The Man from Apollo

Captain Ward placed Eli Mercer’s photograph on the briefing-room screen.

“Elias Mercer never made it home.”

The image showed him smiling for an employee badge. Less than twelve hours earlier, I had watched men drag him through a locked service door. I kept my hands flat on the table. Touching the empty credential holder beneath my shirt would draw Ward’s attention.

“His phone stopped transmitting before midnight,” she said. “Start from the moment you abandoned your position.”

“I saw Eli being forced into the storage corridor. I followed and found Vesper packets inside a sculpture base.” I slid my phone across the table. “Three photographs. Time and location data intact.”

“The photos are already saved in the department’s evidence system,” Ward said. “What happened next?”

“One of the guards saw me. The building went into lockdown, and I escaped through the marina.”

“How?”

Vic sat beside me, silent but alert.

“I hid aboard a private yacht until the men moved on.”

It was true. It only left out the stranger’s mouth, his hands, the cabinet striking his head, and the police identification I had lost.

Ward tapped the remote. A coastal map replaced Eli’s face, with Solara Island marked thirty-eight nautical miles offshore.

“Mercer’s tracker transmitted from the island for eleven seconds at two fourteen this morning,” she said. “We also found a last-minute transfer order for one of the exhibition sculptures. Destination: Reed Solara Resort.”

“Then we search the island.”

“We do not search private property based on one brief signal.”

“He was taken at gunpoint.”

“And your photographs prove narcotics were at the exhibition, not the resort.” Ward changed the screen. Temporary cargo records appeared. Apollo was listed twice beside vessel permits and shipment codes. One document carried the initials C.A.R.

“Calvin Alexander Reed,” Ward said. “CEO of Reed Solara Resort and Marina.”

“His yacht was named in Eli’s message.”

“That makes him a person of interest, not a proven criminal.”

“It makes him worth watching.”

Ward held my gaze. “That is what you’ll do. Operation Sunfall begins today.”

She pushed two folders across the table. The label on mine read “Sienna Blake, Temporary Housekeeping Employee.” Vic’s read “Vincent Hale, Contract Resort Security.”

“Find Mercer. Confirm the cargo route and build probable cause,” Ward said. “And this time, Detective Rust, observation means observation.”

At my apartment, I pinned Sienna Blake’s wig into place, adjusted the makeup changing the shape of my face, and packed a second wig, burner phone, button camera, false employment papers, and uniforms for my cover.

The concealer hid most of the scratch on my cheek. My shoes were less forgiving. Every step reminded me that I had crossed half the marina barefoot.

I searched my dress, equipment bag, and bathroom floor again. No identification. My phone was already in my hand when someone knocked.

Vic entered with two wrapped sandwiches. “You forgot breakfast.”

“I was busy.”

“You’re always busy. You don’t usually forget to eat.” He placed one beside my suitcase and studied me. “What’s wrong?”

I locked my phone and slipped it into my bag. “I’m tired.”

He accepted the answer, handed me the sandwich, and checked his watch

“The ferry leaves in forty minutes.”

I closed the suitcase. Apollo was tied to Solara Island. If my identification had fallen aboard it, the man from the yacht might already know exactly who was coming.

The employee ferry left Port Aurelia before the afternoon staff intake. Vic sat across from me in a navy security uniform, settled into Vincent Hale’s posture and voice. I kept my suitcase between my feet and watched Solara Island grow across the water.

White buildings rose above the shoreline. Yachts filled the eastern slips, while resort vehicles moved between the marina and the road leading to the main hotel.

Staff waited behind a separate checkpoint from arriving guests. Heat pressed against me when I stepped onto the pier. A woman with a tablet stood beside the employee gate, her cream blouse smooth despite the humidity.

“Celeste Morgan, resort operations,” she said. “Have your documents ready, and be prepared to open your bags if requested. Anyone who delays this line answers to me.”

Vic handed over his papers.

“Vincent Hale. Contract security.” She checked the screen. “Security processing is through the second gate. Do not enter guest areas until your access card is active.”

“Understood.”

He gave me a brief look before following the path toward the marina office. Celeste checked my documents twice.

“Sienna Blake. Temporary housekeeping.”

“That’s right.”

“Late additions cause scheduling problems.”

“I didn’t choose the date.”

Her eyes lifted. I softened my expression before the answer became a challenge. A woman in a green housekeeping uniform hurried over with access cards. She was short and moved quickly.

“Maribel Cruz,” she said. “Belle unless you’re angry with me.”

“Should I expect to be?”

“Not on your first day.”

Celeste handed her my file. “Staff Village first. Uniform issue, room assignment, then North Cove training.”

Belle led me through the employee checkpoint. “Do not enter a guest room without logging in. Do not touch medicine, jewelry, or sealed luggage. Report damaged locks. And never argue with a guest where another guest can hear.”

“Anywhere private is fine?”

She glanced at me. “You might survive here.”

We crossed East Marina beside a row of executive slips. Belle lowered her voice.

“Guests think housekeepers are invisible. Let them. Invisible people hear everything.”

The uniform had just become more useful, then I saw the yacht. Apollo rested at the executive pier beneath the afternoon sun. My pace faltered. For one sharp second, I felt a man’s hand at my waist and his mouth against mine.

Then I saw the low cabinet through the lounge window and remembered the sound of his head striking it. Belle walked two steps before noticing I had stopped.

“You know that boat?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly. I looked at the hull, then the private road leading deeper into the resort. Apollo had made it to Solara Island, and so had I.

“Ms. Cruz.”

The voice came from behind me, and every muscle in my back tightened before I turned. The man from Apollo walked along the pier beside Celeste. His collar was closed, his dark suit was neat despite the heat, and nothing softened the control in his movements.

In daylight, he looked less like the stranger I had used for cover and more like a man accustomed to being obeyed .My fingers tightened around the suitcase handle when I saw the faint bruise on his temple.

Belle straightened. “Mr. Reed.”

Celeste stopped beside him. “The new temporary staff arrived on schedule. This is Sienna Blake, assigned to housekeeping.”

Calvin Reed. The initials on the cargo documents belonged to the man whose hands had been under my clothes less than a day ago. His attention settled on me, moving from the wig and makeup to my eyes.

“Ms. Blake,” he said.

His voice brought the yacht cabin back into focus: the seat beneath me, his mouth at my throat, and the pressure of his body between my knees. I pushed the memory aside and met his gaze. He glanced toward Apollo, then back at me. He had noticed where I was looking.

Celeste continued speaking about staffing numbers, but Calvin stepped closer. He paused within arm’s reach and drew in a slow breath. The movement was so slight I might have missed it if I had not been watching him. His attention sharpened, though his expression remained controlled.

“Have we met before, Ms. Blake?”

Belle looked between us.

“No, Mr. Reed.”

Calvin studied me in silence. His gaze paused on the scratch hidden beneath the concealer on my cheek.

“Strange,” he said. “You seem familiar.”