Page 44 of One Secret

Perfect timing. Pound to a pinch of shit (as the saying goes), his first question will be how the job's going.

I snort softly.

Oh, fantastic, Jaime old buddy.

The guy I'm meeting isn't here, the killer I'm looking for could be hiding in plain sight with my head in his crosshairs and it's been so long since my dick last went down that I can barely think straight.

Everything's just fine. Fine and fucking dandy.

6

I conduct a sweep of the hotel far faster than I would have if I had following the stylish Ms. Caruso's tottering heels about the place.

Without an escort, I'm free to focus on the details pertinent to Darcy and me. Not the jacuzzis and restaurants. But the linen cupboards and janitor closets. The staff-only staircases and the laundry chutes.

By the time I've made a full circuit of the estate, I have a neat little list of potential stash locations and an active memory of the emergency exits.

In my head, I run through the blueprints Nat sent me last week, slotting the reality of each corridor and facility into place: the open terrace and pool, the upstairs residences... then the bedrooms, suites, and event halls on the ground floor. Below ground is a fully equipped gym the size of a soccer field and what can only be described as a miniature mall, including several stores I've only ever seen in Milan.

For all your urgent designer needs, I muse judgingly.

And yet, here I am, hovering outside one of those exact stores, looking over sneakers and sports shoes. There are no prices. Which is a bad sign from the outset. These are the kinds of places where, if you have to ask how much something is, you shouldn't be shopping there. But, after the third couple in a row gave my combat boots the stink eye, I decided to renege. Felix Caruso might know the real reason for my visit to Nisí tou Chrysoú but I'm unlikely to win any favors at his dinner table if I look so decidedly out of place amongst his guests.

I brought my sunglasses and a pair of board shorts. I neglected footwear.

Making my choice from the window dressing alone, I head inside and try to locate the same pair of shoes among the shelves. I steer clear of a large and colorful display in the corner—there's no way in hell I'm wearing fucking flip-flips—and grab a set of light sneakers in a size twelve.

As the cashier prices up the shoes and I decline a bag, I notice a watcher loitering outside. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and my instincts summon up a dose of adrenaline.

Male, a hair over six feet, and otherwise nondescript.

It's his lack of distinction that gives him away.

A spy who stands out is racing towards redundancy.

I use the front of the cashier's till—a reflective chrome conveniently polished to a high shine—to keep an eye on my shadow as the young woman removes security tags from the toes of the sneakers.

When the spy loiters too long, feigning overt interest in a pair of tennis flats, I reassess. Real customers don't hover. Fear of looking over-eager and accidentally summoning a pushy salesman keeps your Average Joe in a slow but perpetual forward motion. Like sharks in a tank. Go into any retail store on any given weekend and humanity follows the same current of momentum.

A skilled spy would know this.

Which makes my over-acting shadow an amateur. Or simply specialized in other areas.

Stuffing my overpriced shoes under my arm, I head back outside and immediately make for the elevators. The storefronts of the underground mall keep my stalker's reflection in full view so I'm unsurprised when he calls out.

'Hey!'

I force him to yell a second time, lest he suspect I'd already clocked him.

'Hey! You there!'

I stall with feigned uncertainty and the stranger hurries to reach me. I glance at the people milling around us and try to assess which are paying for the privilege of staying at the resort and how many are, instead, on salary. How many are armed beneath their beachwear...

And that's only considering the civvies. Staff members—any number of whom could be on the dirtier Caruso payroll—flitter about the place like ghosts; materializing behind reception desks or disappearing past private doors.

In any other situation, an audience would be some reassurance against violence. At Caruso Chrysoú all bets are off.

'I know you,' the spy declares as he comes up beside me.

---