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I check the cameras on my phone, scanning my crib, the terrace, the pool.
All quiet. Qi Shan is gone.
I switch to the Eastside.
There are more cameras there than the Outcasts suspect, despite them taking down a few.
Their little village is in my palm. Every angle. Every bungalow. I know exactly what has happened there every single minute for the last two years. Their everyday life. Their little dramas. And their love stories. I must say, that outside shower stall gets more action than I’ve gotten in months.
Surveillance is a precaution, but also security—for the Eastsiders, though the fuckfaces don’t realize it—so that things don’t go wrong like they did with Olivia.
The image from that night flickers in my mind, sending a cold arrow down my spine.
One of the cameras on the Eastside is on a high palm tree and gives me a good view of the common area, despite the poor lighting.
There are several people at the dining area. The Common Lounge is burned down—sorry not sorry.
There are guys going in and out of that small warehouse. They are planning something.
I shake my head. Amateurs. What do they have against my contractors who patrolled Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Mali, and are paid top dollars to protect Zion?
Yeah, needless to say, the Eastside doesn’t have a chance. I could’ve taken the entire village hostage. But that’s not the point. The point is to lure Droga to the Westside and make him bow.
I want to know when he is on the move, track him like a bunny, then trap him and finally have a talk.
Though the fucker doesn’t like to talk. He likes to fight. And I am more than happy to bring my point across with my fists. You wanna live on my island—you’ll show fucking respect and do what I tell you.
I put my feet up on the desk and get comfortable in my chair, eyes on the screen.
Bring it on, Droga.
2
KAI
This night is moresurreal than when Callie washed ashore weeks ago. As a bunch of us get the weapons and explosives ready, we discuss the plan of action.
The Eastside looks like a battlefield—the burned-down lounge a reminder that the Westsiders can wipe us off the face of the earth if they wanted.
This feels like war, but it’s not. We all know we don’t have a chance against the heavy security on the Westside. We are not stupid. Nor are we naive in thinking that we could play Commandos. This is not a movie.
But our plan centers around the only thing thatmightwork—distraction.
I changed into jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and boots. I am leaving shortly. Ty, Owen, and Guff will take off during the day.
And now we sit at the dining table in the dimness of a solar light in grim silence.
There are four of us at the table—the ones who will go to the Westside. Several others sit in the chairs farther away, smoking and drinking, taking off the edge.
Maddy walks out of darkness and approaches with a solemn look on her face.
We took Bo to her room so she could observe him all through the night.
“How is he?” I ask when she takes a seat at the table and lights a joint.
She shrugs. “What do you want me to tell you?” A cloud of smoke leaves her mouth. She smells of rubbing alcohol and something rusty—blood. “He probably needs a surgeon.” Her voice is monotonous and quiet. She doesn’t look at anyone but picks blood from under her nails, then takes another drag. “At least some heavy medication before it’s too late.”
Too late…
