Sawyer’s scooter peeled into traffic like a stung dog. He weaved through the smoke from belching food carts. Rain sheeted down in bursts and hammered Colón until the streets turned to slick rivers of oil and slimy trash. Sawyer didn’t notice the cold or feel the wetness, all he could see was the black BMW carving through the night ahead of him. It glided between lanes like it knew it was bought.

  Ashley had seen him.

  She was inside that car and she looked right at him.

  But then she turned away. Why had she done that?

  They weren’t officially in a relationship, but they had been seeing each other nearly every night for four months. He may have led Cormac on to believe they were slightly more serious. Well, the full truth was more complicated and he knew if he told Cormac then he may have never helped him. There was just one main thing that kept gnawing at him, the ace of spades drawn in blood on her apartment mirror. Inside his gut, Sawyer knew that wasn’t just a coincidence. She came to Panama for a reason, and that reason had something to do with his father, Finnegan. He had cared for Ashley, but really, he cared more about his father and needed to know his involvement if any existed. The thought gnawed at him like bed bugs he couldn’t get rid of without knowing the full truth of it.

  The chase down the streets of Colón ended half an hour later. Sawyer’s hands shook from gripping the handlebars. He wound up in a completely different part of Colón, a jungle road flanked by broad leaves and dripping rain. There were street signs, but he couldn’t read any of them.

  If Ashely was in trouble with bad men, then the Gamboa Luxury Rainforest Reserve was the perfect hideout. It was hidden as if under a ghillie suit amongst the dense canopies. It loomed like a villain’s luxury resort made of glass, marble, and candlelight.

  Sawyer sat parked on the road and peered through the gap past the security gate. Through the rain he saw the same black BMW, with the same plates, parked outside the front of the hotel lobby. Guards flanked the vehicle, unmoving. They had the casual indifference as if, whatever the significance of the hotel was, they were inside their home turf. And that was bad for Sawyer because they had the numbers and a clear advantage.

  Sawyer rolled the scooter beneath the rain slicked awning. The engine sputtered and then died. He was soaked to the bone with mud up his jeans. His shirt clung to him like skin and his hair was matted across his forehead. The heat lamps above the valet station annoyed him, it was too hot already. The soft jazz from the resort murmured somewhere beyond the palm trees.

  A single security guard sat in a leather backed chair under a canopy.

  When Sawyer dismounted the scooter, the guard stood up. He had the slow posture of a man trained to look more official than any real training to back it up. “You can’t park here, se?or,” he said, voice firm but uncertain.

  “I’m not parking,” Sawyer replied. “I’m going inside.”

  “You’re not a member.”

  Sawyer wiped a rivulet of rain from his brow. “I’m not here to make a scene. I’m here to relax. I’m on vacation.” Sawyer extended a fake smile.

  “Members only.” The guard’s hand fell to the radio resting on his belt. If he called more guards, he’d have maybe a minute before they stormed him, locked him up, and threw him in some God forsaken Panamanian prison cell. With the new dictator in charge, due process wasn’t on his side. If he was caught, he would have to serve time and there wasn’t a thing Colonel Bradford could do about it without risking a war. And there definitely wasn’t a thing a door-busting Army Ranger like Cormac could do by himself without getting shot by some rusty AK-47.

  Sawyer stared at the man’s firearm on his hip for a beat too long. He weighed the option. But then, he smiled slightly, his white teeth gleaming wet. “You ever watch animal documentaries?”

  The guard blinked. “Que?”

  “I do,” Sawyer said. “Flew all the way here from Virginia to make one, actually. I’ve got a fascination with migration patterns. You know how some animals…they know exactly when to stay put and when to run? It’s a sort of instinct they’re born with. Some believe they develop it with experience.”

  The guard frowned. “Se?or, I don’t—”

  Sawyer reached toward the guard, casual, and non-threatening. He grabbed the check-in clipboard hanging on the little hook on the wall. He unhooked it, flipped a few pages, then grabbed the pen from its chain.

