The Shop

by J. Carson Black

  For a moment there was silence. Jolie could smell the fear in the room and the undercurrent of desperation.

  Then Riley said, “It figures that you would be okay!”

  Jolie walked over to Riley and said, “Be quiet.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Riley, you might have a problem with me, but now is not the time. There are people out there who are trying to kill us. You need to listen to me like your life depends on it, and do exactly as I say. I am not kidding you about this. Do we understand each other?”

  Riley stared at her, open-mouthed.

  “Good.” Jolie leaned down and sawed through the tape binding Riley’s hands with her knife.

  Jolie went around the room, cutting her family’s bonds. Her family. She wished she could come up with another description of the people in that room. Other than Kay and Zoe, these people were nothing to her. But face it: they were linked to her by blood—she had to help them. When she came to Franklin, she said, “How did he get you to give that statement to the press?”

  “He said he’d kill Riley.”

  “Do you know what his plans are?”

  “He wants to lure someone here.”

  “Who?”

  “Mike Cardamone.”

  “Did you know about the teams?”

  “Teams?”

  Jolie stepped into his space, and he stepped back. “Frank, this is not the time to play games. Do you know about the teams?”

  “Yes! Yes…but I didn’t run them. That was Mike’s thing, not mine. I told him it was crazy.”

  “How many teams?”

  “Two. It was a small part of the business.”

  “How many to a team?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What kind of guys are they?”

  “When it comes to something like this,” he said, “they’re the very best.”

  Jolie hustled them out of the room. She could hear a helicopter now, overhead, hovering. Not only that, but she heard automatic fire. That sobered up everyone in a hurry.

  It took a while to get the old man to understand what she wanted. They had to pull along a portable oxygen tank. Jolie didn’t know what a stray bullet might do, but she couldn’t leave him behind.

  He argued with her and quickly escalated to shouting. Jolie took hold of his shoulders and leveled her gaze at him. “Senator, please listen to me. You have to be quiet. I know you can do it. There are people coming to kill us, and you owe it to your family to take care of them. They are your responsibility. You all need to be quiet so they won’t hear us, and you need to lead the way. Can you do that?”

  He nodded. Then he zipped a finger across his mouth, pretended to turn an invisible key, and threw it over his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Senator.” She said to Franklin, “Where’s the entrance to the tunnel?”

  “It’s through the pantry.”

  “This floor has a pantry?”

  He motioned to a doorway ahead in the gloom.

  “How do we get in and out?”

  “There’s no lock on the door. It’s just hidden.”

  “What about on the other end?”

  “They’re hidden, too. No locks. We didn’t install locks because someone could get trapped in the tunnel that way. Nobody’s supposed to know about the tunnels.”

  “Luke Perdue did.”

  He glared at his daughter. “Yes, Luke did.”

  Jolie decided to park them in the tunnel between the pool shed and the boathouse. That way, should anyone come into the tunnel, they’d have at least one place to run, and possibly two.

  She hoped the killers didn’t know about the tunnels. But if they had a schematic of the island, they would.

  The old man was losing focus, although he remained quiet. He sat with his back against the wall of the tunnel, zoning out. She didn’t like his color. He seemed to be sucking at the air. The tunnel was stuffy and damp; it smelled of mold.

  But she had done the best she could. She needed to know what was happening above-ground. The bursts of automatic gunfire meant that Cyril had already engaged the enemy. He might be dead already. She had no illusions about her own ability. She was a sharpshooter, but that was a long time ago. Her training was that of a cop, not of a soldier or an operative. She relied on the authority of the badge. That would be no use to her now.

  She handed Kay the extra .45 she’d brought along.

  “You’re not going to leave us, are you?”

  “You know how to shoot, right?”

  Jolie knew that was true; Kay used to hunt with her dad.

  “Where are you going? Why can’t you stay here with us?”

  “You should be all right here. I’ve done all I can.” She realized she sounded just like Cyril. Felt it important to add, “If you have to shoot, shoot to kill.”

  The helo circled once, then flew away. Landry trained his rifle on the front hatch of the Carolina skiff, just in case someone was inside. The storm was getting worse. The water was pea-green, and swirling a mixture of tannin bark, foam, and trash washed in with the waves. Visibility was poor. The rain was a curtain, falling so hard on the dock it created a mist that rose into the gray sky like gauze.

  His mind ticked over what he’d learned. First thing: a head count. There was the swimmer, the driver of the SUV, at least two men in the helo—the pilot, and whoever had shot at him. The helo would be for reconnaissance, surveillance, and communications relay. Command and control. If Cardamone had come with his men, he would be in the helo.

  That was four people right there. Landry figured anywhere from two to four in the skiff. He’d take the higher number. If there were more than that, he probably wouldn’t get through this, but where was Cardamone going to get those kind of operatives at short notice? So he’d guess there were eight total.

  With the swimmer dead, that left seven.

  The driver of the SUV had parked the vehicle somewhere nearby and come back on foot. Landry was sure of that.

