Once Is Never Enough

by Haris Orkin

  Flynn hit the ground running when he arrived in Bellingham. Using Josh Weebler’s credit card, he took a cab and booked the Lighthouse Suite at the Hotel Bellwether on Bellingham Bay. Besides the king-sized sleigh bed, the wet bar, and the elegant marble bathroom, the suite offered a 360-degree vista of snow-capped Mount Baker, the San Juan Islands, and Squalicum Harbor. He made that suite his operations center and ventured out to acquire the equipment for his raid on Wembly Island. It was fortunate that the phony credit card Goolardo provided him had a fifteen-thousand-dollar line of credit, because he pushed it to the limit.

  The Hobie Cat Mirage Adventure Island Trimaran cost him six grand with all the bells and whistles. The sailing kayak was pedal-driven and allowed the craft to be powered even when the wind didn’t cooperate. Flynn planned to travel at night and quietly approach the island under the cover of darkness. Multiple hatches and extra deck storage allowed room for all the equipment he needed.

  Some of that equipment he acquired at a gun show at the Northwest Washington Fair and Event Center, a quick half-hour ride from the airport. He bought an assault rifle from an eighty-something man breathing with the help of an oxygen tank. His name was Roy Ebner and his wheelchair bound, raspy-voiced wife, Greta, reeked of cigarette smoke and rang up the purchase.

  She gave him a form to fill out. He was supposed to check any boxes that indicated he was a felon or a fugitive from justice or dishonorably discharged or under a restraining order or mentally ill. He didn’t check a single box and Greta ran the name Josh Weebler through the FBI’s National Instant Criminal Background Check System.

  Nine minutes later Flynn was the proud owner of lightweight Smith and Wesson M&P 15 semi-automatic assault rifle with a flash suppressor and a high-capacity magazine. Flynn inquired about buying a bump stock, but as they were illegal in Washington State she couldn’t sell him one. Roy could, however, offer to throw one in for free with his purchase of a thermal imaging rifle scope.

  Flynn also bought a night vision monocular and, since he already passed the background check, a SIG Sauer P229 with a silencer, a red dot reflex sight, and tactical holster. He rounded out his spree with three throwing knives, a KM2000 combat knife, a Streamlight flashlight, a tactical vest, a backpack with body armor, and five hundred rounds of ammo for each weapon.

  And he still hadn’t maxed out his credit card.

  Roy shook Flynn’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Ebner.”

  “Call me Roy, son.”

  “And you can call me James.”

  “I thought your name was Josh?”

  “Josh, yes, James is my…middle name.”

  “Joshua James Weebler,” Greta croaked. “Are you some kind of foreigner? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  “I’m not,” said Flynn. “I’m from across the pond.”

  She stared at him as she pushed two pieces of Nicorette gum out of the plastic. She handed one to her husband and put the other one in her mouth. “You want some?”

  “No thank you.”

  “You married?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Because we have a granddaughter whose husband took off on her and I think she might like you.” She pulled a wallet out of her purse and fished out a picture of a plump and tired-looking woman in her thirties with purple eye shadow, dyed black hair, and a nose ring. “Don’t she have pretty eyes?”

  “She does,” Flynn said.

  “Carol. That’s her name. She has two kids. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Actually, I’m only in town for a few days.”

  “Leave the man be,” Roy wheezed.

  “I’m just saying they might hit it off. You never know.”

  “Jesus,” Roy said.

  Flynn moved on and found a booth at the show that sold tactical-style clothing. He bought a pair of lightweight combat pants, a mock turtleneck, a watch cap, and a soft-shell nylon jacket lined in fleece. All in black.

  The Hobie Cat Trimaran waited for Flynn in a rental slip in Squalicum Harbor. Late as it was, he only saw one other soul as he moved through the marina. Flynn nodded at a security guard who didn’t blink an eye as he walked by dressed head to toe in black. Music and drunken laughter wafted from one of the larger yachts, but everyone else seemed asleep.

  He found the Hobie Cat, stowed his equipment in the various storage areas, climbed inside the center kayak, and peddled his way out of the marina. Once he was away from the lights, he raised the sail and caught wind. He’d purchased a nautical chart of the San Juan Islands when he rented the Hobie, and watched numerous nautical navigation videos on YouTube. But navigating at night was trickier.

  He unfolded the unwieldy chart. The wind buffeted it about as he tried to focus his high-powered flashlight on the laminated paper. Flynn was lucky the waters in Bellingham Bay were calm. If it was windier or rougher or stormier, he would’ve had a lot more trouble navigating the trimaran.

  As the chart fluttered about and flapped in his face, Flynn caught sight of what he assumed was Lummi Island on the right. Even at 2:00 a.m. lights still glowed in a smattering of structures. The island was nine square miles and housed the Lummi Indian reservation. From his research he knew the population was close to eight hundred people; a metropolis compared to the minuscule population on Wembly Island.

