . You heard what that officer said.”

“Coincidence. All of it. And bad luck. How many times have you told me that the lure of treasure brings out the worst in people?”

“And you don’t think it can bring out the worst in someone like Bree?”

“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “And I refuse to let you think so. So come up with a different plan.”

“I think we’re making a mistake.”

“Fine,” she said, her voice terse. “It won’t be the first time.”

He checked the rearview mirror for the headlights that had been steadily behind them for several miles, making him suddenly wonder if someone was following them. But when he slowed, the vehicle sped up and passed them.

Maybe he was being paranoid. But he had every right to be, after their close encounter. Right now, they’d have to agree to disagree—even if it meant letting her believe she’d won this argument. When it came to Remi’s safety, he wasn’t about to take any chances. “We’ll come up with Plan B at the hotel.”

Of course his Plan B and her Plan B differed vastly. Remi wanted to call Selma the moment they got back to the hotel to let her know that they were okay—Sam opted for the not-saying-anything approach.

“How is that different from your first plan?”

“Nobody’s contacting her to say we’re dead or that our boat was even found.”

He followed her into the bedroom of their suite. She stopped him in the doorway. “I’m not going to be able to sleep until we settle this.”

“What’s there to settle?”

“That I’m right and you’re wrong.”

The woman was as stubborn as she was beautiful, he thought, taking her into his arms and kissing her. “You know I’m right.”

“Are you? How about a little rock-paper-scissors?”

“That’s how you want to decide this? With a game?”

“It’s worked before.”

He fell into bed, exhausted. “Fine,” he said, closing his eyes. “I just need to rest for a minute . . .”

After falling into a deep but fitful sleep, he awoke to the phone ringing. Momentarily confused by the surroundings, he sat up, eyed the phone extension on the nightstand, and, without thinking, picked it up. “Hello?”

“Mr. Fargo.” Selma’s voice cut through the fog in his head. “I was worried when I didn’t hear from you.”