Safe and Sound (The Safe House Series Book 3) by Leslie North

you like Baudin?”
    "He's a trained killer. There's nothing else to know."
    His response made her feel a little ridiculous for asking.
    "He seems to be a religious man."
    "Yeah." Max's eyes narrowed, almost a squint, nothing at all to do with the non-existent sun. In fact, the sky rolled as turbulent as the subject matter. He glanced back toward the resort but made no move to return. "Yeah, I don't like that either."
    "Can you tell me anything about him?"
    "He worked almost exclusively for a man named Miller Freeman, a mob boss with deep ties to a drug cartel out of Nicaragua, until recently he decided he didn't. Freeman got himself arrested. Baudin turned himself in a day later. Said he wanted to atone for his sins by helping take Freeman down."
    "Miller Freeman…" Lola tried to remember back through past news cycles. "Should I know him? The name sounds familiar."
    "Not likely," said Max. "High-profile crimes are usually committed by low-profile people. Baudin, for instance."
    “What’s the charge against Freeman?”
    “What isn’t the charge against Freeman? You name it, he’s done it. Our friend back at the hotel isn't the only one testifying. There are other witnesses in the case: a police officer, couple ex-wives, a federal marshal."
    Thunder rumbled low. Sprinkles splashed cold on her bare forearms. She glanced up. A greenish-gray hue dominated the sky. “Shoot.”
    “Just once, I’d like to hear you swear.”
    “I spend most of my day around six year olds. Their parents would run me out of town if I sent them home with anything more indecent than a hand turkey.”
    “We’re not with six year olds now. Go on. One good f-bomb.”
    “No.” Her voice pitched high, incredulous. Lola smiled and pretended the request affronted her sensibilities. In reality, it was Nona’s fault. A songbird is known for her notes, so too is a lady by her words.
    At her weak protest, the sky opened. Max’s posture hunched against the onslaught of rain. He scanned their surroundings then grabbed her hand.
    “Come on.”
    They ran toward the closest structure—a boathouse at the far end of the dock. Had her students been here to sing-song a very shaky count to ten, they would have made it only to a jumbled seven and six before Lola was soaked, crown to feet, dress to underwear. Max tugged on the boathouse’s entrance handle. The weathered door refused to budge.
    Max took her slippery hand in his once more. They circled the boathouse perimeter, careful to hug close to the tin roof overhang that seemed to block some of the torrent. He tried two other doors before one slipped loose in his hand.
    They entered a secondary addition to the boathouse, one used to store kayaks and canoes and all manner of sports water equipment. Across the longest wall hung life jackets organized by size on hooks. At the shortest side of the space, no larger than the room Max and Lola shared, sat a rental desk. A wet pine smell clung to the salty air.
    A fierce shiver crashed over Lola, toes to shoulders. She wrung the water from her hair and blew hot exhales into her steepled hands. Though it was late into a coastal spring, humidity did not hold warmth over the rain-soaked air.
    Max pulled her into his embrace. Despite his saturated shirt, she folded against his chest, greedily soaking up his body heat from all sides.
    “We have to get you dry and warm.”
    He led her to a rough-hewn bench crafted of logs beneath an activity sign-up board and replaced his warmth with a few life vests strewn haphazardly around the room. They were stiff and block-like and not Max. Lola decided she much preferred moving around the space and helping him in his search.
    The rental office shared a roof with the boathouse. Frog-strangling rain pounded the tin planks overhead. The noise was, quite possibly, the only racket to rival a classroom of first graders during a field day relay race.
    Lola checked the rental desk. On shelves beneath the graffiti-carved wooden counter,