The beauty of it—the exquisite perfection of his unhappily-ever-after—is that I don't even need to set foot on Chaff Island for this hunt to reach its inevitable conclusion.
Every trap, every failsafe, every agonizing checkpoint I've designed will execute flawlessly without my physical presence.
The island itself has become my instrument of justice.
It's engineered to kill him methodically, systematically—one excruciating failure at a time—until his body finally gives out or his mind shatters completely.
A very slow death.
A very painful death.
Anexcruciatingdeath.
Exactly what he deserves.
He earned it.
I switch back to the right wall. Scarletta's only made it a hundred feet into the jungle and she's already miserable.
Good.
Camera 4 captures her swatting frantically at the air around her head. Something buzzed too close to her ear. She flinches, slaps at her shoulder, examines her palm for evidence of the kill.
Nothing there.
"Fuck," she mutters, then louder: "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
She's hopping now, lifting one foot then the other off the path. The ground's not smooth here—volcanic rock worn down over millennia but still rough enough to hurt tender feet that have spent twenty-two years in sneakers and socks.
A mosquito lands on her breast. She notices it, watches it probe her skin, then smacks herself hard enough to leave a red mark.
I don't feel sorry for her.
Not even a little.
The bug population on Story Island is a fraction of what Volk's experiencing right now on Chaff. I've spent three yearsand half a million dollars making sure my clients—wealthy men paying premium rates for fantasy fulfillment—don't spend their forty-eight hours swatting mosquitoes instead of fucking their willing participants.
Wildlife management wasn't something I considered when I first bought this place. Thought the "authentic jungle experience" would add to the appeal. Took exactly one hunt to learn otherwise.
So I brought in experts. Environmental consultants who specialized in luxury eco-resorts. Pest control specialists with experience in Caribbean properties. Even a goddamn ornithologist from Cornell.
The solution was elegant. Natural. Self-sustaining.
Guinea fowl.
I released thirty birds three years ago. Semi-domesticated flock imported from a breeding facility in Jamaica. They adapted immediately, roosting in the trees near the resort compound, patrolling the jungle paths like they'd been doing it their entire lives.
Now there are a hundred and fifty of them.
Maybe more—they breed faster than I track.
Loud as hell. Their calls echo through the jungle at dawn and dusk, sharp and grating. But effective.
They eat everything. Ticks, mosquitoes, centipedes, scorpions. And snakes—Christ, they're vicious with snakes. I've watched them mob a fer-de-lance, pecking and clawing until it's shredded meat.
The trails Scarletta's walking right now are relatively safe. The guinea fowl clear them daily, hunting for insects and small reptiles. She might see one or two snakes if she's unlucky, but they'll be small, non-venomous, already fleeing from the birds' territories.
Still doesn't stop her from muttering about them.