  The night air smelled of the sea as he navigated the Hobie Cat over the modest chop, grateful for the full moon. The seas were calm, but not placid, and Flynn felt every rise and bump as he tacked west, threading the needle between Sinclair and Guemes Island before edging down the short west coast of Cypress Island. Cypress was still in its natural state and had a population of less than fifty people. A wildlife preserve. Waves crashed and the sail fluttered as he came about, the rocky beach of Deepwater Bay on his right.

  Soon Flynn steered the Hobie across Rosario Strait, a major shipping channel. Flynn had to be vigilant. Besides the ferries from Squalicum Harbor, hundreds of oil tankers passed through the strait each year, to and from the Cherry Point Refinery. It was late enough that the ferries weren’t running.

  Flynn felt at peace sailing on the calm waters on this clear night. Motion sickness was never a problem for him and he enjoyed the cold spray in his face, the fresh ocean air and the bright stars in the night sky. They slowly grew dimmer as he sailed into a fog bank. Soon the moon was a glowy smudge on the horizon, and when he pointed his high-powered flashlight forward, it illuminated the wall of fog.

  He heard it before he saw it. A deep rumble that shook the air. In the fog he couldn’t tell which direction it came from. But then it emerged from the mist like a colossus. Even at fifty yards away, the oil tanker towered above like a monstrous skyscraper. Loud as it was, he had no idea what loud could be until it blasted a thundering foghorn that rattled his teeth and vibrated every bone in his body. Stunned and discombobulated, he tried to find his focus. But when the foghorn finished, the silence was just as shocking. His ears buzzed and reverberated with a muted ringing, creating a kind of numbing deafness.

  Then the wave hit; a rogue upsurge created by the wake. The black wall of water flipped the Hobie Cat like a tiny toy. It pitchpoled, plunging Flynn underwater with the weight of the trimaran on top of him. Trapped in the seat of the center kayak, he fought to free himself and sank like a rock in the icy water. He tried to kick and swim for the surface, but the heavy ballistic plates in his bulletproof vest overpowered the buoyancy of his life jacket and pulled him towards the bottom of the Rosario Strait. Flynn struggled to unlatch the straps, but his numb fingers fumbled with the buckles. The agonizing pressure in his inner ear rose in intensity as the ballistic vest dragged him into the deep. Finally, he managed to unlatch his life jacket and it shot for the surface. Next, he extricated himself from the ballistic vest and that plunged in the other direction, dropping like an anchor.

  His lungs screaming for air, Flynn kicked and swam for the
surface, hoping against hope he’d find his Hobie Cat. Not only did he find it, he banged his head right into it. The pain let him know he was still alive. He gratefully grabbed one end of the vessel and struggled to right it, using all his weight to flip it back over.

  He climbed back into the center kayak. The violent capsizing had wrenched open one of the hatches. His new AR-15 was now at the bottom of the sea along with most of his ammo. He still had his SIG Sauer P229 with the silencer and red dot reflex sight as it stayed in place in his tactical holster. He also had all three throwing knives and his KM2000 combat knife safely ensconced in their sheaths. Unfortunately, he lost his flashlight along with his nautical chart, but he hadn’t lost his confidence. The extra adrenalin from the near-death experience, combined with his anger, only motivated him more.

  Using the luminous smudge of the moon peeking through the fog, Flynn figured out what direction he had to go and determined that Decatur Island was just ahead. On the other side lay his final destination: Wembly Island.

  A few dim lights pierced the fog that shrouded the three-square-mile island. Flynn used them to navigate his way around the southern end, through the narrow gap afforded by Lopez pass. He nearly ran aground maneuvering between Decatur and tiny ten-acre Ram Island. Ram was a private island like Wembly and had beaches, old forests, and cliffs overlooking Lopez Sound. Unlike Wembly, it was undeveloped and as such, there were no lights to help him find his way in the foggy dark.

  Once Flynn floated safely beyond Ram Island, he caught the faint lights of Wembly glowing in the fog. He was surprised how quickly he closed the distance as the island appeared to materialize out of thin air in front of him. Lights dotted the shore and as he approached, they illuminated a small deep-water dock. No one was about. Not a soul. He slipped in silently, totally undetected. In the end, the fog was his friend. Likely this served as a secondary dock for much smaller sea craft.

  He’d anticipated having to land on a rocky beach at the bottom of a cliff, but this was easier and would make for a quicker escape if necessary. He climbed from the Hobie Cat and tied it up to the dock, drew his SIG Sauer with the silencer and lamented the loss of his AR-15 with the night vision scope. Dim lights wavered ahead through the fog. Flynn figured that was where he would find Belenki’s estate.

