Then Hanley received a call from a woman named Edwina Youngblood forwarded through the Secret Service's Joint Operations Center. Youngblood identified herself as Deputy Assistant Director in the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division. Hanley put her on speakerphone so Alfson could hear.
"I wanted to notify you I have a missing FBI agent in New Albion," Youngblood said. "His name's Peter Ryan. I'd appreciate it if your agents could assist in locating him."
Peter Ryan? Peter Ryan... Was there any goddamn chance...? Alfson could feel his face get flushed.
Youngblood continued. "You may know him as Pepper Ryan. He grew up in New Albion, so I borrowed him from another FBI unit to assist the Financial Crimes Unit with an investigation in that area. He's been undercover as a member of local law…collecting intelligence on money laundering activity and a criminal conspiracy….wire transfers tripped red flags, so a bank filed a SAR..."
Youngblood rambled on, but Alfson had stopped listening. Stunned. Pepper Ryan was an undercover FBI agent?
Alfson's mind raced. Recalculating all of his judgments and decisions. So Ryan wasn't an out-of-control local cop, wasn't in bed with the domestic terrorists? Maybe wasn't even nuts?
"Ryan volunteered a few days after the POTUS announced his vacation plans. We agreed it was a great opportunity, worth pulling him from an assignment in central Tennessee. He's been posing as a member of local law enforcement... We feared one or more members of local law enforcement might be involved in the criminal activity, so no one locally was informed…"
Alfson thought for a good while before he spoke. Both about the new information as well as his long, beloved career aspirations. Then he said it because it needed saying. "Is there any possibility Ryan's gone to the other side? That he's been compromised?"
One of Alfson's team members entered the room and interrupted. "Sir?!?"
"Just a second, please," Hanley said to the FBI.
"Sir, we just received a tip on the main number at headquarters. It was anonymous and the caller was using an electronic device to disguise his voice. But the caller gave us a specific location where Pepper Ryan's being held."
"Did you hear that?" Hanley asked Youngblood on the phone. "We're rolling."
Hopefully not too late, thought Alfson, whatever hole Ryan had dug himself into…
Chapter Fifty
Squeeze, twist, slide....maybe the screw gave? Pepper Ryan couldn't be sure, he might have hallucinated it.
The William Devane guy hadn't come back into the shed yet—was he still pissing?
Squeeze, twist...yes, the screw gave a little.
Energy flooded through Pepper's fingers, his arms, his chest. Tried again and the screw gave a little more.
But his shirt seemed to be snagged on the screw, was it impeding the turn? Pepper tried to picture the screw, his bloody shirt, the whole puzzle. And he gently tried to unwind the shirt. It took a bit of time, but the fabric fell free from the screw.
Okay, back to twisting the screw. It moved a bit every time now, maybe his blood was working like oil, lubricating his effort?
How many turns would it take? He kept making little tugs, one after the other without more than a tiny pause. The screw froze, resisting his twists. Then it broke free again, easier than ever. He had to be close. Finally, the screw actually wiggled in its hole. Pepper kept twisting until it fell free and clattered lightly on the concrete at his hip.
He celebrated by resting half a sec. Deep breath. Had his efforts been worth it? Would the pole lift from the support sleeve? And would his captors come back through the door first?
Pepper scootched himself up into a squatting position, his feet flat on the floor for leverage. He twisted his hands into a chokehold on the pipe despite the screaming pain in the hand that'd battled the screw. Well, this would be a leg exercise.
He tried to push himself upward and lift the pole from the sleeve. Nothing. The pole didn't budge. But on the third heave, Pepper shot to his feet, the pole tipped sideways. He lost his grip on the pole but since it was threaded through his arms, the weight of it slammed into the back of his shoulder and threw Pepper onto his side. Pain shot through his shoulder and he screamed silently.
But the pole's clatter on the concrete floor had been noisy--had the peeing Devane heard?
