Page 103 of False Flag

Outside, the air was chill and damp. It had rained earlier and would rain again before sunrise. He walked to the beach—not the marina, but the beach on the east side of the island where Dahlia had attempted to woo him by stripping down to nothing and jumping in the frigid sea.

He walked along the rocky shoreline, weaving between driftwood logs, so much like the beach that had been his childhood home. He breathed in the salt air and could hear his mother’s laugh, feel his father’s firm hand on his shoulder, and hear his brother’s shout as he reeled in a fish.

There was a fresh stab of betrayal at the thought of Lloyd.

A Truther.

How deep was he? Had he attacked archaeologists on campus? Had he been connected to the attack on Staci?

Jake sat on a large log, picked up a golf ball-sized pebble, and tossed it in the water. Not much bioluminescence to speak of, but not surprising given the clouds and rain.

He’d never considered Lloyd to be violent, but he’d been set straight when he read the police report with the details of Lloyd’s arrest.

He’d run down a Black man and beat him up, accusing the victim of stealing the phone he’d left charging in his car. He’d invented a crime in his head and acted on it, taking immediate vengeance.

What violence would he commit as vengeance on archaeologists who he believed were covering up ancient bioweapons?

Publicly, Gerard didn’t condone the Truther attacks, but the man was certainly stoking violence in the Signal and dark web Truther chats. If not Gerard, then his proxies.

Lloyd had wanted this job desperately. So much so, he’d offered up his brother as collateral. It was clear Lloyd would have done anything to prove himself.

There’d been eight Truther attacks in six states since that first one in Philadelphia. The most recent one happened in Newark, a week before Lloyd had been hired by Gerard.

Fuck, Lloyd. What did you do?

Jake studied the water, so very dark with a sliver of a moon and cloudy skies.

If they were going to uncover Gerard and Casper’s plot, they needed unfettered communication. Taking the boat out for updates wouldn’t cut it. The billionaire had been visibly upset at seeing Rosalie with her tribal connection. It had been satisfying, but how long before Casper denied him docking privileges and sent him on his way?

Or, maybe that was exactly what they needed?

It would be easier if Casper thought it was his idea. And in that situation, the fact that Jake didn’t immediately return to Virginia wouldn’t raise any red flags.

But that would leave Staci alone. Unprotected.

He tossed another rock into the sea. There were no solutions. Not when Casper controlled the only port of entry and every avenue of communication. They needed to find a way around—or through—the signal blockers, firewalls, and every layer of encryption that shielded Letora Island from the rest of the world.

Until then, they had to stick to the plan.

Thirty minutes later, Jake climbed back into bed with Staci, who was sound asleep. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for her. She pulled back slightly and mumbled, “You’re cold.”

“Warm me?”

She let out a soft harumph that might have been agreement and scooted closer. He pulled her to spoon with him, her body soft and comforting against his chilled skin. He pulled the covers tightly around them both and pressed his face to her neck. She grumbled again, but soon his body warmed, and she relaxed against him.

He waited until her breathing evened out into the cadence of a deep sleep. Before releasing her, he spoke softly, knowing his words were masked by the white noise machine. “I love you, Anastacia.”

Then, finally, his brain settled, and he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Staci had known the podcast recording studio was in the basement of Heron House, but this was her first time seeing it for herself. First and foremost, it was a sound recording studio, but because Gerard also filmed his podcast for his YouTube subscribers, there were couches and a coffee table and excellent lighting.

The studio, which, she’d been told, had been installed in March, mirrored his home studio in Delaware. It had an official-looking desk on one side—for when he recorded alone—and couches that faced each other for when he had guests.

Staci made a detour to the dressing room adjacent to the control room to check her appearance and to take several deep breaths to center herself.

The interview wouldn’t be aired live, thank goodness, but that was only so Gerard could cut her words to suit his narrative—even though that would violate her contract. She knew better than to trust a man who invented history and claimed it as fact for a living.