Chapter 8
Morning but feels like midnight, Ponta Delgada Airport, S?o Miguel
After an unfortunately long layover in Boston and nearly a day of travel, Gabby was both exhausted and wired all at the same time.
Her ears were popping, the landing gear was down, and her nerves were set to extra.
They were descending toward the Ponta Delgada Airport on the largest island in the Azores, S?o Miguel.
Like Hawaii, it was a volcanic island. Tropical plants, warm weather, beaches—paradise may have been forged in hell, but that was a long time ago.
No lava to be seen these days. From the looks of it, it was all waterfalls and flowers.
“We’re here!” she said, an explosion of butterflies in her stomach. It was almost go time.
When she turned off airplane mode on her phone, it blew up with a whole day’s worth of notifications: The kids had been tardy, the plumber she’d called couldn’t get into the house, Granny wanted to know where the plumber was, weather alerts, and the regular news.
It was Scorpio season, and things were getting spicy.
There were no suspects in the Amanda Duvall murder.
Sheridan’s disappearance still hadn’t made the news.
The plane pulled to a stop on the tarmac, and some people in high-visibility vests wheeled a staircase to the exit.
Gabby’s first feel of the Azores was a perfect seventy degrees.
At the top of the staircase, she took in the tropical island and ocean.
Her spirit soared. She was an EOD field operative, landing in paradise to protect the president.
Her kids were safe at home, and she was about to save the world, or something like that.
Maybe she did have it all. Sometimes. Not last week for sure, but now that she was being paid to go on vacation—maybe.
“Bem-vindo aos Acores!” A flight attendant spoke to them in Portuguese, and Gabby smiled pleasantly like she knew what was going on.
After collecting their luggage, Markus glanced at his phone and reported, “We’re supposed to meet a G-Wagon in front of the airport.”
Twenty minutes later, a young blonde with yoga vibes and a face that didn’t need makeup hung her head out the window of a sporty-looking SUV with surfboards on the roof and honked. “Gia and George?” she called. When they nodded, she said, “My name’s Aspen, and I’m your ticket to paradise. Get in.”
As Aspen tossed Louis V into the back of the SUV, Gabby said, “Sorry. We probably missed you. We were looking for a G-Wagon.”
“Oh, this is the G-Wagon.”
Gabby laughed at herself. “I’m always getting stuff like that mixed up.” This did not look like the G-Wagon all the LA celebrities and Bentley’s mom drove.
“This is the Inner-G wagon,” Aspen answered in a profound voice.
Markus whispered in Gabby’s ear. “I don’t know if Genesis realizes that anyone else uses the letter G.”
“Help yourself to refreshments,” Aspen said. “There’s a mini fridge in the back.”
Gabby opened the door to find it stocked with brightly colored juice shots and healthy snacks. “This isn’t alcoholic, is it?” If she started drinking, she’d probably forget who she was supposed to be.
“It’s kombucha, so not really.” As Aspen pulled out of the airport pickup lane onto the highway and accelerated, she explained, “The retreat is on the north side of the island. As you can see, the landscape is mountainous. There are some really amazing hikes if you’re into that sort of thing.”
That would be a no.
After almost an hour in the car, they turned down a long, winding driveway. There was a golf course dotted with palm trees and tropical flowers. Everyone looked rich.
“Big G owns this whole resort.” Aspen pulled up to a large structure. “You’ll see some of these people in your yoga classes and whatnot, but you are part of the Power Couples Retreat, which is more exclusive and—believe it or not—fancier.”
Aspen led them into a luxurious open-air lobby. “Feel free to enjoy any of the resort’s features like the tennis or the juice bars, but you two are the real Gs.”
Was it just Gabby, or was there some appropriation happening here? Genesis went through culture like a marauding army, taking whatever he wanted. Well, anything that started with the letter G. It was a G-heist.
“You’ll have to tell me what the Power Couple life is like because I don’t know.” Aspen shook her head. “Dating—it’s rough out here, people!”
The first view of Inner-G Resort and Spa was impressive—fountains, flowers, stonework. The centerpiece of the lobby was a life-size portrait of Jasmine and the Big G. Or maybe it was bigger than life-size because they looked larger than life.
Aspen noticed Gabby staring and said, “That’s their wedding portrait.”
“It’s, uh, nice,” Gabby said. In the portrait, they were standing on a rocky outcropping with the waves crashing at their feet, looking unbothered by anything. They were the model union, the model marriage, not to mention actual models.
“How are we going to find the Power Couples Retreat?” Gabby asked.
If this were a retreat at a Marriott in Cleveland, there would be a banner that read POWER COUPLES with lanyards and agendas printed on colorful paper with stock photos of smiling couples in pant suits.
Aspen just laughed. “You’ll figure it out.”
Gabby glanced over her shoulder as she walked across the open-air lobby to check if Genesis’s eyes were following her.
“I heard that they used vials of their blood to tint the paint red.” Aspen smiled and, without missing a beat, went on, “We grow and dry our own sage for burning. It has extra cleansing properties.”
A guy in an old T-shirt, shorts, and a dazed look, like he had just emerged from a spiritual journey in a tent, held out a tray of bright green shots of liquid. “Would you like a G-shot?”
“This is Dave.” Aspen introduced the guy offering the green juice. “He owns an airplane company, but he’s doing his service to G this week.”