The next step was easy for Pepper--scootch away on his butt until his arms came free from the pole. That fucking pole. Not as bad as that fucking screw, but close.
Then Pepper stood, leaned against the wall, bent his knees and passed his handcuffed hands down below his butt. Slid to the floor and awkwardly slipped his hands around the heel of one shoe, then the other. His hands were still cuffed but now they were in front. Usable.
Pepper heard a rattling noise from the shed door and reacted quicker than he would have believed. Up on his feet, two steps to pick up the bloody baseball bat where it was leaning against the wall. As Devane stepped through the doorway, Pepper hit him in the gut with the bat as hard as he could.
The man jackknifed forward with a howl.
Pepper pushed past him, ready to attack his partner. But Oliver wasn't there, must not be back quite yet. So Pepper yanked the door closed and gave Devane three hits more hits with all his remaining strength. The man screamed and fell flat, then shuddered and was still.
Searching Devane, Pepper caught a break that the guy had the handcuff key in his pocket. Pepper also found a Walther semi-automatic. Pepper confirmed it was loaded and its safety was off, then he slipped it in his own pocket. Pepper uncuffed himself, then drag the semi-conscious man over to a thick metal table leg. He cuffed the man around the table leg after checking it was firmly cemented into the floor. With no fucking screw.
Then Pepper slapped Devane to full wakefulness. He didn't have the time or the inclination to fool around with this guy. Pepper had to find out anything the man knew about the presidential assassination plans and then get out of there. And shit, the assassination might be happening right now, or have already happened while Pepper was captive if that's where Oliver had disappeared to!
The man was sitting up against the table leg, blinking, spitting blood and swearing in a language Pepper didn't recognize.
"Your turn, tough guy," said Pepper. He hefted the baseball bat, smiled. "I need to know everything about the assassination plan. Where are you planning to kill the president? When?"
The man swore louder, spat blood on Pepper's leg. "Fuck you cop! I want my lawyer…"
Pepper drove the baseball bat's butt end into Devane's nose. His neck snapped back and blood erupted.
"They took my badge, you didn't hear?" asked Pepper. "So we'll do this by your rules instead." And he swung the bat down as hard as he could on the man's right knee, shattering it. The man convulsed like he'd been electrocuted and screamed a broken curse.
Pepper glared at him with cold murder in his eyes. "In the next thirty seconds you'll answer every question I ask or I'm gonna beat you to a paste, starting with your other knee. So next question. Where's my Red Sox hat?"
Chapter Fifty-One
Pepper Ryan made his escape in the old boat waiting in the shed. Absolutely a crappy boat—with a scummy slosh of water in it, but hopefully not from a leak. He managed to start its little outboard motor and back it out the shed's sea door. He didn't know where he was, but he could parallel the shore and get away faster than he could walk in his current state. And the quickest route to Eagle's Nest had to be by boat, right? He steered to head around a small outcropping of sandbars, toward where he thought civilization was. Or maybe he'd come across another boat and could get a more reliable lift.
But Pepper soon regretted his decision. The late afternoon weather had gotten worse. The wind was up, the water was very choppy and the little boat was bucking and plunging. Pepper was holding the outboard motor's handle with one hand while trying to bail water out of the bottom of the boat with a soup can because water was washing over his ankles. A cut on his lower leg was stinging and bleeding in
the oily water.
The tiny engine was sputtering along, sounding like Pepper felt. He heard a dull thump and felt his boat twist. The soup can slipped from his hand into the water. Leaning over the port side, he was horrified to see a shark's dorsal fin disappear under the waves. The largest dorsal fin he'd ever seen—had to be a great white shark, right? Maybe the fourteen-foot monster that'd been getting all the press over in Chatham? He slid back to the middle of the boat. Had it been attracted by Pepper's blood mixed in the water he poured over the side?
