Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  "Poisoned?"

  "There's one man at Eagle's Nest dying from pancreatic cancer but it's not you. Your body's shutting down from arsenic poisoning." And in that instant, the answers clicked into place for Pepper. "Your loyal assistant's been killing you, just like she's about to kill President Garby."

  "Lizzie?" Smith gasped.

  Lizzie Concepcion's face changed. A few tears remained on her cheeks, but the weakness was gone. It was replaced by an icy coldness.

  "I was Garby's lover when he was a senator," Lizzie said. "But he betrayed me, just like he betrays anyone or anything that jeopardizes his ambitions. My pregnancy? My marriage? He destroyed them and never looked back."

  She took a step toward Smith. "When your heart stops, your pacemaker'll send a signal to the bell tower. They'll ring just like you ordered. But that signal will also trigger explosives on the Madeline. And Garby'll get what he deserves—the lying, cheating snake! For what he did to me and our unborn baby. My poor sweet little candy! For what he did to lots of women," she screamed, taking another step toward Smith, and pulled the trigger.

  But Pepper had already leapt. No time to think. An instinctive lunge—half block, half tackle. Pepper heard the loud smack of Lizzie's handgun discharge and felt her bullet hit him, as his momentum carried him into Smith.

  But that explains about the freakin' candy, was Pepper's last thought, before he and Smith crashed against the stone railing, flipped over it and fell to the flagstones below.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  They both hit hard. Acker Smith got the worst of it because Pepper landed on top. But Pepper felt instant pain in his left arm and across his chest. Maybe from the bullet, maybe from the impact of the fall. And the concussion with the ground knocked Pepper nearly senseless. In a way, the pain seemed to help, to keep him conscious.

  Pepper was also aware he was bleeding, again...

  Smith wasn't moving, except maybe for the shallowest breathing. Pepper clawed at Smith's suit jacket, was his cell phone still there? Not in the first side pocket, or the second. He found it in an inside breast pocket.

  Pepper clicked it on. It was still working and thank God the screen wasn't locked yet. He hit redial.

  When Pepper heard Maddie Smith's voice, he yelled, "Maddie! Maddie! Get everyone off the ship! It's gonna explode any second!" Pepper couldn't hear her reply clearly. He shouted his message again, then again, in an insane loop. He couldn't hear much—was the problem a weak cell phone signal or his ears? The world was drifting to spotty black. Pepper's head was spinning and thick.

  And had Smith stopped breathing? Would Smith's pacemaker actually trigger a device on the ship, or was that another lie? Pepper crawled up, began mouth to mouth and chest compressions with his one good arm. Practically pounded on Smith's chest, feeling Smith's ribs crack. All Pepper's frustration and anger fueling what little strength he had left. But Pepper was getting weaker, fading. And he just had to rest his eyes for a second.

  Pepper was awakened by an explosion. Even from half a mile away, the bright light and concussive wave of the explosion hit him a hard smack. And despite his scrambled head, Pepper realized the explosion meant Smith was dead, his body still half beneath Pepper. A moment later, the bells in Eagle's Nest's tower began to ring, slow and heavy.

  But the bells also tolled the death of U.S. President Wayne Garby. Of everyone on board the yacht. Including Maddie. A dark wave of sorrow and pain washed over Pepper. He'd done everything he could and failed. As pretty much everyone who knew him best would have bet.

  Pepper was exhausted. Every time he breathed too deeply, it felt like a sharp kick in his chest. Blood was running down his head into his left eye. And his shoulder was numb.

  Pepper heard people running toward him. Then he saw Special Agent Dan Alfson with his Sig Sauer in hand. And two other Secret Service agents, carrying MP5 submachine guns. The SAIC Hanley was a little further back, but with his handgun out too.

  And there was Lizzie Concepcion. Also with her gun in hand at her side, which no one but Pepper seemed to have noticed.

  "He killed Mr. Smith," screamed Lizzie, pointing her empty hand at Pepper where he lay against Smith's body.

  All the Secret Service agents except Alfson were now leveling their weapons at Pepper.

  "I was trying to save the POTUS," said Pepper. I'm sorry, I failed… And I was wrong, the assassin wasn't Smith…It was her!" Gesturing at Lizzie with his only working arm.

