Free Aground on St. Thomas by Rebecca M. Hale

Hightower to head Operation Coconut was a puzzle—and a concern—to the agents under his command that day in Charlotte Amalie.
    “Sir,” one had suggested on their final approach to Government House through the public gardens that covered the hillside below. “Perhaps some of us should go around back to cover the rear of the building.”
    Hightower had replied with a withering glare. He pointed up at the suited man who had just appeared on the second-floor balcony outside the Governor’s office.
    “Don’t bother,” he said dismissively. “We’ve got eyes on the asset. Look at him. This guy’s not running anywhere—except maybe to the ice cream store.”
    He laughed at his own joke.
    The rest of the team exchanged worried glances as they followed their leader into the lobby.
    •
    AFTER A HEATED exchange with the woman standing by the security scanners, Hightower wasted no time thumping up the carpeted stairs to the second floor.
    This is going to be a piece of cake, he thought as he reached the top step and turned down the hallway toward the Governor’s office.
    The other agents closed in around him, positioning themselves against the outer wall and the inner side railing, moving in tandem to clear the area of potential threats.
    Hightower waved them off.
    The place was silent and still. No loyal bodyguards lurked in the corridor to protect the head of state. No vigilantes had camped out to challenge the agents’ authority.
    “I got this,” he growled softly.
    Motioning for the other agents to trail him at a distance, Hightower strutted toward the executive suite’s marked entrance.
    The door had been left slightly ajar. Hightower stopped outside the threshold, listened briefly, and then eased his shoulders through the opening, gun at the ready.
    It was a long room, ornately decorated. Paintings in gilded frames hung from the textured walls. Plush red throw rugs stretched across a dark wooden floor. The Governor’s wide mahogany desk occupied one corner, while a liquor cabinet and a display table for a marble backgammon set filled in another. A wall of windows framed the far end next to an open door that led out onto the balcony.
    Hightower’s gaze skimmed over the décor, checking for any third parties that might give him trouble. Seeing none, he shifted his focus to the man he’d seen from the public gardens below Government House. The target still stood on the balcony, looking out over Charlotte Amalie.
    Unless the Governor was blind, he would have seen the feds swarming the Legislature Building on the shoreline as well as the activity of the black-clad agents in Emancipation Park. Hightower’s arrival wouldn’t be a surprise. The Governor had apparently decided to capitulate without a fight.
    The Gorilla’s chiseled face eased into a sly grin. This would be the biggest arrest of his career, résumé-building material that could catapult him into the agency’s upper echelons.
    He glanced over his shoulder at the agents hovering in the hallway and mouthed a stern
Stay back
. He wasn’t going to share this glory with anyone else.
    Hightower pressed forward into the office, his footsteps muffled on the evenly spaced floor rugs as he crossed to the balcony. The audio of the anticipated accolades played in his head.
    We are here today to award the department’s highest commendation to SAIC Reginald Hightower, for deftly taking down the corrupt leader of a rogue state . . .
    Oh, heck, he thought, don’t let facts get in the way. Let’s just call him an oppressive dictator.
    Ready to get down to business, Hightower hit the pause button on his internal commentary and crept to the edge of the balcony.
    The Governor’s build was slightly less bulky than Hightower had expected, based on the photos in the briefing file he had flipped through on the trip down to the island. His shoulders didn’t quite fill out the tailored lines of his suit. Perhaps the strain of the past few weeks had taken a toll on