The Island Deception Read online

  Dedication

  To Christina, the magic in my life

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1: The Call of Magic

  Chapter 2: Competing Offers

  Chapter 3: Dead Bird

  Chapter 4: The Green Light

  Chapter 5: Snowballing

  Chapter 6: Fork in the Road

  Chapter 7: Witch Hunt

  Chapter 8: When Charm Fails

  Chapter 9: All Things Bartered

  Chapter 10: Wrong Number

  Chapter 11: Disturbance

  Chapter 12: The Slip

  Chapter 13: The Family Business

  Chapter 14: Different Ports

  Chapter 15: Marauders

  Chapter 16: Survivors

  Chapter 17: The Drop-off

  Chapter 18: The Prodigal Son

  Chapter 19: Visible Fractures

  Chapter 20: Bay of Rocks

  Chapter 21: Interception

  Chapter 22: Unconventional

  Chapter 23: A Hint of Fire

  Chapter 24: Divinations

  Chapter 25: Price of Passage

  Chapter 26: Into the Fire

  Chapter 27: Good Feeling Gone

  Chapter 28: Schemes

  Chapter 29: Trickery

  Chapter 30: Surveillance

  Chapter 31: Mutton Night

  Chapter 32: The Mentor

  Chapter 33: Without a Trace

  Chapter 34: Coast Guards

  Chapter 35: Search Committees

  Chapter 36: Priorities

  Chapter 37: Breach

  Chapter 38: Recovery

  Chapter 39: Loss

  Chapter 40: Taken

  Chapter 41: Insurance

  Chapter 42: Overboard

  Chapter 43: Revelations

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Dan Koboldt

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Chapter 1

  The Call of Magic

  “The more time you spend lying to people, the more you think about what truth really means.”

  —Art of Illusion, September 5

  Quinn Bradley had finally arrived.

  For twenty-six years, he’d dreamed of seeing his name in the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip. Of taking the stage at a major casino there, and joining the ranks of magic’s elite. Siegfried and Roy, David Copperfield, Penn and Teller. He’d worked his ass off to get here. Designing his own tricks, performing seven nights a week, building his profile online and onstage.

  Even so, as he waited in the shadowy alcove backstage, he fingered the stone pendant on a necklace under his shirt and wished he were more excited about it. Quick fingers and cleverness had taken him a long way, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever have made it happen without help from CASE Global Enterprises. Kiara had made good on her promise, and suddenly Rudy Fortelli was calling—nearly panting with excitement—to tell him that a major casino had a slot open. Just a one-night engagement, but still a big deal. Quinn hadn’t even asked what they were offering to pay—he’d just cashed one hell of a big check anyway.

  It was the Bellagio, of course. The most iconic casino of them all, the home of Cirque du Soleil and countless other top-notch acts. He should have known. CASE Global never went in for anything but the best.

  And now that includes me, I guess.

  “Quinn?” a woman asked.

  Her voice was quiet, but he’d know the accent anywhere. “Veena! I’ll be damned.”

  Veena Chaudri was five-foot-two, slender, and as well-dressed as Quinn had ever seen her. Usually she was in period-matched Alissian garb, or a lab coat, but now she was a sight to behold. She’d pinned up her hair with a glittering silver barrette, and wore a silver cocktail dress with matching heels. The dress was Armani, and worth a small fortune, but Veena probably didn’t even know. That made the whole thing seem effortless, and the newly official head of CASE Global’s secret research initiative probably didn’t even realize how good she looked.

  She offered her hand, but Quinn hugged her instead.

  “Damn, it’s good to see you.” He meant it, too. They’d only been apart a few weeks. Six months ago, he hadn’t even known her. I guess we bonded over that whole fleeing-reptilian-predators thing.

  “Likewise,” she said. “And it looks like you’re doing well.” She gestured toward the stage, where the buzz of the audience had begun to grow.

