Eyes Only

by Fern Michaels

  The girls stopped what they were doing to watch Kathryn limp down the hall toward them, her wet tank top plastered to her chest, her face glistening with sweat. As one, they wanted to rush to her, but they didn’t. They waited till she pressed herself against the wall.

  “No pain, no gain,” Kathryn told them. “It was harder today because I sat so long. I’m okay. I would tell you if I weren’t. I’m going to get in the hot tub now. Carry on, ladies. By the way, if you hang a picture on that wall, it will be perfect. Just my two cents.”

  The Sisters went back to arguing. Maggie made the final decision when she sprinted off, then returned with a painting of a twenty-eight-year-old Annie sitting on a throne, wearing her tiara. She looked to be nine months pregnant.

  “It’s so . . . so . . . tacky!” the Sisters exclaimed in unison.

  “Exactly.” Maggie grinned. “Tacky it is, just the way those trunks in the foyer look tacky. All eyes will be on the painting. Get my drift?”

  Nikki burst out laughing. Yoko clapped her on the back, and then they were all rolling on the floor, giggling and laughing.

  Annie and Myra came on the run. Annie took one look at the painting and shrieked in horror. “Where in the world did you find that . . . that . . . thing?”

  “In a walk-in closet on the second floor,” Maggie chirped.

  “Well, take it down right this minute!”

  “Just a minute, Annie. I think the girls have a reason for hanging that painting where they did. I think we should hear them out, don’t you?” Myra said.

  Annie sniffed. “Make it good, girls.” She sniffed again.

  Maggie explained, then pointed to the old trunks with the tarnished hardware. “We need eyes on the painting. We really need it, Annie.”

  “Well, in that case, all right. I just won’t look at it. My husband insisted I sit for that painting. I was so miserable that day, I wanted to die. I gave birth the following day. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She trotted off, Myra in her wake. They whispered among themselves as only two old friends did.

  Life would go on no matter if the painting hung in the foyer or not.

  Up on the boardwalk, Hank Jellicoe stopped at the little snack shop for a bottle of water. He carried it to the bench in the shade, the same bench Gretchen and Felicia had sat on earlier in the day to eat their ice-cream cones.

  He could hardly swallow the water because of the lump in his throat. Nine good men at the bottom of the ocean. Nine good, loyal men. Maybe not so loyal, after all, if they’d taken Spyder’s launch out into deep water without an order to do so. Sam had to have called them. In the end, maybe there was no such thing as loyalty. So now it was down to him, his four remaining men, and Spyder’s goon squad.

  Jellicoe’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He made a snorting sound when he pulled it out. “Yes, sir. What do you need now?”

  “Would a report be too much to ask for?” the voice on the other end of the line snarled.

  “I called my man in New Jersey, and he quit on the spot. I would have fired him, anyway, for the unflattering, unprofessional things he said about you,” Jellicoe gibed. “Regardless, he’s gone, and we have no operatives in the area who can do what you want. Of course, you could send a few of your own men, but they’d stand out like manure in a daisy field, so you might want to think twice about that. As I told you, no one is going to rat out mothers and children, no matter how much money you’re offering.

  “I did get an alert on my mobile saying the launch blew up. It appears all aboard drowned. I cannot confirm that one way or the other. Is that the report you were expecting me to deliver, Mr. Spyder? If so, consider it delivered. I’ll have a written report to you by the end of the day.”

  “So, once again, Mr. Jellicoe, you failed me.”

  Jellicoe clenched his teeth. With as much cheerfulness as he could muster, he forced the words out of his mouth. “It would appear so, Angus. It would appear so.”

  Jellicoe jogged his way back down the boardwalk and on to his house, where he sent out a call to his four remaining employees to join him there.

  Life was now going to take a turn for the better. At least he hoped so.

  Chapter 16

  The Sisters gathered in the lanai were munching on toasted Pop-Tarts and drinking orange juice. The new day had barely erased the black, star-filled night when they’d gathered with coffee cups in hand.

  “Myra and Annie are usually the first ones up at this hour,” Isabelle said, peering through the sliding doors that led to the great room.

