Now the dynasty was no more.

  King and Slater might have fished around aimlessly for the first stretch, but they’d located the sharks and neutralised them.

  Their work was done.

  Almost.

  79

  The resort within which the villa was located rested off Midshipman Road, with hexagonal parcels of land sporting unparalleled views of the inlet leading to the bay.

  Blue water shone and fancy new buildings gleamed in a subdued atmosphere.

  There was no gate preventing Violetta and Alexis from driving straight in.

  But they pulled to the shoulder behind a perimeter wall anyway, because the villa itself would surely be guarded.

  A curved tree line blocked an empty plot of land on the right-hand side of the entrance, and they used the evenly spaced trunks for cover. They stayed low, Alexis following in Violetta’s wake, because as much as she liked to think she was a supremely efficient operative, there was no doubt in her mind that Violetta had superior field skills. They passed the first series of villas, all lacking waterfront views, set closer to the road than the bay. Tropical wildlife squawked and shrilled in the palm trees adorning each tract of land. The palm fronds provided respite from the sun, the shadows underneath home to lounge chairs that were stretched out in just the right position so sun exposure could be spaced out at regular intervals.

  In the distance, a child laughed.

  The pleasant drone of a speedboat leaving a nearby marina floated through the air.

  In back gardens, couples and families exchanged unimportant words, letting the laziness and comfort of the atmosphere dictate their conversation.

  It was idyllic.

  Violetta focused on her phone screen and said, ‘Fifty feet ahead. It’s got to be the one in the middle.’

  From the cover of the tree line they could see three luxury villas dotted along the waterfront, each of them enormous compared to the first few they’d passed. They were three-storey structures, all brick and metal and glass, twisting up tastefully into the sky, whereupon their top floors would provide panoramic views over the bay, the inlet, and the ocean beyond.

  They had to go for at least a couple of million dollars apiece, probably complete with a workforce of cooks, maids, and butlers.

  Dylan Walcott probably owned all three.

  He probably owned the whole resort.

  ‘There,’ Alexis whispered.

  The front door of the middle villa opened and a man stepped out. Tough, big, tight with muscle, at odds with the fat-bellied tourists who floated through the resort’s streets in the middle of the day. If his physical appearance didn’t give it away, the holster half-concealed at his waist certainly did.

  Alexis said, ‘Should we move?’

  A small sound came from behind Violetta.

  She turned and spun and found herself face-to-face with a guy in his early thirties who looked just like her. Vaguely Scandinavian features — blue eyes and long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail — and he towered over them both. He was tall and slim and had big hands to compensate for his thin musculature. More importantly, he was clad in tactical gear — a Kevlar vest and dark khakis — and he had an MP5 sub-machine gun angled tastefully in one hand. He aimed the barrel at Violetta’s stomach, and patted the air with his other hand, encouraging calm.

  But her aim was already locked, her Glock pointed at his forehead.

  Alexis didn’t move.

  She kept her gun pointed at the grass beneath their feet.

  She feared if she raised it, the blonde man might reflexively fire.

  ‘Put it down,’ the guy said. His accent was slightly American, mostly nothing in particular. Like he’d been raised everywhere and nowhere, taking snippets of accentuation from each country he visited. ‘It doesn’t have to go this way.’

  ‘We’re both staying right here,’ Violetta said. ‘No one’s moving a muscle.’

  ‘Really?’

  Yes, she thought. Because I only need fifteen goddamn minutes.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the guy said. ‘What’s your name, darling?’

  ‘Stacy.’

  ‘Stacy, I’m Kane.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now that we’ve made the proper introductions, how about we put our guns down and talk?’

  ‘No, thanks. You move, I shoot.’

  ‘Same goes for you.’

  That’s fine by me, she thought. I’m not moving a muscle for fifteen minutes.

  She prayed Alexis would follow suit.

  Kane said, ‘You’re not being very civil, Stacy.’

  Awkward silence unfolded.

  ‘Stacy,’ Kane said, rolling the name off his tongue. ‘You don’t seem like a Stacy.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You seem more like a Violetta, on the run from your own government back on home soil.’

  Silence.

  Kane said, ‘One of my father’s corporations owns the bungalow you rented. You should do your due diligence before making a booking. We already had the exterior bugged, and I was in charge of logging surveillance soundbites, so I caught snippets of conversation. Enough to know you were trouble, but not enough to disrupt him. Because, you see, he’s had quite the day already.’

  ‘Who’s your father?’

  ‘He should be calling any minute. If not, my coworkers in the villa over your shoulder will start torturing that old girl to within an inch of her life. So this little stalemate is far worse for you than it is for me.’

  One last Walcott.

  80

  Alexis jolted.

  The dynasty wasn’t dead yet.

  Kane said, ‘If you even think about moving, Alexis, your cute blonde friend will bite a bullet. So will I, and you’ll probably end up achieving your mission, but you were a civilian not too long ago, so you’re not going to be able to handle the guilt of getting your best friend here killed. So stay put.’

  It was like he knew every string to tug, every emotion to play.

