The villain in “Painkillers,” Emilio Santos, is using the profits of his fledgling rum company to fund a band of rebels who are trying to overthrow the president of their small island. Emilio hopes the rebel leader (his younger brother, Rafael) will kill the president (his older brother, Tomas), so Emilio can take over and rule the island himself. 

Emilio, of course, is conquered by the brave heroes of “Painkillers”—which just goes to show you that demonic despots are bad. Rum, however, is good!  So if you’re looking for a great drink recipe, give this one a try:

Painkiller

1 cup cranberry juice
1 cup pineapple juice
1 cup orange juice
½ cup coconut rum

Serve over ice.

Makes two. Unless you’re having a really day—like maybe your evil brother’s plotting to kill you. In that case, you’re entitled to keep it all for yourself.

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Lauren Devlin knew the pain was coming and tried not to tense up. She was familiar enough with this particular brand of torture to know that would only make it worse. She shivered as expert hands pinned her legs down so she couldn’t move.

God, this was gonna hurt.

A ripping sound rent the air, and Lauren flinched, knowing the pain was only a split-second away. Then it was upon her. Her legs spasmed, trying to clench together protectively, but the firm hands on Lauren’s thighs held them apart. She gritted her teeth and tried to blink back the tears in her eyes, but couldn’t stop them from falling.

Even worse, she knew this was just the beginning. Her torturer wouldn’t let up until the job was finished.

“I swear, I am never going to do another swimsuit shoot,” she grumbled, pressing her palms into her eyes to stem the tears.

The spa employee who was doing Lauren’s bikini wax just nodded blandly and continued slathering hot wax on Lauren’s tender parts with a Popsicle stick. Lauren figured anyone who voluntarily took on this job must have worked in a Nazi concentration camp in a former life, because they seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on others. She’d never met a waxer who didn’t, at some point in the process, assure her that, “This won’t hurt a bit.” Yeah, right.

Before the woman could tear another strip of Lauren’s hair out by the roots, Lauren held up a hand and said, “Wait a sec.” Then she reached over and grabbed a tiny bottle of Isla Suspiro rum from the nightstand in her hotel room. She twisted off the metal cap, took a deep breath, and chugged half the bottle in one gulp.

“Okay, go ahead,” she said to the resort employee, who put one firm hand on Lauren’s knee before grabbing the edge of the strip of cloth she’d smoothed over the hot wax and ripping it off.

There were days when being a supermodel was anything but glamorous, Lauren thought as she peeled off a packet of aspirin that was attached with a rubbery adhesive to the bottle of rum. She was down here on Isla Suspiro—Island of Sighs—shooting an ad for the rum named for the island. Some marketing whiz at the company had decided to package their beverage with aspirin as a promotional gimmick. “A rum so good you’ll be tempted to drink the whole bottle. But try to restrain yourself,” the adline read. Apparently, the aspirin was for those who could not resist that temptation.

So much for encouraging moderation.

Lauren took another swig of rum as more hot wax was applied to her crotch. The sweet liquor burned going down, but at least it was an effective painkiller. The next strip that was ripped off didn’t hurt quite as much as the last one had.

The photo shoot for Isla Suspiro Rum’s print ads started today, hence this morning’s torture. Lauren had already checked out the location for today’s shoot—a beautiful stretch of white sand beach here on the tourist side of the island, with swaying palm trees and water such a clear blue that it almost hurt to look at. Sadly, the tourist areas on this island had to be protected by machine gun-wielding security guards, and travelers were advised not to leave these secure locales without proper protection. Most U.S. tourists who visited the island remained cloistered within the concrete walls of their all-inclusive resorts, but even they were sometimes accosted by drug runners on jet skis who peddled their pharmaceuticals to anyone who swam far enough from the beach.

Lauren, however, had no intention of remaining on Paradise Resort’s property during her stay on Isla Suspiro. Not because she had a hankering for mind-altering drugs, or even because she believed that her status as an international celebrity afforded her any more protection from crime than a regular tourist.

No, it was because Lauren had come to Isla Suspiro on a mission. Because aside from being a supermodel, Lauren Devlin was also a spy.

“Did you know your American friends have sent an agent here to Isla Suspiro?” Emilio Santos asked quietly in his second-story office at the Isla Suspiro Rum Company. He kept his back to his brother, his hands clasped behind him as he pretended to watch the activity on the production floor below. Instead, he studied his older brother’s reflection in one of the windows overlooking the first floor.

Tomas Santos—a ruggedly handsome man who had clawed his way to power two years before, after an election fraught with allegations of fraud, blackmail, and bribery—frowned at his brother’s back. “Are you certain?” he asked.