  “The boys are no slouches, either. Are we the only ones with any stamina?” Nikki queried. “I don’t even see Cyrus. Wonder what that means.”

  “It means everyone was exhausted. I guess it also means we have more adrenaline than they do,” Isabelle said.

  “Hey, Izzy, how’s it going with Abner? Are you guys back to being a married couple, or are you just winging it?” Kathryn asked.

  A frown built itself on Isabelle’s face. “We’re winging it. I have high hopes, but I’ve had high hopes before that have been dashed, so I’m being extra careful, and so is Abner. If it is meant to be, then it will be. For now, it works.”

  “Good attitude,” Yoko said. “What’s our plan for today? Does anyone know?”

  “We get made up again and hit the island. We’re guests, so we can explore. Or if you prefer the word spy, that works, too,” Alexis said. “I have to get to work, so whoever is going out first is who I have to work on. Just out of curiosity, how many sets of eyes do you think will be on us?”

  “Fifty or so would be my guess. I also imagine there are cameras everywhere, up in the trees, along the beach road, the boardwalk. Always be aware and be careful,” Nikki said.

  “Did anyone check online to see what the media is saying about the explosion yesterday?” Kathryn asked. “By the way, Bert said to tell you all hello, and he’s sorry he can’t be here. He did say that if there was a way to get here, he’d make it happen. He hates to be left out.”

  Out of nowhere, Cyrus appeared like a black streak as he headed for the sand to find a place to do his business. Jack followed him as he waved to the others. He gave Nikki a quick peck on the cheek. “I can’t get used to you being a guy and me a girl.” He guffawed. Nikki gave him a playful swat before she handed him a Pop-Tart. Jack snatched one for Cyrus, who was partial to blueberry.

  One by one, the others appeared, grabbing at the Pop-Tarts and pouring coffee and juice. Jack returned with Cyrus at his side to announce that he’d seen six different security guards patrolling the empty beach. He went on to say that Snowden was eyeballing the guards from the apartment over the pool house.

  Alexis dusted her hands and announced that she was ready to go to work. Harry and Yoko went first.

  “I like your sundress, Jack,” Sparrow quipped.

  Jack offered up his middle finger but grinned. Nikki just giggled.

  Sparrow went on. “Ooh, your skin looks satin-smooth, but don’t you itch from where they shaved your chest?”

  “We have fragrant lotion for that,” Jack snapped.

  Ted Robinson did his best to blend into the shrubbery so Sparrow would ignore him. It didn’t happen. “You would not be on my ten best list of datable women, Ted.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m supposed to be frumpy. So there. You want fast and loosey-goosey, go for Espinosa. He . . . she might be more your style.”

  It was all in good fun, and no one took offense.

  “These high heels are a killer, I have to say. Nikki said we can wear sandals. No one wears heels in the sand,” Jack snapped again. Cyrus barked shrilly to back up his master.

  “So,” Sparrow said as he zeroed in on Kathryn. “What’s on the agenda for you girls? I mean guys. Oh, hell, you know what I mean.”

  “We’re taking out the Harleys. We’re going to buzz the island, the north end and the south end. We want to make some noise. Not to worry. We all know how to ride a Harley. It’ll just be me
, Nikki, and Isabelle on the first one, unless Annie and Myra want to come along. They’re just as good on Harleys as we are, so don’t worry. Harry and Yoko are otherwise occupied. Dennis is going to take them out on the special cycle Alexis ordered. The one with the two sidecars. There’s no traffic on the beach road since no one is allowed on this side of the island. We can make our statement without interference.”

  “Works for me,” Abner said. “Gotta go now. Work calls. Buzz me if you need me for anything.”

  “What about lunch?” Dennis asked.

  “Since you asked, you can do it, young man. You should be back from your excursion by then. Something simple. Maybe shrimp scampi and a salad and lots of iced tea. Make enough, in case people want seconds. How does that sound?” Annie asked. The look of panic on Dennis’s face made Annie burst out laughing. “I’m teasing. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches will do nicely, along with the iced tea and perhaps lemonade. Do your best.”

