Jack returned to his Porsche and drove to the Great House Inn on Cork Street in the northern part of the city. The same hotel where he and his parents and brother had stayed during that terrible summer. Same room. He could practically see his brother and his parents in the lobby and hallways and stairwells. He could hear their laughter.
The soap and sheets and towels smelled as familiar as the memories.
His suitcase—with Ike’s leather satchel—was already in his room, the place where he would stay until the mission Thursday night. When he would either helicopter out of here with every girl from the Palace.
Or die trying.
The hot shower and handmade coconut soap was exactly what he needed. He let the hot water run over his face and hair and body. I don’t know if You’re there, God. He closed his eyes and rinsed out the shampoo. But if You are, I could use Your help tonight.
If Anders’s henchmen had a suspicion that Jack was only going to talk to Eliza tonight, or that he wasn’t Ellington the Fourth, they’d kill him and dump his body in the canal. And that would be that. He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. There were a dozen reasons why God probably wasn’t real. Jack didn’t want to rehash them. But nights like this, he figured it didn’t hurt to ask.
Just in case.
He dressed in white pants and a short-sleeve white button-up shirt. Fine leather loafers. No socks. Wedding attire. He still had time to kill so Jack grabbed a sandwich from the lobby and ate it on the deck outside his room. The spot faced the ocean, the place where he’d last seen his brother alive.
His family had always loved Belize. Of all the rooms, this one had the best view. He could remember sitting on this very deck with Shane, watching the puffy white clouds pass over the water. Each a unique shape. That one’s an elephant, Jack had said the night before the tragedy. And a tiger over there, Shane had chimed in.
Jack closed his eyes. He pictured Eliza again. Of course she hated what her father was doing, selling her into marriage. The fact that she’d told him—a stranger—made the truth clear. She was desperate, and she’d be thankful to get out. Jack stood and filled his lungs with the warm sea air. It was time to go. Eliza was going to be free soon.
Tonight was only the first step to making that happen.
* * *
IN TRAINING, JACK had learned the art of disassociation. A way of taking his feelings and turning them to facts. Facts kept you alive in undercover agent work. Feelings killed. So as he parked his Porsche at the beach lot and walked a different path to a staircase that led to the Palace, Jack refused to feel for the beautiful, broken girl he would spend the next hour with.
This was a mission. Every step was a checklist item. A week from now he could celebrate the rescue, ache for the girls inside the mansion. But right now he needed to move and act and talk with precision.
At the other side of the parking lot, a woman sat on a rock. Dressed in a bohemian floral kimono, secret agent Terri Gunther, thirty-three, appeared to be meditating. A beach hippie focused on a palm tree. But Terri had a wicked aim and beneath her oversized beach garment was a Remington 270 with the best scope on earth.
Once Jack was out of sight, Terri would take his backpack from the Porsche and return to her rock. Then she would slip into the grove of trees and train her scope on Eliza’s window until Jack returned.
If something went wrong, Terri would be the first to know.
Jack wasn’t sure if the guards could see him, but he figured yes. There were a dozen other cars in the parking lot, sickos already here for their purchases. Like a man walking into a black-tie gala, Jack took the steps slowly. Cocksure. Ready.
At the top of the stairs he bent to tie his shoe. At the same time he dropped a cell phone and a loaded Glock in the grass. Once more he went over his escape plan. If Eliza didn’t cooperate. If she screamed and tried to alert the armed guard outside her bedroom door, then Jack had a sedative-filled syringe in a plastic case in his shoe. He would keep it in his waistband once he was alone with her.
If he had no choice, he would stick her leg with the drug. It was fast-acting and would wear off in twenty minutes. Enough time for him to make his escape. If that happened, when she stopped moving, he would slip out her bedroom window, climb down, and sprint for the cell phone and gun at the top of the stairs.
A single button on the phone would signal every operative on the ground that there was a problem. By then Terri would’ve activated two agents parked on the main road, one of whom would drive into the lot. Terri and Jack would jump inside their car and an hour later—dressed as a monk—Jack would be on a plane headed for Miami. Oliver had overseen the details, so Jack wasn’t worried.