CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SYLVIE
“We’re in,” Wells reports over the comm. “Should be hooked up in less than five minutes. Confirm visual when you have it.”
“Roger that, Chief,” Ty replies.
The crew loads the last of our luggage into the tender, and I brace myself for what’s in store.
The water is dotted with yachts of all shapes and sizes.
Some docked, others just arriving. Some recognizable, others still obscured.
It’s like an extravagant summer-camp scene, an even playing field while we all prepare for a weekend of determining where we belong.
Once we’re over there, we’re on. It will be a never-ending game of deceit and survival until the main drive is in our hands. And we’re long gone.
With that in mind, I quickly send a text to my sister.
I spoke with my mother earlier, but didn’t quite land on what to say to Flora.
After my father’s arrest, Flora shut him out.
She was hurt because she viewed him as choosing a quick win over us.
It was hard to ignore her point because we paid a steep price for his crime, too, even though I know that’s not what he’d intended.
If that taught me anything, it’s how regrets hold us captive.
I didn’t have my father physically during those years, but I had him.
Flora is still paying for his sentence. That’s why she’s so relentless about fixing things with me.
I don’t want to leave things broken. She hurt me, but she hurt herself too. And while I might be in a mess, I’m surrounded by people. She’s still wading through the wreckage with only my mom.
Me: It’s been two years, and I miss my sister. When this is over, I want to reconnect. It won’t be easy, but I’d like to try.
Before I can even tuck my phone away, she replies.
Flora: Thank you. I’ll do anything to make things right. I love you.
I choose to simply heart it because going back and forth right now isn’t the best idea, especially when Ty chimes in through my earpiece.
“We’re up and running, Chief. Visual confirmed.”
“Outstanding,” Wells replies. “Moving out.”
“One task down,” I whisper to Cash.
“That’s right, Sly.” He grins and slides his hand over the small of my back to usher me toward the tender. “One trick at a time.”
We pile into the small boat, and other than “Love Story” by Indila lending French background music, not a sound is uttered.
The sweeping scene is breathtaking. Moody blues and purples paint the sky and water.
Dramatic limestone cliffs, sugary sand, thick Aleppo pines, and Mediterranean umbrella pines splash the landscape with whites and greens.
The resort itself is like a castle with its rugged historical elegance, sprawling across the island.
Terra-cotta roof tiles, creamy stone, and earth-toned stucco.
Soft golden lighting spears the night and renders it mysterious and enchanting.
It’s unmistakable that we’re secluded in the middle of the sea while also surrounded—in the clutches of the enemy’s fortress.
They just don’t know they’re under attack.
My heart thumps to the beat of the music—the rush that always feeds me when entering a job coursing through my bloodstream to mix with this deep-seated trepidation I can’t shake.
Right before we pull up to the dock, Jax sways closer from the seat beside me.
“Nothing says triumph more than sticking the landing when no one knew you were jumping.” He’s relating this to my first night in the Underground, pausing for me to nod that I’m following.
“You’re a victor. You’ve already jumped, and from what I’ve seen, you always stick the damn landing. ”
Not always, but I don’t say that.
“I do,” I whisper as Cash massages my neck, digesting this sidebar I’m having with his brother.
“Good.” Jax peers out at the expanse of water and sky, the blurring blues of the horizon. “This time … we stick it to the assholes who crossed us.”
I don’t have time to offer anything in return because the boat idles at the dock, and a hospitality crew greets us and helps us to solid ground.
“The Noires have arrived. I am Phillipe, and I will be attending to you this weekend.” The man’s whole face lights up with the thrill of someone who truly loves his job. “Rumor has it, you have been long-awaited guests.”
“This beauty finally convinced us.” Cash curls me into his side before tucking five hundred dollars into the bellman’s palm.
“Thank you, sir.” Phillipe offers a small bow in appreciation as Axel, Maddox, and Jax take care of the rest of the bellmen collecting our things, and he addresses me with a wink. “So, you are the brains of this group.”
“You could say that.” I laugh. “Rumor has it, you all have a lot to offer here.”
“Vous en rêvez, nous le réalisons,” he replies before his brown eyes twinkle, and he translates with his strong French accent. “You dream it, we make it a reality.”
Counting on it.
Once we’ve been issued our keys, we stroll into the main resort, weaving through and mingling with the throngs of guests also arriving.
Panoramic views of the French Riviera cliffs in the distance and a sparkling blanket of navy water are accentuated by the quaint but lavish decor.
Candlelight and lush florals, reclaimed wood and artistic touches of pottery, antique silver, and paintings I’d like to come back for.
Soft music from a live band escorts the cocktail and hors d’oeuvres reception, cloaking the entire event in intimacy from the start.
“We’ve got a twenty on Peter Fairfax—main lobby,” Gage announces through the comm. “Beatrice Shaeffer …”
His information fades into the background as we all scatter, handling our designated tasks.
Cash and I sip champagne, making small talk and tagging anyone we presume suspicious. We’ve worked out a system where we both say the person’s name if we think they warrant recon. For the most part, we’re limiting our unnecessary conversations to three minutes—polite but freeing.