Emilio kept his gaze focused on the floor below, where employees in dark brown Isla Suspiro Rum Company uniforms scurried around like so many cockroaches. Emilio knew his presence at the factory made the workers nervous, but he didn’t care. Not in his company would the mañana attitude that was so pervasive elsewhere be tolerated. When he demanded that something be done, he expected it to be done. Now. Not tomorrow—not mañana. Not in his factory.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Emilio answered his brother’s question before turning to walk back to the large mahogany desk that dominated his office. Tomas was seated across from the desk in a dove gray leather chair, his large tanned hands resting in his lap.

Where Emilio was small and wiry, both his older brother, Tomas, and his younger brother, Rafael, had the same broad shoulders and tall frame as their father had before his death. Unfortunately, Rafael also shared his oldest brother’s hunger for power, a trait that had gotten him exiled two years ago to the primitive jungle that blanketed the wet southern coast of the island. Emilio made certain that Tomas never underestimated their younger brother’s ambition. According to Emilio’s frequent reports on Rafael’s activities, banishing the youngest Santos son to the jungle had not stifled his desire to rule. Instead, it had merely provided Rafael with the isolation he needed to begin recruiting and training his own army—an army he would use to overthrow Tomas once Rafael had become powerful enough to attempt a coup.

Emilio suspected that Tomas wasn’t as troubled as he should be by the threat Rafael presented, because he believed that the U.S. government looked favorably upon Tomas Santos remaining in power. Under his rule, the island was relatively safe for American tourists to visit. Crimes against U.S. citizens were taken seriously, and the perpetrators of these crimes were always promptly found and harshly punished. And if sometimes the wrong man was jailed for another’s crimes? Well, once America felt that justice had been served, their eyes turned quickly to other matters.

In order to keep their relationship on stable terms, the United States had intervened several times in the past two years—quietly and without much fanfare—on Tomas’s behalf. A suspicious bank account would mysteriously be frozen, a dissenter’s camp would suddenly disappear. Emilio knew the only reason Rafael had survived this long was because he had his own powerful allies that helped him keep one step ahead of both Tomas and the CIA. Plus, Emilio guessed that no one but him suspected how strong Rafael’s army had become.

And Emilio, who was as intelligent and power-hungry as his brothers, had no intention of sharing that information with his older brother. At least, not until the time was right.

He sat down behind his desk and slowly sipped a cup of the rich coffee the island was famous for. “Why would the CIA send an agent here without arranging for him to meet with you?” Emilio asked, as if truly perplexed by the question.

Tomas’s eyes narrowed, and his hands tightened convulsively in his lap. “I don’t know. Perhaps the agent is simply here on vacation,” he suggested, obviously resisting the idea that the CIA might turn against him.

“Or perhaps he’s meeting with Rafael instead? Perhaps the Americans are unhappy with the job you’re doing and wish to remove you from power,” Emilio countered.

Tomas’s gaze flicked to the busy production floor below. “Surely they don’t expect that I can right a lifetime of wrongs in two years? Building better lives for the people of Isla Suspiro will take time. I can’t increase spending to build much-needed roads and improve our port and airports until our people can support the higher taxes. It will take years—probably decades—before things begin to improve. There’s no quick fix to our problems. Not unless the Americans are willing to send us more money than they already have.”

“And if they do, you will be perceived as a puppet for the U.S.,” Emilio said. His brother was in an impossible situation, and they both knew it. Tomas—fool that he was—was committed to doing what was best for the people of Isla Suspiro over the long term. That meant he would not resort to selling illegal drugs for a quick inflow of cash, which would have assured his popularity with the people and cemented his position as leader of the island. Instead, he was trying to get the fledgling rum and coffee industries off the ground, as well as building new schools to help educate the people and prepare them for better jobs. Only, these things took time, time Tomas wasn’t certain he had—not with both his youngest brother and the CIA watching for the slightest sign of weakness.

“It’s possible this agent is only here to observe conditions on the island,” Tomas said.

“And it’s also possible he’s here to kill you,” Emilio responded, his voice eerily devoid of emotion.

Tomas sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck with the air of a man well acquainted with adversity. “Yes, that’s possible,” he admitted.

“You know the Americans are impatient. If I can prove that their agent is meeting with Rafael, will you finally take my advice and do something to defend yourself against him?”

“He’s our brother,” Tomas protested softly, looking up at Emilio with his sad, dark eyes.

“He’s your adversary,” Emilio corrected. “One who would like to remove you from your duly elected position with violence, uncaring about the wishes of the people of this island.”

Silence hung heavy in the air between the two brothers. This war had begun long ago, with Tomas’s insistence that the only way to lead Isla Suspiro out of poverty was to work within the system for change, while Rafael argued with equal ferocity that the system itself was the problem and must be overthrown. Emilio just stood back and let his brothers argue. He didn’t have the charisma to inspire people to follow his leadership. He knew that his only hope to obtain the power he wanted was to win it by default. And so he had stealthily laid his plans, waiting for the right moment to close his trap around both of his brothers.

