50
Another bloody island atoll, glaring in the sunlight.
Holly stared down at Diego Garcia from above.
Quint had kissed her goodbye at the foot of the Falcon 7X’s stairs.
“Welcome on my doorstep anytime, Holl.”
She’d kissed him again for that, then climbed the stairs.
“Tropical island. Fruity rum drinks with muddled fruit. You in a bikini,” he called after her.
“In your dreams, Quint.” Then she’d gone without looking back.
He belonged in Tennant Creek. She had too…long ago. Not anymore.
Approaching Diego Garcia from the south, the view was a laugh. The narrow, sixty-kilometer-long slice of white coral and coconut palms drew the white outline of a bikini babe against the blue ocean. Complete with curvy hips, a wasp waist, and a massive bustline to the east.
“Oh, if you could only