  Dennis dithered and fretted for a few minutes, thinking he was off the hook, but something told him Annie wanted shrimp scampi. Like Sparrow, he did not want to disappoint her. Maybe he’d surprise her. He knew how to make shrimp scampi for two. How hard could it be to make it for fifty? Damn hard, was the answer he came up with. He beelined for the pantry, where the freezer they’d brought with them was installed. He opened it and poked around. With all the firearms and ammunition gone, there wasn’t as much food as he thought there would be. Still, the freezer in the kitchen held other kinds of food. He heaved a mighty sigh when he saw six bags of jumbo shrimp.

  Dennis leaned against the freezer and ran the recipe over and over in his mind. Garlic, butter, wine. Make small batches. Problem solved. Another mighty sigh escaped his lips when he heard his name being called.

  Yoko and Harry stood in the doorway in their Mama-san and Papa-san makeup. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get this show on the road,” Harry said. “Fire up that machine and take us on a tour. We’ve got our cameras attached, and they’ll video everything as we tool along. You up for this, kid?”

  “Oh yeah, you bet. I even have a map of this part of the island. Just so you know, I have to be back in time to make lunch, so don’t get too carried away.” Then Dennis remembered to whom he was talking. “Uh, sorry, Harry. What I meant was—”

  “We know what you meant, Dennis. Let’s just do it, okay?”

  Dennis gulped and ran out of the house and around to the covered area that contained the Harleys and his special machine. He looked it over, frowned, and went back in his memory to a ride-on toy he’d had as a child. This looked to be the adult version of that particular vehicle. It was bumblebee black and yellow and almost as wide as a Mack truck. The banana seat made him laugh out loud. Harry was going to be so embarrassed to ride in it. Yoko, too, he surmised. He himself itched to sit on the banana seat and hear the roar of the engine.

  Dennis looked around to see if anyone was watching him. He didn’t see anything with his eyes, but he felt like he was being watched. Trembling, he climbed on the seat, turned over the engine, and almost fell off at the roar that ensued. “Holy shit!” was all he could say over and over as he made his way to the front of the mansion, where Harry and Yoko were waiting for him. Next to them were Nikki and Kathryn in their guy regalia, who were there to help the two oldsters into the sidecars.

  Kathryn dug down deep to come up with a gruff belly guy voice. She patted Yoko on the top of her head and said, “Be careful, little mama. You, too, Papa-san.”

  Dennis took off on her order, going from zero to forty miles an hour in a nanosecond. Full of himself now, Dennis played the tour guide. “What we have here on our left is the ocean. On the right is sand. Up above the dune is a boardwalk, where there is a little shack, much like any thatched hut selling soft drinks and ice cream back in the States. The trees are palm trees and are in full leaf, limb, frond, whatever. Oh, and there is a bench beside the shack, under a palm tree. That’s it for this stretch.”

  Harry spoke to Yoko, his lips barely moving. She didn’t respond other than to nod.

  “I’m not seeing anyone, but I feel eyes on me,” Dennis said. “I’m going to be making a turn to the right in a bit. Pay careful attention to the second house. It’s the empty one. Two turns later on the left is the Spyder estate. I can stop to attend to your . . . ah . . . needs if you want. Just wave your arm, and I’ll know you want me to stop. Don’t talk. I’m doing all the talking. This is fun, isn’t it?”

  When there was no response from the two sidecars, Dennis clamped his lips tight, knowing how Harry hated conversing. He let his thoughts go to the shrimp scampi he would be preparing later. He knew there was wine, but was there butter and fresh garlic? Now he had something else to worry about.

  “Slow down,” Yoko singsonged. “Okay, that’s good. Papa-san gets upset when you drive too fast.”

  Ooh, if there was one thing Dennis didn’t want, it was for Harry to get upset. He eased up on the throttle and barely crawled along. He waved his left arm a lot to indicate the fine housing, the flowers, and the exquisite landscaping. So far, he hadn’t seen a car, a truck, a dune buggy, a cycle of any kind. Nor had he spotted a real, live person. Nor were there any animals to be seen. How weird. Maybe these rich people preferred goldfish in tanks. Or piranhas in a pool somewhere on the property. He shivered at the thought.

  The piranhas were too scary to think about, so Dennis went back to worrying about whether there was butter and fresh garlic for his luncheon dish.

