CHAPTER 27 Maeve
The heavy wooden door of the bedroom clicks shut.
The sound is small, but it echoes in the massive, vaulted space like a gunshot. I stand perfectly still in the center of the room, my hands gripping the straps of the dark canvas duffel bag.
Declan is gone.
The realization settles over me, cold and suffocating. For the last three weeks, he has been a constant, immovable presence. Even when we were arguing, even when he was infuriatingly clinical, he was there. The sheer, terrifying gravity of him anchored me to this island.
Now, the house feels completely empty.
I drop the duffel bag onto the edge of the unmade bed. I need to pack. I need to follow his instructions, walk down the cliff path, and lock myself inside the caretaker's compound. That is the logical, safe thing to do.
I pull open the top drawer of the dresser, grabbing a handful of black t-shirts and shoving them into the bag. My hands are shaking. The high-frequency tremor is back, vibrating through my wrists and up my forearms.
He will come back.
I repeat the words in my head, a desperate mantra to fight the rising panic. Declan Vance doesn't lose. He doesn't make mistakes. He is going to fly to New York, shoot whoever is waiting at the airstrip, and come back to me.
But my brain—the part of me that audits ledgers and looks for anomalies—refuses to accept the simple math.
Richard Evans is a coward. He hides behind digital signatures and corporate lawyers. He doesn't orchestrate physical ambushes at private airstrips. It doesn't fit his behavioral profile.
I zip the duffel bag closed with a sharp, aggressive motion.
I grab the heavy strap, sling the bag over my shoulder, and walk out of the bedroom. The living room is bathed in the bright, cheerful sunlight of the late morning. The ocean outside is a brilliant, blinding blue. It looks like a postcard. It looks like a paradise.
It feels like a tomb.
I walk toward the front door, my boots loud against the slate floor. I reach for the heavy iron handle.
Before my fingers touch the metal, the secure terminal on the desk behind me emits a sharp, high-pitched ping .
I freeze.
The sound is completely unexpected. The terminal has been silent since Declan left. Leo shouldn't be sending data to this machine; the primary communication relay was routed to Declan's satellite phone.
I turn around, dropping the duffel bag onto the floor.
I walk back to the desk. The screen is dark, locked behind the heavy encryption protocol. A small, white envelope icon is flashing in the bottom right corner.
An incoming message.
I sit down in the leather chair, my heart hammering against my ribs. I place my hands on the keyboard, typing the decryption sequence Declan showed me two weeks ago.
The screen flares to life.
It isn't a message from Leo. It isn't a tactical update.
It is a single, low-resolution photograph.
My breath stalls completely in my throat. The air in the room turns to ice.
The photograph is taken from a high angle, looking down through the dense green canopy of a jungle. In the center of the frame, partially obscured by the leaves, is the dark, corrugated steel roof of a massive hangar.
Our hangar.
The timestamp in the corner of the image reads 09:14 AM.
Ten minutes ago.
I stare at the screen, my brain struggling to process the visual data. The island is off the map. It doesn't exist on commercial satellite grids. The only way to get this image is from a drone flying directly overhead.
The cartel isn't in New York.
Richard Evans didn't set a trap at the airstrip to kill Declan. He set a trap to pull Declan off the island.
"Oh my god," I whisper, the horror crashing over me in a violent, paralyzing wave.
They are here.
I shove the chair back, scrambling away from the desk. I need to call Declan. I need to tell him the airstrip is a decoy.
I grab the secure phone sitting next to the keyboard. I hit the speed-dial button for his satellite relay.
The line clicks, followed immediately by a harsh, automated tone.
Connection failed. Signal lost.
I hit the button again. My fingers are trembling so badly I almost drop the heavy phone.
Connection failed.
They jammed the frequency. Just like they did in the sub-basement in Miami. They cut the island off from the rest of the world.
I drop the phone onto the desk.
I am completely alone. Declan is hours away, flying into an empty trap, and the people who want to kill me are currently looking at the roof of my house.
