“It’s okay,” I promise. “I get it.” And frankly “fucked” pretty much sums it up.

I’ve got my earbuds in so I’ve been able to look at the web browser on my phone as we talk. And while I haven’t scrolled down to read any of the actual articles, I’ve seen enough to know that Trent is right. This shit is everywhere. It’s all doom and gloom, with everyone predicting that the investors are toast and the resort is doomed. And I’m certain that Jackson has seen it by now.

“Do you need me to send you Nigel’s statement?”

“Nigel?” I repeat. I only know one Nigel. He’s a friend of Damien’s who works at the Pentagon and was a helpful contact earlier in the year when Stark Vacation Properties purchased Santa Cortez island, where the resort is being built. “Nigel Galway?”

“About the land mines.”

I come to a dead stop on the tarmac. “Rachel, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Trent didn’t tell you?”

“Trent told me about the leaks about Jackson. About the speculation on motive. If you’re referring to a metaphorical land mine, I’m right there with you. But otherwise, I need you to tell me what the hell we’re talking about.” I’m speaking very slowly and very distinctly.

My stomach is tight and my skin is clammy, and I have the very unpleasant feeling that I know where this is going—and it’s not going anywhere good.

“The investors all got emails saying that Santa Cortez was seeded with land mines. Part of the military training operations.”

“Shit. Fuck. Damn.” The curses roll off my tongue. I take a deep breath. “Nigel made a statement?”

“Aiden and Damien talked to him about an hour ago—I can’t believe Trent didn’t tell you. I guess he figured it’s been handled. And it has. Really. I mean, there might be blowback, but—”

“I swear to god, Rachel, just back up and tell me what happened.”

She does. Finally. Apparently the investors received a leaked copy of a Pentagon memo proposing to bury land mines on Santa Cortez island back when it was being used as a naval training facility. That proposal was rejected, and no mines were ever buried on the island, a fact which Nigel has put to paper and which Damien has relayed to the investors.

On the whole, it’s a minor blip, which was easily resolved.

But it’s a blip that’s indicative of a bigger problem—someone is still messing with my resort. And they really show no signs of stopping.

Since about the time Jackson came on board, The Resort at Cortez has been plagued with strange incidents. Security footage leaked to the press. Private emails taken viral. Nuisances, mostly. But troublesome enough that they’ve eaten into my time and into the investors’ confidence.

I’d thought that they were over.

Apparently, I’d been wrong.

I tell Rachel to forward me Nigel’s statement so that I’ll be up to speed, then I end the call and pick up my pace, both because I now have energy to burn, and because I want to catch up to Jackson.

As soon as I step through the doors of the Rec Room, I stop and scan the interior for him. The room is essentially empty—I happen to know that we were the only flight arriving on the property today, and the staff doesn’t normally work Sundays—so I expect to find him easily enough. But while Darryl is cooling his heels at the bar, there is no sign of Jackson.

“Is he in the restroom?”

Darryl looks up as I approach. He’s a thin man with a hangdog face that makes him look older than his twenty-eight years and perpetually sleepy. I know it’s an illusion; you only need to look at those sharp gray eyes to see that Darryl is as competent as they come, and I fully expect that he’ll inherit Grayson’s job one day.

“He just left. Asked if I could drive you home. Said he needed to take care of a few things before his meeting tonight.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. “I’m guessing that’s a problem?”

Hell yes, that’s a problem, but all I say is, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use one of the company cars. I’ve got a few errands to take care of myself.”

I really want to run, but I don’t want to reveal that I’m worried. So I calmly head behind the bar to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of Perrier. Then I hitch my tote over my shoulder, grab my rolling bag, which Darryl has left by the side door, and walk slowly out of the room.

Once I’m out, though, I practically sprint around the corner to the row of covered parking spaces that abut the back of this building. These are cars that Stark International keeps for the use of clients, investors, consultants, and the like who arrive at this airport. I’m totally mangling company policy by snagging one for my personal use, but at the moment, I don’t much care.