Unfortunately, our current situation has had us discussing stocks for upward of four hundred excruciating seconds. God knows how that happened.
“I put it all on Broadcom,” the sixty-something guy with a combover reveals. “It’s been quite a ride.”
“I imagine it would be.” Cash tips his glass in a way that is clearly condescending, but seems to go unnoticed by everyone else. “I might be coming your way, Jefferson. That’s a ride I’d like to take.”
Dear Lord.
“Fucking hell,” Maddox hisses into my ear, echoing my thoughts. “Are you gonna be blowing smoke up asses all night?”
“You can’t attack him now,” Wells chides from the boat. “He can’t respond.”
“That sounds like … ideal conditions,” Jax quips.
“Agreed, but save it and focus,” Axel redirects as he strides to greet Beatrice Shaeffer, his mouth near Zara’s ear, as if he were whispering sweet nothings to his wife, not the rest of us.
Since Cash seems to be holding his own, I roam. It will give him an excuse to break free, and I’m better at gauging people if I can simply observe.
A blonde, who appears a bit jittery, stops at the bar and requests a dirty martini, so I sidle up beside her and plop down on the stool.
“A lemon drop martini with Belvedere, please.” I let out a sigh. “Just a splash of lemonade.”
A moment later, the woman accepts her martini, plucking out the blue cheese–stuffed olive. “Exhausting travel day, overwhelmed by the amount of peopling required, or fighting with a significant other?”
“All of the above?” I grin, gathering the sugar on the rim as I sip. “Well, not fighting. Bored. I left an intense discussion about stocks in the dust.”
“Oh dear. I’m bracing for a few too many of those.” She offers her hand. “Lemon Wilkeshire.”
“Lemon Wilkeshire,” Liam parrots in my ear, and the eye roll is audible. “Of all the uppity-ass names.”
She wasn’t one of our projected guests, but as I catalog her well-cultivated summer suit, pearls, and French twist with lash-grazing bangs, it’s plain that she’s old money, though not billionaire status. She’s tagging along with someone.
“I’m Sylvie Palmer.” I take her hand, noting her firm shake. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe we can be escape buddies this weekend.”
“Oh, I’d love that. Who are you here with?”
“The Noires,” I say, and her green eyes flash with something, so I grin and peer over my shoulder at my man. “Cash is mine.”
“Wow.” She whistles quietly, but drowns it in her salty gin. “The Noires are … intense.”
I slant my head, feigning innocence. “How do you mean?”
“Just … they’re pretty open about what they do.”
“That they are,” I concede with a hint of mirth. “But maybe that’s better than the others here who pretend to be driving a straight and narrow path.”
That strikes a chord.
She bobs her head, her shoulders pulling back with the slightest shadow of ire coasting across her made-up face before she snaps practiced shutters over it. “When they’re doing a hundred fifty on the wrong side of the highway. Backward. Yeah.”
“Who did you come with?”
“I’m with the Spencer group. Elliot is my brother-in-law.” She pins her lips, debating something.
Elliot Spencer? I wonder if Lemon knows anything about the group her brother-in-law is with or that he’s a keyholder for some sort of duplicitous information. Maybe that’s the root of her attitude.
“Jackpot,” Gage hoots into the comm. “Doing my recon for me.”
Finally, regarding whatever internal war Lemon was enduring, she picks a side.
Her eyes connect with mine, emeralds shimmering with conflict.
“I’m here to enjoy a getaway with my sister, but my husband was a Fed.
So”—she chuckles without a stitch of humor before polishing off her martini—“I don’t think we’ll make great escape buddies. He was corrupt. But I am not.”
She wipes her mouth and saunters off without sparing me another glance.
Division is everywhere. Old money and new money. Ethical and crooked. And I must be guilty by association—because as far as she knows, I could be as virtuous as they come.
“Wilkeshire is her maiden name,” Wells announces as I’m vacating the barstool. “Lemon is the widow of Agent Glines. He was killed in the field a few years ago.”
Agent Glines—the FBI agent who visited my father in prison.
I’m not sure if that’s useful or if it’s a bad omen, but my gut stirs.
“So, the guards fucking love me,” Maddox boasts while I head for his brother. “If anyone needs theme-music inspiration, I’m currently going with ‘All Along the Watchtower’ by Jimi Hendrix.”
“Fitting,” I deadpan.
“Kinda doomsday,” Tessa counters.
“So, fitting.” Cash flashes his dazzling smile at me—all suave and golden and steeped in celebrated duplicity—as he beelines through the hordes of people in the throes of either frivolous discussions or nefarious scheming.
“There does indeed have to be a way out of here.” That’s in reference to the chorus.
“Well, guys”—my gaze flits from person to person, aware that so much more lies beneath what we’re witnessing here, but our time is ticking—“let’s start taking the steps toward it then.”
“You heard the boss,” Maddox croons. “Operation Chaos has commenced.”