Mary rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, lots of fun. Are you checkin' up on the rest of your crew, Captain Hornblower?"
"Aye, that I am, matey. Me and the lads be gettin' hungry and be wantin' to know what the wenches be cookin' after we sink the French fleet."
Mary shrugged. "As I remember, good Captain, you said you and your lads would be catching fish on this expedition.
Well, where are they?"
Stephen's smile faded. "Ahh, heck, Mare, the darn fish are all Democrats and won't bite. How about puttin' some steaks out and marinating them? We'll put in about ten miles downriver and set up camp."
Janice canted her head. "We were thinking more along the lines of pizza, Senator. Any towns up ahead where we could stop for carryout?"
The senator gave her a fake scowl. "No, fair wench, no towns up ahead. You don't eat pizza on an expedition. Just look out there at those tree-lined banks and this unpolluted river. You're witness to true, unspoiled native America; how could you possibly think of pizza?"
Janice shrugged as she did what she was told and looked toward the far bank. "Okay, how about a Long John Silver fish'o' more meal with french fries?"
The senator stood and barked, "Lads, they're talking insurrection here. Prepare the keelhaul lines!"
11:28 A. M., Georgetown, Washington, D. C.
Thirty-four-year-old Matthew Wentzel, staffer for Senator Stephen Goodnight, rolled off his assistant and tried to catch his breath. He was nude and his body gleamed with sweat.
Dana Cooper smiled as she ran her fingers over his damp chest. "Now, wasn't that better than walking along the canal?"
Matthew spoke between gasps. "A . . . a lot . . . better.
Aren't . . . you winded?"
"You did all the work," she said huskily. "And it was great work, I might add."
Matthew was about to respond when a man's voice said, "I thought you two would never stop. Have you got everything, Dana?"
Before Matthew could react, a fat man stepped up and pressed a pistol barrel to his forehead. "Easy, Matt. Just lie back down and stay nice and quiet. You need your rest after all that rutting. Thata boy."
Matthew shook uncontrollably as he stared at the silenced pistol.
Glaring at the obese man but not the least embarrassed about being nude, Dana got up from the bed. "It took you long enough. He wanted to go for a stroll!"
The man wrinkled his brow as if apologetic. "I didn't want to walk in during the action--just didn't seem right.
So, do you have everything?"
Dana nodded as she picked up her bra. "I have it all on disks. I erased the hard drives and the backups in the office, just the way you showed me."
"What about the paper files and documents?"
"All of it is in my car. They won't find anything about the investigation . . . I made sure of it. I even checked the computer here in his apartment, erased it, and reformatted all his disks. It's done; let's get out of here."
Trembling, Matthew tried to speak. "Wh-What is . . . is going on? Dana, what have you done?"
The fat man sighed. "You've been screwed, Matt. And you thought you were the screwer, didn't you? It doesn't work that way." The fat man squeezed the trigger. Matthew's head jerked back into the pillow from the impact of a .22 bullet that blew through his left eye. The killer casually lifted the weapon and pointed the barrel at Dana. "Sorry, honey, but I don't need you anymore."
The weapon coughed. With her hands still behind her to fasten the bra, she crumpled to the floor. The man stepped closer and fired another bullet into her head. He looked around the room, slid the pistol into his belt, picked up Dana's purse with his gloved hands, and seconds later had her car keys. Putting the purse back on the dresser, he put the keys in his pocket, pulled his pistol from his belt, and began unscrewing the silencer. A minute later he shut the apartment door and began walking down the steps, shaking his head in disgust.
Women, they're ten times worse than men. And they always talk about how much more sensitive they are. Dana gives me the key to his place, bolls the guy, and tells him how wonderful he is, knowing full well he's going to be offed, and that's sensitive? Not a tear for the guy, not even a wince when I pop him. She didn't even look, just kept putting on her bra as if he were nothing. She should have winced at least.
.
11:32 A. M., Apalachicola River, Northern Florida.
Chad Goodnight steered the cruiser around the bend. A large bass boat lay up ahead just off a small island in midchannel. On the craft's deck two men were waving their arms. "Dad, looks like we've got company on the river after all."
The senator nodded as he held his gaze steady on the distant boat. "Looks like they're in trouble; they've got their motor pulled out of the water ... probably a busted prop."
Hearing the conversation, Mary rose from her cushioned seat. "What is it, dear?" she asked, putting her hand to her forehead to block the glare.
The senator motioned ahead. "A couple of fishermen who ran out of luck. We're going to stop and see if we can help them."
On the cruiser bow, Mike Goodnight yelled toward the fishermen, "What's the problem, guys?"
A tall, thin blond in his early thirties motioned to the motor. "The prop is fouled with wire. Sure glad you guys came by when you did. We were getting worried. Can I borrow a pair of pliers? I dropped mine in the river when I was trying to pull the wire free."
Chad reversed the engine to decrease their speed even more as Mike nodded and yelled back, "Sure, no sweat.
Y' all catch anything?"
The blond grinned. "We've caught some nice stripers. We'll give you some for helping us."
Mike looked over his shoulder at his brother and father.
