35. Knox

"Are you kidding me?"

Knox glanced up at Caro's tone. He didn't know who was on the other end of the line, but she didn't seem happy to be talking to them. And the answer was obviously "no."

"Don't you have better things to do? Like investigating a murder, for example?"

So it was a cop. Vince Fernandez, probably. And if he wasn't asking questions about Stacey, then what the fuck did he want?

"Fine, I'll tell them," Caro snapped. "And you can tell Lyron that I'm never bringing him cake again."

She tossed the phone onto the table and let out a sound that was half screech, half groan. Irritation twisted her face into a grimace.

"What?" Knox asked.

"Lyron's a pain in the ass, that's what. And so is Jason Roy."

"That was Roy on the phone? Not Fernandez?"

"Vince can be a dick sometimes, but he's not a jobsworth like Jason." Caro closed those topaz eyes for a moment and sucked in a breath. Let it out again. She did that whenever she got stressed, Knox had noticed. "Lyron reported the drone to the police. Apparently, you're still flying it too close to his land, and it's disturbing the peace. Jason said Lyron doesn't have grounds for a complaint, but he also said that you should have a permit, and if you don't get one right away, he'll have to confiscate the drone until whoever is flying it takes the test."

"There's a fucking test?"

"Some multiple-choice thing. They brought it in after idiots kept flying too close to the airport, but it applies to the whole nation. You can take it at any police station, Jason said. Costs fifty bucks."

"So it's more of a revenue generation exercise than a safety thing?"

"Probably."

"Can't we just pay a fine? How likely is Roy to make good on his threat to confiscate it?"

"Pretty likely. He's a by-the-book asshole who dots every i and crosses every t. Vince says that with his love of paperwork, Jason will probably make chief someday."

"Can't Vince talk sense into him?"

"I'll try calling him, but he's been off with me since I started pushing him on the turtle surveillance. Did you hear anything on Tomas yet?"

"Not yet."

Monique Constantine wasn't a fan of modernisation. According to Angel, she prided herself on doing things the traditional way, which meant sourcing quality materials, using her grandfather's tools, and writing her invoices longhand. Copies were stored in an ancient filing cabinet in a closet-sized office to the side of her workshop, and Knox and Caro had spent an hour yesterday afternoon photographing any from the time period when Monique had been involved with Tomas. But Monique worked hard and seemed to focus on small repair jobs rather than large projects, so there were fifty-seven possible candidates for Tomas's boss, spread mainly across Ilha Grande and Malavilla. Angel said Monique went to see her family regularly and often combined visits with work.

Now the invoices were with Agatha, and she would run a background check on each customer. With hope, they'd be able to narrow down the number of candidates, and someone could pay a visit in person. Probably Knox, possibly Slater. Emily Shadrach was on the way home to her family, and Slater was en route to San Gallicano. Knox had originally planned to leave with Caro right after he arrived, but although she'd spent her nights filling in paperwork for the Blackwood Foundation, she hadn't done much in the way of packing. She seemed more focused on getting justice for Stacey, and Knox knew what it was like to have guilt eating away at your insides like a horde of termites. For years after the accident, he'd lived with the what-ifs. What if he'd had less to drink that night and confiscated Eric's car keys? What if he'd talked his friends out of going to the bar that night, period?

"We should be doing something," Caro said. "I mean, something to find Monique. She's out there missing and?—"

"Collectively, we are doing something. Blackwood works as a team, and the folks back home are digging through the information as we speak."

"But—"

"The turtles can't feed themselves, and Baptiste is still sick. They need you today." Plus there was this fucking drone issue. "I need to speak with Ryder."

Ryder was in the dining room, which was where he'd spent most of his time since Luna's blow-up with Caro, at least while Caro was at the sanctuary. Luna preferred avoidance over confrontation, it seemed. Sign-ups continued to trickle in for the sponsorship scheme, and the girls were writing up notes for whoever would take over the admin once they'd gone. Fuck, there was still so much left to do. New staff to find, Caro's belongings to pack up, a murder to investigate, plus the ongoing care for the turtles. A juggling act.

"Buddy, there's a problem."

Luna blanched, and Ryder squeezed her hand. "It's okay, moon. What problem?"

"The old troublemaker from next door complained to the cops about the drone. Apparently, we need a permit to keep flying it."

"How do we get a permit? We have less than two weeks left here—wouldn't it be more cost-effective to just pay the fine?"

"We don't get the option of a fine. It's permit or confiscation. One of us has to go to the nearest police station and take a multiple-choice test."

Ryder cursed under his breath. "There must be a way around this."

"Might be faster to take the damn test. We need to pick up supplies anyway, so the trip would kill two birds with one stone."

"If you're going to the store, can I come?" Jubilee asked.

