Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) by Chris Bauer (i want to read a book TXT) 📕

a decision made by Kaipo to remain a passenger and let Toggle drive, check. Rugged landscapes used in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jurassic Park, and The Descendants, check. Been here, done this gig before, doing it all again to talk with Toggle, a transplanted native Miakamiian, check.

“So you get the picture then?” Kaipo shouted at Toggle to better the roar of the ATV, her hand on her helmet. “Too dangerous for you?”

Toggle’s head was down, his chin tucked in. He was bracing for the next rise and fall in the trail. “If we don’t hang on right—here,” he shouted back, “none of that other dangerous shit will matter—”

Airborne for a full second, the ATV came down hard, tilted onto two wheels as they rounded a curve, dropped onto all fours, then jetted along the dirt route. “Having fun yet, Kaipo? Wooo-hooo!”

After another hundred yards through the tropical forest that covered most of the ranch, Toggle pulled the vehicle into a controlled fishtail, stopping the four-wheeler short.

“Whew. End of one line, the beginning of another.” In front of them, a zipline ran between two embankments, one on either side of a river.

Kaipo dismounted the ATV, would have needed to check that her balls were still attached if she had any. Toggle was all smiles, all long hair, all thrill-seeker. But Kaipo knew the attitude was a placeholder—his on-the-job game face. He was vulnerable: he was young, he felt invincible, was dirt poor, and was Miakamiian. Fodder—prey—for snake oil salesmen like Wally Lanakai.

“Last leg, Kaipo. Ready?”

Toggle belted her into the zipline with canvas straps and clips, had her retighten her helmet and goggles, and pushed her off. She felt it—the adrenaline rush of ziplining thirty-five feet in the air at twenty miles per hour across a raging river, the coolness of the wind against her face, the spray of river rapids foam against her bare legs, the smell of fresh water. Toggle zipped across to join her on the other side of the river, where they could begin their trek back to the ranch’s cabin entrance.

To her, he was a lamb of a young man, beautiful, fun-loving, naive. She had a closing argument queued up and at the ready. They removed their zipline gear, started walking and talking.

“It’s a lot of money,” Toggle said, pushing invasive foliage out of their way as they walked. “I could really use it to round out my finances for the next year. They’ll even pay for six weeks post-op care in a medical spa while I recuperate. And the part of the liver removed rejuvenates, Kaipo. Kind of a win-win for the donor and the recipient, don’tcha think?”

The unadvertised offer of money for organs. Word of mouth had ferreted out the details, was making the rounds among the young and the restless and the underemployed.

“Toggle. Listen to me. There’s a reason why it’s illegal to sell your organs. Telling you it would be a risk would be an understatement. And how many too-good-to-be-true offers like this ever make any sense to you? Don’t do it. These are unlicensed procedures, performed sometimes at locations no better than Third World MASH units.”

“How do you know all this? You’ve seen them?”

She could not be totally truthful, otherwise he’d ignore the message and instead key on the messenger. “I know crime scene cleaners, even worked with them. I’ve cleaned up some nasty, nasty messes that needed remediation. Hacks posing as transplant specialists for black-market organs on the mainland. Big money, and most times no issues, but too many times… I refer you to my first statement: I know crime scene cleaners.”

“Okay, I hear you. We’re here.” Helmet, goggles, and gloves found their way into bins on the cabin’s back porch. They went inside, the café there with a menu geared to decompress adrenaline-fueled customers.

Kaipo eyed the offerings on a blackboard. “Sit with me a moment. I’m buying.”

Two sarsaparilla bottles and bags of red-hot potato chips littered the table between them. Kaipo hadn’t heard from him what she wanted to hear. “So? What do you think? Promise me you won’t tempt fate?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Like I said, my cash flow—”

“One last time, Toggle: it’s too risky, which is the reason for the high payoff. Promise me you won’t go near these people. Please.”

Another sip of soda for him; he was still on the fence. She had to go for the throat.

“Think of your parents. They’ve already lost your brother to one tragedy. Think of them, if you won’t think about yourself.”

Soda swirled in his mouth, his eyes down, unfocused; he slipped into a slouch in his chair. Kaipo figured he was visiting a place in his head that had something to do with his dead brother.

“Unfair, Kaipo. Okay. Fine. I promise.”

Kaipo exhaled. “Super. Excellent. I’ll call you later in the week just to see how you’re doing. You’re a good-looking Hawaiian guy. Maybe look for some modeling work, or do some temp office work…”

He smiled, embarrassed at the compliment, then perked up, suddenly aware of his sexuality, also suddenly more aware of Kaipo’s, too. “I’ve had offers as a gigolo. I’m serious. Maybe, um, see, maybe you and I, we could, um—”

“I’m flattered, really I am, but no.” She grabbed his hand, opened it, tucked a hundred bucks inside. “Your tip, Toggle. My advice, stay away from the cougars and the bored mainlanders. No porn films, either. Too many diseases. I gotta go. Thanks for a great morning.”

Her list was in her head. The people who had relocated, the families who had stayed. Fewer and fewer had remained on the island over the years, from what Kaipo recalled. The helicopter pilot, the research doctor, the street performer, all had lived off-island, now all were gone, in gruesome, sensational fashion. But the three hours she spent today with another relocated Miakamiian had been worth it. Time to drop back in at Vena’s for a bio break, then she would get back at it.

The Uber idled in