"Looks like we can forget the steaks. Janice gets her fish'o' more after all."
The senator walked toward the cushioned seats. "I'll get the toolbox."
Janice got up so the senator could lift the hinged top of the seat and she headed for the cabin door. "I'll put the steaks back in the fridge. Mary, Sue, you want anything while I'm in the cabin?"
Mary lifted her empty bottle. "I'll take one more wine cooler while you're up."
Sue shook her head. "Nothing for me, thanks."
Janice opened the narrow hatchway door and stepped down into the cabin.
Paddling closer to the cruiser, the blond man placed a bag over his shoulder and lifted a stringer with eight stripers.
Mike tossed down a line to the sunburned blond and whistled. "Man, those are huge. What kind of bait are you using?"
"I'll show you. It's a new spinner. Here, take the stringer."
Mike took the stringer of fish from the man's hand and set them on the deck. He then offered his hand to the fisherman.
"I'll help you up."
Smiling, the man grasped Mike's hand and swung himself up on deck just as the senator walked forward with a pair of pliers. Still smiling, the fisherman took the bag off his shoulder. "These new spinners make the fish go nuts. . . ."
He reached in the bag, grasped a small Tech-9 machine pistol, and fired through the material. The burst of three rounds hit Mike in the chest, knocking him off the bow into the water. Turning, the killer shot Stephen Goodnight in the face with another burst. The back of the senator's head exploded outward, showering the Fiberglas deck with blood, brains, and skull fragments.
In the bass boat the other fisherman raised a Tech-9 and pointed it at Chad, who was frozen in horror. When he realized the weapon was aimed at him, Chad lunged for the throttle, but was suddenly thrown back as the gunman shot him in the neck. Blood gushed out of his wound as he staggered back toward the two women on the lower deck.
Screaming, Mary stood and was showered with her oldest son's blood.
Sue saw the blond-haired killer running toward them and dove overboard just as he fired. Too afraid to move, Mary jerked spasmodically as bullets stitched her from crotch to neck. The killer looked over the side to finish the younger woman, but his companion was alrea
dy shooting.
As soon as she surfaced, the water churned around Sue as if she were being pursued by piranha. Seconds later she floated facedown, her light brown hair billowing in the water as though caught in watery wind.
Stepping over Chad, who lay on the deck shaking in his final death throes, the blond man kicked in the hatchway door and stepped down into the cabin. Swinging his machine pistol left then right with his gaze, he saw no one, but sensed the presence of another. He leaned over, looked under the table, then began to rise. He heard a noise coming from the closet beside him, spun, and fired a burst into the door.
The first bullet missed, but the second creased Janice Ayers's forehead. The third entered the back of her head and exited above her left ear.
The blond man swung the door back, ready to fire again, but one look at the limp, bloody body told him the job was done. Lowering his weapon, he walked to the refrigerator and took out a beer.
As she knelt in the closet with her head resting against the interior wall, Janice Ayers understood what was going on.
She had heard men talking as they dragged things into the cabin that had made soft thuds on the hatchway steps.
Someone had even poked at her, but that had happened minutes ago or maybe hours, she wasn't sure as she tried to sit up. She felt so strange, almost as if she were floating underwater. She knew she was moving the way her mind had commanded, but it seemed as if her body was in slow motion and in a cloud. She was standing now in the cabin but couldn't remember how she got there. Something warm rolled over feet. Wiping the blood from her eyes, she saw it was water and it was already to her ankles. It was such a strange color, she thought, reddish like. . . . Slowly, she rolled her head and saw them lying stacked on top of one another on the cruiser's cabin floor. It took several long seconds before it registered it was really people and not pale mannequins. Yes, there's Mike, she thought. I picked out those Nike shorts for him . . . and Mary, she was wearing that blouse . . . and the senator, he was wearing tennis shorts, wasn't he? Oh, there's poor Sue, and Chad . . . they should have at least put them together. So sad . . . so .. . sad. Turning, Janice waded toward the cabin hatchway but saw that it was blocked by a mattress. "They don't want the bodies to float out," she said in a whisper. "I suppose I should die with them . . . yes . . . I should. I really should."
Janice touched her forehead then stared at the blood on her fingers. Her footing was becoming more difficult. The stern is sinking, she said to herself. The boat is sinking and I can't get out. No, I don't want to die here. I want to live. I want to live. Must get this mattress out of the way first . . . there. Now try the door . . . good, it opens. Wait, Janice. WAIT! They may be out there watching. Think now, think. Stay by the door, and when the water comes up, push out and stay by the seat cushions that will float. Keep yourself submerged and just keep your nose and mouth above water, close to the cushions, so they won't see you. I can do this . . . I can do this.
It was almost midnight, and the full moon cast a pale glow on the slow-moving river as an old ski boat made its way up the channel. Mounted on the bow of the boat, a spotlight shined close to the near bank. Seated behind the steering wheel on a plastic bucket, Tucker held a .22 rifle across his lap. He spat brown tobacco juice over the side, which partly splattered the dead, nine-foot alligator tied to the port cleats. "Nat, ya reckon we oughta start headin' back?"
