I let out another disgruntled sound, and a relieved smile crosses his lips. Like maybe knowing how much I want to tear this place apart soothes something in his soul.
“Can I assume the security force here is complicit in what’s going on?” I ask, testing our comms.
He looks out the window and wrinkles his nose. “Yep. And I can hear you loud and clear.”
“Any reason I need to be nice to him?”
“Nope.”
After coming to a stop, Ant and I climb out and he slips on the backpack and hands me my overnight bag, both of which are filled with weapons and explosives. I unlock the door and push down the steps, then bound down them like I’m the perfect, carefree billionaire.
“Mr. Chauncy! Welc—”
Before the greeting can leave the man’s lips, I pull my silenced gun and shoot him. Ant’s jaw drops as half of the guy’s head flies off.
“Shit. Are those the new bullets Anders and Omar found on that one job?” he asks, fascinated by the brains spilling out onto the hot asphalt.
“Yep,” I answer, tucking the gun away.
“God, it’s fun killing bad guys.”
“You know what? It kinda is.” We grab the dead guy and slide him under the plane’s shadow. Pulling out a package of wet wipes, I verify, “Are there any adults I need to avoid killing?”
Taking a wipe for himself, he nods. “Anyone in a housekeeping outfit was brought here against their will.” He checks the time on his phone and verifies our previous conversation. “This time of day, everyone will be at the pool by the main villa. There might be some kids at the pool with them, but most will be napping to get ready for the evening.”
“You still good to get the kids out of the residential building while I take out communication?” I ask one more time.
“Yes, one hundred percent,” he says confidently, holding up his fist.
I bump it, then we take off for the office inside the residential building.
“Brought your own toy, I see,” teases the island manager. I take a deep breath, physically stopping myself from wrenching his head a hundred and eighty degrees in the wrong direction.
“I wanted to see if I might be able to do a swap,” I say, somehow making my voice lighter and more carefree than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
“This one’s a little old for us, sir, but you are welcome to trade with any of the guests.” The manager taps his chin. “Little one, have we met before?”
“I sorry. I no understand,” Ant says, letting his voice float to the upper end of his register, the sound like sandpaper on my brain.
He sticks his hands in his gingham pockets, swaying the skirt side to side. The man sends him a look Ant is all too familiar with. According to his intel report, this manager was one of the ones who would sneak into the kids’ building after dark.
As much as I’d like to be the one to end this man’s life, Ant’s hands are in his pockets because that’s where he put the throwing knives Javier gave him on his birthday.
I’ve participated in a few of Javier’s knife lessons, and one of the first things he taught us was that a good throw has a particular kind ofwhooshto it.
My job is to keep this asshole occupied by asking him questions. I’m not just stalling—we need information to know where we’re going. When I get what I need, I send Ant a discreet nod.
Woosh.
Ant is brutally efficient, and it only takes one knife through the eye to get the job done. The manager is dead before he hits the ground.
I make my way behind the counter and pull Ant’s knife from the man’s eye socket, wiping it on the man’s jacket before handing it back to Ant.
“You still okay?” I ask, cupping his jaw.
“Better now,” he says, leaning into my touch.
Even—or maybe especially—with the dead man at our feet, his affection means so much.
