Page 42 of Wallflower

“I suppose it’s possible…” Patrick doesn’t like to admit he’s wrong. His gut is telling him something is off, and it’s right. But I’m not about to deliver any of my knowledge.

Rubbing my forehead in annoyance, I say, “Look, I understand your concern. But you’re on the verge of two assault charges. My advice to you is to return to the ship, do another investigation, and raise the alarm if your daughters aren’t located in a few hours. They could be anywhere on the island. They aren’t children.”

“You two,” I say to the cruise workers, “get the fuck out of here, and maybe go check the more secluded areas for Mr…”

“Melborne,” Patrick fills in for me.

The two, who I assume work for Maximus, turn and speed-walk their way to a path in the trees. A trail I know from experience leads right to Bleakcrest. If they aren’t careful, Mr. Smythe will kill them himself for simply being seen with the women.

Patrick turns to me, extending his hand for a shake. Reluctantly, I comply. “Thank you, Mr…”

“Keller,” I finish, the fake name rolling off my tongue like silk.

“Could you take this? In case you hear anything, or spot them walking around.” He pulls a business card from his pocket, passing it to me. It’s black, sleek, with embossed silver script.

“Sure,” I reply, taking it.

The entire situation now reeks of awkwardness. Neither of us knowing how to bring this encounter to a close.

“Can we fucking go now, Dad?” one of the boys pipes up from the sidelines. His complete lack of concern for his sisters doesn’t sit right with me. Though, his short buzzed hair offers no protection from the sweltering heat, or sun’s burning rays, and he’s slowly roasting in the rising temperature. His annoyance, and desire to find some reprieve make sense, I suppose.

Patrick moves uncomfortably on his feet, giving me a silent nod. I return the gesture, then make a break for my vehicle.

Once I have the driver’s door closed behind me, the burner phone in the cupholder starts vibrating. Shantel’s name lights up the screen, and I know I’m about to have my ass chewed out for going silent on such an important day. She’s probably got the whole team worried half to death now.

Fuck sakes.

The phone silences, “23 missed calls” flashing across the screen before the twenty-fourth call starts.

Just to add insult to injury, I wait for the call to stop, then shoot a text to Shantel.

Rip:

Sorry, running late.

Got you some mangoes.

Her response is immediate.

Shantel:

You better have more than fucking mangoes if you don’t want a new hole in your face.

Well, that’s what the chocolate bars are for. Glad I planned ahead. Though, with the amount of time that’s elapsed, I wonder if whiskey would be better.

Fuck.

We are so fucking fucked.

I don’t know how Brad remains cool as a cucumber in a snow storm, but I’m near shitting myself in fear. We’ve never been recognized. Every previous operation ran like a finely-tuned machine. But, everything about this one is fucking cursed. Falling for my target. The storm. A shark attack. The pit in my gut watching my love walk away from me like it wasn’t killing us both inside.

“What do we do?” I ask Brad, trying to present a calm and level exterior. The sweat beading across my skin brands me as a liar, and my partner notices it immediately.

“Relax, first of all. Second, we aren’t some disposable newbies. The boss isn’t going to execute us. We’ll definitely get a tongue lashing, and maybe even a meeting with Rich, but he won’t kill us. We know too much, and bring in more cash than any other team.”

Brad’s right. I can’t deny that I’m good at what I do, no matter how much I hate it.

The rest of the walk to Bleakcrest is long and silent, allowing my emotions to war all too violently. Am I still scared shitless? Absolutely. I’ve seen what Richmond can do. Let’s just say I don’t want to be the unlucky one at the tip of one of his blades.