Now. Now was the time.

Soon, the presidency would be his.

Finally, Tomas nodded and stood to leave. “All right. Prove to me that this CIA agent is working with Rafael, and I will attack. I cannot allow our brother to gain any more power, not if he’s already managed to win support from the United States.”

From across his desk, Emilio nodded his approval, although he knew his brother neither wished for nor cared about his endorsement of his decisions. In politics, Tomas Santos would do what he felt was right, and to hell with what his younger brother thought about the matter.

Fortunately for Emilio, however, his brother did not show the same concern about the rum business. If he had, Emilio could not have let him live as long as he had.

No, Tomas left the running of Isla Suspiro Rum entirely to Emilio—a wise decision that was validated as their profits continued to climb. Of course, that also meant that Tomas had no idea why their income had increased so sharply in such a short amount of time, but Emilio figured that it was none of his brother’s business. As long as the money kept coming in as expected to fund his own pursuits, Tomas left Emilio alone.

Emilio waited until the sound of his brother’s footsteps faded before making certain the hallway was deserted. Then he closed and locked his office door and hurried back to his desk. From a secret compartment under the top drawer, he removed a key and unlocked a larger hidden compartment in the bottom drawer to his left. He pulled a cell phone out of the drawer and checked the scrambler before he hit redial. The call was answered on the first ring.

“The CIA has sent someone to interfere in your business. It would be in your best interest to stop him,” Emilio said without preamble.

“Do they know about our plans for Sunday?” the man on the other end of the line asked, his voice clipped and abrupt.

“Not unless one of your men leaked the information. I just spoke to Tomas and it’s clear that he does not know. At least, not yet,” Emilio added ominously.

“It’s possible, then, that this agent is here to tell him about our plans,” Rafael Santos said, then paused, as if considering what to do next.

Emilio impatiently tapped his fingers on his desk, willing his brother to come to the conclusion that Emilio himself had when he had first learned of the CIA’s presence on the island.

“I must stop him from reaching Tomas,” Rafael said finally.

Emilio had to resist the urge to clap, as if his younger brother were a trained seal at a circus that had performed its trick well. “Yes. But you must make it appear as if he came to you willingly. That will only confirm Tomas’s suspicions that the Americans have turned against him.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right,” Rafael agreed. “I will have my men take care of it immediately. Where can I find this American spy?”

“Paradise Resort. I was not able to get the man’s name from my source, but he did tell me it was someone who arrived on the island this morning and is staying at the resort. The rest, I’m afraid, I must leave up to you.” Emilio didn’t like leaving so much in the hands of his brother, but he couldn’t call the resort to try to get more information without risking Tomas finding out. His older brother had spies everywhere.

This game of playing brother against brother was becoming tedious, but as Emilio hung up the phone and replaced it in the secret compartment in his desk, he allowed himself a small smile. In a short time, the game would be over and he could just imagine Tomas’s and Rafael’s surprise when they realized who had wrested their power away from them.

Yes, it wouldn’t be long before Emilio had it all—the money, the power, and the admiration of the people of Isla Suspiro. Too bad his satisfaction at seeing his brothers defeated wouldn’t last long. Once Emilio had what he wanted, they would both have to die.

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because you want more...

“I’m getting too old for this,” Jake Haven groaned, wishing he had some of that rum Lauren Devlin had left on the nightstand back at the resort to kill the pain in his bruised ribs. He’d been taken to what Rafael Santos had referred to as the west compound, where the rebels had done their best to politely coax his secrets out of him with their fists. Through it all, Jake had maintained that he was just a tourist, silently wondering the entire time who the hell had sold him out. He’d broken out in a cold sweat when it occurred to him that whoever had ratted him out may have told Santos that Lauren was CIA, too. While getting the shit kicked out of him, he’d tried to listen for any sounds that would indicate she’d been found out, but fortunately, all he’d heard aside from his own grunts of pain were the sound of birds screeching in the jungle overhead, men’s voices shouting in the distance, and the occasional rumble of a vehicle’s engine.

Once he’d been sufficiently worked over, he was tossed into a 10-foot-deep hole that had been dug into the soft earth. That would have been easy enough to escape from, but then one of the goons had climbed down into the pit on a rickety ladder and handcuffed his right arm to a tree root that was nearly as thick as Jake’s wrist. Then the bastards had taken his boots, obviously figuring that he’d be unable to make it in the jungle barefooted.

He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that Santos and his goons bought his story about being a tourist. He knew that they knew he was CIA. But he figured if they had wanted to kill him, they’d have done it (or tried to—he liked to think he had a few tricks up his sleeve—or down his shorts, as the case may be) once they’d finished working him over. Instead, they’d dumped him here for safekeeping.