Ryder shook his head. "No, you should stay here with Knox. I can pick up whatever you need."

Jubilee glanced at Luna, and her cheeks coloured. "Uh, so we're running out of sanitary products. A bunch of stuff got left in the bathroom on Kory's yacht, and we need tampons—the ones in the blue box with the pink stripe, regular flow, plus the pads?—"

"Okay, you can come," Ryder said hastily. "Just wear a hat so people don't recognise you."

Great. That left Knox to act as referee between two warring women, but at least he didn't have to go to the grocery store.

* * *

Luna hummed softly to herself as she scribbled away in her little notepad with a sparkly pencil. She seemed to erase as much as she wrote. What was she doing? Keeping a journal? Or a hit list? Or plotting world domination? Thanks to her "special relationship" with Ryder, Knox hadn't spent much time with her in the past couple of weeks, and she was quieter than she had been at the beginning of the trip. Almost shy.

"Coffee?" she asked, dropping the pencil on the table.

"Is that an offer or an order?"

"An offer. I know you're Team Caro, but you don't always have to think the worst of me."

"But you make it so easy."

She shoved her chair back and smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. "Do you want sugar or salt in your drink?"

"Neither."

He was about to follow her to the kitchen to make sure she didn't add salt or something worse—Borax, for example—when his phone buzzed with a message.

Ryder

The drone test is a joke. On our way back.

Knox

Hurry. Luna's threatening to make coffee.

Ryder

Don't forget to say thank you. There's a Mexican food stand next to the jetty—do you guys want tacos or burritos?

Knox

I'll ask. 2 mins…

But before he could call out to Luna, his phone buzzed again, this time with an alert from a motion sensor. They'd been blessedly free of reporters recently, but that didn't mean an enterprising fool with a camera wouldn't try his luck for an exclusive.

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a minute."

"Why? What's happening?" Luna asked.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he told her.

He lied.

The phone buzzed again as Knox passed the first bunkhouse, an alert from a different sensor. The same threat moving around? Or did they have more than one visitor? Knox paused to check his weapon, just in case. He'd carried a SIG P226 semi-automatic during his days on the Teams, and it was still his weapon of choice. The double-stack magazine held fifteen rounds, plus there was one in the chamber.

And he was glad of that. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as another sensor activated, too fast and too far away from the last to be caused by the same trigger. He heard a motor in the background, high pitched, getting louder, not a vehicle but a boat. Something fast. Powerful. Heading in their direction. Heading for Caro, over in the pool rooms.

Fuck.

Knox tapped his phone, activating Blackwood's emergency alert system. There was nothing good about this. He was alone with three civilians, one of whom was a clear target. Had that been planned? Had whoever was out there waited until Ryder left the sanctuary to make their move?

The first gunshot rang out at the same time as the first scream.

Luna.

Knox's heart yelled at him to go to Caro, but his head, his training, his professionalism sent him running toward the dining room. Luna was the client. Luna had been threatened. Luna was the woman he'd come here to protect.

Her scream was followed by an animalistic roar, undoubtedly male, and bullets thudded into the surrounding tree trunks as an unseen enemy let loose with a full magazine, taking the "spray and pray" approach. That alone told Knox he wasn't dealing with a professional. He waited for the break as the hostile reloaded, then risked a look. There, a flash of red. Who the fuck wore red to a gunfight? Knox aimed, fired, and the target dropped. Who was he? Or rather, who had he been? The man lay where he'd fallen, legs twitching, a chunk of his brain missing where he'd underestimated his opponent.

Shots came from the dining room, and Knox ran.

"Come out, little girl, and I won't hurt you," a man yelled, then fired again.

Hostile number two was inside, aiming a semi-automatic rifle toward the kitchen, his attention focused on the closed door. On his target. Luna. Knox raised his gun, but before he could fire, a volley of shots came through the flimsy wood of the door, and blood blossomed on the man's chest. What the fuck? Shock registered on his face right before Knox dropped him with a double tap to the head.

"Luna?"

The answering call was desperate. "Knox?"

"I'm right here. Put the gun down."

"What about the man? He was shooting at me, and…and…" Her voice hitched, and she choked out a sob.

"He's gone. I'm coming in, so don't shoot at me, okay?"

The door wouldn't open, not until Knox hefted it with his shoulder, and he soon found out why. The body of a man lay behind it, his face red and blistered, his limbs splayed.

"What the…?" There was no time for questions, no time for answers. Luna swung the business end of a pistol in his direction, not on purpose but because she had no idea about gun safety. He caught her arm and pointed it toward the floor. "Careful."

Now she dropped the gun entirely, and it bounced off the man's foot and clattered across the floor. Knox retrieved it, an old Ruger, and checked the magazine. Six rounds left. He tucked the spare weapon into his waistband.