  "Move away from Mr. Smith," said Alfson, slowly stepping closer. His handgun was now up and pointed at Pepper.

  Pepper heard sirens begin their approach from far away. "Trust me, Alf," he said. And winked.

  Alfson paused his advance, glanced over quickly at Lizzie and seemed to notice for the first time her handgun. He started turning toward her.

  Lizzie stepped back, mouth open. Her arm came up in what seemed like slow motion, her handgun lining up on Pepper.

  He heard one shot.

  As Pepper felt himself sliding back into the cold pool of unconsciousness, his last sight was Lizzie falling backward, her red mouth open and her dark hair stretching from her head in a wild pattern around her face. Kind of like a starfish.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Pepper Ryan woke in the hospital.

  He was smiling despite his momentous failure, so he knew he was full of painkillers. His left arm was in a sling. His torso felt like it was in a cast, or maybe the cocoon of a wide tensor bandage. Otherwise, Pepper felt nothing but a light happy buzz in his ears from the drugs.

  The room was pretty crowded. His dad was there, sitting on the windowsill edge by the bed, where morning sunlight was peeking in. Did his dad have more lines on his face? Chief Eisenhower and Zula were sitting by the window.

  "The President..." said Pepper, his throat so dry he could barely rasp out the words. "I tried to warn them. I called Maddie. There wasn't enough time..."

  Zula smiled. Flipped her long black hair back off her face. "You did it, dummy. Relax. They got off the yacht in time."

  Pepper pushed back in the bed against the industrial grade pillows. What? Had he heard her right? "They all got off?"

  "Full evacuation, just barely," said the Chief. "But then that yacht went up hard. Right at dusk—they say it looked like a goddamn sunset. And Lizzie Concepcion's dead. Or Isabel Bumpers. Whatever we should call her. And they took her bullet from your shoulder."

  "She was always there, but I didn't figure her out until almost too late," admitted Pepper. "I still think Agent Keser must have asked Lizzie something during his interview that spooked her, so he was chosen as her first victim. Maybe about her old married name."

  "Makes sense," agreed Zula. "She had a bunch of Smith Enterprises employees fired when they raised questions about that Turnstone fund. And had Blacklock killed when he flew up to confront Smith about it."

  Pepper recalled the mystery body from the boat shed—the fat man in the seersucker suit, covered in flies… He shuddered.

  "And poor DJ ChilEboy too..." said Zula. "The Secret Service now thinks Lizzie tried to poison and expose Garby's current mistress Alexis with a GHB overdose at the ecó party, although at the time we thought it was the First Daughters who'd been targeted. It was just bad luck for ChilEboy, guzzling all those shots."

  "But who was that other sick guy at Eagle's Nest?" asked Pepper.

  "Lizzie brought in another man actually dying from pancreatic cancer," explained Chief Eisenhower. "When doctors came to Eagle's Nest to test and treat Smith, she had them examine that man instead. And we believe Smith had been pushing Lizzie for a sexual relationship before he got sick, so she probably figured he deserved what he got. But her main target was Garby, just good old-fashioned revenge. Garby dumped her when his presidential run started and she probably thought he somehow induced her miscarriage to keep a love child from blowing up his candidacy. So poisoning Smith was just a bonus for her."

  "Smith's what brought me home in the first place," admitte
d Pepper. "I was undercover with the FBI's Joint Terror Task Force in Tennessee—I had an offer from them when I took off a few years ago…I'd screwed up here but still wanted to fight the good fight, you know? They loaned me to another division to go undercover here to build a case for money laundering and other financial crimes against Smith and maybe President Garby. They hoped if there was any real involvement by the president, that it'd come out when they squeezed Smith. There was an FBI team in Connecticut building the case too. My assignment was to get inside Smith's compound where he was working these days to substantiate the anonymous tips, to boost probable cause for a warrant to go deep at the Stamford office—tear the lid off what we believed was his scheme."

  "So that's why you were sniffing around Maddie Smith?" asked Zula. "I mean, I knew you weren't that dumb…" Then she stepped over to the bed, took his hand. Squeezed a little too hard. "What were you thinking, trying to stop the assassination by yourself?"

