The Retirement Plan

Chapter 1

"There's something wrong with the dogs," she said, gliding into the room, hips swinging in a short silk robe. All attitude.

DeShawn put down the book he'd been engrossed in for the past hour. "I don't hear anything."

"Precisely."

"They's resting."

"You should go check on them,"

"I'll check on 'em later. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"Well, if we are tossing trite proverbs about. Don't leave today's job until tomorrow." Flashing that sexy smile, could flatten a line-backer. Hands on her hips, stiletto heeled sandals adding five inches to her small, yet imposing, stature. Her robe fixed into a plunging V, the rich cream material emphasizing her deep golden tan.

"My job is to protect Vic," DeShawn said. Irritated, wanting to get back to his book. Dostoevsky's The Gambler. His sixth time reading it. A classic.

"Oh honey, Vic's a big boy. He doesn't need protecting."

"We livin' in a country where the yearly minimum wage is eight thousand dollars, and Vic worth fifty million. Trust me, Elana, his ass need protecting." Shit, see that white-gold, diamond encrusted bracelet adorning her slender wrist. Cost more than a working-class Honduran earns in a decade.

"Darling, he survived Silicon Valley."

"Those Tech bros have AK-47s?"

"Worse. They have unlimited capital."

DeShawn, sighing, rose to his feet. In no mood for prolonging this unwinnable argument. "Gotta do my rounds, anyway."

"And you will check on the pooches?" She squeezed his upper-arm. "I'm going back to bed." Hit him with that smile. Presents as sweet, but, really, she was pleased she'd got her own way. "I'll sleep better knowing my big bear is protecting us."

DeShawn made his rounds of the compound in the still of the night. Still of the night? Whoever came up with that idiom was unfamiliar with the jungle. Ain't nothing ever still here. Owl hoots, monkey shrieks, wings fluttering; the hissing and slithering formed a sinister soundtrack underscoring the pitch black scene. Give him the noise and neon light of the L.A. nightscape any time. Not that there wasn't light here. Motion-sensors surrounding the ranch-house ensured the dusty ground was bathed in a white glare wherever you set a foot down. And the searchlights atop the barbed-wire topped gate remained on throughout the dark hours.

DeShawn felt the beginning of the stinging itch, slapping at his large forearm. A fruitless exercise, the insect long gone. The fat red bump already rose. The Mosquito Coast sure lived up to its name. This filthy rat-hole country could make a Zen-master lose their shit.

Christ, of all the places Vic could have set up camp, he had to pick Río Plátano. Money he had, they could be sipping Piña Coladas on white sandy beaches gazing out at turquoise Caribbean waters. Instead, they were kicking it beside a biosphere reserve. A fucking rain-forest. Vic planned to establish a research centre to study the psychoactive properties of native fauna. Convinced he could find a bona fide cure for depression. Might be he could. The guy considered something of a genius.

The enfant terrible of Silicon Valley, a legend in the tech industry, now, a shunned multi-millionaire on a mission. DeShawn was sceptical about his chances of success. Two years in this infernal shit-hole and Vic couldn't cure a headache without a fistful of Tylenol.

Fifty yards away, Lorenz and Littlewood lay stretched out by the chain-link fence. Weird. Vic's Dobermans rarely slept. A lot like their master in that respect. The vicious bastards were always alert, prowling. DeShawn approached the immobile bodies with caution. Gave Lorenz a gentle prod with his foot, pulling his leg back on the off chance he was mistaken about the animal's condition. Nothing. His initial assumption was correct, the beast was dead. Littlewood, too.