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Why the hell would Jennifer want to get involved? She knew better.
“Jesus. They could have hundreds of thousands of people hooked on damn shit.”
“Exactly. Plus, Cartagena hasn’t been given FDA approval and likely won’t.”
“Unless it’s represented by an American firm,” I muttered. It sounded crazy, but greed was powerful.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Laughing, I threw back my head, staring at the blue sky. “No wonder my director had his boxers in a bind.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m taking a huge guess, but I’d have to say that as with any public domain company, there are investors.”
“Absolutely.” When I looked at him, he smirked. “A little dirty laundry cleanup.”
I nodded as I thought about what he’d told me. When the news broke, any parties who’d invested in Cavanaugh would sell their shares and no one would question the reason why. The remaining loose cannon was Castillo. No one had anticipated he’d kidnap Willow but what a perfect bartering tool in order to keep Jennifer from making a deal of her own. Castillo needed Willow or all bets were off.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh reneged on the deal, or at least threatened to do so,” I stated.
“Entirely possible, especially since James Cavanaugh is good friends with the director of the DEA.”
Half laughing, I knew I wouldn’t want to be in that household. “It’s all coming together. I appreciate what you found out.”
“Not sure how helpful that is.”
“Enough. There are still some significant missing pieces though. Why would Jennifer possibly destroy her company in the first place?”
“Do you honestly think men are the only ones influenced by greed?”
“No, but something doesn’t feel right.”
Jameson grinned. “I have no doubt you’ll figure it out.”
“What happened to the reporter?”
“What do you think? He was cut into pieces and delivered to the door of the newspaper. Are you staying or leaving the island?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I put a few of my buddies on notice, just in case we need them.”
“How close are they?”
Jameson shrugged, obviously unprepared to tell me their exact location, which I understood. “Close enough.”
We both turned as one of the farm trucks roared toward us, the driver slamming on the brakes and jumping out within seconds.
“Mr. Sanderson!” the young man called.
Jameson trotted closer. “What is it, Noa?” As Noa tried to explain in a combination of broken English and Hawaiian why he was frantic, it took me a full minute to figure out what he was trying to express.
Someone had breached the security system.
Oh, fuck, no.
“How?” Jameson asked, his hand signals indicating helicopter or by boat. When the young man indicated boats, as in more than one, I took off running toward the chopper.