  "There wasn't enough time to get anyone to believe me. But maybe it's like you said. Blame my DNA."

  Then Pepper's dad filled him in about the Reverend McDevitt arrest. Amazing. But not surprising, for a scumbag like McDevitt. "Zula's the one who got him to surrender, held her twelve gauge right to his toupee," concluded his dad with a chuckle.

  Zula laughed too, light and proud and, apparently, deadly.

  His dad rubbed Pepper's head. "And the Ryans had some good news too. Since Smith's company Turnstone paid to have our house destroyed and Turnstone was also holding our mortgage, there's not a judge in the country who won't cancel the mortgage for their misconduct. The debt'll be voided, we won't have to pay them a penny. Not only that, our insurance company's paying out on the house destruction and they're going after the Smith estate to recover the amount. I'm thinking of overseeing the rebuild myself."

  Pepper liked the energy and pride in his dad's voice. "Maybe if I stay around for a while, we can rebuild together?"

  His dad took Pepper's only working hand and shook it. Which turned into a full hug, just gentle enough that Pepper didn't pass out. But it felt great.

  "I'm proud of you, son," his dad said softly in his ear.

  Words Pepper hadn't heard since…practically forever? "And I'm sorry I scared the hell out of you, again," Pepper replied, just as quietly. He was the only one close enough to see—was that a tear in the corner of his dad's eye?

  There was a knock at the open door. Pepper craned his neck, a move which hurt like electrocution, and saw Special Agent Dan Alfson standing in the doorway with a frown on his pretty face. "I have a bone to pick with you, Ryan," he said. "You made me look like a jackass with your trunk stunt…"

  Was he seriously still pissed?

  Then Alfson broke into a half smile. "But we'll take that offline sometime soon, over a beer. Tell me about your showdown with Lizzie Concepcion—how'd you figure out there were explosives on the yacht?"

  Pepper's dad handed him a miniature can of apple juice. Pepper took a sip, then explained about finding Vinter's body in the boat shed. "Since your agents confirmed a Captain Vinter was still on board the yacht, I figured both yachts had to be nearby. And why get rid of one Captain Vinter unless you were swapping yachts after the deep security sweep had been completed? It had to be a switcheroo.

  "I thought Smith was the mastermind. I thought he was dying and planning some last-ditch revenge against President Garby for going back on all the campaign promises he'd made to buy Smith's financial support. But when I confronted Smith on the balcony, he misunderstood me. He thought he was setting up the president for a sex scandal after humiliating Garby all vacation with the activists and other things he was able to pay for. But Smith was just a puppet.

  "And I found a stash of arsenic trioxide at Eagle's Nest, but I thought Smith was the poisoner, not the victim…I didn't guess Lizzie was the real mastermind, and that she was poisoning Smith to weaken him, so she could control him and his resources for her plot."

  "Well, when did you figure it out?" asked Alfson.

  "Almost too late—on the balcony, when Lizzie watched the boat with President Garby approaching the yacht. Once he reached the yacht, she moved her gun from me to Smith. And she even tried to push me to shoot Smith myself, saying everything bad that'd happened to me was caused by him."

  Alfson was frowning. "So you actually threw yourself in front of Lizzie's shot at Smith? I thought your job description didn't require jumping in front of bullets?"

  Pepper laughed a little painfully. "I'm glad you trusted me."

  "I had to pull a Ryan—follow my gut. Just this once."

  "By the way Pepper, I talked to your other boss—Edwina Youngblood, in D.C." said the General. "She's definitely not as proud of you as we are. She said you're suspended without pay."

  Winning was one thing, embarrassing the FBI was something else. Pepper was not surprised he'd pissed off his supervisors. He'd failed to follow FBI procedure. Failed to follow orders. Insubordination. They were probably scrambling to verify what involvement he had with all the carnage in the boat shed. And they'd probably think of a few more procedural violations which would soon put a final bow on his time with the FBI.

  The General stood. "Well, if your FBI career is toast, I'd be honored to hire you back for real, this time. Unless you have some other secret job to get back to?"

  "Thanks, sir."