  He was his father, through and through. Sometimes, certain types of wiring pass down through generations unobstructed. Kane Walcott was young, but he was already a monster.

  Alexis stayed put, just as he’d told her to.

  ‘Good girl,’ Kane said.

  A gun barrel softly touched the back of Alexis’s head.

  The big guy from the villa, coming out to provide backup. Evidently Kane had been on them since the moment they’d plunged into the tree line. It was over before it began.

  Kane said, ‘Alexis, darling, you know what to do.’

  Alexis handed her gun to the bald guy behind her.

  Violetta didn’t move.

  She couldn’t.

  There was still hope.

  ‘From now on,’ Kane said, ‘every second you keep that gun pointed at me is another cut my men deliver to Lyla Barrow’s tender face.’

  Violetta handed the gun over.

  She said, ‘Shit.’

  It was supposed to be under her breath, but it came out hard and bitter, wrapped in the emotional exhaustion she was feeling.

  She said, ‘Your father’s dead.’

  Kane regarded her with a disinterested look. ‘Is he?’

  ‘He miscalculated. He went out east on his own, thinking he had the upper hand. Our people executed him.’

  Kane smiled. ‘You’re expecting two things.’

  She waited for him to elaborate.

  He said, ‘One — you’re expecting me to get angry and take out my rage on the two of you instead of setting up a competent perimeter. That’ll give your two lovers time to blast in here and take advantage of our lack of defences. And, two — you’re expecting me to care about my father.’

  Silence.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘empty your pockets. Nice and slow.’

  She complied, nice and slow, which gave her time to think. And she realised that the Walcotts’ ruthlessness might just be their last surviving member’s downfall. If Kane had communicated with his dad about the surveillance he was conducting on the villa, Dylan might have been able to get the jump on them. But there was some sort of turbulence there, some unsaid animosity between father and son. Kane had still been learning details about the newcomers when everything imploded, and his failure to relay important details had led to Dylan’s demise.

  If Dylan Walcott conducted his operation like the cartel, with ruthless indifference to petty squabbling, he might have won. But he let his son throw tantrums, and now he was floating at the bottom of a reef.

  So when she got her thumb on the panic button sewn into the bottom of her jeans pocket, she felt a touch more hope than she usually would.

  She handed over her phone, wallet and keys.

  He seized her by the arm, and the bald guy grabbed Alexis, and together they led them toward the villa.

  Violetta’s last thought before they entered the house sent fear rippling through her.

  What if Kane intentionally withheld what he knew?

  What if this is what he wanted all along?

  81

  King and Slater were halfway back across Grand Bahama when their phones shrieked in unison.

  They didn’t need to pull them out for confirmation.

  They knew it hadn’t gone well.

  It was the age-old debate between speed and strategy. If Violetta and Alexis held back, waited for King and Slater to rendezvous with them, Lyla and Caleb might have died before the four of them could go in together. With the two women going in on their own, there’d been a greater risk of failure, but even if they failed they were still overcomplicating everything for the surviving members of Dylan Walcott’s forces. The panic alarm screaming meant they’d been taken alive, otherwise there would have been no one to press it in the first place.

  Which wasn’t good, but it wasn’t all bad.

  In fact, without telling Slater, King had already planned for this exact situation.

  Instead of veering west off Grand Bahama Highway into Freeport, he gunned it further west onto Queen’s Highway, then threw a left into the Downtown district. His intended destination was a street of cul-de-sacs named Pioneers Way.

  Slater said, ‘What the hell are you doing? You didn’t hear the alarm?’

  ‘I heard it,’ King said. ‘But they’ll have an airtight perimeter now. We’re going to use the same strategy that Walcott’s tactical team used.’

  ‘The team he sent to the bungalow?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That would involve a kamikaze.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Halfway down Pioneers Way, King screeched to a stop outside the residence of Wayne Portis.

  82

  Even though the sun was still high in the sky, Wayne was on his third Island Pirate Ale IPA.

  Which possibly made him an alcoholic, but he didn’t mind the term.

  He worked both smart and hard, and it made him a busy man with more coin in his pocket than he needed. So if an occasional day came around where his schedule was clear of meetings with potential buyers, he had no shame in cracking open his first beer at midday. He had the rest of his life in order, and if he wanted to drink, he’d damn well drink. He wasn’t expecting anyone for the whole afternoon and evening. In fact, his next meeting wasn’t until tomorrow at eleven a.m., with a couple of guys named Zidane and LaQuan who were worried about getting assassinated, or something similarly ridiculous. They’d pencilled in the meet five days ago, and he hadn’t heard from them since, so he hoped they’d show. It sounded like they wanted some heavy weaponry.

  Then a knock came at the door.

  He heard it through the house from his position on his back porch. He grumbled, took his sandals off the footrest, and drained the last of his third can. Ordinarily he might have flown off the handle at whichever poor sap had been tasked with door-to-door marketing in the area, but three tall boys had him in a good mood.

  He swaggered to the front door, a grin on his face, and threw it open.

  The big guy from the bungalow stuck a 9mm Glock in his face.

  Wayne’s smile disappeared. ‘That’s not very nice of you.’

