Donovan basked lazily in the hammock as the gentle Caribbean breeze caressed him. Alone on this tiny out-of-the-way island, he could at last live the simple life.
Here, he could just let time wash over him. He ate fresh fish and crab and fruit. He didn’t have to worry about shooting anyone or being shot at. He didn’t have to cope with any plans cooked up by idiot desk jockeys back in Washington. Most of all, he didn’t have to think about her.
He frowned as he rubbed at the ropy scar on his left shoulder. The aching in the old wound always seemed to portend trouble.
His brow furrowed as he heard a familiar low thrumming. Of course. He looked out over the water to see an all-too-familiar little black dot in the sky.
As the whir of the helicopter grew louder and unmistakable, Donovan swung from the hammock and walked back to his hut…
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