It’s not unreasonable to expect this. Barrett’s knowledge is worth a lot of money.
As in billions.
It stands to reason anyone determined enough to perpetrate a kidnapping that could result in untold riches would spend a great deal of money on a better plan to snatch her.
Which is another reason I’m glad I’m in charge of getting us from Virgin Gorda to Marjorie Island. By not chartering a boat, it ensures one less person who knows where we’re going.
It’s not fool proof, though. It would be nothing to bribe the pilot at the private Pittsburgh terminal we flew out of. He brought us first to Miami, where we re-fueled, then to Virgin Gorda. He had fake names for us, but I’m sure someone could offer him an amount of money that could prompt him to identify Barrett and me by the way we looked. Back in Virgin Gorda, plenty of people saw us getting on this boat, and there are only so many islands in the British Virgin Islands.
We can be found by determined people, and that’s why I can’t let my guard down for a single second.
My anxiety is even more increased because of the woman sitting beside me as I navigate the blue waters. She’s wearing jeans, a tank top, and a ball cap on her head. Her hair is in a ponytail while dark sunglasses hide her eyes. A pale effort to make it hard for people to identify her.
She’s scared, and I know it.
Lost.
Out of place.
I want to give her more than protection. I want to reassure her. Take away her fears. Give her confidence this will all be over soon—that she’ll be completely safe.
It would be my preference—so very weirdly—to give those things to her in the form of physical touch.
A hug, that’s all.
Which is so fucking odd as I’m not a hugger. Plus, that’s also way too dangerous because a hug can lead to a kiss.
Another punch-to-the-gut kiss that will electrify me. Fry my fucking brains out like it did last night.
Christ, how the hell am I supposed to be in close confines with her? Complete seclusion, actually.
How can I do that and control myself around her? Especially now, when I know without a doubt, how easily she came into my arms and begged me to kiss her that she wants the same thing?
So goddamn unprofessional, Cruce. Get a fucking hold of yourself.
Marjorie Island looms closer, and I study it critically as far as how easy it would be to breech. The island is smallish, but it has two prominent hills that rise up significantly from the beach. The main house is built on top of the tallest one. I’ve been told it’s only seven acres total, which doesn’t sound like a lot until I think about having to patrol it, but I’d still take it over Pittsburgh. I’ve been told the back side of the island is surrounded by shallows and reefs, making it too dangerous to approach by boat, so that helps at least.
The sprawling one-story main house faces toward Virgin Gorda. It’s surrounded by trees and lush greenery and I’m sure somewhere in all that vegetation is a path leading upward from the beach. There are a few smaller buildings off to the western side, which I assume is for staff and perhaps maintenance. I can’t see them, but supposedly there are three small guesthouses on the eastern side.
For our stay, we’ll be in the main house, which was necessary for our cover. We’re supposed to be rich, well-connected honeymooners who want the entire island to ourselves.
More importantly, the main house is on the most elevated part of the island. It has three hundred-and-sixty-degree views, so we can see if anything or anyone is coming our way. Luckily, if it’s by boat, they’d have to come straight at us by taking the same path I’m on now as I start to throttle down as the dock comes into view. In the cover of darkness, an extremely determined person could breach security by parachuting in or anchoring a boat and swimming to shore. Good thing two of the bags we brought are full of equipment Bebe put together, including trip wires and thermal-imaging cameras. One of the first things I’ll take care of is a satellite call back to Bebe so she can walk me through the security setup.
As I cut speed, letting the boat coast, I take in the two men on the dock. They’re expected—the island’s manager and a staff person to help move all the bags. I’m okay with this, but only because the specialty equipment and weapons are in locked and padded duffels that won’t arouse any suspicion. But I’m also going to make sure I boot them and anyone else still on the island as quickly as possible.
Both men are dark skinned, wearing crisp, pressed khaki pants and tropical shirts in reds, yellows, and oranges. The younger one steps forward, then takes the rope I toss him to tie off the boat to the dock. When it’s secure and I cut the engine, I let Barrett precede me off. The young man takes her hand and helps her across onto the wooden boards. I hop up next to her.