Not hesitation now. Nerves.
“Description.”
“Forty, maybe. Dark hair. Work clothes. Had a wheelbarrow and clippers. I figured?—”
“You figured wrong.” Zach didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. The kid flinched anyway. “No one works these systems without direct authorization from me or David. Written. Verified. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Zach dismissed them with a nod and pulled out his radio. “Security team—flag all unidentified personnel. No one operates solo. Verify credentials on sight. I want eyes on every contractor, every sub, every?—”
Gravel crunched under a foot. He turned.
Emma stood at the edge of the pathway, concern clear in her dark eyes. She’d heard too much.
He finished the call, clipped the radio back to his belt.
She stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Security issue.” His tone was even. Controlled. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Emma studied him silently for a moment, assessing, before she spoke.
“On my way back from the village,” she said, voice steady, “I saw a groundskeeper I didn’t recognize.”
Zach’s attention snapped to her.
“North path. He had a wheelbarrow and tools, but something felt off.” She held his gaze. “Zach, I know all our staff by sight and all the standard contractors. He wasn't familiar at all.”
Every instinct honed over his years in Delta snapped into focus.
Footprint on the beach. Bird spooked in the trees. Sightline from the ridge. Unknown worker.
Now, sabotage.
The pieces locked together with brutal clarity.
“Where exactly?” Zach was already moving.
Emma fell into step beside him. She answered as they walked—clear, concise. Clothing. Tools. Movement. No wasted words. Above average recall.
“Face?”
“I didn’t get a good look at his face. His cap was pulled down,” she admitted. “But I’ve interviewed or met almost every staff member on this island. I didn’t recognize him. When I realized that and turned back, he was gone.”
Because he wasn’t staff. Zach didn’t question that. He trusted her read.
The north path was empty of all but palm shadows stretching across the packed earth like grasping fingers. Wind through fronds. Distant surf.
Emma stopped. “Here.”
He moved past her, scanning low. Ground first. Then edges. Then concealment zones.
There. Wheel track. Partial. Obscured—but not erased. He traced it with just the tip of his finger. Led off-trail. Temporary concealment.
“He waited,” he muttered.
“For what?”
