Page 27 of Doyle

Searched again.

There.Another glint of light near the edge of the property where it dropped down into the valley.

The hairs rose on his skin. He pocketed the glasses, then walked over to the compound and let himself inside, locked the gate, and then pulled up his radio and called Zeus as he climbed to the second floor of the monastery.

“Control, this is Patrol One. How’re we doing on that relief crew? I have a visual on a potential optical reflection from the road to the house.”

Zeus’s voice came over the walkie, deep and low, his island accent thick. “Copy, Patrol One. Can you confirm the source?”

“Negative on source confirmation. The reflection was brief but distinct. I am adjusting position for better observation and cover. Requesting support. Maybe drone deployment?”

“Acknowledged, Patrol One. We’ll get remote surveillance in the air. And relief is on the way. Maintain your position and keep visual cover. Stand by for further instructions.”

Fine.

He lowered the walkie, clipped it to his belt.

Stood, arms folded, staring into the darkness.

And maybe it was crazy, this feeling like...

No.Crazy or not, she was out there. He knew it in his gut.

And the answer was yes—yes, he was going to get in the way.

* * *

The knife pricked her throat, and that’s when Tia shot straight up, out of a sound sleep-slash-nightmare, a scream in her throat.

Her heart pounded against her chest, and she put a hand to it.

Overhead, in the semidarkness, her fan churned the early-morning breeze, and light filtered in through the gauzy curtains at the window.

So, no more sleep for her. Tia got up, brushed her teeth, braided her hair, then pulled on a pair of shorts and a top, flip-flops, grabbed her phone, and headed down to the kitchen.

Rosa stood at the stove, stirring a pot of cornmeal porridge in coconut milk. Fresh papaya lay on a board, the deep orange-red juices puddling under slices. “You’re up early, Miss Tia.” The woman, mid-forties, wore an apron around her ample middle, her hair up in a do-rag. “How are you?” She indicated Tia’s bandages.

“Better than I look.”Maybe.Because Tia had woken with a plan.

She’d pay Sebold out of her own money. She just needed to wait for the bank to open.

Stealing a slice of papaya, she helped herself to the fresh coffee, brewed in a tall metal coffee maker. She added some cream, then took another slice of papaya and headed out the side door to the rising sun.

A small stone patio jutted off the kitchen, and she sank into one of the metal bistro chairs, setting her cup on the round table. Dew glistened on the garden—crisp green cucumbers, bright red tomatoes, yellow squash, still small on the vine—and the scent of freshly furrowed earth imbued the air.

Beyond that, the chickens in the yard clucked, a few still in the roost.

Tia sipped her coffee, trying not to sink into fury, her gaze on the back door of the medical clinic. Her own words rumbled inside:“Declan doesn’t need to know. The last thing—the very last thing—I need is for him to think I can’t handle this job.”

Okay, she knew that pride seeded those words, but...

“I don’t like to lose.”Not quite accurate, really. She didn’t like injustice. Or fear.

Didn’t like being controlled by emotions that caused her to make stupid decisions. Like saying yes to marrying a man who didn’t love her.

She took another sip of her coffee, then pulled out her phone. Sent a text to her sister.

Tia

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