That was exactly what they had done. Once Seven Star Island was a hundred miles in their wake, she asked the second question, knowing full well that Chase’s reply would shape the rest of her days. “What happens next?”
He had that answer ready and waiting. “We keep it simple. We buy this boat, then start exploring the Caribbean, moving place to place and lying low while seeing what shakes out. I’m not convinced that Aria’s servants planned on returning. Depends on whether her death was accidental or suicide.”
“Suicide! I’d never considered that,” Skylar interjected. “Although, come to think of it, radical behavior could be considered their defining characteristic.”
“If accidental, then the story will be all over the news. If suicide, we may never hear anything. Between the birds and the bugs and the sun, the bodies may not be found until someone drains the pool and discovers the bones. That could be many months down the road.”
They stuck to that plan. They stashed the loot beneath life preservers and spare rolls of toilet paper, bought the yacht with Tory’s Amex card—what an amazing call that had been—and spent six months getting acquainted with both boating life and each other.
Every time they docked, they checked the newspapers and internet. Nothing was ever reported. Not on the deaths. Not on the missing millions in treasure.
They spent many an evening speculating on that silence. While there was no clear or obvious answer, Chase was certain that the root cause lay in the identity swapping that got them involved in the first place. Aria and the others had gone off the grid, and therefore the grid didn’t miss them. Or their money.
Skylar had posed the penultimate questions a few nights earlier. Chase was serving rum punch on the upper deck of the C’est La Vie as the sun set over Antigua when she asked, “Are we criminals?”
He replied with the soft tone of a person who had spent hours thinking through a sensitive topic and was at peace with his answer. “An aggressive prosecutor could certainly get us indicted. But conviction would be difficult. That requires convincing a jury of our peers that we did something they wouldn’t do in our shoes. Our attorney could easily make the case that the real criminals got their comeuppance and we, their victims, were fairly compensated. Justice had already been served.”
“You’re not concerned then?”
“I’m rightfully concerned. The legal process would be long, costly, and unpleasant. We’d be living on pins and needles for months if not years. And not on this boat we’ve both come to love. Possibly not even together.”
She began crying at that point. Not out of worry or fear but out of relief. By voicing his concerns, Chase had affirmed her status, their status, and it filled her heart with joy.
He didn’t stop there. “But unless and until we’re found not guilty, we have to be very careful. In that regard, these months at sea—just you and me with the islands, waves, and stars—have brought certainty to my thinking.”
“What certainty?” she asked with a prayer in her heart.
“I want us to be careful—together.”
She wrapped her arms around him. One thing led to another and before they knew it both were drained and sweaty. “How do we be careful together?” she asked across the pillow. That was her final question. The one that brought them to the big black door with no number.
“Go ahead,” Chase said with an affirming nod.
Skylar knocked, then stepped back, holding Chase’s hand in full view of the discreet surveillance camera.
The door opened with a click, exposing a short, bare brick hallway. There was a similar door at the other end and a large man standing inside.
He tapped a hefty black sap against his palm as they entered but said nothing.
The door behind them swung shut, then the one before them opened. They walked through it and into a windowless room where a gray-haired man wearing a dark suit and silver-framed glasses sat across a bare table. He motioned to them to sit, then got straight to business. “So, you need new identities.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
Are you curious about what’s next for Skylar and Chase? To get my thoughts and stay informed of my new releases, email me at ThePriceOfTime@timtigner.com.
As with all my newer novels, I kept my research for this one on a Pinterest page. If you’re curious, you can access it here.
If you enjoyed THE PRICE OF TIME, I hope you will be so kind as to leave a review on Amazon. Reviews and referrals are as vital to an author’s success as a good GPA is to a student’s.
Thank you for your kind comments and precious attention.
Amazon Review Link: THE PRICE OF TIME
~ ~ ~
Turn the page for a preview of PUSHING BRILLIANCE, book #1 in the Kyle Achilles series.
preview of
PUSHING BRILLIANCE
Chapter 1
The Kremlin
HOW DO YOU PITCH an audacious plan to the most powerful man in the world? Grigori Barsukov was about to find out.
Technically, the President of Russia was an old friend — although the last time they’d met, his old friend had punched him in the face. That was thirty years ago, but the memory remained fresh, and Grigori’s nose still skewed to the right.
Back then, he and President Vladimir Korovin wore KGB lieutenant stars. Now both were clothed in the finest Italian suits. But his former roommate also sported the confidence of one who wielded unrivaled power, and the temper of a man ruthless enough to obtain it.
The world had spun on a different axis when they’d worked together, an east-west axis, running from Moscow to Washington. Now everything revolved around the West. America was the sole superpower.
Grigori could change that.
He could lever Russia back into a pole position.
But only if his old rival would risk joining him — way out on a limb.
As Grigori’s footfalls fell into cadence with the boots of his escorts, he coughed twice, attempting to relax the lump in his throat. It didn’t work. When the hardwood turned to red carpet, he willed his palms to stop sweating. They didn’t listen. Then the big double doors rose before him and it was too late to do anything but take a deep breath, and hope for the best.
The presidential guards each took a single step to the side, then opened their doors with crisp efficiency and a click of their heels. Across the office, a gilded double-headed eagle peered down from atop the dark wood paneling, but the lone living occupant of the Kremlin’s inner sanctum did not look up.
President Vladimir Korovin was studying photographs.
Grigori stopped three steps in as the doors were closed behind him, unsure of the proper next move. He wondered if everyone felt this way the first time. Should he stand at attention until acknowledged? Take a seat by the wall?
He strolled to the nearest window, leaned his left shoulder up against the frame, and looked out at the Moscow River. Thirty seconds ticked by with nothing but the sound of shifting photos behind him. Was it possible that Korovin still held a grudge?
Desperate to break the ice without looking like a complete fool, he said, “This is much nicer than the view from our academy dorm room.”
Korovin said nothing.
Grigori felt his forehead tickle. Drops of sweat were forming, getting ready to roll. As the first broke free, he heard the stack of photos being squared, and then at long last, the familiar voice. It posed a very unfamiliar question: “Ever see a crocodile catch a rabbit?”
Grigori whirled about to meet the Russian President’s gaze. “What?”