  The big guy lowered the gun. ‘Sorry. Just had to make sure you wouldn’t shoot me on sight.’

  The dark-skinned man stood beside him.

  They’d parked a convertible off-road jeep on his lawn.

  Wayne said, ‘You’d keep that gun pointed at me if you knew what was good for you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You ruined my lawn,’ Wayne said. ‘So either pay me for the trouble or I’ll do something about it. And how’d you get my address?’

  ‘Violetta found it,’ the big guy said. ‘She gave it to me.’

  ‘I’ve killed people for less than that.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Now what do you want? And it’d better include a footnote about payment for my lawn.’

  ‘You like money, don’t you, Wayne?’

  ‘It’s an unfortunate necessity,’ Wayne said. ‘I like it no more than the next man.’

  ‘We’ll give you a hundred grand to do something for us. That’s a whole lot of beer money.’

  ‘Why beer money?’

  ‘You reek of it.’

  Wayne stared deep into the big guy’s eyes. ‘You bluffing me, son?’

  ‘No. In fact, we’ll wire transfer it in advance. Because we know you’re a man of your word, and a man of his word doesn’t go back on a deal, no matter if he receives payment before or after.’

  Wayne thought it over. ‘Okay. Show me.’

  The big man had a bank application open on his phone in five seconds. Wayne fed him his details, watched the guy’s fingers fly over the touch keys as he entered them, and ten seconds after that there was a notification on his screen for a wire transfer to Wayne’s account: $100,000.00.

  Wayne said, ‘Holy shit.’

  The big man said, ‘I never bluff. It’ll be in your account within twenty-four hours. As soon as the bank clears it.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘This is all hinging on you having access to a certain piece of gear.’

  Wayne rolled his eyes. ‘I have access to everything. Lay it out for me.’

  The big guy laid it out.

  Wayne paused to take it in, then laughed. ‘You’re a crazy son of a bitch.’

  ‘Are you in?’

  ‘What if I’m not?’

  ‘Then we don’t have another second to waste, so I need an answer right now.’

  Wayne said, ‘I’m in. But it’s not about the money. I miss the thrill. Dealing guns isn’t particularly eventful.’

  ‘I don’t care what it’s about.’

  ‘Give me thirty seconds.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Anything this insane requires an absolute minimum of five beers in me,’ Wayne said. ‘I’m only on three.’

  Silence.

  Wayne said, ‘Like I said, thirty seconds.’

  A few steps from the door, he looked over his shoulder. ‘I still don’t know your names.’

  The big guy said, ‘Let’s keep it that way.’

  83

  It was a mighty impressive security perimeter hidden in plain sight.

  The resort’s patrons had no idea anything was amiss, but Kane Walcott had set up four sentries in the tree line, buried in the undergrowth, each armed with an automatic FN SCAR battle rifle. It was overkill in terms of firepower, but Kane was just about done with the concept of hiding in plain sight. It didn’t matter if civilians had to die, or if the island had to go into total lockdown after the tourist sectors were threatened by gang warfare. His father had kept Grand Bahama peaceful and unremarkable by successfully integrating his operations with the pre-existing infrastructure, but that was Dylan’s way of doing it, and generations differ.

  Kane was done with the Bahamas, anyway.

  In his possession he had two gorgeous women, an old lady, and a kid. None of them mattered to him, but he wasn’t going to kill them just yet. He might need them if everything went to hell. But it wouldn’t, because Jason King and Will Slater were just men, despite their feared reputations. He’d been piecing together information about their exploits with the intention of hand-delivering the dossier to his father.

  Before he learned his dad was no longer in the land of the living.

  It didn’t exactly faze him — that’s what he’d been planning all along — but it was certainly a speedbump. Now Kane would have to sort out the mess his old man had left behind.

  So King and Slater would pay with their lives, and Kane would use the reputation he earned from their deaths as fuel to make a new name for the present and future Walcotts. No more long-term plans, no more bribes to politicians and regulators. That was the old way.

  The new way was doing whatever you wanted and letting the complaints and accusations fall on deaf ears.

  It sure worked in modern politics.

  Now Kane assessed his forces. There were the four sentries scattered down the path, each with overlapping fields of fire, able to detect whether anything was amiss along the line. That prevented anyone getting jumped from behind, so there was no chance of them getting stealthily taken out one by one. Then there was Kane and one additional man out front of the villa, buried in the hedges, and two more men in the house watching over the hostages.

  That was the entirety of the resources Dylan Walcott had left.

  Kane had rallied everyone.

  He tried not to think of it as a last stand, instead treating it as the first operation he’d had the chance to solely control.

  It was the start of something great, not the end of something broken.

  Good riddance to the patriarch.

  Then it happened.

  He first heard the noise of the engine. It ruined the ambience from close to a mile away, disrupting the quiet of the waterside resort. First Kane’s blood pulsed with nervous energy, then he relaxed into it and smiled from underneath the vegetation. He clutched his sub-machine gun tighter, ignoring his slick palms. Nervous energy could either be interpreted as fear or excitement. His old man had taught him that.