“Five?” Aria said, fixating on the incongruous number as her mind strained to find purchase.
“I wasn’t certain that Felix would pass or Lisa would flee.”
“What are you suggesting?” Pierce said, his left hand now rubbing the back of his neck while his right retained a knuckle-whitening grip on the knife.
David turned back to Aria, exposing the faraway look in his eyes. “It’s a beautiful day. You have a perfect pool and comfortable floats. Dismiss your staff and security guards with fat bonuses. Empty the island. Even the yacht captain and helicopter pilot. Send them all home.”
Aria felt faint. She dropped the gun and flopped down into her chair.
The Ruger clattered in Pierce’s direction, but he didn’t pick it up.
“Then what?” she whispered.
“Then we’ll finish this fine lunch, change into swimming suits, and drift.”
“Send the security home?” Pierce challenged, grasping at the last thread of hope. “You’d like that. How do we know this isn’t a trick?”
Aria struggled to retain her dignity while waiting for David’s reply.
“Besides feeling it in your gut?” David shrugged. “I’ll go first if you like. But as a doctor, I thought you might find it more peaceful if I administered the injections.”
71
Engage
SKYLAR AND I DECIDED to take a two-pronged approach to Seven Star Island. Our plan was to start covert and high-tech, then switch to casual and direct.
To prepare for the high-tech portion, we visited an electronics store. After discussing our options with an eager salesman, we charged Tory’s employers $1,200 for a DJI Phantom photo drone.
The other main purchase we made over the telephone, rather than in person. This allowed us to swap a diligent in-person ID check for the much less rigorous remote one. I rented the biggest yacht the broker was confident we could handle if docking wasn’t involved. A 62-foot Azimut luxury yacht. Just $17,000 for the week, plus a $50,000 security deposit given that we were sailing without the included crew.
I dictated the Amex number, then emailed a scan of Tory’s driver’s license with my own DL photo superimposed. Hefty stacks of paperwork followed. Rules, regulations, safety procedures, liability disclaimers, and an arbitration agreement. I signed and returned them all—in Tory’s name.
With the critical purchases squared away, we moved on to the casual prong of the plan. En route to the marina, we stopped at the Lincoln Road Mall, where Tory’s employers graciously outfitted us in shorts, shirts, and sunglasses that cost ten times what either of us would normally have spent.
As we were exiting, I spotted a jewelry store. Acting on a whim, I guided Skylar in and raised the platinum card. “Will you promise not to read anything into it if I suggest that we complete your disguise with a bit of bling?”
Skylar studied my face for a long moment, then broke into a big smile. Forty minutes and a couple of complimentary glasses of Champagne later, we walked out of the shop with an $81,000 receipt, a necklace, a tennis bracelet, and an engagement ring. Skylar held her wrist up to her chest. “What do you think? Will I look at home on a yacht?”
“We might need to extend the rental for a second week. Assuming the card’s still working.”
“I’m surprised it’s worked this long.”
“I bet you a diamond ring that the card’s on autopay. Might work for years.” I flashed my eyebrows.
“I’m pretty sure the ring won’t fit you,” she replied.
We were enjoying a splash of joviality before facing the danger that lay ahead.
Fully outfitted and looking appropriate, we hired a BMW 7 series through Uber Black to drive us the mile from the mall to the marina. Arriving in anything less just wouldn’t do.
The marina wasn’t particularly fancy. More like a mid-range restaurant than the gateway to luxury, except that it was up on stilts. But the reception we received was classy and cordial. It began with warm handshakes from the captain, who was about to enjoy a week of paid vacation, and continued with two hours of hands-on instruction on how to handle his baby, the C’est La Vie.
Once we both understood the yacht’s extensive control system, most of which we’d never touch, Captain Stewart piloted us out of the marina. “On the open water, there’s nothing to it. You’ve got plenty of buffer. Docking is what takes practice. Use this manual”—he grabbed a booklet from beside the captain’s wheel—“to radio any marina in the Bahamas or Caribbean. Most will send a pilot out for a modest fee. Believe me, it’s worth it.” He pointed to a number written in black marker on the manual’s front cover. “Call me with any questions. When you’re on your way back here, let me know and I’ll come out to meet you. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
He nodded sternly, then headed aft, climbed aboard a trailing dinghy, and left us alone with sixty-two feet of ship and an open ocean.
As he motored away, I felt the weight of what we were attempting come crashing down.
Fortunately, as part of our training, and at Skylar’s suggestion, Captain Stewart had plugged Fox Town on Grand Abaco into the navigation system, and set the autopilot. All I had to do to get us there was hit ENGAGE.
Of course, getting there was the easy part.
72
Red Light, Green Light
FOX TOWN was the northwestern-most village on the Bahamian isle closest to Seven Star, which lay about ten miles to its northwest. We sailed straight for it, so as not to alert any radar tracking system Aria might have in place.
While the Azimut’s motors churned away under the autopilot’s steady hand, Skylar studied the drone. She figured out how to program GPS coordinates into its navigation system, something the store clerk had assured us would not be a problem. Then she practiced precision flying it around the yacht’s interior, which consisted of three cabins and two saloons spread over two interior decks.
Meanwhile, I continued to familiarize myself with the helm. It wasn’t so very different from the dashboard of a car, once I translated from terrestrial to nautical.
I slowed our speed from twenty knots to two and called back to Skylar as we entered the shallower waters of the island chain. “It’s about time. Seven Star is three miles northeast of our current position.” Three miles was the outer limit of the drone’s transmission range.
We took the drone up to the top deck and Skylar set it down. “Here goes,” she said, as it took to the sky. “I’ve programmed the coordinates. We’ll know everything we’re going to know in about twenty minutes.”
“What happens in twenty?”
“It falls out of the sky. Flight time is twenty-eight minutes max, but it’s got wind to contend with, so I figure we can only count on twenty. It will take at least five of those to reach the island.”
I was curious and excited to see what we’d find. I’d never been to a private island. Never even laid eyes on one. The owner also intrigued me.
The society page article had described Aria Eiffel as the wealthy and childless widow of a petroleum magnate. She’d been a society belle while her husband was alive but had become reclusive shortly after his death. I figured that if I owned a Bahamian island, I might choose to become a recluse myself—particularly if I had a woman like Skylar by my side. What I couldn’t fathom was why Aria had hired Tory.
“What do you think Aria’s up to?” Skylar asked, as if reading my mind. We’d been so busy planning and preparing this incursion that we hadn’t paused to speculate. “She doesn’t need money. She doesn’t appear to crave power or prestige. What’s left?”