Page 68 of The Grave Artist
Mission accomplished.
The original plan called for them to be inside. But now they were conveniently standing right near the handy dock. He could easily see that they’d succumbed to the drugs.
He watched the couple closely.
Sipping the champagne.
Getting drowsy.
Good.
It was time to get ready for the next step.
Chapter 33
Jake Heron was not much of a romantic.
Those lost in the rabbit hole of the internet are the definition of “loner.” As a young man, he’d told his close friends—when asked—that he’d had exactly 101 partners in his life ... before adding that 1-0-1 was the binary version of 5.
For various reasons those five relationships had not flourished.
To put it mildly.
Computers were often to blame—well, computers combined with his reclusive nature and his purpose in life: to expose the dangers of intrusion. All three aspects of Jake Heron wore thin with four of the women. One was different. She felt the same. About intrusion. About a lot of things. But then Saoirse was gone. For reasons he didn’t like to think about.
Now, though, he found himself on the deck of a floating island, in the honeymoon suite of a luxurious resort, a beautiful evening, the nighttime chill of the fragrant air mediated by the thick robe and the warm wool slippers.
Standing close to Carmen Sanchez.
He took a sip of champagne. She lifted the glass to her mouth and pretended to drink (in HSI there was no drinking on duty, andwhile Sanchez bent some rules, this was immutable, because she carried a firearm).
She cocked her head, apparently receiving a message through her earbud, hidden by her thick dark hair.
Hair he remembered cascading over his face not long after their first meeting as she lay atop him.
She said softly, “Copy that.” Then to Jake: “The last agent just got in position. We’re good to go.”
The plan was sound, and they had all the backup they needed. He noticed Sanchez visibly relax. The trap was set. Now all they had to do was wait until HK appeared on a utility boat, totally vulnerable in the middle of a placid body of water.
They were both acting drowsy, and she pointed to a bench in a small garden, which was, he couldn’t help but notice, filled with rocks that were the perfect size to cave in a skull.
Perhaps HK had thought the same, as he delivered the champagne and chocolates and anticipated what would happen later that night.
They sat and both lifted their flutes to their lips once more. He took another sip. Why the hell not? It was Moët, true French champagne, which was about the only alcohol Heron drank. They set the glasses down.
“Act drowsier,” Sanchez said. “We’ve got to convince him it’s working.”
It was his play, but he was happy to have her be the director. He dropped his shoulders a bit, lowered his head. Then, as if battling to stay awake, sat up straighter. Sanchez did the same.
“Do you think HK is falling for it?” he muttered under his breath.
“Don’t see why not. Though ...”
She said nothing more, but he got her meaning. That the theater perhaps called for more “newlywed behavior.”
He put his arm around her. He’d hesitated at first, but when she nestled closer, he gripped her shoulder more firmly.
She turned to face him, tilting her head back slightly to meet his gaze. The smell of her shampoo—her favorite, lavender—drew his eyes to her hair, and he felt a compulsion to run his fingers through it.
