The big cruiser was moored on the dock’s starboard side as he faced it. He scanned the dock again, saw the metal gate at the end. Beyond was the stairway. At the top of the island, through palm trees, he could see the lighted windows of the house.
“Stay out of the water if you can,” Chase said. “Sharks feed around here at night. There’s barracuda too, but they probably won’t bother you.”
“I don’t plan on doing any swimming.”
They passed a buoy on their starboard side.
“Here we go,” Chase said, and killed the engine. The night went quiet. Devlin put away the binoculars, looked at his watch. Ten p.m.
“Time to muscle it,” Chase said. He pulled up his hood.
All at once, Devlin was aware of the vastness of the empty sea around them, wondered what waited under its moonlit surface. What might wait for him ahead, beyond the lights.
Water slapped gently against the hull. Chase unracked the oars, took a position on the port side. Devlin went to the starboard gunwale, bent, and dipped his oar into the water. From here in, there would be no more talking.
It took them a few minutes to find their rhythm, but soon they were gliding across the smooth, flat surface. They rowed slowly, the oars making little noise as they bit into the water, propelled them forward. Devlin’s shoulder was a dull ache. The Glock was cold against his skin.
The island loomed. His stomach clenched, and he felt a sudden urge to turn back. Knew if he did, it would never end. There would always be danger. For Quinn and for himself. For Karen and Brendan as well. The fear would live there, in the back of his mind, along with the guilt for bringing something into their lives they didn’t deserve. He had to face the threat, end it. It was the only way.
Almost there. He had a memory flash of being in a C-130 over Sicily Drop Zone at Fort Bragg, his first night jump. Standing in full combat gear, static line hooked, cold wind rushing in through the open hatch. Watching the light above the door, waiting for it to turn from red to green.
The dock was suddenly close. Chase flattened his oar in the water to slow their momentum. Devlin did the same. They rode in silently. Chase took in his oar, set it gingerly on the deck, got a boat hook from the gunwale rack.
The pier smelled of seaweed and creosote. Devlin set his oar next to Chase’s, crossed to the port side to get ready. The cruiser was in front of them, and Devlin thought they might hit it, but Chase used the hook to snag one of the heavy rubber strips, check their motion. He held the boat steady, turned to Devlin and nodded.
Green light. Devlin took a deep breath, let it out slow. He stepped up onto the gunwale, ready to climb onto the dock.
“Good luck,” Chase whispered, and then his head snapped back, and something warm and wet spattered Devlin’s face. He heard a far-off crack, and Chase fell heavily onto the deck. The hook dropped into the water.
More cracks. The windscreen disintegrated. The boat slid out from under Devlin’s feet, and he leaped for the dock, fell short. He hit the water, went under.
Darkness closed over him. He felt the sharp edge of panic. Then his feet hit sand. He bent his legs, pushed up hard and broke the surface, dragged in air. He was beneath the dock, the support beams just above his head. He lunged for them, got an arm around one of the X-braces, kept himself from going under again.
Chase’s boat was drifting from the dock. More rounds hit it. The same flat cracks from somewhere above, a rifle with a suppressor. The impact of the bullets pushed the boat backward.
The shooting stopped. He pulled himself up onto the X-brace, hooked his legs onto the next one to take his weight, his back just clearing the water. Light came through the slats above him. He heard shouting, the clang of the gate opening, then heavy running footsteps on the dock. Shadows passed over him.
He tightened his grip on the cross brace with both arms, pulled himself higher, his muscles cramping. He began to shake.
To his left, he saw a man lean over with a boat hook. After two tries, he snagged the empty windscreen frame, pulled the Bayliner closer to the dock.
“Tie it up,” another man said. “We don’t want it floating off.”
“Is he dead?”
“That’s what you’re gonna find out. Get down there.”
A man clambered down into the boat. It bobbed under his weight. Devlin clung to the beam. If the man turned this way, he would see him.
“Well?” the one on the dock said.
“Oh yeah, he’s dead, all right. See that head wound?”
“Check his pockets.”
“I didn’t sign up for this, Bishop. This is some cold-blooded shit.”
“Check his pockets.”
After a few moments, the man in the boat said, “Nothing. Just this.”
“What is it?”
“Some kind of map. What do we do with him?”
“Leave him where he is,” Bishop said. “Until we see what they want.”
The man climbed out of the boat, back onto the dock. “They’re not paying me enough for this.”
Devlin was shaking uncontrollably now. He closed his eyes, concentrated on holding on to the X-brace, his face pressed against the oily wood. Pain shot through his left arm. The muscles there began to spasm.
The men moved off down the dock. Devlin heard the gate open and close, then footsteps on wooden stairs.
He let go.
“Quality shots,” Lukas said. “Good grouping.”
Winters lowered the M110, said, “Thanks.”
They were on the second landing, watching the men on the pier below. The rifle had a night scope mounted in front of the regular tactical scope, with a shroud over where they joined, to keep out light. Winters had rested the long cylinder of the suppressor on the railing when he took aim.
