Page 35 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

"Just channel your inner entitled prick. Shouldn't be a stretch."

The plane banks slightly as Alex begins our descent. I brace against the wall, watching the island grow larger through the small window. Sprawling estates peek through the trees, private beaches curve along the shoreline, all screaming old money and exclusivity.

“You ready?”

"Almost done," I call back, adjusting my cufflinks—platinum with tiny sapphire inlays.

The mirror mounted on the cabin wall reflects a stranger, perfect.

I return to the cockpit just as we begin our final approach, the small airstrip appearing below us.

It's barely more than a cleared stretch of land with a modest hangar at one end—discreet, private, exactly what we need.

"Prepare for landing," Alex mutters, his focus absolute as he guides the plane lower. The trees on either side of the runway seem too close, the strip itself too short. “Buckle up in the back. You’re a rich asshole now, and I am merely just your pilot and driver.”

“Harry Ballsack,” I remind him. “That’s your undercover name.”

“I still have time to crash the plane, Talon.”

“Fine,” he scoffs. “You’re not Harry Ballsack. I’ll call you Jack. Jack Meoff.”

“Not better,” he groans.

The wheels touch down with a surprisingly gentle bump, the plane rolling to a smooth stop before Alex taxis toward the small hangar where a black Range Rover waits. He powers down the engines with steady efficiency, the sudden silence almost deafening.

“I’m going to change. Stay here. From this point on, you’re the boss.”

Alex disappears into the back of the plane, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he changes. I take the opportunity to slip into character, adopting the slightly bored expression of a man who has never heard the word ‘no’ in his life.

When Alex emerges, the transformation is startling.

Gone is the tech genius in casual clothes, replaced by a professional in a crisp black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie with an added touch of non-prescription glasses with thin metal frames.

Somehow managing to make himself look both forgettable and intimidating.

"Very chauffeur chic.”

Alex's only response is a withering glare as he grabs our equipment bag. “Stay here until I get the car.”

"Aye aye, captain," I mutter, watching as Alex descends the aircraft stairs.

Through the window, I observe him approaching the Range Rover, checking beneath it with a small mirror before circling the vehicle completely. Always thorough, always paranoid—and usually right. He pops the trunk, stows our bag, then slides behind the wheel to bring it closer to the plane.

I adjust my tie one last time, school my features into the calm, controlled expression of Charles Blackwood, and exit the aircraft. The island air hits me immediately.

Alex walks around to the driver’s side, "Sir," he says, his voice pitched lower than usual, accent crisper around the edges as he opens the door.

I slide into the leather interior without acknowledging him, pulling out my phone as if checking important messages. The door closes with a solid thunk, and seconds later Alex is behind the wheel, adjusting the mirror to catch my eye.

"We’ve got about an hour until pickup," he says. "GPS shows the location is thirty-five minutes from here.”

"We should check in.” He reaches into the duffel bag sitting in the passenger seat and tosses a burner phone over his shoulder. I catch it one-handed.

"Good idea." I dial Oz's number from memory, listening to it ring three times before he picks up.

"Status?" Oz's voice is tense, clipped.

"En route to the pickup location," I reply, watching the scenery blur past my window. "How's everything on your end?"

"She's not fighting us anymore." A pause. "Z thinks she's planning something."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to ward off the headache brewing. "Put her on."

There's a muffled conversation, then Vesper's voice fills the line, deceptively calm. "Talon."

"Princess," I keep my tone light despite the worry gnawing at my gut. "I hear you're behaving suspiciously well."

"Just accepting reality," she says, too smoothly.

Alex catches my eye in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

"That's...surprisingly mature of you," I say carefully.

"I've been known to be reasonable occasionally." Her laugh sounds almost natural. Almost . The line goes quiet for a few seconds. “Vesper, you still there?”

“I am.” Her voice softens. "Come home to me."

The simple request hits harder than I expected. "I will, princess. We both will. The next time you hear from us, we’ll be on our way back. Behave, please?”

"No promises," she says, and I can practically hear her smile. "But I'll try."

The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at the phone for a moment, unsettled by the conversation. Vesper giving in this easily feels wrong.

“Don’t focus on what you can’t control. She’s Z and Oscar’s problem.”

