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“You can’t confront him,” Scott said vehemently, fighting his own building rage, “not yet anyway, and remember, Conchello gives the orders.”
“I don’t care. It was still Jim who probably tipped off Conchello about that raid,” she exclaimed. “He’s still working for him. This is too much for me, Scott. I can’t handle it.”
“Let’s sit down for a minute,” he suggested, guiding her to the conversation pit and settling her on the couch. “Elizabeth, you have to push aside all that raw emotion. If we’re going to beat these dirtbags, we need to think clearly and stay focused. Dan has the tracker in his hotel room. That’s not going to end well, and with Jim we have the advantage. He doesn’t know we’re on to him.”
“It’s so hard to wrap my brain around all this, and Jim—what he’s done—who he really is.”
“Believe me, I understand, but listen,” Scott insisted, taking her hands in a firm grip. “Revenge is best served cold. Step back, be determined, and don’t let your emotions cloud your thoughts. We’ll come up with a plan, and execute that plan. Can you do that with me, or do I need to leave you tied up here and do everything by myself?”
“You’d better not,” she retorted, glaring at him, then let out a breath and nodded her head, “but I get what you mean. I’m okay, kind of, almost. I know I have to be. Is that good enough for the moment?”
“That’s good enough for the moment,” he repeated. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Um, those guys on your yacht probably mean Jim and Dan know we’re on this island, so Conchello probably does too.”
“Good, you’re thinking clearly. He wants you here. We just don’t know why.”
“Should we leave?”
“They’re in speedboats, I have a yacht. Think about it.”
“Oh, right.”
“Even if they find this house, which is unlikely, you don’t have to worry, it’s a fortress, and I can call in some serious backup.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said, letting out a relieved sigh.
“Emily has spotted boats coming and going from the beach, and I already have a drone doing surveillance. There’s probably an email waiting for me with information about them already.”
“I wish I knew more about you,” she said softly, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him.
He smiled.
“You will, but for the moment, just know I’m on your side.”
“I do, and—”
But his phone buzzed, cutting her off.
“I’m on yours,” she finished quickly.
“Check out the yacht while I answer that,” he said, helping her up.
As he strode across the room and lifted his phone off his desk, she hurried to the telescope and peered through the eyepiece.
“The speedboat’s gone,” she declared, “and the seas are rougher.”
But his yacht was suddenly the last thing on Scott’s mind.
“Elizabeth,” he said solemnly, walking over to her, “prepare yourself. Conchello just stepped off a plane in St. John.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
St. John played host to the wealthy and celebrated. Flying in on their private jets, they were collected by limousines and whisked away to magnificent homes boasting stunning views of the sparkling Caribbean.
Sonny Conchello considered himself one of them.
Obsessive about his appearance, his suits were tailor made and his shoes handcrafted in Italy. Even his leisure clothes were expensive. Nothing about him fit the stereotypical image of a ruthless drug lord, but those working for him knew his dark soul and stone heart. Ferocious greed drove him. Not a penny was spent without the expectation of a significant return, whether it be in coin or deed.