“You sure there was only one?” Lukas said. Wondering if it was Devlin on the boat, if he had somehow tracked him all the way here.
“Yeah,” Winters said. “I had the scope on him as soon as he reached the dock.”
“Wouldn’t it have been better, take him alive, find out what he wanted out here?”
“Mr. Kemper’s orders,” Winters said. “No one gets near the place without authorization. Especially someone coming over here this time of night, no lights on. This is private property. He’s a trespasser. Why take a chance?”
The old man’s scared, Lukas thought. More scared than he’d let on.
“What’ll they do with the body?” he said.
“That’s easy down here. Just dump it over the side. Let the sharks take care of it.”
“And the boat?”
“Haul it out in the ocean and sink it. No one will know he was ever here.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Winters said. “He should have read the signs.”
Forty-Two
Devlin broke the surface, paddled toward the base of the pier until he felt sand beneath him. He crawled out of the water and into the tight space where the pier met rock. He lay there shaking, trying to catch his breath.
Thumping footsteps on the stairs above, then the creak of the gate opening. Men came out onto the dock, more of them than before. Their shadows moved across him.
He touched his belt. The Glock was gone.
Lukas shone the flashlight down at the man lying in the boat.
Beside him, Kemper said, “You know him?”
“No.” The man’s face was distorted from the bullet wound to his forehead. But it wasn’t Devlin.
“Anything in his pockets?” Lukas said. Above them, bugs circled the pole light.
The man named Reece held out a folded piece of paper. “Just this.”
Lukas took it, opened it, tucked the flashlight under his arm. It was a roughly drawn map of the island, spotted with blood. He showed Kemper.
“What do you think he was doing here?” Kemper said.
“Now we’ll never know,” Lukas said. He looked at Winters, who was standing behind them, the M110 slung muzzle
down.
“I was acting on your instructions, Mr. Kemper,” Winters said.
“You were. You did well.”
Lukas turned back to Reece. “No ID on him, wallet, anything?”
“Just that paper. We haven’t searched the boat yet.”
“Coming out here like this, no engine, no lights, no identification,” Kemper said. “I think we can take it for granted he meant me harm.”
“What should we do with him?” Bishop said.
Lukas turned off the flashlight, folded the paper, and put it in his pocket.
“Bring the Sea Ray around,” Kemper said. “Hook this thing up and tow it out past the reefs.”
Bishop said, “What about the body?”
“Leave it there,” Kemper said. “Put some more rounds in his stomach, so he doesn’t swell up and come to the surface anytime soon. Sharks will do the rest. Get the boat out a few miles, open the cocks, shoot more holes in the hull if you have to. Just make sure it goes down. I don’t want to see any trace of this mess in the morning.”
He turned to Lukas.
“Come up with me,” he said. “We have to talk.”
Devlin lay back against the rock, listened to the men above him, inches from his head. Shadows shifted across his face. He heard the gate close, then feet on the steps, the sound receding as they climbed. He was alone again.
He thought about the .45 in Chase’s chart drawer. They’d be watching the dock now, and there was little chance he could reach the Bayliner without being spotted. Once in the lights, he’d be an easy target. But he couldn’t stay here either, risk being seen when they came back for the boat.
Water lapped against the pilings. He tried to remember Chase’s description of the island, picture the map. If the house was at the third landing, then it was what, forty feet above him, fifty?
He could try to make it to the boat, and get killed in the process. Or he could go straight at them, climb up to the house, figure out what to do when he got there. If he did.
There was a gap between the rock and the back of the stairway big enough to squeeze through. More space behind it. The rock face here wasn’t as steep as on the other sides on the island. It was more a gradual slope, dotted with scrub and vegetation.
A cloud crossed the moon. He sank fingers into thick wet sand, rubbed some on his face and neck. If he could stay quiet enough while he climbed, he might be able to reach the top without being seen.
He pushed his way through the gap, slid behind the stairs, looked up. As the stairway rose, it stood farther out from the rock, to make up for the slope of the land. There should be more than enough room for him.
He climbed.
“What do you think this means?” Kemper said.
He’d turned off the second-floor lights, as if not wanting to present a target to anyone outside. Now he stood by the windows, looking out into darkness.
“I don’t know,” Lukas said. He could see both their reflections in the glass. Below them, the verandah was brightly lit.
“I feel like I’m in someone’s crosshairs, and I don’t like it.”
He turned to Lukas. “Do you think that man followed you here?”
“No chance.”
“Then who was it?”
“He came alone, so he wasn’t law. Maybe it was just another thief, come over to see what he could steal.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Lukas didn’t answer.
“There are too many things in the balance right now,” Kemper said. “I can’t afford any more risk. Tell Winters I want at least two men on shifts outside, all night long.”
Lukas saw lights go on in the boathouse below, then heard engine noise, muffled by the glass. They watched the Sea Ray pull out, running lights on, then pick up speed and head off around the island.