After about five minutes, the engine conked out. Nothing Pepper did could get it to turn over again. He'd taken the William Devane guy's phone but hadn't been able to get a signal at the boat shed. Couldn't get one out here either. The bad guys must have the same provider as Pepper… He had nothing else but his old Sox hat, which he'd located where it'd been tossed in a far corner of the shed, behind the bodies.
Pepper slumped back, defeated again. He had no way to steer or propel the boat. The water level in the boat was slowly rising. He just lay back and did the only thing he could still do. Think.
Thinking about what Devane had said when Pepper terrorized him. What little the old guy knew about his and Oliver's client. About the fancy blue phones. That they'd gotten the sniper rifle from a stranger, in a handoff. He didn't know anything about Brian-Edward Westin. Not the Weepers either. But the man said he knew for a fact that today was the final day. Had Oliver gone to kill the POTUS—was that why he hadn't come straight back? Devane had whined no, but then admitted that Oliver hadn't shared everything he was up to. A distrustful partner, like Alfson.
What Pepper had been able to piece together was yes, they had a very wealthy client and yes, Oliver had said they might have one final job—the job of a lifetime—then they'd be leaving the Cape that night.
Pepper was in the foggy zone. The client had to be Smith, the target had to be the POTUS, right? Pepper was finding it hard to concentrate. To not pass out from pain and fatigue…
He startled awake. There was definitely more water in the boat now. Was it coming over the side, or was the boat leaking? There was no land in sight. Where was that damned shark?
Pepper didn't often think about death. Not think so hard as to imagine it, his own death. Fading to black, like going to sleep, like he'd never existed. No trace of himself, whatever he was, and he'd gotten pretty darn attached to existing...took it for granted most of the time, but he really appreciated existing.
Really? No consciousness…dead? His personality and memories, wiped out? His ears tingled, spreading down his spine. If he didn't stop he'd really freak himself out, bobbing and sliding along in a leaking boat on the choppy waves.
So Pepper just was. He floated. He could tell his brains were still muddled. He felt beyond the pain now--a calmness--felt himself the way he always pictured. He was happy to recognize himself again, even if he was dying. He felt clean and knew what he needed to do if the little boat didn't sink under him. Where the heck were any other boats? Anyone? A few birds were overhead but nothing else alive was in sight. Better if he hadn't lived past infancy, like his poor little dead brother Kevin, than to be one final embarrassment to his family. To his dad.
'You quitting again?' asked his dead brother Jake with his little half smile on his face. "Just one more Ryan failure?" Jake sat in the front of the boat, facing backward. He looked good. Fit. And completely relaxed.
"I wasn't talking about you," said Pepper. It's not all about you, Jake.
"Who then, Dad? He ever explain why he's mad you put on the badge again?"
"Not really."
"Well, you ask him, then decide if he's mad or just scared to lose you too. If you get back to shore alive. You never were the sailor in the family." True, Jake was the better sailor too. Jake, who was always best at everything except humility…
"And hey, nice hat. But it looked better on me." Sure, the Red Sox hat had been Jake's… But it was really the same as every other Red Sox hat in New England, right? Millions of them. Somehow Jake knew and had to bust his balls about it. Pepper thought of it as his lucky hat now. The only thing left from Pepper's youth, since he was wearing it at Fenway when their house was demolished.
"So, Pep, you can be honest now, right? What made you run that brown van off the road? How'd you know?"
Pepper laughed to himself. People would never stop wondering, so fuck it. "The truth? I was driving home and I'd decided to get thrown off the force. I didn't actually figure out it was the right van. I just figured if I stopped that van recklessly, Dad would have to fire me. There'd be no way I could ever be a cop again. I'd be free."
"But you saw part of that backpack in the high grass, near the sidewalk. You saw the van had just pulled back on the road and that the driver was sitting back stiffly, driving extra slowly? You saw something smug in the driver's eyes when he looked over at your police car at the red light, watching you too stiffly, when he turned? You sure it was 100% about sabotaging yourself? Or maybe just doing what that girl needed done before it was too late, to hell with the rules."