Nat spoke over his shoulder as he shined the light farther upriver, looking for the telltale glow of an alligator's eyes.
"Head toward that small island. We'll swing around it and check the other bank, then check out the mouth of Dead Lake . . . always gators hangin round them banks. Get us just one more an' we'll be sittin' purty. Hand me some chaw, will-- What the . . . ya see that?"
Tucker followed the beam of light that shone toward the island and gasped. "Oh, Lord." He throttled forward and steered toward the island, where the beam was shining on a partially nude white woman standing on the bank as if in a stupor.
Nat kept his light focused on the woman. "Ya reckon she's one of them crazies escaped outta that nuthouse upriver?"
"Could be . . . oh, Jesus, look at her face. She's dead and don't know it."
Chapter 6.
Sunday, Columbus, Georgia.
Special Agent Ashley Sutton slapped twice at the ringing phone before finding the handset. Rising slightly from her pillow, she looked at the digital clock on the nightstand and moaned. It was only a little past five A. M.. She spoke sleepily. "Ms. Sutton."
"Morning, Sutton, this is Tanner. We--"
"Eli! You're back!" she blurted in surprise as she sat up in bed. "How come you--"
"We've got a situation. Get dressed and get down here," he said. "I'm at Lawson Army Air Field at Fort Benning.
The SAC has ordered us to chopper down to a small town in northern Florida to conduct a search for Senator Stephen Goodnight and his family. It's backwater country, so dress accordingly. I'll fill you in when you get here. Move it, Sutton; we're waitin'!"
Ashley began to respond but a click told her he'd hung up. Her face reddened in anger.
She threw back the sheet, got up, and hurried for the bathroom.
Fort Benning, Lawson Army Air Field, Flight Operations Captain Alsop stood outside flight ops with his copilot, who motioned toward the parking lot. "That must be her, Tony. The agent said she was small."
Tony Alsop frowned as the short strawberry blonde stepped out of a Jeep Renegade that had just pulled into a parking space. Ahh, hell, she's a wannabe for sure, Alsop said to himself in disgust. The FBI baseball cap pulled over her short hair was the first indication, and the big black Casio on her wrist was the second. Jesus, what a waste, he thought. He knew the kind all too well: the Jeep, man's watch, man's clothes, absence of jewelry and makeup, and the walk were the signs. She was definitely a wannabe: she wanted to be a man. The Army was full of such women, lady jocks who thought they could do anything a man could do and were always looking for a way to prove it.
Eyes hidden behind his aviator sunglasses, Alsop studied the woman as she strode toward him. Jesus, all she had to do was lose the hat, unbutton a few buttons, use some makeup to highlight her cheeks, wear some earrings, slow the walk, swing her butt a little, put on a smile, and presto, you had Miss Foxy Federal Agent instead of Miss G-man wannabe.
Who goes out with her type? he wondered. Hell, nobody, that's who. I'd be afraid to. Jesus, she'd probably wanna arm wrestle or talk about guns or crimes or whatever they talk about in the FBI. Oh, man, what a waste.
"You must be Special Agent Sutton?" Alsop said, wearing his most innocent smile when Ashley stood before him.
She didn't return even a hint of a smile as she responded.
"Yes. Is Special Agent Tanner here?"
Alsop maintained his smile despite her obvious attempt at being the cool professional. "Yes, ma'am, he's on the phone to your people in Atlanta. The others are in the waiting MOM."
Ashley canted her head with a look of surprise. "Others?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sergeant Major Murphy and a gentleman named Hilbert are waiting for you inside. I'll escort you to them, then Jim and I will wait in the aircraft. We'll be ready to depart as soon as you all are on board."
Ashley's face tightened as she followed the two pilots inside the building. In the waiting area she saw the camouflage-fatigued form of Dan Murphy sitting at a table, his massive hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. She marched straight for him. "What the hell is going on, Dan?"
Murphy lifted a bushy eyebrow. "Nice to see you again, too, Agent Sutton."
"Where is he?"
Dan raised his hand. "Hey, give me a break, will ya? He called and said he needed me here, so I'm here. I saw him for just a sec when he came in, and you coulda cooked eggs on him--he was hot. Your boss in Atlanta screwed things up, and he's tryin' to unscrew them."
Ashley lost her scowl and stepped closer, patting the soldier on the shoulder apologetically. "Sorry, Dan, it just surprised me when
he called this morning. I didn't expect him back from recovery leave for another week. I haven't heard from him for over a month and he--"
"Welcome to the club," the thin sergeant major said as he stood. He gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder. "He didn't call me, either. He's been in town two days, been stayin' with Jerome and Millie, leepin' a low profile,' he says to me. Personally, I don't think he's recovered worth a damn--he looks like hell."
Ashley's eyes narrowed in renewed shock and anger.
"Two days? He's been back two days?"
A middle-aged man wearing a dark suit stepped up and tapped Ashley's shoulder. "Are you Agent Sutton?"
Ashley turned and eyed the pale-faced man whose eyes were filled with worry. "Yes, are you Mr. Hilbert?"
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