  “Se?or!” the guard barked, stepping forward. “You cannot—if you don’t leave I call the policia!

  “Of course,” Sawyer said softly, eyes still on the sheet. He scribbled a name, Daniel Jones, with a long flourish. As he did, his left hand slipped beneath the sheet. He slipped two crisp one hundred dollar bills inside and then smoothed out the sheets with a charming smile.

  The guard didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. He looked elsewhere, up at the rain. Then he saw a monkey dart across the parking lot. It stopped, stared at Sawyer, scratched its head, then screeched and ran off. The guard turned back to Sawyer for a second, winked, and then said. “I love animals. Now that you mention it, I often watch animal documentaries.”

  The guard took the board. He opened the gate.

  Looking down at the board one last time, he saw a name in the final entry.

  Harland Morrow.

  The letters were bold and perfect.

  His pulse jumped. He’d heard the name before, but didn’t know where from exactly.

  The guard slunk back into his chair. “Welcome to the Gamboa Reserve, se?or,” he said, now all smiles, like they’d known each other for years. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Sawyer nodded once then drove his scooter forward.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He skidded to a stop at the valley station and dropped the scooter without killing the engine. No one yelled and nobody chased him. There were attendants in sleek white uniforms, most of them women in skirts, who looked unthreatened and uncaring as they carried silver trays with crystal goblets of red wine. One of the girls, a cute French girl with an accent, offered Sawyer a drink.

  “Monsieur, un verre de vin pour vous détendre?”

  He knew a little French, but he preferred English. “Only if you drink with me.”

  She rolled her eyes, smiled, and without another word she slipped back into the mysterious resort. There were tons of girls just like her. The guys were all ripped like body builders. None of them had that long cold gaze of a special forces operative or the calculating eyes of a narco runner. So what was going on? Why was Ashley here?

  He heard the sound of car doors open, it was faint, but it drew his direction to the sound. He then heard boots slapping across polished stone and splashing water.

  It was Ashley.

  She walked toward him, remaining behind three older men in tailored suits. She was still covered head to toe in black clothing and that ridiculous black hijab. She wasn’t religious and she definitely wasn’t Islamic. She moved with elegance until she made direct eye contact with Sawyer; that’s when she faltered and hitched her step. It was enough of a sign for him to know that she knew partly why he was there.

  She didn’t run, she just turned and started speaking to the old Russian guy beside her. She pretended like she didn’t know Sawyer.

  “Ashley!” Sawyer said, uncaring whether he offended these old corporate suits.

  The men moved like bureaucrats. The tallest one had silver hair and sharp features. He paused when he saw Sawyer approach.

  Sawyer growled. “I came all the way to Panama and you’re going to stand there and ignore me? What the hell is going on, Ashley? Who are these guys?”

  Ashley turned to face him.

  “What is with the hijab? Take that ridiculous thing off,” Sawyer said. “I want to see your face. I came all the way to Panama and you’re acting like you don’t even recognize me.”

  The three men beside her stepped aside and watched the performance, smugly, like they knew the result.

  “I can’t take it off,” she said.

  “You won’t,” Sawyer said.

  She remained silent.

  The tallest man cleared his throat and smiled like he’d just recognized an insect. “Mr. Kestrel, I presume. You’ve stepped into quite the mess.”

  This creep knew his name? How?

  Sawyer’s voice tightened. “Since you seem to already know me, you must know something about my past. I presume you know what I do for a living. So now that we’re getting all buddy-buddy, why don’t we make introductions?”

  “I’m like you, a killer,” the man said. “Though I suppose I start more messes than I care to clean up. That’s why membership here is so expensive, I have others do it for me. That’s a privilege you earn if you can burn enough garbage that you clear the way to the top of the world.”

  Ashley whispered. “This is Harland Morrow.”

  “Harland Morrow, Vice President of BlackDiamond.” he added with a flare to his voice. “I’m Chief Operator in Panama ever since our latest public acquisition of the Panama Canal.” He turned to the older Chinese man beside him. He winked at him, and the Chinese man just smiled, remained silent, and nodded.

