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Satellite phone, huh?
“Also, Crone… A person in town said Butcher is planning some shit. That surveillance disruption that he pinned on the Savages was his doing.”
“Yeah.”
Anger simmers in my veins. I don’t like that everyone is talking about it like it’s common knowledge. Yet no one is talking tomeabout it.
And Marlow? It’s his job to keep the surveillance in check. And Raven’s job is to deal with the gangs in Port Mrei, including Butcher, the self-proclaimed mayor. I have enough on my plate with Gen-Alpha.
“You probably know it all anyway,” Droga says. “But the rumor is your security has holes. People are being smuggled to and off the island. Sonny Little”—he nods toward the kid on the beach—“said they come almost every day, back and forth.”
“Uh-huh.”
Droga’s words are news to me. I am not paying millions to my security team to look past holes. And the fact that a homeless kid in Port Mrei knows how to get through my port security is a fucking joke. The last thing we need is Russian moles slipping through those very holes.
“I appreciate the info. I’ll tell Marlow,” I say, trying to calm the rising anger. “Listen. I don’t want to come across as super lenient after being a psycho for the longest time.”
I pause, letting it sink in. I don’t give a shit that I sound weak. Droga is a better man. He came back to the island after what I’ve put him through. So, in my book, he can think anything he wants.
“The hurricane season is coming. It’s delayed this year, but they say, it’s gonna be the heaviest in ten years. It could wipe the Eastside out in a minute. So you guys need to move”
“I’ll talk to everyone. Not sure it will work.”
“Droga, come on.” I give him an irritated stare. “This is not a joke. It’s either relocating to Ayana or taking a chance on being dead.”
“Harsh.”
“That’s what it is. No bullshit.”
Droga nods. “Something needs to be done, I agree. It’s just… The general mood about Ayana and… you. You know.”
“I know. I’m surprised they are not shooting at me right now.” I snort, but Droga is not smiling. “Tell them it’s a peace offering. They can build a fucking village in Ayana for all I care. But I’m not bringing the death toll up. Not when everyone blames me for everything.”
The Outcasts are still on the beach, dispersed, but still watching. Bikinis, board shorts—they look like they are on vacation.
I nod toward them. “Aren’t they tired of living like Tarzans?”
“We’ve lived like this for two years.”
“Tell them I’ll give them access to the mainland. Get their bank accounts re-activated.” There is no stopping me now. I made peace with Droga, and there are a whole bunch more people to come. “I know I fucked a lot of them. I’m not proud of it. But it wasn’t supposed to last that long, you know.” I swallow the words and the memories of the night when the world sank into a nuclear war. “Those first two weeks were madness. A horror story. We were all fucked in our heads, and I had to do what I had to do to keep some control over it.” I exhale heavily. We can talk about it for hours, but it will have to be some other time. “If they want to leave the island, I’ll get the jet ready. Bribe them.”
Droga nods as he stares at me with what I think is curiosity. I don’t make sense, I know. Not the Crone from a week ago. I don’t look away, only smirk, trying to hide unease.
“I’m so fucking tired, Droga. Of this, the island, the world that turned into shit.” I exhale heavily again. “What’s the deal with the kid?” I ask, changing the topic.
Droga shrugs. “He’ll be better off here than in Port Mrei. That town…” He shakes his head and digs the heel of his foot into the deck like he’s trying to dig a hole. “I get it you don’t visit it often, if ever. Port Mrei is turning into a dump. The Ashlands is already a slum.”
“And?”
“You own this island. Aren’t you concerned?”
I take a moment to think over the words. No one understands that this island was a pride project at first and is now dragging me like a rope around my neck with a stone that is slowly sinking to the bottom of a dark hole.
“Right now, Port Mrei is not my priority,” I finally say, getting up. “But they”—I nod toward the beach—“should be yours.”
“Right.”
I start the motor and idle the boat toward the beach. I feel exhausted like I’ve gone through the most nerve-wracking interview in my life.