The caretaker.
Declan told me to go to the caretaker's compound. He said the man was a former Marine. He has weapons. He has a fortified bunker.
I turn away from the desk, grabbing the duffel bag off the floor. I don't bother locking the front door behind me. If they are already flying drones over the canopy, a wooden door isn't going to stop them.
I run across the wooden deck, the midday heat hitting me like a physical blow. I ignore the stone steps leading down to the armory and take the narrow, winding dirt path that cuts across the center of the island toward the secondary compound.
The jungle is dense, the air thick with humidity and the smell of rotting vegetation. The path is uneven, covered in exposed roots and slick mud. I stumble twice, my heavy boots sliding, but I don't stop. I use the strap of the duffel bag to balance myself, pushing through the thick, green leaves.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice sounding thin and pathetic in the massive expanse of the jungle. "Is anyone there?"
No answer. Just the loud, chaotic shrieking of tropical birds and the distant roar of the ocean.
I run for ten minutes, my lungs burning, the sweat stinging my eyes.
The path finally clears, opening up into a small, functional clearing.
The caretaker's compound isn't a mansion. It is a brutal, pragmatic structure built of reinforced concrete and steel. There are no windows on the ground floor. A heavy iron gate blocks the entrance, and four security cameras are mounted on the corners of the roof.
"Hey!" I shout, running toward the iron gate. I grab the metal bars, shaking them. "Hey! Declan sent me! Open the gate!"
Silence.
I look up at the cameras. The small red indicator lights, which should be blinking to show they are active, are completely dark.
A cold, heavy dread settles in the pit of my stomach.
I step back from the gate, looking around the clearing. To the left of the concrete bunker, partially hidden by a cluster of palm trees, is a small, open-sided shed housing the island's primary diesel generators.
The door to the shed is swinging slightly in the breeze.
I walk toward it, my boots crunching loudly on the gravel. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to turn around and run back into the jungle. But if the caretaker is in there, if he can fix the radio, I have to find him.
I reach the shed. I push the swinging door open.
The smell hits me before my eyes adjust to the shadows. It is the heavy, sweet, metallic stench of fresh blood.
I freeze in the doorway.
The caretaker is lying on the concrete floor between the two massive generators. He is a large, heavily muscled man, wearing faded military fatigues.
He is dead.
His throat has been cut, a deep, jagged slash that completely severed the artery. A massive pool of dark blood surrounds his head, soaking into the porous concrete. His sightless eyes are staring up at the corrugated tin roof.
I don't scream. The terror is too absolute, too suffocating to allow sound.
I take a slow, trembling step backward, my hand covering my mouth to hold back the bile rising in my throat.
They didn't just find the island. They are already on it. They killed the only person who could protect me, and they disabled the security grid.
I turn around, stumbling away from the shed.
I have to hide. I have to find a place where they can't see me from the air.
I run back toward the tree line, abandoning the path and pushing directly into the dense, untamed jungle. The thick undergrowth tears at my tactical pants, the sharp thorns scratching my arms, but I don't feel the pain. I am running entirely on the raw, primal instinct of a hunted animal.
I push through a cluster of heavy ferns, emerging onto a steep, rocky incline that leads down toward the northern beach.
I stop, pressing my back against the rough bark of a massive banyan tree, gasping for air.
I look down at the beach.
The private dock Declan mentioned—the only safe harbor on the island—is visible through the trees.
Moored at the end of the wooden pier are two sleek, black tactical speedboats.
Six men are standing on the dock. They are wearing dark, unmarked combat gear, holding suppressed rifles. They aren't moving frantically. They are calm, methodical, securing the perimeter of the beach.
Standing in the center of the group, wearing a pristine, light gray suit that looks completely absurd in the tropical heat, is Richard Evans.
He is leaning heavily on a cane, his left hand pressing against the side of his abdomen where Declan shot him, but he is standing upright. He is looking up at the cliff, directly toward the location of the main house.
