Dillon zipped up the jacket, checked his now clean shaven features in the SUV’s wing mirror, then smiled into the eyes of his own reflection. It was a strong smile. A convincing smile. It would have to be to get him past the reception desk of the hotel where the meet was going to take place: the Ocean Club Hotel, an opulent 5-star playground for the rich and famous. Once a private estate, the hotel rests between miles of pristine beach and exquisite gardens inspired by the romantic grandeur of Versailles.
Dillon walked, hands in his pockets, clearing his mind for the meeting to come. He would have to be razor sharp; but then if Ezra wasn’t there and it was nothing more than a set-up, Ezra would be conspicuous by his absence and the bad gig would be pretty easy to spot — and pretty quick to go down.
Moving out onto a wide path, Dillon walked swiftly. His gaze alert, watching, gauging the few people he passed on foot, searching for anyone who appeared out of place with bad intent. His eager scrutiny checked every car that purred down the sun-drenched drive to the hotel, checked interiors, looking for anything suspicious, out of place, no matter how small or insignificant. Dillon halted again, looking around. He turned left and began to walk once more, again scanning the surrounding area. As he closed on the grand entrance to the Ocean Club Hotel he slowed to a casual amble, searching for anyone suspicious lurking inside.
If they’re here, he thought, if they’re watching, then I won’t see them. They will see me; but they will be like ghosts.
Invisible.
He halted, leaning against a low wall and pulling free a packet of American cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled, enjoying the sensation and buzz of the nicotine. Yeah, he thought, it’s been a long time, my little friend. Far too long.
Ahh, the joys of a wealthy civilisation.
Smoking the cigarette allowed him time to think and scrutinise in his mind, his next move. There were several hazardous factors to take into account, the possibility of snipers was high on his list.
Dillon thought back to Santorini.
Ezra, running, the long jump out over the cliff…
The silent scream, legs treading nothing but air…
The long dive towards the ocean far below…
Despite his own pain and exhaustion at the time, he still remembered the one word that had leaped unbidden to his mind…
Dead.
There was no way that Ezra could have survived that three hundred foot fall. But perhaps there might have been the slim chance that he waswearing a Chameleon Para-vest… After all, Ezra had survived many attempts on his life. Escaped and survived.
Dillon breathed out a plume of smoke. The sound of laughter echoed from somewhere to his right and Dillon’s head snapped in that direction. He relaxed. Took another drag. Breathed deeply, calming his suddenly racing heart.
Steady, he thought. Take stock of the situation.
He closed his eyes for a moment; the frequent headaches he had been experiencing were thankfully absent; the pain throughout his battered body was also subsiding and was nothing more than a dull throb thanks to an injection of a strong painkiller. The cracked ribs were nothing more than an inconvenience now, strapped up tightly under his clothing. The pain was, for now, a part of his life. A part of his very existence…
He finished the cigarette and flicked the butt into the bushes behind him.
Let’s do it, he thought, checking his Omega watch.
He walked up the few steps to the impressive entrance of the hotel, trying hard not to focus exclusively on the lavishly appointed building, all the time scanning for anything or anyone suspicious. The fragrant scent of hibiscus and bougainvillea blossoms filling his nostrils.
Dillon’s plan was simple. Ask for information at the Ocean Club reception desk. Make sure they knew his name and who he was meeting. He was sure events would unfold from there.
He nodded to the bellboy as he entered the hotel, the polished white marble floor feeling good beneath his feet as he crossed the plush, plant littered, foyer with catlike wariness. His gaze shifted to the left and then to the right. Men reading newspapers, a few couples milling around, a small group of women wandering through the foyer, one talking animatedly on her mobile phone. Dillon pressed the back of his left hand against the reassuring bulk of the Glock tucked in his trouser waist-band in the small of his back, and then he was standing in front of the reception desk and the beautiful brunette with her sparkling eyes.
“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Ocean Club, how may I help?”
Dillon smiled his winning smile as his eyes used every reflective surface to check what was going on behind him. Then he said, “Hello. I have a friend staying here by the name of Mr Ezra Zimmerman. He said he would leave a message for me at reception about a meeting we have? My name is Dillon.”
“One moment, sir. I’ll check for you.”
The brunette turned to the pigeon-holes behind the desk. Dillon rested his elbows on the elegantly designed highly polished cherry wood surface, gaze continuing to scan the people in the foyer. He watched a man with a goatee beard and shoulder length hair, carrying a black canvas holdall. Dillon felt the tiny hair on the back of his neck bristle, and partly unzipped his waist-jacket as the man with the holdall greeted a tall man of Middle-Eastern origin reading a newspaper. They left the foyer together.
“Yes, here we are, there is an envelope for a Mr Jake Dillon.”
Dillon took the white envelope. He tore open the flap with his thumb; there was a single slip of paper inside. It read: Villa No-2. Come immediately — I’ll be waiting. It was signed, Ezra. The handwriting was Ezra’s and so was the signature. Dillon glanced around once more, then put the slip into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he said. “Can you direct me to villa No-2?”
“Go through the gardens towards the beach. The villas are all clearly signposted, you can’t miss them.”
“Thank you again.” He smiled warmly at her and walked out through the glass doors and Dillon soon found himself in the exquisite gardens. His hand curled round one of the tiny metallic explosive spheres.
Once again, the fragrant scent of hibiscus and bougainvillea was everywhere, as he walked along hand-laid rock paths and up stone steps. He ascended the terrace garden gazing at the bronze and marble statues from Europe as he went by, and at its apex stood at the arches of a 12th-century Augustinian cloister boasting a view over Nassau harbour. “This was one seriously cool crib.” He said out loud. He blinked, and ignored the urge to light another cigarette.
He stood alone, looking out over the harbour. Thinking…
Just the way I like it.
He pulled free the round metallic sphere and stared at the small reflective device. He held the small globe, testing the weight. The grenade was hidden inside his loosely clenched palm.
Dillon carefully put the grenade back in his pocket and removed the Glock. Checked that there was a full magazine and one round in the chamber, and slipped it back into his waist-band. He gazed around one more time, and then moved off towards villa No-2…
“All very cosy,” he said as he walked through the grounds of the hotel complex, it seemed to be quiet. Dillon approached villa No-2 and halted to one side of the gated entrance. He eyed the stainless steel number suspiciously as something inside him screamed: “This is wrong, this is all very wrong, Ezra is dead, and this is definitely a trap…”