Shoot First (A Stone Barrington Novel)

by Stuart Woods

  “Then where are they?”

  Gino set an iPad on the coffee table. “They’re in Maine,” he said.

  “Maine?”

  Gino pointed at the blue circle on the Maine map. “On an island called Islesboro, in a town called Dark Harbor.”

  “How’d they get there so fast?”

  “We had them at Teterboro Airport for most of an hour, so either her host has an airplane or they’ve chartered something. You’re a pilot, Joe.”

  “That’s right—Jane and I both fly a Beech Baron.”

  “Did you fly your airplane to New York?”

  “No, we flew commercial—that’s why I sent the tools to you.”

  “So, rent an airplane and fly up there.”

  “How do we find them?” Joe asked.

  “It’s a very small town, a village, really. Ask around.”

  Joe shook his head. “Can’t do that. When we get the job done, people will remember we were asking.”

  Gino zoomed in on the map. “The house is next door to the yacht club,” he said, pointing. “You got an iPhone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then use that to find the house—should be easy.”

  “We’ll need to book a room somewhere.”

  “Now, that’s a problem. There used to be an inn on the island, but it’s closed. I checked.”

  “Then we’ll have to be in and out on the same day.”

  “There’s an airfield there.”

  Joe got out his phone and Googled the island. “Short strip—twenty-four hundred feet. That’s good for light aircraft.”

  “Where can you rent an airplane?”

  Joe did some more Googling. “There’s a Bonanza available at Teterboro,” he said, “but how are we going to get from the airfield to the house?”

  “Rent a car.”

  Joe shook his head. “If there’s no inn on the island, I doubt if there’ll be a car rental agency, either.” He did some more Googling. “No, there isn’t.”

  “I recall that you’ve had some experience with stealing cars,” Gino said.

  “You have a good memory. Let’s hope we can find something near the airport, then.”

  Jane spoke up. “This is all too insecure,” she said. “We don’t know who, if anyone, will be at the airfield. We don’t know where the nearest car is to steal. In a small village we stand too good a chance of being spotted and remembered. What we need to do is to spend a day or two on the island, get the lay of the land, find out where the fuck we’re going and how we’re going to get back to the airfield after the job’s done. We need to know if there are cops in the village, and if so how many and how many cars.”

  Gino stood up, walked to the window, and gazed at the view for a moment. “You could rent a house or a cottage,” he said. “How about that?”

  “Not a good idea. We’d have to land on the mainland, rent a car, take a ferry, and meet a rental agent. We’d be seen by too many people, coming and going.”

  “How about this?” Jane said. “We do all that, then we leave the island without doing the job.”

  “That kind of misses the point, doesn’t it?” Gino asked.

  “Then we rent a boat and go back to the island. You said the house is next to the yacht club, so it’s on the water, right?”

  “Smart girl,” Joe said, “but why rent a house when we can just rent a boat, one we can sleep on, if necessary.”

  “Where are you going to rent a boat?” Gino asked.

  “It’s Penobscot Bay, for Christ’s sake,” Joe said. “The whole area is lousy with boats—we’ll research it.”

  “We should buy a rifle with a scope,” Jane said. “It’s Maine, people hunt, so it shouldn’t be a problem. We don’t want to just walk up to the front door and shoot whoever opens it.”

  “She’s right,” Joe said. “The boat idea will work, but this is going to be a three- or four-day project, and it’s going to be expensive.”

  “I can afford it,” Gino said. He placed a stack of hundreds on the table. “Get it done.”

  * * *

  —

  STONE PICKED UP the phone and dialed a local number.

  A gruff voice said, “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Hello, Ed,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington. You free for dinner tonight?”

  “Where?”

  “My house.”

  “Are you having lobster?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sick of fucking lobster. I’ll bring my own steak.”

  “Not necessary, we possess a steak.”

  “Just you and me? Is that the best you can do?”

  “Just you and me, and a pretty girl.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Seven o’clock, if you want a drink first.”

  “Better your liquor than mine,” Rawls said, then hung up.

  “Who’s coming to dinner?” Meg asked.

  “Friend of mine named Ed Rawls, lives on the island.”

  “What does he do here?”

  “Whatever he likes. He retired from the CIA some years back, then moved here. There used to be a little group of ex-Agency guys here, called themselves the Old Farts, but one by one they died off. Ed is the only one left.”

  “What’s he like?” she asked.

  “Indescribable,” Stone replied.

  21

  At precisely seven o’clock the doorbell rang, and Stone answered it. “Good evening, Ed,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “It better be,” Rawls replied gruffly, “to get me out of my comfortable chair.”

  “There’s a comfortable chair right over there,” Stone replied, nodding. “Right next to the pretty girl. Meg, this is Ed Rawls. Ed, Meg Harmon.”

  Rawls shook her hand. “Of Harmony Software?”

  Meg looked surprised. “That’s right.”

  “We get the Wall Street Journal up here, you know—the New York Times, too.”

