Eager to change the subject, Mia pours potato chips into a bowl, then offers them to us. When she reaches her cousin, she asks, “So, Sam, did your snooping find anything of interest?”
Our resident detective strolls to the front window. Frowning, she lowers her voice to a whisper. “The security is way overkill. We’re talking guys in camos, automatic rifles, and cameras up the wazoo. If you put that together with the after-dinner speech, it’s safe to conclude we're in a survivalist camp.”
Lilac nods. “Slate suspected the same thing. He almost didn’t let me come.”
Rose moans. “Oh no. What about our two-hour full body massages?”
“And our mani-pedis?” When her sister joins in the whine-fest, my stomach churns.
“I’m really, really, sorry, you guys. I should never have dragged you all into this.” Wulf was right all along, but now, I’m more worried than ever.
Eyes still staring outside, Sam shrugs. “This place has over two hundred five-star reviews. I’m sure the spa is legit, and the amenities will be provided. Hold on, someone is coming.”
Opening the door, she curses at the note by her feet, then races after whoever left the message.
“What the?” I unfold the lined paper, bite my tongue, and pass it around.
The note reads,Careful what you say. They have eyes and ears everywhere. I know where Dolly is. Meet me behind the cafeteria by the dumpster.
Chapter 8
“Growing up, I was taught that a man has to defend his family. When the wolf is trying to get in, you gotta stand in the doorway.” — B. B. King
Axel
Trying not to attract attention, I let the huge former SEALs check in first. When they finish, Bear and I walk to the front desk.
“Sorry, no dogs allowed.” As the kid posing as a manager points to the sign behind him, I cross my arms, giving him my best don’t-fuck-with-me-face.
He at least has the brains to cringe at my scowl. “I’m a vet, and he’s my service dog. I called ahead. The person on the phone approved, provided I leave a deposit. If there’s a problem, I could ask Dr. Lewis at the camp next door to vouch for me.”
The teen pales. “N-no need. Sorry. It says here you’re having a bachelor party?”
“No, it’s adad-chelorparty.” I hand the kid two crisp twenty-dollar bills. “Our friend, Mr. Slate, is expecting his first child any day now. We’ll be up quite late but will try to keep down the noise. You’ll let me know if anyone complains?”
“Ah, yeah, sure. I put you all at the end of the building.” After the young man hands me my key, I whistle for Bear.
Ears perked, my dog follows me to room 218, then sits while I knock.
“It’s open.” At Slate’s familiar voice, I push the door, drop my bag next to the others, then squeeze between a double bed and a dresser to join the rest.
In the kitchenette, a twenty-seven-inch monitor rests on a round table. With the three chairs taken, I drop into the fourth while Slate points to an aerial image. “Our ladies are in this building, attending some kind of orientation meeting.”
Suds leans in, eyes widened. “Holy fuck, you hacked their surveillance drones?”
“No, it’s mine. Jack’s out there controlling it.” He sends a message from his keyboard, and the ghostly green night vision shifts to thermal sensing.
The walls of the structure glow yellow from the heat leaking out of the non-insulated interior. Through the roof, bodies sitting in a row radiate shades of orange. Some heads nod, and others tilt as they watch the speaker in the front of the room.
Occasionally, the presenter moves, leaving a streak of heat where he once stood. A couple of warmer blobs linger at the edges of the property, shifting their weight.
“Are the guards armed?” Pulse spiking, I count over a dozen splotches circling the compound.
“Yes, AR-15s.” Slate says this as if mentioning the time of day, allowing the data to sink in.
Meanwhile, Lucky whistles through his teeth. “Automatic rifles? Who’re they looking to kill? Wayward hair stylists?”
When Suds mutters something about danger magnets under his breath, I jump in. “It’s not Sam’s fault. None of us had a clue.”
