Page 9 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
Priest ticked off the points on his fingers. “It was an open marriage they both agreed to, she isn’t swayed by peer pressure, she isn’t officially in anyone’s chain of command, she operates backchannels that have proven useful over the years, her assistant buys her clothing, and I believe she used a knee.”
“Why was she not thrown in the brig?”
“He probably enjoyed it.”
“I don’t want her anywhere near Marc,” I muttered.
“Because you doubt her operational capabilities, or because she dresses like she stepped off the runway?”
Jez’s turn to chuckle, and I threw an apple at her. “Nothing about this is funny.”
“Right. The fact that you, a woman who practically has ‘Top Secret’ stamped across her forehead, are still head over heels for a man voted Imagine magazine’s Ass of the Year three times running is no laughing matter.”
“Don’t forget your balaclava,” Tulsa put in. “We wouldn’t want the love of your life to accidentally recognise you, would we?”
“I should have stayed with Team Bravo.”
“So you could put the toilet seat down fifty times a day?”
“How many times do you think I need to pee?”
“Ladies…” Priest tried. “The job?”
Marcel raised a hand. “I always put down the toilet seat. And Marc definitely deserved Ass of the Year. You should call him.”
“Lalalalala… As of now, we will refer to Marc as ‘the abductee’ or ‘the hostage.’ I don’t need any more judgment, okay?”
“Can I—” Priest started, but I cut him off.
“That includes you, Mr. I’ve Been Married Seven Times.”
He got melancholy, he got drunk, he put a ring on it. Then three hours or three months later, he got a divorce or sometimes an annulment. Right now, there were several exes driving very nice cars thanks to their brief dalliances with a man who aged like a good whisky—Priest was smooth, full-bodied, and by all accounts, left the women gasping a little. Too bad he lied to them about absolutely everything.
“I was just going to suggest that Storm go ahead to the base to prep the jet.”
Oh. Good idea. “Fine.”
She squeezed my shoulder on her way out the door. “Everything’s gonna be okay, you’ll see. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
But the foreboding in my gut told me it wasn’t. Karma had finally caught up with me.
CHAPTER 4
Phae
“First impressions?” Priest asked, and I was glad he’d decided to lead this meeting rather than Emmy. This virtual meeting. Emmy’s team and ours were on separate jets, heading for the airport at Sorong because there were no military airbases in that part of the country. Our jet had been customised to our own specification, but it was still government property, so the fittings could best be described as “utilitarian.” Emmy, on the other hand, had reviewed the “optional extras” list from the manufacturer and checked every box. If she had missiles on board, they were probably gold-plated.
Emmy’s advance team had already landed on Malati, along with a squad of ten men from Kopassus. The cops were there too—a pair of local officers who were way out of their depth, plus a team of detectives who asked plenty of questions but seemed at a loss as to what to do with the answers.
The Whispers in Willowbrook special was being filmed in a deserted village on the east side of the island. Actually, “deserted” was the wrong word. A US developer had bought up all the properties, and plans were underway to turn it into a luxury resort—think fancy restaurants, overwater bungalows, exclusive spa treatments, and the price tag to match. But while negotiations were underway with the authorities and the requisite bribes were still making their way through the planning process, the place lay empty, and the owner figured they’d make a quick buck by renting it out as a movie location.
Just after eleven a.m., at least half a dozen gunmen had appeared and begun shooting, their faces covered, green sashes acting as an identifier. Folks had run for cover, and when the noise finally stopped, nine people couldn’t be found, Marc and Serena Carlisle among them. Despite all the gunfire, only one person had been treated for a bullet wound, so either there were bodies that hadn’t been found, or… Fuck, I didn’t want to think about either of those options.
Malati wasn’t a big island, only two miles from end to end, and most residents lived in a small town on the western tip. No hospital, only a doctor, so casualties had been transferred to a larger island nearby—the gunshot victim, a guy who’d tripped over stray equipment and broken his ankle, and a woman found unconscious who hadn’t woken up yet.
Access to the village was via boat or along one narrow dirt road. Several witnesses reported hearing engines, but only after the shooting started. So far, it was unclear how the raiders had escaped. Had they fled the island? Or were they still there, hiding in the wild tangle of undergrowth that covered the hilly central region? First responders had trampled over any tracks that might belong to the assholes who’d snatched Marc, so we were left fishing around in the dark.
Right now, I felt helpless, and I hated that. We’d just watched the collection of footage that Mimi—Emmy’s APAC lead—had cobbled together, shaky phone scenes filmed from hiding places, interspersed with whispered messages to loved ones in case the victims didn’t make it home. I tried to block out those parts.