  “And I thought this was the far north,” Meg said, laughing. “I suppose you’re on the Internet, too.”

  “Couldn’t live without it,” Rawls said, accepting a glass of Knob Creek from Stone. “I do most of my shopping online, and all of my correspondence.”

  “Ed is surprisingly computer literate,” Stone said, “for somebody as ancient as he is.”

  “You’ll be ancient one day, too, Stone,” Rawls said, raising his glass and taking a deep swig of the bourbon. “But not you, Meg.”

  “You’d better not leave me alone with this guy, Stone,” Meg said, laughing.

  “Damn right,” Rawls replied. “I’d have your knickers off before you knew it.”

  Stone laughed. “Ed, I think you’ve been spending too much time alone.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a widow stashed in Camden, gets over to the island most weekends. I keep my hand in—so to speak.”

  “Stone tells me you were CIA,” Meg said.

  “Oh, I had a careerful of that work, until I got sent to prison.”

  “Stone, you didn’t tell me Ed was an ex-con,” Meg said.

  “Damn right I am. I got life and did a few years of it, until the truth came out and I got a presidential pardon. Now I’m back in everybody’s good graces—everybody who counts, anyway.” Rawls looked at Stone. “So, pal, what’re you doing up here? Somebody after you?” He turned back to Meg. “Stone only comes up here when somebody is after him.”

  “Not this time,” Meg said. “They’re not after Stone, they’re after me.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “A guy who was once my business partner, who thinks he should be as rich as I am.”

  “Is this a shootin’ war?” Rawls asked.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Stone said. “The ex-partner has hired someb
ody. If you see a couple around here—he’s six-three or -four, skinny, curly hair, going gray. She’s five-eight, with the usual equipment—sing out, will you?”

  “These people have names?”

  “Dirty Joe Cross and Jungle Jane, no last name. He’s a pro, but fortunately not the ultimate pro. He’s tried twice and failed.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Ed said. “An inept assassin’s not much good to anybody.”

  “That’s so,” Stone agreed.

  “But if he keeps at it,” Rawls said, “sooner or later he’ll get lucky, and lucky is just as good as good.”

  “You’re a pessimist, Ed,” Meg said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rawls replied, “am I casting a shadow of gloom over the party? I hope the fuck so.”

  “No, Ed, you’re right,” Stone said. “We’re taking precautions.”

  “Well, this house is a good start, as precautions go,” Rawls replied. “Has he told you about this house, Meg?”

  “No,” she said, “but maybe it’s time he did.”

  “The house was built by my first cousin,” Stone said. “He was a higher-up in the CIA, so the Agency took an interest in how it was built and contributed to its design and construction.”

  “That means the framing is steel clad,” Rawls interjected, “and the windows are bulletproof.”

  “He left the house to a foundation that contributes to the welfare of the families of agents who died in the line of duty,” Stone explained, “but he also left me lifetime occupancy. Eventually, when I could afford it, I bought the place from the foundation.”

  “And added it to the Barrington collection?” Meg asked.

  “No, this was before the collection. It was my first second home.”

  “We don’t see near enough of him up here,” Rawls said. “Like I said, he only shows up when somebody’s after him—or in this case, after you.”

  The tinkle of a silver bell interrupted them.

  “That’s dinner,” Stone said. “Ed, I hope you’re still taking your steak rare.”

  “I like it too weak to move around,” Rawls replied.

  They went in to dinner.

  * * *

  —

  JANE LET herself into their hotel suite and found Joe at the computer.

  “You find some clothes for Maine?” he asked her.

  “Enough. What did you find?”

  “I nailed down the Bonanza at Teterboro,” he replied, “and I found us just the right boat for charter in Rockland.”

  “What kind of boat?”

  “A Hinckley picnic boat, a thirty-four-footer with a little galley and a double berth.”

  “Fast?”

  “It’s got twin 320s, and it’ll crank out thirty-five knots, in a panic, a little less at cruise rpms. The renters were impressed with my Coast Guard captain’s license.”

  “Is there a gun shop in Rockland?”

  “Is there a town anywhere in this country where there isn’t a gun shop?”

  “Right,” she said. “What’s our schedule?”

  “We pick up the airplane at nine AM. I’ve booked a car and driver to get us to Teterboro. I’ll have to do a little pattern work to show them I can fly the thing, but we’ll be headed north before lunch.”

  “How long a flight?”

  “An hour or so, I guess. I’ve booked a rental car at the Rockland airport, then we’ll take possession of the boat, and you can go gun shopping. We’ll sleep aboard, then case Islesboro from the water the following morning.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll make a plan. Oh, one other thing—there’s an operating quarry near Rockland. We might be able to put our hands on some explosives tonight. That will give us more options.”

  “Options are a good thing,” Jane said, “but I’d settle for one clear shot at Miss Meg.”

  “So would I,” Joe replied.

