Page 25 of Wild Idol (Tyson Wild Thriller #82)

“ T hat place no good,” our guide said in broken English. “What you want is Tzacamaya. Golden beaches, teal water, beautiful girls,” he said, drawing the outline of a sumptuous figure with his fingers.

I had booked reservations at Solomon’s wellness retreat online. The guru was hiding in plain sight. Xaqualta and San Montego had no extradition treaties with the United States.

We had flown into San Montego the day before and spent the night in a luxury hotel not far from the marina.

San Montego was off the beaten path, and there were no direct flights commercially. Fortunately, Mr. Wellington had chartered a plane, and the flight down was quite enjoyable. A momentary respite from the chaos.

JD had arranged a guide to take us to the island. As usual, it was never straightforward or simple. We stood on the rickety dock of the marina, trying to get Miguel to honor his commitment .

“No,” I said. “We want to go to Xaqualta.”

He frowned and shook his head. “I have taken many people to Xaqualta. They all come back…” He swirled circles around his brain with his index finger, indicating that everyone who had visited the island had returned with a touch of madness.

“We have reservations.”

Miguel just shook his head. “I’m telling you. Tzacamaya. I know a place you can stay. I can get you a discount. Half price. Half-price girls too.” He smiled with a lecherous grin.

“We don’t need to pay for it,” JD said.

Miguel kept smiling. “You always pay for it.” He burst into laughter.

“We’re looking for someone on Xaqualta,” I said.

“A lot of people are looking for something on Xaqualta. But what you seek may not be what you find.”

“We’ll be okay,” I assured.

Miguel shrugged. “It’s your life,” he said in a cavalier yet ominous voice. “Just don’t drink too much Zakulta,” he said with a chuckle.

It was a native plant with psychoactive properties. Brewed into a tea, it could take the user on a spiritual journey.

JD and I had already had our fill of spiritual journeys on our last adventure to La Perdida.

“If you want to experience the divine, I’m telling you, the women on Tzacamaya will make you see God.” Miguel grinned again. I suspected he got kickbacks for every tourist he brought to specific establishments.

After some back-and-forth and an offer to pay double what we had previously negotiated, Miguel agreed to take us out to the island.

We arranged a return trip, then climbed into Miguel’s boat.

It was a 25-foot center console with a hardtop.

He fired up the twin outboards. I cast off the lines, and Miguel navigated us out of the slip.

We headed out to sea, briny waves crashing against the bow.

The morning sun glimmered the water as we headed into the abyss.

The water was pretty calm, and the tiny boat sliced through the swells with ease. San Montego grew small behind us. Soon, there was no trace of land. We were just a speck in the vast ocean.

It was early, but it was already 85°. At midday, with the fiery ball at full intensity, it could easily get up to 95°.

There was a certain downside to tropical paradises.

JD and I packed plenty of sunscreen, water, bug spray, a first aid kit, and medication.

Unfortunately, we were unarmed. We didn’t need the hassle of transporting weapons.

We were traveling under our own names. Isabella hadn’t provided cover identities or local contacts.

This was strictly a side adventure, albeit with a little support from the intelligence maven.

I was reminded of our last journey to a tropical island—one that didn’t turn out so well. I kept telling myself this was going to be different. Easy. All we had to do was talk to Ivy, make a good argument, and she’d return to the mainland with us of her own free will. That was the fantasy.

Reality would be quite the contrast .

It took about 45 minutes of bouncing across the water before a tiny speck on the horizon came into view. The island grew as we drew near. Before long, we approached the beach.

Miguel pulled up to a small wooden pier that extended into the bay. We grabbed our bags and disembarked, stepping onto the sun-bleached planks.

“I’ll come back in three days,” Miguel assured with a smile.

Somehow, his smile looked insincere. It didn’t give me a lot of faith.

“Three days,” I repeated.

Another center console was tied up at the dock. There was at least a way off the island if Miguel failed to return.

The guide reversed, spun the boat around, and headed back toward San Montego. The outboards howled, spitting white water. The bow crashed against the surf, and the boat grew small as Miguel headed toward the endless horizon.

The island was paradise.

White sand beaches and translucent waves crashing against the shore. Water so clear you could see all the aquatic life in the bay. Towering palm trees and lush foliage covered the oasis.

Apart from the heat, it was heavenly.

That sentiment was further confirmed when two sun-kissed blondes approached, wearing teeny bikinis with sheer sarongs wrapped around luscious hips.

The taut fabric could barely contain their enthusiastic endowments which yearned to roam free.

Bare feet hustled across the sand and slapped against the wooden planks.

With sparkling blue eyes and pearly teeth, they welcomed us to the island.

The heat turned up a notch, and my pulse quickened.

Somebody had obviously been keeping tabs on our approach.

“Greetings, weary travelers,” a soft voice said, spilling from kissable lips. “Welcome to Xaqualta. The land of dreams and possibilities.”

There were possibilities, alright. So far, the island was looking good.

“I’m Sunshine, and this is Whisper.”

We made introductions, but the process was interrupted.

“We don’t shake hands here,” Sunshine said. “We hug.”

We were more than okay with hugs.

Sunshine and Whisper closed in with open arms and squeezed us tight with blissful smiles on their pretty faces. It was that soft, lingering kind of hug that made you wish you could freeze time. The kind of hug that made you feel like you were home.

With Sunshine’s bubbly endowments mashed against my chest, the beat of her heart thumped against me, and soon we were in sync.

The girls broke free, and that momentary euphoria faded.

They took us each by the hand after we grabbed our bags and led us down the dock, through a path amid the trees.

Their skin was soft and smooth, and the girls smelled of coconut.

A pleasant floral scent swirled, which could have been a homebrew perfume or the natural scent of the island.

The girls had a relaxed carefree vibe, moving like they had no particular place to be and all eternity to get there.

Life was a beautiful poem, and their steps were light and effortless.

In their presence, the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders.

Suddenly, Xaqualta didn’t seem like such a bad place to be.

Was I ever wrong about that!