  “Chen is a private man, and so is Ivan,” he said, gesturing to the old Russian, who tapped his foot and folded his arms in frustration.

  BlackDiamond? Executive ghosts? The people they sent out into the jungle to make deals and undercut competition using bribes, extortion, and murder. They were vultures who circled their prey until it bled out and died. A creeping cold bit at Sawyer’s knees and spread up his legs.

  “I don’t care who you are because we’re not staying.” Sawyer pointed at Ashley. “She’s coming with me and we’re leaving Panama. This vacation is over.”

  When Ashley remained still, and refused to return to his side, Sawyer rolled his eyes. He took out his cellphone and thumbed to a photo. He held it up. It was a photo of Ashley laughing with her arms wrapped around Sawyer.

  “I flew all the way to Panama because I care about you, Ashley. Forget about these guys. Let’s return to the states.”

  Ashley looked away.

  Harland’s expression didn’t move.

  “You lied to me,” Harland said, cold as bone. “You said you two weren’t that involved. That’s disappointing, Ashley.”

  “I didn’t tell him anything,” she said quickly. “I didn’t think he’d come to Panama. We’ve only been dating for four months.”

  “You thought?” Harland murmured. He turned his attention back to Sawyer. “You tracked her across borders and broke into my private resort. And now you want answers? For what? A girl you believe you understand? You don’t know Ashley. You don’t know anything about her. You stepped into something you can’t undo.”

  Sawyer stepped forward. “She’s coming with me.”

  “No,” Ashley said. “No, Sawyer. I can’t.”

  “What did they do to you?”

  Her voice cracked. “It’s not like that. It’s business.”

  Harland smiled. “Come. If we’re going to indulge this charade…let’s at least do it somewhere scenic. I’ve grown quite thirsty and I need a drink.”

  Not waiting for permission, Harland simply turned, gestured once, and strolled past the manicured gardens toward the resort entrance.

  Sawyer and Ashley followed him.

  Inside the resort, lanterns floated in the trees wrapped in paper and stamped with red symbols he didn’t recognize. It could have been from some ancient language. The smell of the place was like rot and copper. Across the lobby and into a dining room, they gathered in a sun room in front of a wall of windows. On the other side, dozens of crocodiles churned in the water pit. They were silent and smooth, and their glassy eyes were black and without a soul. A staff member in a poncho appeared at the edge and casually hefted a bundled shape into the pit. It hit with a wet thud. The reptiles converged. Sawyer heard the crunch before he saw the spray of blood.

  He took a step back. “What is this? A zoo?” he asked.

  “Recycling,” Harland said. “We feed the jungle what we kill. It’s like a closed ecosystem.”

  Sawyer looked at Ashley, brow raised.

  She didn’t answer.

  Harland rested his hand on the rail like a man admiring his garden. “The world you think you live in is over, Mr. Kestrel. It died the moment you started chasing ghosts into Panama. Good and evil, patriotism and loyalty, it’s the quaint little lies we tell our children that get grown men like you trying to be a hero. What we do here is real. And it’s the next step in humanity’s evolution.”

  Sawyer’s hand drifted toward his waistband. If he pulled out his .45 he might get the drop on everyone in the lobby, but if there were more guards than he thought, and there always were, there was a huge chance they would gun him down, kill him, then feed him to the crocodiles all before Cormac even knew what happened to him. That probably upset him more than anything and gave him the most pause in his reaction.

  Harland didn’t flinch. “No guns.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m just warning you.” Harland’s smile thinned. “You walk now and maybe you live to see the sun again. You’re already a monster. What kind of monster do you want to become?”

  Ashley really looked at him after that.

  His eyes scanned the room. Out of options, he treaded carefully as he considered ways of escape. If he misstepped, Harland seemed the kind of guy who wouldn’t think twice to snap his fingers and order some burly college kids to hurl him into the crocodile pit. He let the idea of shooting everyone go and instead chose to stay and hear what Harland Morrow had to say.