Page 3 of Wild Tempest

He shook his head. “Not my style.”

Trevor knew exactly what I was trying to do. He was a little smarter than he looked.

I dug into my pocket and handed him a card. "Get in touch if you hear anything from her."

He took it and stared at it for a moment, then nodded. He closed the door and flipped the deadbolt.

JD and I left and hustled down the steps to the walkway.

"What do you make of that guy?” JD muttered.

"I think he's jealous and insecure." I shrugged. "Maybe he's got a reason to be.”

We left the complex and walked back to the Porsche. I called Isabella, my handler at Cobra Company. "I need another favor."

“What is it this time?” Isabella replied.

I gave her the scoop, and she said she’d get back with me.

JD and I climbed into the 911. Jack fired up the engine and pulled away from the curb. We headed across the island to Diver Down. I figured we needed to make a trip to Whistler Cay to see if we could drum up any trace of Peyton and her comrades.

2

The wind whipped across the bow, and the briny air swirled. The outboards howled as Jack piloted the Raptor toward the remote island. The late afternoon sun angled toward the horizon, painting the sky in pastel hues.

The high-density polyethylene boat sliced through the swells with ease. It had an aggressive look and could handle just about anything we could throw at it. This was number two. We'd already destroyed one of the indestructible boats.

Isabella called me back.

It pays to have friends in the intelligence community. As the head of one of the largest off-the-books clandestine agencies, Isabella had vast resources. With a few taps of the keys, she could find out anyone’s dirty secrets. Privacy was an illusion.

"I tracked cell phone history for all the names you gave me,” Isabella said. “There’s no service at Whistler Cay. The documentary crew’s cell phones went dark Friday afternoon around 4:30 PM. None of them have popped up on the grid since. Trevor's phone bounced around Coconut Key, but went dark Saturday night. It didn’t come back on until Sunday morning. Take that to mean what you will. The battery could have run out, or he could have shut the phone off. If any of those phones turn up, I'll give you a call."

"I appreciate that.”

We chit-chatted a bit before ending the call.

When we reached the island, Jack pulled into the bay and navigated into the shallows. JD ran the plastic boat onto the beach.

We hopped out and took a glance around. There was nobody out here at the moment. With a little daylight left, I figured we’d give a cursory glance around.

Whistler Cay was a small island with white sand beaches, dense foliage, and tall grass. It was about a mile long and half a mile wide.

JD and I marched up a trail that led through the thick underbrush. I kept my head on a swivel, looking for any sign of the documentary crew. The open fields doctrine gave us justification for a warrantless search on the private island.

A little farther out than some of the other islands, Whistler Cay didn't see as much traffic. Still, the legend persisted. With no shortage of curious seekers, people came to look for the Witch of Whistler Cay—especially at this time of year. It was the spooky season after all. What better time to summon a witch?

Some came for fun, some attempted to conjure the spirit with all sincerity. Her story was a tragic one, and as legend has it, the island is cursed. It’s rumored that if you find favor with the witch, she’ll whisper the location of Ironhook’s treasure.

To this day, nobody has ever found the infamous pirate’s gold.

I didn't really buy into superstitions and folktales, but the disappearance of the documentary crew was sure to add fuel to the fire. Another set of doomed adventurers who met misfortune on the island.

JD and I marched through the woods and came upon a small clearing. We found a tent and the remnants of a campfire. Three folding chairs were positioned around the ashes.

I knelt down and hovered my hand above the coals, feeling for heat.

This fire hadn't blazed in a day or so.