Fucking Jake. Even when Pepper spilled his guts to his older brother, Jake wouldn't let him be right. Yes, all those details were true. And as the years passed, Pepper thought back about some other details he may have taken into account at the time, at least subconsciously. The unprofessional finish of the van's paint job. The two rear windows covered inside by white cardboard. Maybe enough probable cause for Pepper to have only been acting wildly reckless and not just like a self-absorbed, self-destructive brat. Maybe enough probable cause to pull the van over, check his license and registration, interview the driver. But not enough to do what Pepper had to admit to himself he'd really done—running that van off the road into a tree as soon as the situation escalated. Unless he had reason to believe the van was about to get away…
"Nothing wrong with listening to your gut," laughed Jake. "Like what's your gut say about the yacht captain? Why those assholes killed him too?"
Pepper's head was swimming. Had Captain Vinter seen something, like Marcus did—wrong place, wrong damn time? Or maybe he was just unlucky enough to be in the way of whatever they were up to next?
"What could he have seen? No, I'm with you, the good captain had to have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time…hey, happens to the best of us, right?"
The little boat was rocking aggressively because Pepper couldn't keep it facing into the waves. And the most powerful force was the invisible pull of the tide. Was it pulling him toward land or further out to sea?
"Toward land, Pep," said Jake. "You always were the luckier one."
And then Pepper was alone with his thoughts. Alone with his half daze, half fever. More unconscious than awake. But not too far gone to hear the light sandpaper of his boat running ashore. Just too far gone to get up and do anything about it.
Pepper woke he didn't know how much later. The boat was still motionless, stuck on the sand. He groaned, tried to stand up, the boat shifting beneath him. His head was still in a fog.
So he crawled instead. To the edge of the boat closest to land. Hauled himself slowly over its edge, then too far, tumbling suddenly into the shallow water. The cold slap of the salt water on his face and chest woke him further. His head went under, but his knees found themselves, and his head came up. He finally stood. Slowly waded ashore. Saw Rogers Lighthouse, looming over him. After all that, he was back where he'd parked.
Of course, the Devane guy's cell phone was now soaked. First things first. He had to get his hands on a phone. Call Chief Eisenhower. Or if he had to, even call his partner Alfson. It was darker now, the wind clawing at Pepper as he walked up the beach. He followed the thin slatted wooden walkway, getting raked by the high grasses swaying in the wind. It smelled heavy too, like a dump of rain was coming.
He reached the parking lot. It was much more empty now due to the lousy weather. But there, at the far end, waited his sweet old truck.
Pepper reached into his po
cket, dug around. Tried his other pocket. Gripped the cool awesomeness of his keys.
Special Agent Alfson led a mixed team to the blue boat shed where the tipster said Pepper was being held.
A tactical team went in first, like ghosts.
They found only bodies. Four total. One unidentified male in a suit. Another in a boating uniform, a dead ringer for the Madeline Too yacht's captain? Was he missing? Alfson had an agent call back to Eagle's Nest to check and word came back, no, the yacht captain was on board.
The third body was just a torso—head and limbs chopped off. Maybe that missing Lieutenant Hurd? The fourth was an older male with a smashed knee and a cut throat who looked like one of the unsubs in the pictures from the Sanddollar Motel raid. His body was freshest.
They also found a compact, expensive sniper rifle.
It would take investigators and ME's a while to make full sense of the scene. Blood everywhere. Presumably, someone had walked away from the carnage mere minutes before they'd arrived. Pepper Ryan, if he'd actually ever been there? Or others? This was going to take time—did they have it?
Chapter Fifty-Two
Pepper Ryan drove far enough from the lighthouse to get a strong signal, then called his boss in the FBI's Criminal Investigative Division in D.C.
Killing Shore Page 28