James Rodriguez

Likely platinum.

We do.

I signed where indicated and passed the document back.

Wilson signed without reading, then pressed a sum to a small scanner embedded in the corner of the page.

Welcome aboard.

He extended his hand across the desk.

My assistant will process your advance immediately.

730 tomorrow.

Don't be late.

His handshake was firm, dry, practiced, the kind perfected through thousands of business deals.

As I rode the silent elevator back to the lobby, I mentally catalogued the gear I'd need to purchase and what I already had.

The contract sat heavy in my inside pocket.

$5 million for two weeks on an uninhabited island.

Nothing was ever that simple or that lucrative without complications.

But I'd navigate those when they appeared.

I always did.

I arrived at the private airfield at 645, carrying my duffel and equipment case.

Pre-dawn air held the crisp bite that Southern California gets only in winter mornings, and fog lingered in patches across the tarmac.

Spencer Wilson's Gulfstream E50 sat prepped on the runway, its sleek white fuselage gleaming under spotlights.

Brand crew loaded equipment into the cargo hold, while the customs official examined manifests at a folding table.