Page 75 of What Doesn't Kill You…

"I understand your concerns," Damien bit out. "I can see why you're worried about the reporter, but his presence is nothing more than a stupid coincidence."

There was a shuffling noise while Damien's partner talked.

"The sea is going to be rough tonight. There's a storm coming in. We've got no way of telling how bad it’ll be."

It sounded as though Damien had started pacing again.

"On the other side of St. Patrice? Why can't you dock off Wedding Island?"

Another silence.

"It'll take time to sail around the island, and I'm telling you the sea is gonna be wild tonight.”

There was the sound of a sliding door and then the distant lapping of waves.

"This is fucking stupid," Damien spat out. "The problem is under control and the resort is safe."

A bottle opened and a drink was poured. Rochelle wondered if Damien had started in on the alcohol already.

"No, I understand. Yeah, I know." Another pause. "Fine. You'll be anchored on the other side of St. Patrice. I'll figure out how to get to you, but I'm telling you there's no need for any of this. You're making things harder than they have to be."

Something slammed onto a table. Probably the drink Damien had poured for himself.

"Don't threaten me," Damien said, his voice ice. "We're in this together. Try to remember that."

An exasperated sigh.

"Fine, but you aren't making things easy for me. Ten o'clock," he said. "Yeah, the other side of St. Patrice. I'll be there."

Evan cut the feed. "There's no more talking after that, unless you count Damien swearing and throwing stuff."

There was a noise behind her, and she turned to see Abasi saunter into the kitchen. His feet were bare, but he'd pulled on some jeans and a rumpled T-shirt. It was the most disheveled she'd ever seen him. Normally, Abasi was dressed in designer suits that’d been fitted to perfection. Seeing him in jeans was a bit disconcerting.

"What's up?" he said as he opened the fridge and pulled out the orange juice.

"Damien took a call. The meet has been moved," Rochelle said. "It's no longer on the island. Now it's on a boat that'll be waiting off the far side of St. Patrice."

Abasi stopped in the process of pouring himself some juice. "He's a slippery bugger, isn't he? What's the plan?"

Rochelle paced to the window. "I don't have one yet. If you have any ideas, feel free to share."

Abasi was quiet and she assumed he didn't have anything to add. Meanwhile, her mind was racing, trying to come up with a way to handle this new information—if it was even possible.

There was movement beside her before Abasi handed her a glass of orange juice. She nodded her thanks and took it from him.

"The way I see it," he said. "There are only two things you can do. You either scrap the op, because there's no way in hell we can get eyes on the boat for the meet, or you force the meeting back to Wedding Island."

Rochelle looked at him, aware of the sharp intelligence in his eyes. Sometimes, it was easy to forget Abasi had survived most of his life in a ruthless mob family, and to do that you had to be smart.

"You mean," she said, "we need to make Wedding Island look like the easier and safer option."

"Yeah." He sipped his juice before smiling at her. "Know anybody in the coastguard, or the Drug Enforcement Agency, or whoever the hell polices these waters?"

"I might," Rochelle said, mentally flipping through her list of contacts. "I definitely know a guy in the DEA. But I'm not sure they'd be able to get something in place in time to help us."

"Can't hurt to try," Abasi said.

“Um,” Evan said, drawing their attention. "Should I tell Rodrigo about the call?"