  The swimmer had managed to cut the cables to the lights and phone before Landry’d got to him, but at least one generator was still going—he could hear it. The helo was a diversion to pin Landry in one place while the rest of the team landed—probably one or two of them were disabling the generators now.

  They would know he had access to a cell phone, that the people in the house had them, too.

  But Cardamone also knew by now that Landry didn’t plan on calling in the cavalry. He knew it was between the two of them.

  With Franklin in the middle.

  Because they would take into account the fact that there would be cell phones, they would go in fast, before the family knew they were in immediate danger.

  Cardamone’s team would fan out to all the structures on the island. The first place they’d go to was the main house. Two operatives, because they expected to encounter at least three people: Franklin, Riley, and the senator, and possibly the hired help.

  The only question was, did they leave a man to guard the skiff?

  The answer was no. If they had, Landry would be dead by now. The helo drove him here, into the boathouse—the obvious place to hide. Whoever was waiting for him would have picked him off like pheasant with its wings clipped.

  It was the gap in their plan. They should have anticipated he would run for the boathouse, should have left someone there to kill him.

  He made his way to the main house. He knew the enemy would have a simple diagram of sectors to search, and he also knew they’d stay within close enough distance to one another to offer support.

  The rain fell harder. It seemed as if there was nobody on this earth other than himself. There was no movement except for the spatter of raindrops on foliage. The main house was dark—the generator out.

  He went quietly into the dark house. The rain was loud, even from inside.

  The operative almost blundered right into him. Landry saw his bulk, slightly darker in the half-light of the hallway, and stepped into the doorway
of the room off the hall. The man sensed movement and crouched, pulling his knife and plunging it into Landry’s side.

  By that time Landry had his hands around the man’s throat and broke his neck.

  The man slumped, legs spread out in front of him. Landry’s wrist hurt so badly he sank to his knees afterward, seeing little yellow dots against a sea of darkness.

  The knife’s blade had bounced off his Kevlar vest but grazed his armpit, and he could feel the blood leaking. Not serious, but it stung. He tore off his assailant’s watch cap and shoved it hard against the flesh under his arm, holding it there for what seemed like an eternity.

  The man’s portable comm crackled. It was Cardamone. Landry thought about asking Cardamone’s position, but he didn’t think he could fake the voice. If the other op was near, he sure as hell didn’t want to give away his location.

  Two down, he thought. Five to go? Five, or maybe just three. He hoped it was three.

  He was getting tired of the carnage.

  He was getting just plain tired.

  Landry hoped Jolie had taken the family down into the tunnels. Although Cardamone knew about the tunnels, and he surely knew about the three entrances, it was still their best chance. Like trying to kill a gopher in that old arcade game. Whac-A-Mole. Hit him here, he pops up there. Mole or a gopher? He realized his mind was wandering, he was getting a little off-kilter. It was the pain. He cradled his wrist against his other elbow, realized he needed to clear his head. Had to move this guy, now.

  He dragged the man through the doorway into the small bedroom and into the closet. Closed the door quietly. Listened. Nothing but the rain drumming on the roof. Could hear his heart beating, the quickening inside him as he got closer to his goal.

  What he wanted was Cardamone.

  His eyes adjusting more to the light, he now concentrated on another sense: his hearing. Try as he might, Landry could not hear the helo.

  He guessed that Cardamone had touched down somewhere, met up with the SUV. Or maybe a boat. He guessed this was the endgame.

  He made his way slowly through the house—no one inside. Came out by the pool. The rain was coming in gusts now, blowing into his face. Sharp as needles. It seemed to wake him up, and he realized his mind had started to wander again. It was the wrist. The wrist was driving him crazy.

  Landry had to discipline himself, remember his training. He made his way to the pool house, to the closet and down the steps into the tunnel.

  61

  Feeling her way through the tunnel, Jolie kept the H & K semiauto at her side. She would have to allow for the long sound suppressor screwed onto the barrel. Fortunately, the sights on the USP were raised to go with a silencer.

  Abruptly, she was aware of cool air blowing in her way.

  From a door opening and closing?

  She waited, listening for something—anything. Footsteps, breathing, the sound of rubbing clothing. Nothing.

  But with her eyes adjusted, she could see a mass of darkness inside the larger darkness. Familiar—at least she thought it was familiar. The shape. She held up her flashlight—left hand—and pointed the H & K with her right. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Cyril.”

  Her legs were rubbery. “Cyril.”

  “Don’t whisper,” he said. “Talk. But keep it low.”

  “Are they out there?”

  “Yes. Pretty soon they’ll look in the tunnel. You might be able to get them on the Hinckley.”

  “What about the helicopter? Wouldn’t they shoot at us?”

  “I can divert them.”

  Jolie said nothing. He would help her or he wouldn’t. As glad as she was that he was here, she reminded herself that they had different goals. He wanted to kill Mike Cardamone. He also wanted to kill her uncle, Franklin. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of the people here. She needed to keep that in mind.

  They straggled up to the boathouse.

  Cyril left them.

  “What’s he doing?” demanded Riley.

  “Making sure it’s safe for us to go,” Jolie said.

