Page 135 of One Secret

The first SUV swerves crazily across the road, one wheel no longer pulling its weight.

Bang!

The second of our pursuers, having nimbly dodged its fallen brother, takes a heavy shot to the windscreen. Glass flies everywhere, glinting in the headlights and the front wheels turn sharply, implying a slumped—now dead—driver. The car careens in a sharp right-hand angle, straight off the road.

Bang!

The third SUV takes the hardest fall.

Whatever Cyrus hits, human or machine, has the car spinning sharply and falling over its corner wheel. Rocketted into a wild spin, the SUV is thrown into the air, over and again, before pirouetting like a top. The headlights flash bright over dark trees then shoot up to be absorbed by the night sky. Pieces of sheet metal spray across the road. Something hard hits our back window with a heavy smack and a spider web of cracks...

The road is left blocked and our last pursuer has to hammer on the brakes to save himself from a fatal collision.

I hit the accelerator equally hard and the Tesla shoots forward into the night...

17

The deception is simple. Which is what makes it elegant.

As soon as we're a few miles beyond the SUV carnage, I bring the Tesla to a safe stop.

'There's a field a mile south of the northern coastline,' Cyrus tells me, as he vacates the car. Stripping off his jacket, he attaches a strap to his weapon and settles the rifle over his shoulder.

'Good place for a rescue chopper, you mean?' I catch on, inputting the information into the car and then jumping out onto the side of the road.

Cyrus nods.

'Or at least, that's what Felix will think when he Googles where his car's at.'

His car?

I check the number plate as the Tesla pulls out and drives away solo:

"FC01 BSS."

No doubt he was going for "Boss", but I think the BS is far more than appropriate.

'Which way, now?' I search for Polaris overhead, having lost track of my internal compass. Apparently, I'm out of practice.

Never lose your bearings, soldier. You lose where you're at and you'll never find where you're going.

Cyrus has no such rust to shake off. He points with confidence out to our left.

'We'll hit the coastal road if we head that way. Boat’s twenty minutes from there.'

'Distance?' I ask. Cyrus is suddenly behind me, placing his jacket around my shoulders. My bare arms are chilled and my fingers are starting to numb out, so I don't argue. Even tropical islands get cold at night.

'Mile and a half,' he says, 'as the crow flies.'

Good thing I changed my shoes...

The hike takes us nearly an hour in total. A mile and a half isn't so far in theory. But throw in the pitch-black sky above and the untamed forestry below and, in practice, it all becomes a little more challenging. Most of the branches I avoid with ease but, every so often, one strikes out from the shadows without warning. Upturned roots underfoot seem eager to wrap around our toes and pull us over. With each new noise, we pause, listen, and assess. With every glint or flash of light, we duck behind the nearest rock or tree. Gentle breezes funnel into miniature gales between the trees and howl loudly in my ears. The frigid cold bites through our clothes and tries to freeze my knees stiff.

In short, it's a fairly miserable trek and neither Cyrus nor I talk through it. We just focus on putting one foot doggedly in front of the other.

Cyrus is right in his estimations. By the time we hit the coastline, we're a mile and a half from where the Tesla left us behind. After that, it's twenty minutes to the dot until we hit a private cove hollowed out from the cliff face. Even in the darkness, the white paint job of a small motored sailboat gleams up at us from the waters below.

How Cyrus arranged for it to be sitting there, I have no idea. But I'm damn thankful. My toes are starting to blister and my body aches from top to bottom. I'm practically moaning at the sight of that boat.

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