  "I'm going to check in on the hunt for Brian-Edward Westin," said Alfson. "He's probably halfway across the country by now…but we'll get him. 110%. But we'd better let you rest. The Service'll need to formally interview you. And every other federal and state agency you can name, but I'll hold 'em off a few more hours."

  Zula stepped over to the bed, leaned in and gave Pepper a hug. Her long hair tickled his cheek and she smelled like sand and exotic flowers. Maybe orchids? Her hug was definitely a little harder than necessary, given his injuries. And lingered a bit long. But at the moment it felt damn great.

  So Pepper turned her chin and kissed her on the lips. Her momentary surprise changed into a great kiss back. Long and electric.

  Their dads maybe pretended not to see.

  As the room emptied, Pepper remembered something else. "But hey," he yelled after them. "What happened to the other hitman--Oliver? The guy who kidnapped me?"

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Oliver gazed out the airplane window and smiled.

  Funny how things work out. You find that lieutenant's passport, right in his dresser drawer where it belonged. And he was a reasonable resemblance to Oliver—white, medium height, brown hair. The only mismatch being the lieutenant's nose like a goddamn Pinocchio. But luckily in the passport photo they'd caught the lieutenant dead on straight, minimizing the monstrosity. The half-asleep lady at the Logan Airport security checkpoint hadn't even mentioned it. It was totally fate--the universe was his wingman. And who was Oliver to question fate?

  And so there he was on a direct flight to Tokyo! Who'd expect a hitman on the run to head to Asia? In goddamn first class? The economy seats would have been too embarrassing if the cops caught his trail--hauling him off past the clogged rows of families and general mouth breathers. And Asiatic Airlines had by far the best last-minute price for first class. Fate giving him the cosmic high five, one more time.

  He hadn't understood half of what the little Asian stewardesses had said since he'd taken his pod-like seat numbered 4A. Bowing and smiling. Oliver's first-class meal came. He'd selected the western option with beef. Even so, there were lots of Asian vegetables and exotic sauces. Oliver ate slowly, savored every bite. He only left some strange looking broccoli.

  Oliver's feet were cradling his carry-on bag, which held around $50,000 in little bundles of hundred-dollar bills, carefully packed in manila envelopes to resemble thick documents. His emergency fund. And he had over two million dollars in a Bahamian bank account, which he could have wired to…wherever. So, where would he head next? Maybe Australia. Or maybe...Thailand? Oliver had seen a show once about a Bangk
ok red light district the size of New Orleans. Cheap weed, beautiful young women eager to please. All the pleasures that a third world country could offer a man with heavy cash and a smile. Maybe get some plastic surgery? Hide his trail and boost his looks, Hollywood-style. Maybe become more rugged-looking like that cop, Ryan?

  Oliver wondered what eventually happened to Pepper Ryan. He didn't know the entirety of his client's plan, but he suspected it was to kill the president and anyone who got in the way. Smith seemed as relentless as he was rich, so Ryan was probably toast. Not that Oliver would bet against the cop. Ryan was maybe a little too good to be true, a bit of a boy scout, but he'd turned out to be pretty tough. And kinda respectful even when Oliver was in his scraggly Rowboat Willie costume. He decided Ryan would get what he got, but he kind of hoped Ryan kicked his client's rich ass.

  Oliver thought about when he'd returned to the boat shed and found Ryan gone and Croke lying in his own blood, with a smashed knee, barely conscious. Croke had started in on those Eastern European cuss words, directed at Oliver. Oliver had seen white. Took out his Gerber folding knife and slit Croke's throat, mid-curse. He remembered the surprise, then fear, which had flooded Croke's face as the knife did the job. No more pickles for you!

  The decision to kill Croke had been a little hot-headed, but in hindsight was still the right call. Croke had definitely needed a hospital, which would have meant cops. And Oliver didn't think for a second Croke would keep his mouth shut once that fun started. Better the way it went. When the cops eventually found Croke, they'd also find so much blood from Croke--from Ryan too--that they wouldn't know who'd done what to whom. Maybe they'd think Ryan had offed Croke and would cover it up for their brother-in-blue? Whatever, but it'd be one less chance to track it all back to Oliver.

  And Oliver's mob employers? They wouldn't know what to think, except that all hell had broken loose, one of their contractors was dead and the other missing. And Oliver planned to stay missing.