Page 13 of Ground Truth

So he offered the bare minimum. “Hurt on the job. Dirtbag shot me a couple of times before I killed him. A while back, though. Docs fixed me up. It’s all good.”

Drake nodded, but Gaspar offered no more.

Instead, Gaspar asked the only relevant question. “What do you need?”

“Not sure. That’s the problem,” Drake replied between swigs. “I’d ask Flint, but he’s not back from Italy yet. Give that guy a yacht on the Med and he’s glued to a lounge chair.”

Gaspar smiled. “Yeah, well, can’t blame him for that.”

Drake lifted the beer in Gaspar’s direction. “He’s got a lot of respect for you. Scarlett does, too. Thought you might have some good suggestions.”

“Okay.” Gaspar said. “Hit me with it.”

-

Chapter 8

Atabei

The sunny, warm winter weather was perfect for a walk. Hands loosely draped in the pockets of his linen trousers, Dr. Stephen Brand sauntered the few short blocks to the Atabei Country Club. Behind his Cartier aviators, his gaze scanned the neighborhood and found nothing lacking.

Pristine sidewalks were washed regularly. No trash of any sort littered the streets. He was free to enjoy the island’s bright colors and the wafting scent of gardenias in bloom without experiencing even the slightest irritation.

Atabei was the best of what Caribbean Island countries had to offer, Brand confirmed once again. Atabei natives numbered fewer than one thousand now and continued to dwindle. The country’s population was otherwise composed of carefully chosen residents. About two thousand total.

Atabei’s founders had adopted their successes and learned well from their mistakes.

As a result, unlike the other islands, Atabei’s poverty level was nonexistent. Security stellar. Health care the best money could buy. Nutritional needs were abundantly satisfied and consistent with residents’ preferences. Some ate well. Others did not. By choice.

Atabei Island was privately owned, structured similarly to an extravagantly luxurious condominium community with a benevolent dictator as the chairman of the board.

Every potential resident had been professionally vetted by the ex–Mossad security experts who kept order here. The security staff was small but well trained and extravagantly supported with the best technology money could buy as well.

Approved visitors were few, strictly limited in number, and subject to unrestricted surveillance as deemed necessary.

In all the years since Brand established his business here, crime rates had been near zero. Infrequent violators were swiftly identified, arrested, punished, and dealt with. All property of established criminals was confiscated and added to Atabei’s portfolio.

Thus, the justice system, like all the other systems on Atabei, worked exceptionally well.

“Welcome, Dr. Brand,” the white-gloved doorman greeted him, hand on the oversize brass handle at the front of the Atabei Country Club. He opened the big white door and stood aside.

“Good afternoon, Tito,” Brand replied with a nod and a wide smile as he crossed the threshold.

Brand ambled into the enormous, air-conditioned lobby where he stood for a moment on the cool mahogany floor. He removed his sunglasses and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He straightened his sport coat, used both hands to swipe his brown wavy hair back from his face, and strolled to the dining room.

Brand spied his client seated at a table overlooking the golf course and waved the hostess aside. He meandered through the room, avoiding full tables of diners engaged in suitably muted conversation, until he reached Jordan Rush.

Rush was seated with his back to Brand, gazing out the open window across the lush, verdant fairway. This was the fifth hole. Had the clubhouse been situated at the seventh hole, Rush would have had an unobstructed view of the clear turquoise Caribbean Sea.

Brand cleared his throat to avoid startling the man who seemed nervous enough already.

Rush looked up and stood for a formal handshake. He was that kind of traditionalist. “Hello, Stephen.”

“Jordan,” Brand replied with the same level of informality, seeking to put the man at ease.

Nothing about the surgery Rush needed was routine and men like him were always more comfortable with familiarity. In the absence of routine, Rush craved control. When he controlled the situation, he controlled his fears.

Brand understood the anxiety. He’d dealt with similar anxiety in his patients many times before.

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