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And for a week, we made fire from nothing, not even a match—yeah, dig that—made shelter, caught fish, ate berries, insects, and whatever small game we could find. Those were the weirdest most miserable days in my life. But, I gotta admit, I came out of those mountains feeling like Rambo. You drop me in the middle of nowhere in the jungle, and I’ll make it work, baby. Zion is a piece of cake.
Then there is Ayana on the Westside, the luxury resort that stretches several miles north to south and has everything your heart desires from international cuisine to yachts, game rooms, and spas.
Up north are the locals. There is Port Mrei, the local tourist town that is slowly turning into a dump.
And next to it, just a little southeast, toward the cliffs and the Devil’s Caverns, is the Ashlands—the slums, the land of the homeless and the Savages.
Marlow left, and I stand on the front terrace of my bungalow, studying the surrounding thick patch of trees and bushes and listening to the party noises coming from the nearby bungalow.
In a little while, I will finally get to see the most important part of this island—the lab, data and surveillance rooms, collectively called the Center.
I hear the sports bike before I see it, my heart pumping in anticipation when Archer pulls up next to the front porch.
It’s the hottest bike I’ve seen. And the guy riding it? Well…
He’s changed, now wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and black sneakers. He smells like expensive cologne and body wash. His bruises are the only thing that gives away the mess of the last days. Sunglasses disguise his eyes.
The muscles on his arms are defined as he leans over, holding the handlebars like the bike is his extension. A billionaire on a sports bike—I’ll have to do a lot of self-care after work to keep myself from humping this guy.
He perches his sunglasses on his head and eyes my outfit like he expects to see something different.
I’ve worn the Ayana tank and shorts for several days now. That’s all I have since they dragged us here from the Eastside. Archer’s stare is always less than subtle, making me uncomfortable and turned on at the same time.
“Is that how the richest man on this island dresses for work?” I ask him as I approach.
His bike is slick—the most gorgeous dark-gray sports beast. Gray must be Archer’s favorite color—his clothes, his house interior. Maybe, to match his soul.
“Did you expect a Brioni suit?” He smirks. “Clothes are not what makes me the king of this place.”
“What does?”
“If you get lucky, you’ll find out.” The smug bastard motions behind him. “Hop on.”
We don’t ride through the main Ayana road—we fly. The fact that I feel proud sitting on the back of Archer’s motorcycle is an embarrassing admittance that this guy is going to blow my mind away. I just know it. He already did. Does. And will continue if I don’t stay away. Which I don’t intend to.
My thoughts should definitely have brakes, but they fail around him.Hello, rabbit hole.
The ride—or flight—is only five minutes. We reach the most eastern part of Ayana, not far from Cliff Villa, and go through a security gate that’s hidden in the thick jungle.
I wasn’t even aware of the road there. But another two minutes through the thick jungle, and we reach a clearing with two huge rectangular buildings that don’t have windows and a tall tower with multiple satellites above it like antlers. The structure looks like a nuclear shelter, surrounded by meticulously trimmed lawns, gazebos, and an enclosed walkway between them. Scooters, electric boards, and golf carts are parked neatly in rows on each side of the building, and we halt at the entrance to one of them.
The Center looks much smaller on the outside because when Archer swipes the key and we walk into one of the buildings, it’s a level lower than the ground and huge.
We halt at the entrance, not going farther down the massive steps that sprawl into a wide area that looks like a convention center.
“Wow. Yeah… I mean…”
I have no words. This place was meant to be what—hurricane-proof? Nuclear-proof? The ceiling is much higher than what the outside gives away because the place is partially built into the ground.
One side is closed off by tall walls—data rooms. The other side behind the glass or plastic windows is a giant space with dozens of monitors and people—the surveillance center.
“Shit,” I exhale.
I underestimated this place and Archer’s control. But the most shocking is not the scale but that the people in front of the monitors are for the most part not spring-breakers but adults, some of them much older, many faces different from those of regular civilians—I know, I spent the last seven years in the military circles.
Archer motions to a tall Hulk-looking man in tactical pants, a t-shirt, and a duty belt, in his forties. He could intimidate God if it came to it.
“Slate, this is Miss Katura Ortiz,” Archer introduces us.