"Stay behind me."

Luna nodded, her face paler than a corpse, and he grabbed her wrist. A shadow moved past the window, another hostile. Tanned skin, short dark hair, black shirt. Yelling came from outside, somewhere near the beach, and Knox's heart stuttered. That was Caro.

His Caro.

A spring fling that meant so much more than he'd dared to admit, even to himself.

He put a finger to his lips and tugged Luna forward. Fear turned her obedient and she followed, trembling from terror or adrenaline or both. Holding fire was the hardest thing in the world right now, but Knox pressed himself against the wall beside the doorjamb, shielding Luna, waiting for this asshole to come look for his buddies. It didn't take long. The muzzle of a gun appeared, then an arm, then a head. One more second, two shots, and then Knox had three guns.

Four hostiles down, but how many more were there? Instinct told Knox at least another three, his brain extrapolating data almost unconsciously—sensors, shouting, shots.

"Luna, I need to go outside."

"No, no, don't leave me."

The dining tables were from another era, made from sturdy timber when furniture was built to last. Knox tipped the nearest one onto its side and heaved it into a corner, forming a triangular sanctuary with thick wooden walls. He lifted Luna inside and checked the latest gun. Nine rounds left.

More yelling, more gunshots, and this time, Knox recognised Baptiste's voice.

"Take this. If anyone but me walks through that door, shoot them."

"I can't?—"

"You can. Caro and Baptiste are dead if I don't get out there and help them, and we're sitting ducks if we both stay here."

"Okay," Luna said, so softly that Knox barely heard her above the sound of the boat engine. It was leaving. A retreat? Damn, Knox hoped they were bugging out.

He ran across the room, staying low, and reached the door in time to see Baptiste lurch across the path and collapse, the shoulder of his white T-shirt scarlet, his right arm hanging limply at his side. There was at least one hostile still in the vicinity because dirt kicked up around Baptiste's feet, and the man let out a howl of pain as he was hit again.

Knox saw a muzzle flash in the trees, and he fired back, then ran in a crouch to where the older man lay. There was no time for compassion—Knox grabbed Baptiste by his belt and dragged him toward the dining room. Fifteen yards, ten yards, five yards, another gunshot, and it felt as if a heavyweight boxer had punched him in the leg, then rammed a red-hot screwdriver through the throbbing limb. But he kept going, firing at the trees, knowing a direct hit was unlikely but hoping for a distraction.

Baptiste groaned as Knox shoved him to safety behind the wall.

"Stay there."

"Not…goin' anywhere."

Knox glanced at his thigh. The muscle was on fire, and blood was running down his calf, soaking into his sock and sneaker. How bad was it? Not enough blood for an artery, he didn't think, so he still had time to kill this motherfucker, but where had the asshole gone? There was no movement outside.

But he was still there. Knox could sense him, could feel his malevolent presence among the trees. He was watching. Waiting for someone to emerge from the safety of the dining room so he could put a bullet through their head. That alone told Knox that he was better trained than his colleagues.

But he wasn't special forces.

Knox tore off his shirt and tied it around his thigh, tight enough to stem the flow of blood as he headed to the kitchen and slithered through the gap between the wall and the roof. Luna had her instructions. If anyone but Knox appeared, shoot them.

He slipped through the trees as quietly as a wraith, fuelled by anger and adrenaline. And fear. The silence was unnerving, the stillness a dread that settled in his gut. Where was Caro? He hoped she'd gone to ground, that she was hiding from danger, waiting for him to do his job, but he knew in his heart that she wasn't.

She'd gone.

And that certainty drove him forward.

Knox weaved through the tangled trees, his senses on high alert, thanking the stars above that he and Ryder had scouted every inch of the property soon after they arrived on Valentine Cay. The metallic thunk ahead strongly suggested that his target had just tripped over the remains of an old water tank that had been left to rust in the salt-laden air twenty yards from the dining room. And that meant the enemy was at the gates.

Knox had hoped to take the man alive. Needed to take the man alive. But pain seared through his leg with every step, blood squelching in his sneaker and spilling out onto the sandy ground. He saw the hostile ahead, dressed in camouflage, dark hair curling over his collar, moving stealthily, differently from the others. They had been cannon fodder. This guy was a soldier, a soldier and a coward who'd waited in the shadows and watched his men die. But now he was making his move, and Luna wouldn't stand a chance if he reached that doorway.

Slowly, carefully, Knox raised his gun and aimed, leaning on a tree for support. Then he gave a whistle that could have been a bird or the wind or a man who'd spent half his life learning to put a bullet into the black.

The hostile whipped around, scanning for danger.

And Knox shot him between the eyes.