"How far out are we from the pickup location?"

"About twenty minutes." Alex checks his watch. "Which gives us around fifteen to twenty to recon the area before the scheduled meeting."

The Range Rover hugs the curves of the coastal road. The wind has picked up, bending the trees along the roadside. I can't help but think this weather is a bad omen—nature itself warning us to turn back.

"There," Alex says, nodding toward a wooden sign half-hidden by overgrowth. "North Point Harbor."

He slows the vehicle, turning onto a narrow gravel road that disappears into a thick stand of pines. The suspension groans as we navigate the uneven terrain, branches scraping against the windows like skeletal fingers.

"Isolated," I observe. "Ideal for an exchange no one’s meant to see."

"Or an ambush," Alex mutters, voice grim.

The trees suddenly give way to a small clearing overlooking a dilapidated dock.

Three weathered boathouses line one side, their paint peeling from years of salt exposure.

The harbor itself is small, sheltered by a natural breakwater of jagged rocks.

A single wooden dock extends into the choppy water, creaking and swaying with each wave.

"Charming," I mutter, as Alex parks the Range Rover behind the largest boathouse, concealing it from immediate view. "Nothing says 'legitimate business transaction' like an abandoned harbor."

Alex kills the engine and turns to face me. "I'll sweep the perimeter. You stay with the car until I confirm it's clear."

Alex exits the vehicle silently, easing the door shut with barely a click.

I watch through the tinted windows as he disappears into the shadows between the boathouses.

For all his tech genius and dry sarcasm, it’s moments like these that remind me—Alex is a weapon first, hacker second.

Precision in combat, silence in the hunt. It’s in his blood.

Ten minutes drag by like a slow bleed. I keep my eyes on the time, checking my watch again and again until I’ve lost count.

Every second stretches tighter, each tick of the clock a reminder that we're too close—too damn close—to unraveling The Collector’s trail.

He has her brother. And if Alex screws this up now…

No. He won’t. He can’t. Failure isn’t just a setback anymore—it’s unforgivable.

Just as the tension curdles in my gut and I reach for the handle to go after him, the driver’s door clicks open. Alex slides back into the seat without a word, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Something’s changed.

“Clear,” he says, his face grim. “Too clear.”

“What do you mean?"

“No cameras, no security measures, not even basic surveillance." He starts the engine. "It's either incredibly sloppy or…”

“Or it's not the real meeting point,” I finish. “They're watching to see if we follow protocol.”

Alex nods, putting the Range Rover in drive. "Time to find out.”

We cruise slowly down to the weathered dock, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The wind has picked up, sending whitecaps across the water. Alex parks facing the water, positioning us for a quick escape if needed.

Alex exits first, circling around to open my door with quiet deference. I step out into the biting wind, my suit jacket flapping against my sides. Salt air fills my lungs as I straighten my tie, settling into the impatient stance of a man who doesn’t wait for anyone.

“Eight minutes,” Alex reminds, standing a respectful distance behind me.

We wait in silence, the only sounds are the creaking of the dock and the crashing of waves against the rocky shore. The wind carries a hint of coming rain, and I scan the horizon, squinting against the fading daylight.

That's when I see it, a sleek object cutting through the choppy waters, heading directly toward us. A boat, its matte black hull absorbing what little light remains, making it seem like a hole moving across the ocean's surface.

“Contact,” I mutter, not turning my head.

Alex shifts slightly behind me. “I see it. Thirty seconds out.”

I straighten my posture, adopting the bored, slightly irritated expression of a wealthy man whose time is being wasted. Charles Blackwood wouldn't show anxiety. He'd show impatience.

The vessel glides toward the dock—a luxury speedboat designed for stealth rather than show. No identifying markers, no registration numbers visible. As it draws closer, I can make out two figures on board, one at the controls, another standing near the bow.

“Armed?” I ask under my breath.

“Definitely,” Alex confirms. “Both of them. The one standing has a shoulder holster. Driver likely has something at his waist.”

The boat slows as it approaches the dock, engine purring almost silently as it maneuvers alongside the weathered planks. Neither man makes a move to exit or secure the vessel. They're waiting for us to approach—a power play, forcing us to come to them.

“Sir?” Alex prompts, playing his role. “Shall we proceed?”