Chapter Forty-Five
Helios
Sitting in the driver’s seat of the Denali, using binos, Ares scanned the marina. “This is off.”
“Way fucking off.” We’d been here all goddamn day, sunset was hours ago, there was no fucking sign of al-Hashimi or any Russian mercs, and I hadn’t heard from Haven since those texts this morning. I spoke into my comms. “Chaos, Nix, sitrep.”
The background noise of his motorcycle filtered through Chaos’s response. “Nothing.”
“Copy. Nix?” Glancing toward the far end of the marina, I watched Chaos make another loop through traffic, this time on his MV Agusta F3 Competizione.
The street-legal supersport stood the fuck out, but only if you knew bikes.
The tradeoff was having Chaos on two wheels.
He’d be able to cut through traffic faster than me and Ares.
“Zero change,” Nix replied through comms. “No movement, no heat signatures on the target.”
I looked toward the slip where Nix had the tender to his mega yacht moored.
I was fucking pissed he was here instead of at the island, but he’d been closest when Cypher got his intel.
Shit intel, it turned out. I scanned across the fairway to our target.
The thirty-eight-foot Regal yacht with a flybridge was dark.
“Anything on the boats around the target?”
“Negative,” Nix answered.
“Copy. Hold position.” Wondering where the fuck al-Hashimi was, I scanned the marina entrance, then the docks before I glanced at Ares. “We were either made, or this motherfucker is moving around a hell of a lot more than we thought.”
“My guess, he’s constantly on the move. He’d have to be to have evaded capture or any sightings for this long.” Ares pulled out his cell. “I’m checking in with Cypher again.”
“Roger that.” Since Cypher wasn’t finding shit, I should call Ghost again.
That motherfucker hadn’t answered when I’d called him on the flight back from the island or any of the calls since.
I was a whole new level of pissed at him.
End-his-ass pissed. The only thing saving him was an eight-year-old promise I’d made.
That, and all the fucking satellites the motherfucker owned.
Most of the time, I didn’t give a fuck about them.
But right now, with Cypher accessing them to hopefully get us intel, I fucking cared.
Ares spoke into his cell. “Putting you on speaker, Cypher.” He swiped across the screen. “Repeat that for Helios.”
“Fifty-five minutes ago, a Cessna out of Miami Executive took off with a fake tail number. May be nothing, could be something.”
I looked at Ares. “Flight plan?”
“Turks and Caicos,” Cypher replied.
Right the fuck over the Bahamas. “Cypher, hold.” I hit my comms to turn it off, then tapped Ares’s cell to mute the call. “Turn off your comms.”
“It was never on.” Ares removed his earpiece.
I laid it out. “There are seven people who know about Blue Island. How the fuck would al-Hashimi know we took Haven there?”
“We don’t know that he does or that he’s on that plane,” Ares reasoned.
I unmuted the call. “Cypher, what model Cessna?”
“Two-oh-eight Caravan.”
Motherfucker. “With floats?”
“Hold.” Cypher typed. “Affirmative. The Caravan has floats.”