“Nice to meet you, but no thanks,” Gabby said, being of the firm opinion that green was for salads.
Markus flashed a look, reminding her that she wasn’t Gabby. She was Gia.
“On second thought,” she said, “thank you.” As she held it up to her lips, a pungent odor hit her nose. “What did you say this was?”
“I’m going to check in, babe,” Markus said, downing his G-shot in one gulp.
“It’s a juice shot packed with radical molecules.”
Gabby blinked back. She touched her tongue to the liquid. She would describe it as crude oil in texture and taste. “What’s it for?”
“It helps you tap into your Inner-G.” The man said it like he was speaking the truth.
“Does it boost metabolism?” Because that’s the only way she was interested.
“And don’t forget to check in your phone,” Dave reminded them. “Leave it at the front desk, and it’ll be here for you when you leave.”
“Of course. I can’t wait to get rid of that thing,” Gabby said, her phone tucked safely in her purse with the ringer off.
“You’ll be a new person without that thing sucking the lifeforce out of you. Clear thoughts, less anxiety, fewer insecurities.”
Gabby laughed like she agreed. There was no way she was letting go of her phone. It was bad enough that she had left the kids for a week, but to be out of contact—not acceptable.
Aspen said, “I hope you’ll enjoy the honeymoon cottage.”
Gabby choked on the last sip of radical molecules. The honeymoon cottage? There was no way she was going to swallow. Instead of coughing/vomiting the juice out, she spit it into a potted bamboo right in front of Markus and the front desk attendant.
Markus rubbed her back. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t swallow, so I decided to just spit it out.”
Aspen smiled in amusement. “That’s a choice we all have to make.”
Jesus, Aspen. Gabby started choking again.
Markus squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. Why don’t you just catch your breath?”
As Gabby agreed, Aspen handed the key to their door to Markus and an egg-shaped crystal to Gabby.
“Umm…” Gabby turned it over in her hand. All she could think of was Gwyneth putting a crystal in her vajayjay. Sincerely confused, she leaned across the desk and loud-whispered, “Am I supposed to insert this?”
Aspen leaned across the desk conspiratorially. In a hushed tone, she said, “Feel free to do whatever you want in the honeymoon cottage. Spit, swallow, and put anything up there you want.”
Gabby blinked back.
“Let us know if you need any assistance. The Loves have left instructions to take particularly good care of you.”
Gabby glanced over at their imposing portrait and smiled back numbly. Assistance with what?
Markus placed his hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the room. “Let’s get you to the cottage, shall we?”
Gabby nodded. It was time to collect herself before she said something stupid.
The honeymoon cottage wasn’t a cottage but a beachfront luxury retreat. Small enough to create a sense of intimacy, but large enough to provide everything a person could want. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in an ice bucket on the counter alongside two crystal flutes.
Finally alone, they stupidly stared at each other. Tired from traveling, wired about the mission, and in the midst of a honeymoon fantasy. The silence left space for the awkwardness to bloom.
“Want some champagne?” Gabby asked, shifting the bottle in its bed of ice.
“Not yet, baby,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
What he really meant was “Let’s go pick up the spy stuff at the designated location at the designated time.
” They wouldn’t be able to speak freely in the cottage until they swept for listening devices.
Markus had arranged a dead drop with their Portuguese liaison at a secluded spot on the beach.
All they had to do was casually stroll down the sand until they found a large rattan beach bag filled with countersurveillance equipment, comms, phones, defensive measures, and who knows what else.
“Absolutely. I want to feel the sand in my toes.” She didn’t, but in case anyone was listening, she wanted to make it sound natural.
On her last mission, she’d been pinch-hitting.
This was her first mission as a proper field agent who threw around phrases like “dead drop” and “countersurveillance” as casually as “laundry” or “damn it, my kids have a science fair tomorrow.”
Gabby wasn’t just playing at this anymore. She was a spy.
Besides the dead drop, which she was trying to be very casual about, they had to familiarize themselves with the layout of the resort.
They’d studied aerial photos, but things looked different on the ground.
They needed to figure out where all the key players were staying, as well as ingress and egress from all important buildings.
Not to mention a PACE plan, which was the stop, drop, and roll of communication.
Apparently, they required a primary, alternate, contingent, and emergency communication strategy.
Markus slipped on something that she would describe as “James Bond at the beach,” black shorts and a casual button-down shirt.
“Are you going to button your shirt?”
He looked down at his chiseled core like it was a roast beef sandwich. No, that’s how she was looking at it. “What? This is how you’re supposed to dress on vacation.”
“Is it?” Maybe it was, but he wasn’t supposed to look so good doing it. “It’s like I’m about to go on a walk with you and your abs.” She pantomimed meeting someone. “Hi, this is my fiancé, George, and these”—she gestured like Vanna White showing off a Wheel of Fortune prize package—“are his abs.”
He slipped on a smile to go with his bare chest. “Says the woman dressed like Catwoman.”
“Stop it. You like this outfit?” She was wearing the black exercise onesie that the Disguises department had packed for her. “I thought it highlighted some of my problem areas.”
“Oh, they’re problem areas all right,” he said, blowing out a breath.
“Really?” She looked down at everything below her bust line.
Markus glanced at the clock. “We’d better get going.”