  Riley leaned against her father, and Franklin gently ran his fingers through her hair. He looked beaten down. He mourned Grace, but it was even more than that. Jolie sensed he knew he was not getting out of this alive.

  She wanted to tell him she would get them all out of here. But the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t so sure. She felt—it was a very strong feeling—that Franklin was doomed.

  You don’t know that.

  Jolie looked at Frank, the way he kept running his hand over his daughter’s hair. The way he stared into space, seeing nothing. As if the only thing holding him to earth was the repetitive movement of his hand on his daughter’s hair.

  Jolie had never really given much credence to blood ties. In fact, she’d despised her mother’s side of the family. But now she realized that the Haddoxes, for all their wealth, all their power, all their connections, were just people who made mistakes. They were a mixture of good and bad and smart and stupid like everybody else. Like her, they were trapped by their own circumstances. Wealthy, yes, but unhappy. She was surprised at how unhappy they were.

  Her studious avoidance of the Haddoxes, her attempts to render them insignificant, had in fact yielded the opposite effect. Instead of reducing their influence on her life, she’d made them loom large. The Haddoxes defined her view of wealth and power and set her on the path of outsider. She had made them larger than they really were.

  Their absence had shaped her—

  Until she met Kay.

  She looked at Kay, at Zoe. They too were silent, but they hadn’t disconnected. Behind Zoe’s eyes was a lively intelligence. The two of them were still here, still hopeful. Jolie felt a surge of pride. Kay would be that way.

  “I’m sorry,” Franklin said to his daughter. “I’m so sorry for all of this.”

  “I miss her so much!” Riley said.

  Jolie had thought he didn’t really love his daughter, but now she saw otherwise. She thought Frank was stroking his daughter’s hair because he wanted that to be the memory he took with him. If he didn’t come out of this alive, he wanted his last moments to be real. He’d lost a wife today, but he still had Riley.

  “Jolie,” Kay said.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think we’re going to get out of here?”

  Jolie lied. “Yes, I think we will.”

  Their chances got a whole lot worse in the next few minutes. Cyril reached her by walkie-talkie with the news. “They disabled the Hinckley’s engine. There’s no way to fix it here.”

  Jolie wondered if he was lying. She knew he wanted to keep control of them, particularly Franklin. But he’d likely tape them up and leave them—not play mind games.

  “What now? You said they have a boat. Can’t we take that?”

  “It’s possible.”

  He sounded distracted. This bothered her even more, because she realized how much she depended on him. She had no way of understanding his motives, but she’d come to respect his ability.

  She walked deeper into the tunnel so the others wouldn’t overhear. “What’s going on? Just what are we dealing with?”

  He told her there could be as few as three left or as many as eight. This shocked her.

  “Two of them are dead.”

  Just two?

  For perhaps the hundredth time, Jolie felt the same odd feeling that they were all disconnected from reality. “What now?”

  “You have the sniper rifle?”

  “I have it in the duffle.”

  “Get it and set up where I tell you.”

  “But what about—”

  “Tell them to stay where they are. You said you were a sharpshooter, right?”

  “I’m not a sniper.”

  “Then you’re about to learn a new skill. No time like the present.”

  She listened as he described the spot. She would be concealed, but on high enough ground where she could set up th
e rifle and shoot anyone who came in.

  “What am I looking for?”

  He told her.

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s what I’d do.”

  It took Jolie several minutes to get to the security center and retrieve the rifle and attach the sniper scope. “Rusty” wasn’t a good enough word for her ability with a sniper weapon. She’d only shot a sniper rifle twice—all her expertise was with a handgun. She took the H & K with her, too—sans the sound suppressor—and made her way to a slight raised mound in the garden, hidden from view by royal palms and the low-hanging branches of a magnolia tree. She crawled in and started to set up the tripod.

  As she was doing so, her ears registered the drone of a helicopter.

  She sighted on the helipad, not thirty-five meters away. The rain had abated a little, but the island was shrouded in a gray-green opaqueness—Jolie could barely see the white cross on the lawn.

  The helicopter was kicking up a racket now, circling the island. Loud and low, menacing. Jolie wasn’t rattled. She brought herself down to the task at hand, looked through the scope, keeping the white-marked helipad in the crosshairs. Adjusting, a little higher. It would be nice to shoot the rotor, but she thought the easiest shot would be to get them as they emerged from the helo. Then they’d be sitting ducks.

  For one second, the last vestiges of her law-and-order mindset rebelled. Then necessity shut it down.

  The helicopter’s rotors were deafening.

  Jolie concentrated her vision through the sight and kept as still as she could. Willed her heart to beat slower. Got in the zone. The way she did in the sharpshooter competitions. A kind of Zen.

  He’d told her to shoot between heartbeats if possible.

  So quiet in herself, she heard another sound, even under all the racket—a car engine. Her ears were now hypersensitive, as was every other part of her. She kept steady on the scope. Breathe. The helicopter hovered but didn’t touch down. She could see the chopper pilot through the window, headset ending in a comma at his mouth.