Then, the paranoia returns.
The physical toll of the oral sex—the strain of holding my body weight, the adrenaline spike—has caused the wound in my shoulder to begin seeping again. The dull throb has escalated back into a sharp, blinding agony.
But I cannot rest.
I stand up from the bed, my legs trembling slightly. I walk silently out of the master suite, leaving the doors completely open so I can hear her if she wakes.
I walk across the villa to the sprawling, glass-enclosed study on the far side of the house. The room is heavily insulated, the glass treated to block thermal imaging.
I walk to the massive, custom-built teakwood bookcase spanning the back wall. I press my hand against the spine of a specific, leather-bound volume. The mechanism clicks, and a section of the shelving slides backward, revealing a heavy, steel wall safe.
I punch in the twelve-digit alphanumeric code. The heavy bolts disengage.
I open the safe. Inside are stacks of untraceable bearer bonds, six completely forged passports with biometric data, and a heavy, matte-black satellite receiver.
This receiver is not connected to the radio console Dante destroyed. It is a completely isolated, read-only frequency scanner, designed exclusively to monitor federal and Commission chatter in the Caribbean sector.
I pull the heavy device out and set it on the desk. I flip the power switch.
The screen illuminates with a harsh, green tactical glow. I plug a small, single-ear earpiece into the jack and insert it into my ear.
The static is heavy for a moment before the deep-sea sonar pings and encrypted radio chatter begin to filter through the decryption software.
I close my eyes, leaning heavily against the desk, entirely preparing myself to hear the chaotic, desperate confusion of a government searching a continent for a ghost.
But the chatter is not confused. It is terrifyingly organized.
"...thermal sweep sector four is negative. Moving to sector five. Acknowledge."
"Sector five acknowledged. Coast Guard cutter intercepting civilian vessels in the channel. The drone is refueling in the Caymans. We have a confirmed visual on the Sikorsky wreckage off the coast of Jamaica."
My blood turns completely to ice.
They found the helicopter. I ordered the pilot to ditch the bird after refueling, to completely erase our flight path. But if they found the wreckage this quickly, it means they are not searching the Midwest.
They are searching the Caribbean.
And then, a new voice breaks through the encrypted frequency. It is a voice that makes the dark, festering infection in my shoulder feel like a mild inconvenience compared to the catastrophic, apocalyptic dread detonating in my chest.
"This is Special Agent Vance. Sector five is clear. Re-calibrate the satellite sweeps for the unmapped coordinates in sector six. He's here. I can feel the bastard."
Agent Vance.
Arthur Vance didn't just have a brother. He had a son. A son he kept completely hidden, scrubbed from the Syndicate's deep-background checks, embedded entirely within the federal government.
Sybil has a brother.
And he is currently hunting us with the entire weight of the United States Navy at his back.
I stare at the blinking green light of the receiver. The cage without walls is shrinking.
The paradise is compromised.
CHAPTER 28 THE GHOSTS OF OUR BLOOD POV: SYBIL
The Caribbean heat is a heavy, suffocating blanket that entirely fails to warm the sudden, jagged ice forming in my veins.
I wake up to the rhythmic, soothing crash of the ocean waves against the white sand, but the sprawling master suite of the villa feels like a vacuum. The massive, low-profile bed is completely empty. The pristine white linens are tangled and cold, devoid of the immense, furnace-like heat of the man who completely ruined and rebuilt me yesterday.