  He winked. “I’m getting by. But I’m glad you came.”

  “It’s on business, I’m afraid.”

  Oh, perfect. And right before he went on, too. “Couldn’t the lieutenant have just called?”

  “She said you weren’t answering your phone.”

  Damn right I wasn’t. He’d been swamped getting ready for the show, and Kiara would only have added to the stress. “I’m not due back for another couple of weeks.”

  “Yes, well. It’s a big crowd out there.”

  “Is it?” Thank God. He shook himself and rubbed his arms. “I was afraid to look.” Afraid he’d see a wide field of empty seats.

  “That kind of exposure makes the executives a bit nervous.”

  “Why? It’s not like I’m high on the CASE Global totem pole.” Negotiating level-ten security clearance had barely made a difference. Chaudri’s had moved up as well, though, which put Quinn at the bottom by a wide margin.

  “She asked me to remind you of the, uh . . .” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Nondisclosure agreements.”

  He laughed. “Is that why they sent you? I thought stern intimidation was Logan’s department.” The big man would have said it all with a single look.

  “He’s otherwise occupied,” Chaudri said.

  “Did they find the Swedish guy?” he asked.

  “Only his boat. He made the mainland, but Mendez is hot on his trail.” She looked away, and grimaced.

  She’s worried. A pinpoint of cold uneasiness began to form in Quinn’s gut. “Veena, has something happened?”

  She glanced around, and bit her lower lip. “The news from over there, about my former mentor . . . let’s just say it has everyone concerned.”

  Concerned was an understatement, if they’d sent Veena all the way up here. Jesus. “What’s he done now?”

  “You’ll be briefed on-site. Kiara wants you there as soon as possible.”

  “I can fly down in the morning.”

  It surprised him a little how quickly he’d agreed. Normally, he didn’t like to jump when Kiara said to, but the idea of being near the gateway again excited him. Maybe even more than where I’m about to go on, and that’s saying something.

  Chaudri’s face lit up. “Really? That would be wonderful.”

  A chime sounded, a polite warning from the theater manager.

  “That’s my cue,” Quinn said.

  Chaudri swallowed, and the whites of her eyes showed. “I suppose I should give you some time alone. Are you ready for this?”

  “To hear my name announced on the Vegas Strip?” He flashed her a grin. “Been ready my whole life.”

  “A real up-and-comer, ladies and gentlemen,” said the emcee. The British accent gave it a gentry feel, like this was the House of Lords and Quinn their newest member. He fought the grin that wanted to come. He needed to focus. “Not new to the Las Vegas scene, but just revealed as the mind behind ‘Art of Illusion.’ ”

  Ah, the blog.

  True to their word, the company had kept it up while he’d been away on private assignment. He felt oddly ambivalent about it. On one hand, the principles of il
lusion had saved his life a half dozen times in Alissia. On the other, they felt different. Before he’d taken that job, before he’d seen the other world, pulling off a perfect illusion felt like a jolt of electricity. Now, the thrill felt incomplete. It was like taking the second-best roller coaster in the park while hearing people scream on the best one.

  Then again, now wasn’t the time to dwell on disappointment.

  “Here he is, everyone. Quinn Thomas!”

  Quinn strode out into the spotlights as the emcee said his stage name. Command presence was everything in this business, so he had to own it. Big grin and wave for the audience. Enthusiastic handshake for the emcee. Deep, calming breath while he took measure of the crowd . . .

  Sweet Jesus, that’s a lot of people.

  The inside of the theater loomed as large as a sports arena. Stained-glass windows lined the walls; brightly colored murals plastered the lofty ceilings. Even the marks were high quality. No one in the first few rows appeared visibly inebriated, which was a pleasant change. The money showed in a hundred other ways: the tailored suits and cocktail dresses. The champagne glasses. The glitter of gold and silver jewelry. This was the cream of the Vegas crop, and all here to see him.