  While Dennis was contemplating butter and garlic, Angus Spyder was glued to the seven different closed-circuit television screens in his suite of offices. He eyed the weird-looking cycle and the two old Asians, who looked bored out of their mind. The driver of the weird-looking cycle looked like a punk kid with his gelled, spiky hair. All he did was wave his arms and point to whatever he wanted the old geezers to look at. He couldn’t help but wonder how these two ancient creatures fitted into Countess de Silva’s life.

  He stretched one of his deformed arms to grab the passenger list of all the people who had arrived with the countess. He looked for Oriental names and jabbed his finger at the paper. Haya and Jiro Miyoko. He snorted. Then he tried to Google the names and came up with nothing. He then spent five full minutes trying to decide if the couple, who looked as old as God, were a possible threat. He decided they weren’t; nor was the spiked-hair driver. Probably hangers-on. Rich people always had hangers-on.

  Spyder went back to the television screens. Now he had a visual of three black men doing calisthenics on the beach, with a massive dog doing the same thing. They looked to be in top physical shape, better than some of his own security guards. Amazing that an animal could follow a human like that. Maybe it was a wolf.

  Another screen showed the countess and her lush of a half sister with her flask at her lips at this early hour. It irritated Spyder that the woman was wearing a tiara on the beach. That told him she was classless. She might have half the money in the world, but if you didn’t have class, you were just someone with money. He refused to see the irony of his thoughts.

  He moved his gaze to a different monitor to see a bunch of women comparing the colors of their nail polish. How vain. How ugly they were. Well, that made sense to Spyder’s warped brain. The countess wouldn’t want beautiful women around her. She’d want to be the center of attention. These were just hangers-on, also. How sad that a woman such as herself had no true friends, just people she bought and paid for to do her bidding. Again, he utterly failed to see the irony.

  Spyder moved away from the monitors. He didn’t see anything that posed a threat to him and his well-being. All he saw was a classless old broad with money to burn with a drunken half sister and a gaggle of people draining her bank account.

  Where the hell was Hank Jellicoe? He went back and clicked the monitors every which way until he was satisfied Jellicoe was nowhere to be seen. Bastard.

  Spyder knew he had to do something about Hank Jellicoe. Jellicoe had failed
him; it was that simple. Jellicoe knew he could not, would not, tolerate failure of any kind.

  Long known for his lack of empathy, sympathy, or anything closely resembling either one, Spyder had acted immediately when he’d tuned into Jellicoe and Sam Whitaker’s phone conversation yesterday. He’d lost Whitaker, but he’d nabbed nine of his cohorts. Four down. Five, if you counted Jellicoe, to go. But then, where would he get a new security force? His own guards had nothing between their ears but brain matter, a fact that Jellicoe had pointed out on more than one occasion. They might be bulky and brawny, but they were only fair to poor with firearms, whereas Jellicoe’s men were military trained, sharp, and intelligent, and they were expert marksmen to boot. He recognized that if it came to a showdown, Jellicoe’s men would take it hands down. Now, with only five left, the odds were a little more even.

  The little, frog-like man paced his offices. He was going to have to make a decision sooner rather than later about Jellicoe’s two guests. For now, though, that could wait.

  Something was off. He could feel it. Something he was missing. Or maybe it was something Jellicoe knew and hadn’t seen fit to confide in him. Spyder went back to the monitors, which now had no people in them. Obviously, the countess and her people had gone indoors to prepare for the day. He looked down at the passenger list. He ran one stubby finger down the list. Stephen Wolansky, FBI agent. His heart kicked up a beat. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Why hadn’t Jellicoe mentioned it?

  He heard a sound then and ran to the door. He looked up to see if a jet was overhead or possibly a helicopter. The sound was coming from his left, from the estate in back of his own, the sound carrying on the wind. He realized it was the sound of motorcycles revving their engines. He went back to the monitors. He gawked in disbelief when he saw the countess, complete with tiara and gem-studded leathers, mount one of the Harleys like a pro. The lush sister, jewel-crusted flask in hand, mounted the one next to the countess just as expertly, followed by three strapping black men all done up in leather and helmets. They laughed as they gunned the cycles, which were peeling out one after the other.