“But,” she says, following my lead, “Dallas called about fifteen minutes ago asking if I could book him the suite at the Century Plaza.”
“Did he? And what does that tell you?” I know what it tells me, and I mentally cross my fingers that Rachel understands, too.
“That he’s not pulling out. At least not yet. And even if he is thinking about pulling out, he hasn’t told Mr. Stark as much. But honestly, I think he’s in for the long haul. Because taking advantage of Mr. Stark’s hospitality and then cutting off the investment funds would only piss Mr. Stark off. And even a man like Dallas Sykes doesn’t want to be on Damien Stark’s bad side.”
“Not bad,” I say. “What else?”
“Well, the rest is a bit more dicey. I may be completely off base.”
“That’s the job, Rachel. A doormat assistant who can only do exactly what Mr. Stark tells her is no use at all.”
“Right. Well, I don’t think that Dallas is a very good barometer. About what the rest of the investors will do, I mean.” Though her words are statements, her voice rises at the end, as if she’s asking a question.
“Okay,” I say, biting back a smile as I recall how nervous I was when I took over as Damien’s primary assistant. “Why’s that?”
“It’s just that he’s such a wild card. A tabloid fodder bad boy, you know? Which means the other investors might still pull out, especially in light of everything that happened today. Which means we’re still fucked.”
I laugh out loud at that final assessment, and she sucks in air on the other end of the line.
“I so wouldn’t have said it that way to Mr. Stark.”
“It’s okay,” I promise. “I get it.” And frankly “fucked” pretty much sums it up.
I’ve got my earbuds in so I’ve been able to look at the web browser on my phone as we talk. And while I haven’t scrolled down to read any of the actual articles, I’ve seen enough to know that Trent is right. This shit is everywhere. It’s all doom and gloom, with everyone predicting that the investors are toast and the resort is doomed. And I’m certain that Jackson has seen it by now.
“Do you need me to send you Nigel’s statement?”
“Nigel?” I repeat. I only know one Nigel. He’s a friend of Damien’s who works at the Pentagon and was a helpful contact earlier in the year when Stark Vacation Properties purchased Santa Cortez island, where the resort is being built. “Nigel Galway?”
“About the land mines.”
I come to a dead stop on the tarmac. “Rachel, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Trent didn’t tell you?”
“Trent told me about the leaks about Jackson. About the speculation on motive. If you’re referring to a metaphorical land mine, I’m right there with you. But otherwise, I need you to tell me what the hell we’re talking about.” I’m speaking very slowly and very distinctly.
My stomach is tight and my skin is clammy, and I have the very unpleasant feeling that I know where this is going—and it’s not going anywhere good.
“The investors all got emails saying that Santa Cortez was seeded with land mines. Part of the military training operations.”
“Shit. Fuck. Damn.” The curses roll off my tongue. I take a deep breath. “Nigel made a statement?”
“Aiden and Damien talked to him about an hour ago—I can’t believe Trent didn’t tell you. I guess he figured it’s been handled. And it has. Really. I mean, there might be blowback, but—”
“I swear to god, Rachel, just back up and tell me what happened.”
She does. Finally. Apparently the investors received a leaked copy of a Pentagon memo proposing to bury land mines on Santa Cortez island back when it was being used as a naval training facility. That proposal was rejected, and no mines were ever buried on the island, a fact which Nigel has put to paper and which Damien has relayed to the investors.
On the whole, it’s a minor blip, which was easily resolved.
But it’s a blip that’s indicative of a bigger problem—someone is still messing with my resort. And they really show no signs of stopping.
Since about the time Jackson came on board, The Resort at Cortez has been plagued with strange incidents. Security footage leaked to the press. Private emails taken viral. Nuisances, mostly. But troublesome enough that they’ve eaten into my time and into the investors’ confidence.
I’d thought that they were over.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
I tell Rachel to forward me Nigel’s statement so that I’ll be up to speed, then I end the call and pick up my pace, both because I now have energy to burn, and because I want to catch up to Jackson.
As soon as I step through the doors of the Rec Room, I stop and scan the interior for him. The room is essentially empty—I happen to know that we were the only flight arriving on the property today, and the staff doesn’t normally work Sundays—so I expect to find him easily enough. But while Darryl is cooling his heels at the bar, there is no sign of Jackson.
“Is he in the restroom?”
Darryl looks up as I approach. He’s a thin man with a hangdog face that makes him look older than his twenty-eight years and perpetually sleepy. I know it’s an illusion; you only need to look at those sharp gray eyes to see that Darryl is as competent as they come, and I fully expect that he’ll inherit Grayson’s job one day.
“He just left. Asked if I could drive you home. Said he needed to take care of a few things before his meeting tonight.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. “I’m guessing that’s a problem?”
Hell yes, that’s a problem, but all I say is, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use one of the company cars. I’ve got a few errands to take care of myself.”
I really want to run, but I don’t want to reveal that I’m worried. So I calmly head behind the bar to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of Perrier. Then I hitch my tote over my shoulder, grab my rolling bag, which Darryl has left by the side door, and walk slowly out of the room.
Once I’m out, though, I practically sprint around the corner to the row of covered parking spaces that abut the back of this building. These are cars that Stark International keeps for the use of clients, investors, consultants, and the like who arrive at this airport. I’m totally mangling company policy by snagging one for my personal use, but at the moment, I don’t much care.
Jackson’s been playing emotional hide-and-seek with me ever since the cops showed up in Santa Fe, and now he’s taken that to the next level.
Well, too bad for him that’s not a game I’m in the mood to play.
A lockbox is mounted to the side of the building, and I punch in the code, then grab the keys for a bright yellow Mustang. I hurry over to it and fire up the engine, gratified by the way the motor purrs as I back it out. It’s a responsive car, a hell of a lot spunkier than my five-year-old Nissan, and I hope that it’s got enough power to catch up to Jackson.
He can’t really lay on the gas until he’s off airport property, but I’m more than willing to break the rules and do exactly that. I hope he hasn’t passed the gates, because I’d never find him on the city streets. But surely he hasn’t been gone that long. Has he?
There’s a single road that winds its way through this Stark-operated section of the airport, and I’m certain that is Jackson’s path. But I know how to cut across on the service feeder that runs behind the Stark hangars and, hopefully, catch up with him by Hangar C, which is where the main road and the feeder converge.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do then, but I’m not above tailing him all the way to wherever the hell he’s escaping to. Because I know damn well that he’s not going home. He needs a fight—he needs to lash out. He needs to pummel the world into submission, until the universe rights itself again.
What he doesn’t seem to need is me, and the thought that he’s not just running from me but actually escaping out the goddamn back door makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Fortunately, my anger has overshadowed that emotion. I’m fired up, riled by my fury. I’ll melt down later; right now, all I want is to find him, to shake him, and to tell him to get the fuck over it. Because he’s got enough problems right now, and dammit, I’m not one of them.