  This is my shot. He’d worked his ass off to get here. Fought tooth and nail against impossible odds—literally fought, in the past few months, at least. If he screwed up now, all of that was for nothing. And hell, part of him wondered if it was all for nothing.

  The lights hit him.

  No . . . this is totally worth it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. The sound system carried his voice to the highest balconies, but didn’t echo. Didn’t even vibrate. “I’ve been away for six months, getting ready for the trick you’re about to see tonight.” That was a half-truth. In the last six months, he’d also fled from dragons, gotten himself kidnapped, and set a man on fire. Now there’s a story that might wow them as much as any illusion. But what he’d planned was impressive, so pride—and a touch of ego—won out.

  “But let’s work our way up to that, shall we? I like to start small.” He snapped his fingers and made a coin appear. A gold coin, polished to a high shine. The cameramen had instructions to zoom in for this part. “This is a five-dollar piece. Current market value, about three hundred bucks.”

  He walked it end-over-end across the fingers of one hand, and then the other. He flicked it up in the air. The gold sang with a lovely, high-pitched hum before he caught it.

  “Sometimes when you come to Vegas, money has a way of . . . disappearing.” He opened his fingers, and the coin was gone. Barely a flicker of interest from the audience. Wow, tough crowd.

  He kept his smile on. “That’s not the dream, though, is it?” He brought his hands together and rubbed them like he was trying to start a fire. “You walk into a casino, and you want to double your money.” He parted his hands, and now there were two gold coins. He rubbed them together again. “Maybe you want to triple it.” Now there were three, and the audience was warming up; a few of them even put down their phones. You can never go wrong with gold.

  “Or, you bet big.” He stacked the coins up on his palm. Now there were four, though most of the spectators couldn’t tell. “This is the Bellagio, ladies and gentlemen. You go big.” He swept his hand over the stack of coins. Now they were house casino chips. Bright yellow with red and black. A thousand bucks each. He threw them up in the air. They caught fire and burned up, leaving only wisps of smoke behind. Quinn held out his empty hands. “Or you go home.”

  That won him a nice round of applause. He kept them going with some up-close magic: card tricks, cups and balls, pulling a watermelon out of a hat. He used the emcee for an assistant on that last part. The guy had a British accent and the polish of a veteran showman. He and Quinn played perfectly off of one another. The audience ate it up.

  “Thank you!” Quinn said. Too loud, but the sound system compensated for it. “I promised you something fantastic tonight. I promised you the call of magic.”

  He put one hand in his pocket, dropping eye contact with the crowd. A funny thing happened when you did that onstage. The look-away sort of drew them in.

  “I’ve felt the call three times in my life. Once when I was a kid. Again when I started performing in Vegas. And a third time, just a month ago.” That time had been different. That had been the one that really mattered.

  He looked up, addressed the crowd again. “There’s nothing quite like it. Tonight, I’d like to share that feeling with you. Would you like that?”

  The audience cheered. Not the loud, raucous cheers of the nightclub rabble, but a steady smattering of polite applause. Everything was highbrow here.

  “I thought so.” He grinned. “Prepare yourselves for the call of magic.” He took a wide stance, bowed his head, and held absolutely still for six seconds.

  Then he relaxed, reached into his jacket, and took out his phone. Everyone roared with laughter.

  Now he had them relaxed. Perfectly at ease. He punched in a command sequence. Had to put his thumb on the biometric scanner after that, to verify his identity. Kiara had insisted on that. It beeped a soft confirmation. Three, two, one . . .

  A shock wave struck the theater as every single phone in the audience went off. Pockets vibrated and beeped. Purses buzzed. Watching how people reacted was enormously entertaining. At first, there was the panicked scramble to silence it—on the cost of the tickets alone, this wasn’t an event where you wanted to be the jackass of distraction—but as they realized what was happening, they started to answer. Hundreds of them. Thousands, probably. It was too hard to see past the spotlights on the first tier. But those in view pressed their ears to the earpiece and looked at him expectantly.

