Chapter 43
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Windsor Island
When Lizzy finished her confession they all went quiet while a door opened and a staff member came outside.
“Iced tea?” A woman in her fifties with graying hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, wearing the crisp white shirt that marked her as estate staff. “It’s warm out here, isn’t it?”
“Thank you, Elsa,” Fisher said without looking up from the table.
Elsa carried a pitcher of freshly brewed tea and filled their glasses. The ice clinking softly. “Will you and your guests be staying for dinner, Mr. Fisher? I can tell the kitchen.”
“Not tonight,” Fisher replied, still staring at his hands.
Elsa nodded and withdrew quietly.
Fisher sat motionless in his chair. His breathing remained steady and controlled, but his knuckles had gone white where they gripped the table edge. Something fundamental had shifted behind his dark eyes.
A yacht horn sounded somewhere in the distance. Palm fronds rustled overhead in the ocean breeze.
“Devon Cole,” Fisher repeated the name as if he were opening a vault of old photographs.
His fingers began that repetitive pressing motion Flint had noticed before. Ten fingertips together pressing in and out. He seemed to be thinking through decades of information, building connections with the same systematic process that only existed inside his head and had made him billions.
“Dad’s business partner,” Fisher said. “Uncle Devon, we called him.”
“He was close to the family, then?” Drake asked.
Fisher nodded. “He was at our house sometimes twice a week. Family barbecues, birthday parties, Christmas mornings. Especially in the early years.”
The tropical air felt suddenly heavy. Even the sound of the waves seemed muted.
“What kind of relationship did you have with him?” Flint wanted to know.
“He taught me chess. Brought me computer programming books.” Fisher shrugged. “As you can imagine, I was a difficult kid. But Uncle Devon said I reminded him of himself at that age.”
Flint nodded but stayed silent, watching Fisher’s face for any crack in the analytical armor. There was none. Just systematic processing.
A helicopter approached and landed nearby. It was not the first helo Flint had heard since they’d boarded the boat to approach the island. When the rotor noise finally quieted, conversation could resume.
“Dad tried to end their partnership once,” Fisher continued, his tone as level as if he were discussing a dry quarterly earnings report. “Said Cole was getting into things that Dad didn’t approve of. It wasn’t until years later that I learned what those things were.”
Fisher seemed to be systematically assembling the timeline in his head, each piece of data clicking into place as he pulled it from stored memories.
“They were both respectable businessmen. At least on the surface,” Fisher said. “But Dad got scared about where the money was really coming from when he figured out that Cole was pushing pill mills and illegal prescriptions and people were dying.”
Fisher’s dark eyes held the same focused intensity that had built an empire, but now there was something colder lurking.
“Later, I found out Dad went to the DEA. Started cooperating. His handler was Agent Gerard, found dead in his car six months after the fire. Murdered, they said.”
“You remember Agent Gerard?” Flint asked.
“I remember everything. Every conversation. Every meeting. Every phone call Dad thought I wasn’t listening to.” Fisher shrugged. “My memory is a blessing and a curse.”
“The fire came soon after your father began working with the DEA,” Flint replied. “It was a warning.”
Fisher stood and walked to the terrace railing. The setting sun cast long shadows across the golf course below. The perfectly groomed fairways stretched out like a green carpet toward the water.
A lone golfer was finishing up on the distant eighteenth green while his caddy waited patiently beside the flag.
“Seems like the actual timing of the fire wasn’t random, either,” Fisher said.
“What do you mean?” Drake asked.
“Cole would have known our schedules. Hell, Dad probably told him we’d be away that night,” Fisher replied. “It’s not like the basketball schedule at the high school was a secret. The whole town would have known we’d be there. Both Bruce and I were on the varsity team, and everyone knew it.”
He stated the insight like an engineering assessment. Problem analysis delivered in the same tone he might use to discuss server capacity or bandwidth allocation. No emotional weight at all. As if the events Fisher chose to focus on happened to total strangers.
The breeze picked up, stirring the gardenias again. The scent was almost cloying in the cool evening air.
Fisher turned to lean against the railing and faced them as the dying sunlight caught the sharp angles of his face.
“Cole came to the funeral. Held Mom while she cried. Helped her plan the memorial services for Lizzy and the kids. While knowing he’d caused it all,” Fisher said as if he was reciting a bedtime horror story.
Drake shifted in his chair and the wicker creaked under his weight. “That’s a cold-hearted bastard.”
Fisher’s expression didn’t change, but he shook his head. “He feels nothing about what he did. Agent Gerard’s murder, all those deaths. Just problems solved for Devon Cole.”
The words were clinical. Detached. But accurate in a way that made Flint’s skin crawl.
“Over the years since the fire, Cole and I have done business together. Joint ventures. Charitable causes. He’s been friendly enough, but not overly familiar,” Fisher said.
“Like the past, when he was almost a part of my family, never happened. But also like we were colleagues and equals in the world today.”