So, for now at least, they obviously wanted him alive.

“Glad we’re all in agreement about that,” Jake muttered as he tore open a seam on the left leg of his tan cargo shorts and pulled out a slim metal multipurpose tool. Regular pat-downs missed catching it 99 percent of the time, and, because it was sewn into a false seam just above a zipper, even when caught by a metal detector, it was often dismissed.

Jake pulled out a small shovel and sank it into the soft dirt about two feet off the ground.  Crouching down made his already sore ribs ache even more, but he ignored the twinge of pain as he dug out another scoop of dirt. He could have removed the handcuffs first, but didn’t want to chance one of Santos’s goons checking on him and seeing him loose until he had created an escape route for himself. If they’d been smart, they’d have cuffed his hands together behind his back, using the tree root as an anchor. Instead, they’d clapped one of the cuffs to the root and the other to his right wrist, leaving his left hand free. If they’d done the former, Jake would have been forced to take the riskier route of freeing himself first.

“Thank God for amateurs,” he said as he reached up to dig out one last foothold. But he supposed he ought to give them their due—enthusiastic amateurs could inflict more pain on a guy than a professional. The professionals usually preferred a quick bullet to the brain. Easy. Painless. Fast. Unless, of course, they wanted something from you first. Then the amateurs had nothing on the pros. And he had the scars to prove it.

Jake shuddered and ruthlessly shoved back memories he’d rather forget. James Bond never pined for the dead he’d left behind, and neither would he. Focus on the mission, he told himself, stepping back to assess his handiwork and erasing all thoughts of the past from his mind.

He couldn’t just pop up out of this hole like a prairie dog. That was a good way to get his head blown off. First, he had to know if someone was out there watching him.

Jake flipped the shovel back in place and pulled out another tool that looked like a dentist’s mirror. Cautiously, he raised the mirror above his head and twisted it around to see if the entrance to the hole was being guarded, half-expecting to find some well-armed thug smirking back at him in the glass. Fortunately, it looked as though they’d either underestimated him or overestimated themselves, because no one appeared to be lurking around topside. Jake figured his unguarded state wouldn’t last forever, so he hurriedly picked the lock of his handcuffs with another of his tool’s handy accessories and used the footholds he’d dug into the earth to scramble up out of the hole.

He didn’t waste any time slipping into the jungle. While he would have preferred to be wearing his boots, his bare feet actually made it easier to avoid stepping on twigs or anything that might alert the enemy to his presence since he could actually feel what was in front of him before he stepped on it. He made his way toward the center of the camp, where several large green tents had been pitched. He had to find out what Rafael Santos was up to or thousands of the island’s residents would suffer during the coup attempt. Jake knew all too well that it was the regular people—the ones who wanted only to raise their children and live their lives in peace—who bore the brunt of political unrest. Most struggled just to survive and were not prepared to rise up against the armies that invaded their towns and villages, burning their homes, murdering their children, and raping their wives, sisters, and daughters.

Jake would not allow this to happen on the island—not if there was any way he could prevent it. Tomas Santos’s rise to power had been sanctioned—and, yes, partially funded—by the CIA. The oldest Santos brother had a vision for his people of stability, prosperity, and hope for a better way of life. And Jake intended to see that Tomas’s dreams came to fruition. No matter the cost to himself.

Which was why he was intent on finding out more information about the rebel troop movements. He had to trust that Lauren could take care of herself, although the temptation to rescue her and make a hurried escape was so great that Jake found himself torn between doing what he knew was right and getting her the hell out of here right now.

No. He would complete this mission.

Jake roughly shoved all thoughts of Lauren from his mind and crept toward a tent that was lit from within and hummed with activity. He slunk to a spot in the shadows and pressed his ear to the canvas, longing for the listening devices that were safely tucked into his luggage back at the resort.

“. . . have our troops positioned here and here to cut off a counterattack,” he heard someone say and wished like hell he had X-ray vision so he could see where “here and here” were.

“The vans will help,” another man said.

A low murmur met the second man’s statement, and Jake swore under his breath because he couldn’t make out the words. What vans? When were they planning to attack? Then he stiffened and froze when he heard the unmistakable sound of several pairs of boots thumping the ground just around the corner from where he stood.

Shit. Now what?

If the men came around the corner, they’d see him for sure.  Jake hurriedly looked around the darkened camp for cover and saw the outline of a jeep about twenty feet away. He’d have to make a run for it. He turned and sprinted out of his hiding place, but was still five feet away from the jeep when the first line of troops came marching into sight.

He dove for cover like a batter diving for home plate and hit the dirt at the same moment a woman’s scream rent the air.

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