He isn't hiding from the cartel. He brought them here.
"Spread out," Richard’s voice drifts up the incline, carried by the ocean breeze. It sounds strained, but laced with a cruel, vindictive excitement. "Vance isn't here. He took the bait in New York. The girl is alone."
One of the tactical operatives nods, gesturing for two men to move toward the jungle path.
"Find her," Richard orders, leaning heavily on the cane. "And don't shoot her. I want her alive. I want to watch her realize exactly what happens when you try to steal from me."
I press my hand harder against my mouth, tears of pure, blinding terror blurring my vision.
They are coming up the hill.
I look around desperately. I can't outrun them in the jungle. They have thermal optics. They have radios. I am one exhausted woman with a duffel bag full of t-shirts.
I look back toward the direction of the main house.
The armory.
Declan showed me the armory. He showed me the heavy steel door hidden under the cliff overhang. It is the only fortified room on the island that isn't connected to the main power grid.
If I can reach the armory, I can lock the steel door from the inside. They won't be able to breach it without heavy explosives, and Richard Evans doesn't have explosives. He has rifles.
I push away from the tree, forcing my shaking legs to move.
I don't run. Running makes noise. I move slowly, carefully placing my boots on the soft moss, avoiding the dry leaves and broken branches. I navigate the steep incline, my hands gripping the rough stone of the cliff face to keep my balance.
I can hear the men moving through the jungle below me. They are communicating in short, sharp bursts of Spanish, their heavy boots crunching loudly through the undergrowth. They are sweeping the area in a grid pattern.
I reach the bottom of the cliff.
The natural overhang hides the heavy steel door of the armory perfectly. I slip into the shadows, my hands frantically searching the stone wall for the biometric scanner.
I find the small glass square.
I press my thumb against it.
The scanner beeps, a low, angry sound. The LED light flashes red.
Access Denied.
I stare at the red light, my heart stopping completely.
Declan didn't add my print to the armory scanner. He opened it for me yesterday. He never gave me clearance.
I am locked out.
"No, no, please," I whisper, pressing my thumb against the glass again.
Access Denied.
I hit the heavy steel door with the heel of my hand, a useless, desperate gesture. The metal doesn't even vibrate.
I am standing in the open, trapped between the ocean and a cliff wall, with a cartel hit squad closing in from the jungle.
A sharp crack of a breaking branch echoes from the tree line just twenty feet away.
"Over here!" a voice shouts.
I turn around, pressing my back flat against the cold steel of the armory door.
Two men step out of the jungle, their rifles raised, the red laser sights cutting through the shadows and painting my chest.
I don't have a glass-breaker. I don't have a laptop. I don't have Declan.
I raise my hands, the heavy canvas duffel bag slipping off my shoulder and hitting the dirt.
The men don't shoot. They lower their rifles slightly, keeping the muzzles pointed at my center mass. They part, stepping aside to clear a path.
Richard Evans walks out of the tree line.
He looks terrible. His skin is a sickly, pale yellow, and he is sweating profusely in the expensive suit, but the smile on his face is terrifying.
"Hello, Maeve," Richard says, stopping ten feet away from me. He leans on the cane, catching his breath. "I told you. You should have just stayed in your apartment and done the math."
I stare at him, the terror slowly burning away, replaced by a cold, absolute hatred.
"Declan is going to kill you," I say, my voice completely steady.
Richard laughs, a wet, coughing sound that makes him wince.
"Vance is currently standing in an empty hangar in New York, realizing he lost the only thing he actually cares about," Richard sneers. He gestures to the men beside him. "Take her to the boat. We're going for a ride."
The two men step forward, grabbing my arms. Their grip is brutal, dragging me away from the steel door and pulling me toward the dark water.
I don't scream. I don't fight them.
I look up at the empty sky, the silence of the island finally broken.
I will come back.
He promised me.
And God help the men holding my arms when he does.