By the pool bar, the air was thick with chlorine and expensive cigar smoke.
Kofi and Jengo were leaning against the railing, watching the sunset. They were tall, built like statues of obsidian, and wore tactical gear that was far too heavy for a resort holiday—cargo pants with too many pockets, boots with ankle supports, tight-fitting t-shirts that revealed the muscles of men who lived in the gym.
"Phase one is done," Kofi murmured in a deep, rhythmic accent. He was checking the magazine of a pistol that was hidden under a napkin on the table. "The ports are closed. The roads are blocked by the Royal Guard. This place is an island now. A fortress."
Jengo nodded, his hand resting near his hip, where a knife handle jutted out slightly. "The doctor looks like he's ready to bolt. If he goes, the businessman goes. If the businessman goes, we don't get paid."
"We're not getting paid anyway, brother," Kofi said, looking out at the darkened ocean. "The banks in Lagos went dark three hours ago. London is next. The money is gone."
They looked at the Hayes family leaving the restaurant. Thomas was herding Maggie and Lucas toward the elevators, his body language protective and aggressive.
"Soldier," Jengo noted, watching Thomas's gait. "See how he walks? He checks the corners. He walks near the walls."
"Old school," Kofi replied. "British Army, maybe. Or Royal Marines. He'll be a problem."
"Or he'll be the only thing that keeps that boy alive," Kofi countered.
They watched as Lucas lagged behind his parents. The boy stopped near a potted plant, looking at a large beetle crawling on a leaf. He wasn't scared. He was observing.
"That boy," Jengo said softly. "He has eyes. He sees."
"They're going to need eyes," Kofi said, slipping the pistol back into his waistband. "Because the night is going to be loud."