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Beside him Whitney stifled a giggle. “Are you gay?” she whispered. “I promise I won’t tell.”
Wes smiled in the dark. “Thanks, sugar, I appreciate that.”
Whitney snuggled against Wes, her cheek resting on his chest. He could sense the girl was awake but she seemed content to follow his cue and remain quiet. He wanted to ask her all kinds of questions about the life she had chosen, and what was really going on beneath the veneer of this so-called exotic luxury resort. Now wasn’t the time, however. He contented himself instead with reviewing the map of the small island he’d committed to memory, gleaned from satellite photos and conversations with the captain of Horton’s vessel. The resort itself was only about five minutes by golf cart along the paved pathways that led to the dock, but he planned to take the back way along the shore so he could slip in undetected to watch whatever was going to go down. He would need to leave soon, as soon as Whitney fell asleep.
Wes listened to her breathing, which slowly deepened as her body relaxed against him. When he was sure she was asleep, he eased himself from the bed and pulled on his clothing. Turning away from Whitney, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his smart phone. The time read 1:30, which should give him enough time. The other guests would be asleep or at least safely ensconced in their rooms by now. The phone battery had plenty of juice left in it for video recording. He slipped it back into his pocket and put on his running shoes.
Just in case Whitney awoke and wondered where he was, Wes found a small pad of paper and a pen in the desk drawer. He left a note on the pillow beside her: Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk on the beach. Back soon. Tom.
Wes opened the sliding glass door that led out to a small veranda enclosed by a wrought iron fence. He slid it closed, watching Whitney’s motionless form in the bed as he did so. She didn’t move.
Once outside, he took a moment to get his bearings. The shoreline beyond the building was gently lit with starlight and the dark waves lapped rhythmically against the sand. Wes opened the gate that led onto the beach and stepped through, latching it silently behind him.
From overheard conversations since he’d joined the men on the yacht, Wes was reasonably sure Horton’s men were going to unload the goods their first night on the island, sometime between two and four. That gave him just enough time to arrive beforehand and stake out a hiding place.
Wes walked quickly along the shore toward the dock. Within twenty minutes, he arrived near where the yacht had been anchored. Moving silently, he hugged the shadows of a small supply shed.
He heard only the sound of the water sloshing against the big boat as it bobbed in the gentle waves. Wes lowered himself against the wall of the shed and waited, his phone ready to record. As he sat, he thought about the girls at the dinner table—at the odd mixture of wanton sexpot and terrified little girl all rolled into one. Was that just part of their act—to appear like innocent virgins? Was that supposed to be part of their appeal for dirty old men like Horton and Jed Thomas? Something told Wes there was more to it—far more, none of it good.
Wes shifted instantly to full alert at the sound of a golf cart engine’s low whine, accompanied by the murmur of masculine voices. He remained where he was, still as a statue, his ears pricked, a surge of adrenaline heightening all his senses.
He heard the gruff, confident sound of Dan Wallace, along with two other voices he didn’t recognize, one of them with a Spanish accent. As they got closer, he caught a few phrases. “Should be worth plenty, even with the cartel’s cut…” “Don’t worry, they’re occupied with pussy…” And then, at last, the words that clinched the deal, “About ten kilograms of heroin as pure as virgin snow.” Wes hoped his phone was picking up the audio.
The men appeared beside the yacht. After a moment, two dark figures materialized on the deck. They began to hand down boxes to the two men accompanying Wallace. Horton was nowhere in sight. They were out of sound range now, and it was hard to make out exactly what was going on with only the stars for light, but Wes held up his cell phone camera just the same. Back at DEA headquarters, they’d be able to lighten and sharpen the video capture, hopefully getting a good, definitive image of that bastard, Dan Wallace, in the process. The video alone wasn’t necessarily proof of anything, but it would be one more piece of the puzzle Wes had spent so long trying to assemble.