“Are you? Equals?” Drake asked.
Fisher’s eyes narrowed and his tone was steely. “Not even close. I could buy and sell Cole several times over. Maybe I will.”
A pelican glided past the terrace, wings barely moving as it rode the evening thermals over the golf course. The mundane normalcy of it felt obscene in the moment.
Near the terrace, a gardener in khaki work clothes tended to the flower beds, clipping and deadheading gardenias with quiet concentration, oblivious to the conversation taking place above.
Fisher paused, his fingers resuming the repetitive pressing motion. Flint could almost see him processing probabilities, calculating present dangers, and analyzing threat assessments.
“But if Cole learns there were survivors, if he discovers Lizzy is alive and talking,” Drake said by way of warning. “Then we all become targets.”
“Already happened,” Flint replied. “Cole must know you hired me. He probably thinks Frankie’s to blame. Regardless of what he’s worried about, that’s why he’s sent armed mercenaries to stop us.”
Fisher’s head tilted slightly to one side, the way it did when he was working through complex problems. “Every attack, every attempt to kill you. That was Cole trying to shut us down before things led back to him.”
“He’s protecting old crimes,” Flint said. “But he’s also still running active operations. International drug trafficking, for one.”
Fisher absorbed this information. His expression never changed as he grasped that Cole’s involvement expanded far beyond the drugs and the cold case arson and the Fisher family.
The shadows were growing longer now across the golf course. Security lights began flickering on automatically on the estate grounds and along the cart paths, creating pools of warm light in the gathering dusk. The setting was peaceful and serene, even if the conversation was not.
“He could be monitoring my legal proceedings to unseal the adoption records.” Fisher simply stated the facts. “We’re threatening a criminal empire. Cole will want to stop us. Sooner rather than later.”
Flint watched him carefully.
“Cole is rich, and he’s got resources, sure. But he’s not as rich as I am.” Fisher walked back to the table. “I have advantages he doesn’t know about. Technology, security, financial resources, far beyond his. If we have a battle of the billionaires, I’ll win. No contest.”
It was like watching a computer boot up and run diagnostics, Flint noticed. “Assuming he doesn’t kill you first.”
“I’ve solved harder problems than Devon Cole.
” The absolute confidence was vintage Jason Fisher.
Once he’d made a decision, the matter was settled as far as he was concerned.
In his world, no one thwarted him. “We need to find my siblings and protect them simultaneously. He’ll try to get to my mother, too.
Once they’re secure, we deal with Cole.”
Flint said nothing.
Fisher pressed a button on his phone. “Nancy, I need you out here please.”
Within moments, a woman appeared on the terrace. She wore a tailored navy blazer and carried a leather portfolio. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun.
“How can I help?” she asked pleasantly enough.
“I need you to coordinate a few calls for me,” Fisher said. “Legal teams, security firms, surveillance vendors. Full mobilization. I’ll text you the list.”
Nancy pulled out a tablet and stylus, settling into a chair at the far end of the table. “Of course, Mr. Fisher. What’s the priority sequence?”
Fisher gave her the specifics while she took efficient notes on her tablet. Legal teams to expedite the adoption cases. Private security firms to line up protection. Surveillance technology vendors to keep him informed.
“Start with the law firms,” Fisher said. “I want judicial orders unsealing those adoption records within forty-eight hours. Whatever it takes.”
Nancy nodded and moved to a quiet corner to begin. Occasionally, she’d ask questions of Fisher, but she handled things efficiently.
The yacht lights were twinkling across the water like fallen stars. Somewhere in the distance, a dinner bell chimed. Flint heard a couple of helos land and take off again.
People went about their evening routines both on the island and on the mainland, insulated from the kind of violence that had torn Jason Fisher’s family apart.
“Okay. We locate my family, ensure their safety, gather evidence of Cole’s current crimes, and eliminate the threat.” Fisher said with the same intense focus. “What else do we need to do?”
The question was aimed at Flint. Nancy was still on the phone, speaking quietly to what sounded like a security firm. The gardener had moved closer to the terrace, working on a row of orchids directly below the railing. Elsa returned with another pitcher and a few cookies.
For Fisher, the personal stakes were clear but not emotional. He was utterly determined, exhibiting the same relentless certainty that had created his empire.
The golf course had emptied, and the final players headed back to the clubhouse.
Before he could respond to Fisher’s question, Flint noticed a shadow moving across the closest green.
At first, he thought it was a late golfer, but something about the man’s gait caught Flint’s attention. He was walking directly toward the terrace, striding across the manicured fairway.
As he came closer, Flint could make out an expensive golf shirt, perfectly pressed khakis, and the kind of casual confidence that came with owning everything he surveyed.
Nancy looked up from her tablet at the same moment, stylus poised over the screen. She reached for her phone and immediately hit the speed dial.
Elsa didn’t stray from her tasks. The gardener continued working below, unaware of the new arrival.
Fisher’s eyes widened as he recognized the intruder.