are free to go,” Archie started with confidence, “but, before you do, one more thing: thanks Mummy.” He smiled a charming, devastating grin that made her burst with adoration. Racing to the pool’s edge, his little arms reached halfway around her fully expanded girth in a hug.
She smiled down on his mop of dark hair. “Don’t wander too far today, Archie. This baby is wanting to meet you sooner rather than later I think!” Francesca kissed the top of his salty head.
Archie reached into his pocket. “We didn’t forget about you, Chief,” he said, pulling the doggie treats out and handing them to the kelpie waiting patiently by their side.
At thirty-seven weeks, Francesca knew her body had reached its limit. Silently, she willed it to comply: to wait until Sinclair arrived home.
She’d made the right decision to stay in Fiji. Sydney was not a solid option. There was simply no way she could defend Archie from that family this close to the birth. If Silvio Delarno ever connected Archie to Nicholas, the little boy’s life would be in serious danger.
Francesca nodded to herself. Yes, she’d made the right decision to stay.
As her body relaxed buoyed in the coolness, the sun’s heat grew and Francesca’s mind checked off all the necessary preparations of this impending birth.
CHAPTER 4
26 January – Australia Day
Ibiza, Balearic Islands
Alessandro Delarno glanced anxiously between the monitors lining the wall of his private suite and the Ulysse Nardin timepiece on his wrist.
After a hellish night, in the calm silence of predawn, a nervous sweat broke his refined features. Carlo Seta was onto him, Alessandro was sure. Not that he would tell his nephew. No. The operation would proceed as planned. All Alessandro could do now was hope that Nicholas was prepared. For everything.
He checked the coordinates again and, in the moonlight, glanced portside through the vast window. It was a pointless exercise. The enigmatic island of Es Vedra loomed, her mystical jagged cliffs dropping sharply to the treacherous depths at her feet.
“Do we have eyes on?” the voice in the earpieces crackled in the silence.
“Not yet, Sir,” came the reply. The scout scoured the low scrubby trees surrounding the elite home, returning to the only entry point. He adjusted his night vision binoculars, seeking clarity.
“Keep looking. He’s there.”
“Yes Sir,” he replied, adjusting the binoculars again. “Sir, I think he’s in.”
“You think?” Alessandro questioned abruptly.
He cleared his throat. “Well Sir, I saw a small movement by the doorway.”
He’s in. Alessandro checked the monitors again and waited. “Thank you. Standby everybody. Now we wait for Nicholas.”
Nicholas backed into the shadows of the whitewash walled fortress perched on the clifftop. It glowered at him in the darkness. In the bright moonlight, a rough goat path around the steep terrain leading from the ocean to the luxury villa gleamed. It was obvious if you knew where to look. Nicholas did, and so did the patrol stationed on the rooftop floor of the home.
At the very top of three luxurious levels, the heavily armed outfit commanded a bird’s eye view of the sea and hinterland. Behind the structure, a gentle rise protected the home from the interior. Adding to its privacy, a series of low-walled gardens, filled with almond trees, radiated from a central point; the home’s third storey lookout.
This was no ordinary home. It was a place of absolutes and opulence. A place shrouded in decadence and majestic natural beauty. A place boasting unlimited power. It was exactly the type of house Nicholas’s father would have booked for their annual vacation and filled with business associates, in the not so distant past.
Clearly visible from the rooftop lookout, a single lane roadway access point crossed the island and wound a path to the gated estate. Despite the hills, any oncoming vehicle could be observed minutes before arrival. With this in mind, Nicholas had chosen a more watery approach followed by a steep climb.
The goat track was for amateurs.
St Antoni de Portmany, the celebrated clubbing town of the small island, a lazy twenty kilometres to the north, had pumped all night. It was party season. Once upon a time, when his family would have taken the villa, Nicholas would have appreciated the offerings such a place bestowed on the young and rich. That was the past. Today was business. Family business.
Nicholas breathed out, lightly, slowly, settling the energy running around his gut. It was time. Shouldering the rough stonework with a shrug, he dismissed the thought threads, the last deliberations of circumstance that brought him here.
His objective was clear. Get in. Get the information. Get out. Three minutes.
Within that time, the new crew would commence their shift. It was a three-minute opportunity window. Nicholas was as familiar with their routine as his own. He’d lived it for a fortnight now. Exactness in execution, just as Carlo Seta demanded. Such precision and predictability could only mean one thing. Seta was comfortable in this environment.
It took three minutes for the brief verbal exchange between shifts and for the new foot patrol to reach where he stood, the only accessible point of the expansive palace that was without twenty-four hour surveillance.
Within this amount of time, he would make the most of the pre-dawn darkness to slip undetected into the home and return to his hiding place. From there, he’d negotiate the treacherous descent to the water’s edge. At the base of the cliff, a rustic-looking fishing boat gave him a cover story and the opportunity to get back to the yacht. Well, that was the plan.
As the first rays split the dawn sky, Nicholas checked himself and slid under the lower timber doorway that accessed an interior courtyard. Two minutes, fifty-nine seconds, then out.
He’d spent months, years, preparing for today. Practicing the routine skills. By now, his actions were mechanical, allowing his mind the freedom to make instinctive decisions. Repetition in practice. It bled the emotion out.
Stepping silently upwards around the gracious stairwell, he reached the living area and checked the entrances for signs of movement. In the hush, he swiftly crossed the vastness, making towards the advanced communications set up in one of the many breakout rooms with an eye-popping view of the coast.
He shoved the USB device into the back of the Mac, easily bypassing the security and password settings, and the information transfer from the hard drive began. Next, he tapped into a phantom site, opening a portal to allow the automatic transfer of any new data.
Seta’s phone, sitting on a small table near the window, pipped a new message.
Nicholas retrieved a small tracking device from his pocket. He pushed the micro tube into the earphone jack and syringed the tiny locator along the sleeve. With a final push, the chip slid into place at the base of the small hole.
Nicholas checked the door for movement, listening for the first stirrings from within the house. Upstairs, in the bedroom, the silence was broken only by the regular sounds of sleep.
The portable device he retrieved
