27
Back to the Bungalow
Side Hill Bay.
Jana drove in the direction of her tiny beachside bungalow. If Gustavo Moreno had a detailed dossier on her, they certainly already knew where she lived, so driving there wouldn’t be a problem. She wove her way down Gray’s Farm Main Road and turned left toward the water on PerryBay, then turned up the dirt road before stopping at Little Orleans, a dilapidated market often frequented by locals. The sun-beaten paint had once been the colors of peach, pink, and teal. The store blended into the surrounding village with ease. She hopped out and picked up the one working pay phone and dialed Stone.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m out.”
“Thank God,” Stone replied.
“I’m at Little Canton. Why don’t you come pick me up at my place?”
“On the way.”
“And make sure y