  22

  Stone, Meg, and Ed Rawls sat before a roaring fire and swirled the brandy in their glasses. The dogs lay in a pile in front of the fireplace.

  Ed was the first to speak. “What precautions have you taken, Stone?”

  Stone took a sip of his brandy. “Precautions? We left New York City and came to Maine.”

  “Is that enough, do you think?”

  “Yes,” Meg chimed in. “Is that enough?”

  “Well, let’s see,” Stone muttered. “We drove out of my garage at, what, seven-thirty this morning? We drove to Teterboro, and we weren’t followed. We flew something over three hundred nautical miles to Rockland, changed planes, then flew to an island in Penobscot, Maine, and we’re sitting in a well-armored house, drinking Rémy Martin. Is that enough precautions?”

  Ed shrugged. “Maybe. How well do your pursuers know you?”

  “Not at all, I hope.”

  “How did they find you to make the two earlier attempts on Meg’s life?”

  “Well, the first time, they knew Meg was attending a Steele Group board meeting, and they probably checked the activities board at the Casa Marina Hotel and found out she was on the list to play in a golf tournament, and there’s only one golf course in Key West.”

  “And the second time?”

  “They followed my boat from the Key West Yacht Club to some islands west of there.”

  “I didn’t know you had a boat in Key West.”

  “I didn’t, until the day before we left.”

  “So how’d they ascertain that you were leaving on a boat for some island?”

  “The yacht club is in plain sight of a main road—it would have been easy to spot us. Also, we stopped for fuel in Key West Bight, and we could have been seen there, then followed.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Out to Fort Jefferson, about seventy miles west of Key West.”

  “How’d they know where you were going? A boat isn’t like an airplane—you don’t file a flight plan.”

  “I suppose they followed us from a discreet distance. I wasn’t looking for a tail.”

  “Were you looking for a tail this morning?”

  “I checked out the block as we drove away, and I didn’t see anybody.”

  “But somebody could have seen you leave, then followed you to Teterboro?”

  “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “Then anybody with a smartphone could look up your tail number and check your flight direction and destination.”

  “Once again, yes, I suppose so.”

  “It would be harder to figure out where you were going after Rockland, unless, of course, these people know you better than you think and know about this house.”

  “Oh, all right, Ed, I concede your point. Now, do you have another point?”

  “It occurs to me that a moving target is harder to hit than a stationary one.”

  “Another very good point. Are you suggesting we move around?”

  “I recollect that you are a partner in a very nice floating object.”

  “That’s right, I am,” Stone said. “I had not forgotten. I thought we might even take a little cruise.”

  “What a good idea,” Ed said drily.

  “Is this floating object as nice as the one in Key West?” Meg asked.

  “Much nicer,” Stone said.

  “I’m up for a Penobscot Bay cruise,” she said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said. “I’ll call our captain tomorrow morning. How would you like to come along, Ed?”

  “You got an easy chair aboard?”

  “Several of them.”

  “Then I’m available.”

  * * *

  —

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING after breakfast Stone phoned Bret Todd, his captain. After an exchange of pleasantries, he inquired about the availability of Breeze, the
125-foot motor yacht he and two business partners had bought from the estate of the former owner.

  “We put her in the water the day before yesterday,” Bret said. “We’ve pulled her apart for a major cleaning, now under way, but we could have her ready by noon tomorrow. Where did you want to go?”

  “Oh, just a bay cruise for a few days.”

  “Then I’ll get the crew cleaned up, too, and we’ll pick you up at your dock at noon?”

  “Noon would be very good,” Stone said.

  “How many guests?”

  “Two—one of them will be bunking with me.”

  “Then we’ll see you at noon tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  JOE CROSS presented himself at the charter FBO at Teterboro and showed them his pilot’s license, medical certificate, and logbook. He did a walk-around of the Bonanza, a six-seat, single-engine aircraft, then he flew the charterer around the traffic pattern, landed, and taxied to the ramp. Half an hour later they took off for Rockland and landed an hour and a half after that.

  They drove their rental car into the town, and on the way, passed a gun shop. Joe waited while Jane went inside. Half an hour later she came out with a long gun pouch and a brown bag, and she got into the car.

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  “A very nice Remington 700 and a box of 30-06 ammo,” she replied. “I fired a few rounds on their range, and it sighted in well.”

  “Then let’s go take a look at the granite quarry,” he said, checking his phone map. A few minutes later they parked at the roadside near the fence and looked at the pit. “There,” he said, pointing at a little shed. “That’s where it will be.”

  They stopped at a hardware store on the way back into town and bought a pair of bolt cutters and a crowbar, then continued to the marina.

  “That’s lovely,” Joe said, pointing at the picnic boat, “and it blends in perfectly around here. There must be dozens in Penobscot Bay.” They checked in with the office, Joe presented his captain’s license, and a young man gave them a tour of the boat, showing them the engines, charts, and other equipment aboard. They settled in, then went to dinner at a local restaurant. It was dark when they left.