“Tell me,” Kemper said after a while. “Did Gordon say anything? At the end?”
“Not much. Something about loyalty.”
“He was a wise man in his way. A brave one too. When you found him, at my house, did he know what you were there for?”
“I suppose he did.”
Lightning flashed out in the darkness, a distant pulse.
“I’m tired,” Kemper said. “And feeling very old tonight.”
Kemper turned to him, opened his arms. Lukas stepped forward into the embrace.
Devlin stopped to rest at the second landing. He braced his back against the rock, feet pressed against the inside of the walkway to take the strain off his legs. His wet clothes were drying in the warm air, his sneakers tightening on his feet. His ribs ached, but his breathing was under control, his head clear.
He could hear generator noise not far above him. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted down. They’d have a guard in the front yard, someone to watch the stairway and the pier below.
He heard the buzz of an engine, looked down to see a boat coming around the south side of the island, its navigation lights on, heading for the pier.
He looked above him. Ten more feet, maybe fifteen, would bring him to the front of the house. He’d stop just below to look and listen, then try to make his way up through the foliage and trees in the side yard, away from the guard. He could use the sound of the generator as a guide, circle around to the blockhouse. He’d have to be careful in the darkness. He remembered what Chase had told him about the north and south sides, the sheer cliffs and the drop.
Chase. Devlin wondered what he would do when he got back to Green Turtle. He could ask at the bar, find someone who knew him, try to track down whatever family he might have left somewhere. Decide what he would tell them.
You’re being optimistic, he thought. You probably won’t make it back yourself.
The thought of Chase, what had happened to him, brought the anger back. Keep going, he thought. Settle this one way or another.
He turned back toward the rock, reached for a handhold, dug his toes into the sloping ground, and climbed toward the lights above.
Forty-Three
Lukas’s room was on the lower level, facing east. There was an air mattress on the hardwood floor, sheets that smelled faintly of mildew.
He switched off the overhead light. There was no lock on the door, just a round hole where the dead bolt would eventually go. Dim light showed through from the hallway beyond.
A sliding glass door led onto a small balcony. He went out and watched flashes of light on the horizon, heard a distant low boom. Standing at the railing, he had a view of the rocks far below, the illuminated boathouse. To his left, the helipad and the verandah. Winters, Kane, and Bishop were out on the observation deck, talking.
He heard the rumble of an engine, saw the Sea Ray coming back around, towing the runabout. As he watched, the two boats headed out to sea and vanished in the darkness, the engine noise fading. He remembered what Winters had said, how easy it was to get rid of a body here.
A breeze blew in. He dragged the mattress across the floor and out of the moonlight, bundled the sheets atop it. Then he raised his jeans leg, reached into his sock, and drew out the steak knife he’d palmed at dinner. It was wood-handled, with a serrated blade. Not much of a weapon, but all he had for now.
He sat in the corner behind the hall door, put the knife on the floor beside him, pulled up his legs, and waited.
The guard on the front patio had an M-16 slung over his shoulder, an automatic on his hip. A cigarette hung from his lips.
Devlin had skirted the patio, come up below a stand of palm trees and casuarina on the south side of the house, away from the lights. Just past the trees was the concrete blockhouse, the generator in there rattling away. A stone path led from the blockhouse to a side door in the main building, about thirty feet away. That door was a smaller version of the ones in front, heavy wood with leaded glass. There was a security light over the blockhouse, but the trees just a few feet away were in darkness.
The guard took a last puff of the cigarette, flicked it away, and yawned.
Devlin moved quietly into the trees. He wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline drove him forward.
The guard wandered to the landing at the top of the staircase, looked down. Devlin could hear engine noise below. They were towing Chase’s boat away.
He left the trees, moving fast, then crouched against the side of the blockhouse, still in shadow. The guard didn’t turn.
He could feel the vibration of the generator through the wall. There was a window just above him. He raised himself up, looked inside. Light came through the front windows, showed cables and circuit breakers, a sprinkler system along the ceiling. The generator resembled an oversized air-conditioning unit, with pipes that ran out through the opposite wall.
The window was new, still had the manufacturer’s sticker. He put his fingertips against the glass, pushed up. It rocked in its frame, but didn’t open.
The guard turned away from the landing. Devlin eased back into the trees, held his breath.
When he began to fall asleep, Lukas stretched out on the floor and did twenty slow push-ups. The rush of blood and oxygen cleared his head, woke him. His side stung, but the bandages were still in place, the wound dry.
He heard the rising sound of an engine outside, went to the balcony. The Sea Ray was returning, faster now, no longer weighed down by the runabout. It slowed outside the boathouse, swung around, and backed in through the open doors. The engine cut off.
Two men left the boathouse, started up the walkway. The only sounds were the muffled generator noise, and faint thunder in the distance.
He went back to his corner, sat, watched moonlight creep across the floor.
He was drifting again when he heard footsteps in the hall. Light and slow, weight evenly distributed, a conscious effort not to be heard.
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