Chapter 2 - The Resort in Cabo
The sun over Los Cabos burned with a golden, decadent brilliance that felt miles away from the brutal, dusty furnace of the Texas border.
Elliot sprawled across a custom teak lounge chair on the private terrace of Villa Cinco. He wore an ivory silk resort shirt unbuttoned to his chest, exposing a heavy gold chain that nestled against his sunburnt, sagging throat. In his right hand, he swirled an oversized crystal glass filled with Don Julio 1942.
"Bring another platter of the sea bass," Elliot barked without looking at the resort server standing discreetly near the glass sliding doors. "And tell the sommelier that the last vintage of Dom Pérignon had a bruised cork. I want the 2008, and I want it on ice in ten minutes."
"Right away, Señor Vance," the young Mexican server said politely, bowing slightly before retreating into the air-conditioned interior of the five-thousand-square-foot compound.
Across the terrace, Mara leaned over the infinity pool's edge, holding her gold iPhone high at a forty-five-degree angle. Her bronze skin was slick with organic monoi oil. She wore a three-hundred-dollar designer bikini, her dark hair pinned up with a diamond-encrusted hair clip.
"Mom, move your sunhat!" Mara snapped, tapping her screen frantically. "You're casting a shadow right across my hip! The lighting is completely ruined!"
Evelyn sat under a massive white canvas umbrella, clutching an unopened paperback novel. She looked pale despite the tropical warmth. Her hands, worn from decades of working intensive care units, trembled slightly against the arms of her wicker chair. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and dark sunglasses that completely obscured her eyes.
"Mara, please," Evelyn murmured, her voice thin and tight. "You’ve taken three hundred photos since breakfast. Can’t you just… sit still? Can’t we just have one quiet afternoon?"
"Quiet?" Mara scoffed, turning around and resting her elbows on the wet stone coping. "We just traded that freezing, moldy mountain shack for paradise, and you want to be quiet? Do you know how many followers I gained since yesterday? Forty thousand! The lifestyle tag is trending. Everyone thinks Dad is a venture capitalist now."
"He isn't your father, Mara," Evelyn whispered, casting a nervous, sideways glance toward Elliot.
Elliot’s eyes snapped open. The lazy, drunken indulgence vanished from his face, replaced instantly by the cold, vicious sneer he kept reserved for closed rooms. He set his heavy glass down with a sharp *thunk* on the marble table.
"What was that, Evelyn?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Evelyn flinched, shrinking back into the depths of her linen tunic. "Nothing, Elliot. I just… I told you, I had another nightmare last night. About the paperwork. What if someone audits the Garfield County office? What if—"
"Shut your mouth," Elliot hissed, leaning forward. The veins in his thick neck bulged. "We went over this ten times. The girl has been stationed in some godforsaken intelligence hole in the desert for three years. She hasn't set foot in Colorado since Thanksgiving four years ago. She doesn't call you. She doesn't check the deeds. She thinks the cabin is sitting empty while she plays soldier."
"She’s still my daughter, Elliot," Evelyn pleaded, her voice breaking into a dry rattle. "We declared her dead. Do you understand what that means? If she comes home—"
"She’s not coming home!" Elliot roared, slamming his open palm against the teak armrest. "And even if she does, what’s she going to do? Sue me? With what money? She makes forty-five grand a year on an officer’s salary! I just moved one point two million through three international accounts! By the time she realizes the cabin has been bull-dozed into a luxury ski chalet, the money will be tucked into an offshore annuity paying us eighty grand a year in passive interest!"
He stood up, walking heavily across the stone flags until he towered directly over Evelyn. He gripped the top of her straw hat, tilting it back roughly until she was forced to look into his flushed, bloodshot eyes.
"You like this villa?" he whispered, his breath sour with tequila and cigar smoke. "You like not waking up at five in the morning to wipe bedpans at St. Anthony’s? You like the fact that your mortgage is paid, your car is paid, and Mara can finally marry into a family that actually has status? Then you keep your mouth shut. You signed the papers. You took the check. You're just as deep in the mud as I am, Evelyn. In fact, your name is on the top line."
Evelyn swallowed hard, her throat clicking dryly. Tears welled beneath her sunglasses, but she nodded meekly. "Yes, Elliot. I know."
"Good," he spat, releasing her hat so violently it knocked her sunglasses crooked. "Now take a sip of your drink, smile for your daughter’s camera, and act like a woman who just won the lottery."
Down at the bottom of the terrace steps, the villa’s private concierge approached, carrying a small leather folio. His face was entirely devoid of the cheerful, subservient warmth he had displayed an hour earlier. His spine was rigid, his steps brisk and unyielding.
"Señor Vance?" the concierge said, stopping at the edge of the patio.
Elliot turned, waving his hand dismissively. "Whatever it is, put it on the master tab. And bring more limes."
"I am afraid that will not be possible, Señor," the concierge replied in flawless, chillingly formal English. "I must ask you to accompany me to the management office immediately."
Elliot frowned, his chest puffing up with manufactured outrage. "Excuse me? Do you know how much I am paying per night for this compound? I will have you fired by sundown!"
The concierge did not blink. He opened the leather folio, revealing a printed financial transmission slip with a stark red banner across the center.
"Twenty minutes ago, your card was declined during the daily pre-authorization sweep," the concierge said evenly. "When our finance department contacted the merchant gateway in Miami, we were notified that all accounts associated with your bridge loan have been placed under an emergency administrative hold by the United States Department of the Treasury. Your outstanding balance for the past three nights—forty-eight thousand, six hundred and twenty dollars—remains unpaid."
Mara froze in the pool. Evelyn gasped, pressing a trembling hand over her mouth.
Elliot’s face turned the color of an overripe plum. "That’s impossible! It’s a computer error! I have over a million dollars clearing through Denver right now! Call the manager!"
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"The general manager is currently speaking with two federal agents from the United States Embassy in Mexico City," the concierge stated, his voice completely flat. "They have requested that we hold your passports until local authorities arrive to escort you to the airport. You have sixty minutes to vacate Villa Cinco, Señor Vance."
***