Page 75 of Wild Idol

“Looks like you’re losing your mojo,” I teased.

“I am not losing my mojo,” JD defended. “She’s just not thinking clearly.”

“Don’t feel bad,“ Star said. “Solomon holds great power over people. It’s hard to defy him. I know as well as anyone.“

We hurried through the retreat and made our way down the trail toward the dock.

“I don’t understand,” Sunshine said. “Where are we going to go? How are we going to live?” Buyer’s remorse had crept in.

“We’ll figure it out,” Star said.

We scampered down the trail, the sounds of the night filling the heavy air.

Commotion filtered down the trail from the dock as we approached. Another boat had arrived, and voices carried across the beach and through the trees.

We scampered into the underbrush and took cover.

It seemed too late in the evening for new guests to arrive at the retreat. It could have been more of Solomon’s security staff.

We crept through the trees toward the sand to get a better look.

I guess Mr. Wellington had lost faith in our efforts. He had arrived with four armed men, decked out in tactical gear with assault rifles. It looked like his patience for persuasion had run out—now he was going to take what he wanted by force.

“Who’s that?” Star whispered in my ear.

I looked at her like she was crazy. “That’s your father.”

She shook her head. “That’s not my father.”

My eyes widened with surprise. “Then who the hell is it?”

42

We hid in the dense jungle as the assault team climbed onto the dock from their 27-foot sport boat with three outboards. Dressed in black and moving with tactical precision, they kept their heads on swivels as they advanced.

These guys weren’t elite operators. They made a hell of a lot of ruckus coming in. It wasn’t quite a stealth landing. Then again, I don’t think they anticipated any kind of resistance. I’m sure they were expecting starry-eyed, brainwashed cult members—not a goon squad with AK-47s.

The team advanced from the beach to the trail. Helmet-mounted NVGs gave them an advantage. I hoped they weren’t thermal—they’d spot us in a heartbeat if they were.

Military-grade thermal fusion goggles were the price of a late-model car. Commercial versions were cheaper but could still zero out your bank account. An outfit funded by Wellington would spare no expense. But this wasn’t funded by Wellington. I didn’t know who our mysteryman was, but this gang was probably a crew of criminals or mercs. Perhaps with military training, perhaps not.

With standard night vision goggles, the dense jungle might obscure our presence if we stayed still, using trees and foliage as cover.

This assault team moved down the trail, the barrels of their rifles sweeping the area. They seemed more focused on what was ahead and less concerned with the periphery.

My heart thumped my chest, and I kept the barrel of my AK aimed at the goons, just in case we needed to engage.

The crew moved down the trail and continued toward the retreat.

The mystery man I’d once mistaken for Strathmore Wellington brought up the rear.

Once they had passed, I breathed a little easier. But we had a problem. I shared a worrisome look with JD.

“What do you think they’re doing here?” he whispered.

“They’re going to take the idol by force.”

“What do you think’s gonna happen when they can’t find it?”