  He smiled and squared himself to the crowd. “Hello there.”

  That was his moment. His tiny window of opportunity to offer just the right turn of phrase. To give them the magical finish to a truly unique performance. But the words failed him. Right there in the front row, a man in a suit met his eyes. Tall, light-haired, and a face that screamed Nordic heritage. He looked so much like the Swede Thorisson that Quinn had to do a double take just to be sure. No, it was a different guy. Younger, maybe. His eyes were two pools of cold lake water. Raptor Tech for certain. What the hell did they want with him now?

  He’d been foolish to refuse a bodyguard. Kiara had suggested it, before he’d flown up here. That line he’d fed her about being safer in his hometown than anywhere else . . . he regretted it now. They’d sent Chaudri, but she was a goddamn anthropologist. She’d be less than useless.

  The theater rippled with laughter, but he had the audience for another moment more. What was the line again? It came to him. “Sorry, wrong number!” He hung up. The audience laughed and applauded. Stood for him in ovation. Quinn made a flourish and bowed. When he thought to look again, the Nordic fellow was gone.

  An hour later, he’d soaked up the applause and pressed flesh with some of the Bellagio’s VIPs in a special meet-and-greet backstage. A main act was only part of the deal, when it came to Vegas casinos. They liked to have a trophy piece to trot out for their high rollers. Unsettled as he was about the appearance of Raptor Tech, Quinn was still able to put on his charming smile and make nice.

  A blonde woman in a too-small black dress shook his hand. “That was incredible!” She was in her mid-thirties, fit and attractive.

  “What was your favorite part?” He knew the answer already, but it never hurt to play the humble card.

  “The ending. I swear I put my phone on silent.” She let her hand linger in his. “How did you do that?”

  He winked. “I can’t tell you.”

  She pouted, gave him the puppy-dog eyes. “Please?”

  “I’d rather you think me mysterious.”

  “How about a picture, then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The casino had a photographer on standby for just that. Quinn beckoned him over. The blonde cozied up to him and they p
osed for a couple of flashes.

  “Aw, thank you!” She hugged him. Smooth as silk, she slipped a keycard into his jacket pocket. His inside jacket pocket, no less. She put her lips to his ear. “I’m in the tower suite.”

  Of course she was.

  It took him half an hour to slip away graciously from the high rollers. Next up: a little face time with the theater manager. Yet another ritual of the Vegas strip. Not quite an interview, but not something you skipped, either. Quinn had some close-up magic tricks in the holster. It never hurt to impress the manager, even after a solid performance. The manager’s office was up a set of stairs at the back of the stage. A stagehand pointed him to it. He was nearly to the staircase when the suit materialized from the shadows. At first, Quinn mistook him for security.

  Then the guy stepped into the light; it brought out the sharp angles of Nordic facial features. Quinn stepped back instinctively, and damn near reached for a weapon at his belt. Except he hadn’t carried a weapon in a month.

  “Mr. Bradley?”

  Quinn squared his shoulders in his best imitation of a Logan stance. “Who are you?” Civilians weren’t allowed back here.

  “My name’s Carl Reiser. I work for Raptor Tech.”

  “I see.”

  “You met an associate of mine, around six months ago.”

  “Thorisson.”

  “Ah, you remember.”

  “He’s hard to forget,” Quinn said. “What about him?”

  “I just wanted to know if you’ve seen him recently.”

  “Not for months.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m confused.” Quinn gave him a side-look. “Are you telling me you don’t know where your own employee is?”

  He ignored the question. “May I ask where you’ve been during your recent hiatus?”

  “You can ask, but I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  Quinn shrugged, and kept his pose casual. “First, because it’s none of your goddamn business. Second, because there’s a nondisclosure agreement.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  “No such thing in Vegas.”

  Reiser stared at him with cold eyes. “I’m not sure I believe you, Mr. Bradley.”