His voice fades as he disappears in the SUV, and in a minute, an escort of black vehicles follows it off the premises.
Archer’s bodyguard motions to me from the front terrace, and I finally go into the mansion.
“What you got for me, man?” Archer says as he pads through the two-story hallway toward me, clad only in his swim trunks, leaving wet footprints on the marble floor.
“Exactly what you asked for,” I say, passing him the small pouch with tiny vials, the most potent drug that puts E, coke, and LSD combined to shame. This is child’s play of what I can get for him, but when it comes to even innocent indulgences such as this, Archer Crone puts his trust only in me. And I want it to stay this way.
Archer doesn’t look that great. After the accident that burned his best friend two years ago, he’s been shoving every drug possible into his system and partying his head off. Considering he’s only twenty-two, if he continues in this manner, he’ll become a permanent resident at a rehab. If he doesn’t kill himself first, that is.
It’s a pity, really, because he is a prodigy with a brilliant mind and the youngest board member of the Gen-Alpha project, which conducts innovative DNA research.
But shitty family history can ruin the best of men. I should know. I grew up in the system. Foster homes, juvie, living on the streets, dealing.
And here we are. By the age of twenty-five, I still deal, but it’s a different kind of business. So is social engineering. So is hacking. So is synthetic identity fraud. Arms dealers are businessmen, too. So are the people in the White House. You get the point.
Five minutes is usually the maximum extent of my interactions with Archer. I’m about to leave, but the conversation I overheard earlier nags at me.
“What’s happening, Archer?” I ask casually.
“The usual,” Archer says, texting someone, not looking at me. “Spring break is going to be crazy this year.”
He and his crew are taking a private jet to Zion Island, a tropical paradise in the Atlantic. Most of the properties there are owned by his father, so no surprise there.
“My father tries to put a tail on me for whatever fucking reason,” he adds with irritation.
The secretary’s words ping in my head.
“When I tell you to get out of the country before this weekend, you listen.”
An eerie feeling is slowly twisting my stomach. When my intuition sets me on edge, I listen. It got me where I am in life despite being beaten, abused, imprisoned, cut and stabbed so many times that my body looks like a badly-patched-up piñata after a rowdy party, though my fancy clothes hide it well.
“Hey, Archer, need a small favor,” I say, ready to humble myself. “About Zion…”
Archer lifts his eyes off his phone. “What about it?”
“I know it’s not my place to ask, and you’ll think I’m out of my league…” I trail off, locking my eyes with him. “I can get anything you want to the island if you take me with you for spring break.”
He stares at me in amusement, then confusion.
I despise rich kids who grow up taking things for granted and thinking they are above it all even though many of them have shit for brains and the personality of a cabbage. Archer Crone might be one of the very few I respect. Mostly for his genius brain that made him a chemistry prodigy at the age of fourteen and his achievements in football.
“You?” Archer lifts a tipsy brow.
I nod, blinking in response.
“What’s this about?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.
I know he’s trying to figure out the reason why I, for the first time, want to be in his crew. I need to lather him up. “You want a ride on a Russian submarine around the island? I’ll find one and deliver it to Zion. You want a ladyboy parade from Thailand? I’ll put one on a plane within an hour. Indigenous tribes dancing? Military air show? You name it, I will organize it for you there.”
An amused chuckle escapes him, but I’m not kidding. He knows me well, knows my background, too. I can get anything. Anywhere. Anytime. It’s only a matter of price. I take my job seriously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to find dirt on the newly appointed league commissioner to help get one of Archer’s buddies into the NFL. When you say dealer, people assume drugs. But the most precious thing to deal in is information.
“Things go down on Zion in a way that threatens your reputation? It’s on me,” I say calmly, pushing it.
I’m gambling, but I’m going to get my way, always do.
“I have connections in Port Mrei at Zion,” I bluff, because I’ve never been to Zion or the port town or the Ayana resort, but if needed, I’ll find them.
I never ask for favors. But something is up, and I want to be where Archer Crone is for the next week. Because the son of the most protected man in this country is—you guessed it—the most protected.