Sharks - Matt Rogers (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📗

tree line they could see three luxury villas dotted along the waterfront, each of them enormous compared to the first few they’d passed. They were three-storey structures, all brick and metal and glass, twisting up tastefully into the sky, whereupon their top floors would provide panoramic views over the bay, the inlet, and the ocean beyond.

They had to go for at least a couple of million dollars apiece, probably complete with a workforce of cooks, maids, and butlers.

Dylan Walcott probably owned all three.

He probably owned the whole resort.

‘There,’ Alexis whispered.

The front door of the middle villa opened and a man stepped out. Tough, big, tight with muscle, at odds with the fat-bellied tourists who floated through the resort’s streets in the middle of the day. If his physical appearance didn’t give it away, the holster half-concealed at his waist certainly did.

Alexis said, ‘Should we move?’

A small sound came from behind Violetta.

She turned and spun and found herself face-to-face with a guy in his early thirties who looked just like her. Vaguely Scandinavian features — blue eyes and long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail — and he towered over them both. He was tall and slim and had big hands to compensate for his thin musculature. More importantly, he was clad in tactical gear — a Kevlar vest and dark khakis — and he had an MP5 sub-machine gun angled tastefully in one hand. He aimed the barrel at Violetta’s stomach, and patted the air with his other hand, encouraging calm.

But her aim was already locked, her Glock pointed at his forehead.

Alexis didn’t move.

She kept her gun pointed at the grass beneath their feet.

She feared if she raised it, the blonde man might reflexively fire.

‘Put it down,’ the guy said. His accent was slightly American, mostly nothing in particular. Like he’d been raised everywhere and nowhere, taking snippets of accentuation from each country he visited. ‘It doesn’t have to go this way.’

‘We’re both staying right here,’ Violetta said. ‘No one’s moving a muscle.’

‘Really?’

Yes, she thought. Because I only need fifteen goddamn minutes.

‘I don’t think so,’ the guy said. ‘What’s your name, darling?’

‘Stacy.’

‘Stacy, I’m Kane.’

‘Okay.’

‘Now that we’ve made the proper introductions, how about we put our guns down and talk?’

‘No, thanks. You move, I shoot.’

‘Same goes for you.’

That’s fine by me, she thought. I’m not moving a muscle for fifteen minutes.

She prayed Alexis would follow suit.

Kane said, ‘You’re not being very civil, Stacy.’

Awkward silence unfolded.

‘Stacy,’ Kane said, rolling the name off his tongue. ‘You don’t seem like a Stacy.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You seem more like a Violetta, on the run from your own government back on home soil.’

Silence.

Kane said, ‘One of my father’s corporations owns the bungalow you rented. You should do your due diligence before making a booking. We already had the exterior bugged, and I was in charge of logging surveillance soundbites, so I caught snippets of conversation. Enough to know you were trouble, but not enough to disrupt him. Because, you see, he’s had quite the day already.’

‘Who’s your father?’

‘He should be calling any minute. If not, my coworkers in the villa over your shoulder will start torturing that old girl to within an inch of her life. So this little stalemate is far worse for you than it is for me.’

One last Walcott.

80

Alexis jolted.

The dynasty wasn’t dead yet.

Kane said, ‘If you even think about moving, Alexis, your cute blonde friend will bite a bullet. So will I, and you’ll probably end up achieving your mission, but you were a civilian not too long ago, so you’re not going to be able to handle the guilt of getting your best friend here killed. So stay put.’

It was like he knew every string to tug, every emotion to play.

He was his father, through and through. Sometimes, certain types of wiring pass down through generations unobstructed. Kane Walcott was young, but he was already a monster.

Alexis stayed put, just as he’d told her to.

‘Good girl,’ Kane said.

A gun barrel softly touched the back of Alexis’s head.

The big guy from the villa, coming out to provide backup. Evidently Kane had been on them since the moment they’d plunged into the tree line. It was over before it began.

Kane said, ‘Alexis, darling, you know what to do.’

Alexis handed her gun to the bald guy behind her.

Violetta didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

There was still hope.

‘From now on,’ Kane said, ‘every second you keep that gun pointed at me is another cut my men deliver to Lyla Barrow’s tender face.’

Violetta handed the gun over.

She said, ‘Shit.’

It was supposed to be under her breath, but it came out hard and bitter, wrapped in the emotional exhaustion she was feeling.

She said, ‘Your father’s dead.’

Kane regarded her with a disinterested look. ‘Is he?’

‘He miscalculated. He went out east on his own, thinking he had the upper hand. Our people executed him.’

Kane smiled. ‘You’re expecting two things.’

She waited for him to elaborate.

He said, ‘One — you’re expecting me to get angry and take out my rage on the two of you instead of setting up a competent perimeter. That’ll give your two lovers time to blast in here and take advantage of our lack of defences. And, two — you’re expecting me to care about my father.’

Silence.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘empty your pockets. Nice and slow.’

She complied, nice and slow, which gave her time to think. And she realised that the Walcotts’ ruthlessness might just be their last surviving member’s downfall. If Kane had communicated with his dad about the surveillance he was conducting on the villa, Dylan might have been able to get the jump on them. But there was some sort of turbulence there, some unsaid animosity between father and son. Kane had still been learning details about the newcomers when everything imploded, and his failure to relay important details had led to Dylan’s demise.

If Dylan Walcott conducted his operation like the cartel, with ruthless indifference to petty squabbling, he might have won. But he let his son throw tantrums, and now he was floating