Two hours later, Edward Stephens drove to Goldsand Beach Dock.
A few tall Western men in windbreakers stood by the coast. Seeing the black Bentley stop, they walked over from the dock.
"Mr. Stephens," they addressed him in English, "The yacht is ready, the police can be here in half an hour."
Edward stood at the edge of the coast, raised his head to look at the distant pitch-black ocean horizon. The night was dark, the winds strong, cold sea winds lifted the hem of his clothes. His cold, sharp eyes looked towards the direction of the small island, the cigarette clamped between his fingers flickered in the sea breeze. For a moment, he crushed the cigarette and threw it on the ground, speaking: "We'll go first, no more waiting."
It's been almost four days, and he had no idea how Daisy Ginger was doing now, or if she was even on that island.
He only knew, he couldn't afford to wait even a minute.
*