  Surprised there wasn’t at least one guard stationed at this smaller dock, Flynn deduced that Fergus set up a tighter security perimeter. He listened and waited but heard only a distant loon crying in the night.

  Flynn moved closer to the main house, staying in the shadows, which wasn’t difficult as there were very few lights. It wasn’t the sprawling estate he expected to find. The lax security raised the possibility that they were trying to lure him in and lower his guard.

  The contemporary ranch home had wood and aluminum siding and huge picture windows that looked out on Lopez Sound. It couldn’t have been more than two thousand square feet. Flynn wondered if most of the house was below ground. A light linked to a motion sensor blinked on as he approached a side door. No one saw him or raised an alarm. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked.

  Something was wrong.

  Was he walking into a trap?

  The side door creaked open and Flynn found himself in a modest kitchen. It was tidy with papers and pictures stuck to the refrigerator with decorative magnets. Some said things like “Woo Hoo! Time for Drinky Poos!” and “Please ignore the severed head. I’m storing it for a friend.” There were pictures of elementary and high school students posing with a sixty-something couple. In one picture everyone held a recently caught fish. In another they all crowded around a birthday cake.

  The lights blinked on, momentarily blinding Flynn. When his vision returned, he saw a skinny, balding, bespectacled man standing in the doorway to the kitchen. It was the same man from the pictures on the fridge. He wore striped boxer shorts and a t-shirt and wielded what looked like a nine iron. Right behind him, peering from behind his left shoulder stood a pleasantly plump, terrified-looking white-haired lady with big plastic glasses magnifying her terrified eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man said, his voice shaky.

  “Not important,” Flynn said, raising his weapon. “Is this the servants’ quarters?”

  “The servants’ quarters?”

  “For the Belenki Estate?”

  “The Belenki Estate?”

  “Why are you repeating everything I’m saying?”

  “Why are you in my house?”

  “I’m looking for Sergei Belenki.”

  “He lives on Wembly Island.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “This is Central Island.”

  “What?”

  “Central Island.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Bob Benson.”

  “Who?”

  “I just told you?”

  “And this house doesn’t belong to Belenki?”

  “No, it belongs to me.”

  “And you are—”

  “Bob Benson!”

  The woman whispered in Bob’s ear loud enough for Flynn to hear. “He has a gun.”

  “No shit,” Bob said.

  “I’m not here to harm you,” Flynn lowered his gun. “In fact, I shouldn’t be here at all.”

  Bob shook his nine iron in a threatening manner. “Then get the hell out.”

  His wife loudly whispered in his ear again. “Honey, don’t make him mad. He has a goddamn gun.”

  “Sorry to wake you,” Flynn said.

  “Wembly Island is due north of here,” Bob said.

  “Right, sorry, it’s foggy out there and I’m a bit discombobulated.”

  “No worries,” said the wife.

  Flynn flashed her a smile and backed across the kitchen and out the side door. Bob Benson locked it behind him.

  Flynn hurried off back to his boat, tripping over a rock in the dark and stumbling down the path in the general direction of the dock.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Orcas, also known as Killer Whales, aren’t whales at all. They are dolphins. The largest dolphins in existence. Males grow twenty to twenty-six feet long and weigh over six tons. They use their strong teeth and powerful jaws to feed on fish, seals, penguins, sharks, and even other aquatic mammals. As apex predators, no other animal preys on them. Except for humans who capture and imprison them and train them for their amusement. The indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast believe orcas are the rulers of the undersea world and embody the souls of long-departed chiefs.

  Flynn watched a pod of Orcas frolicking not fifty feet away, launching themselves out of the sea and splashing back down, slapping their tails to let him know that he was in their territory. He briefly worried they might mistake him for something to eat, but was too entranced by their dance to care as they surrounded his Hobie Cat on all sides. Flynn knew he was the interloper here. This was their realm and he was the intruder. A black dorsal fin cut through the water on his right and on his left an Orca exploded out of the water and slapped back down like a fat man cannonballing, splashing and soaking him with saltwater. Spray erupted out of multiple blowholes as he sailed through the middle of their pod toward Wembly Island.

  A reddish tinge illuminated the fog-shrouded horizon as night slowly gave way to day. Flynn tacked across Brigantine Bay and came upon the east side of Wembly. Belenki’s west coast yacht, the 350-foot-long Nautilus, was docked a few hundred yards away. The lights on the ship created tiny halos in the fog. Two guards stood on the upper deck and another guard manned a xenon searchlight that haphazardly swept the area around the Nautilus.

  The fog continued to be his friend as Flynn stayed out of the path of the searchlight. He cut a wide berth and kept out of sight, hidden in the shadows and mist.

  Flynn hopped out of the Hobie Cat when he reached the shallows by a rocky beach. He pulled the craft to the shore and lowered the sail, listening for any voices or shouts but only heard waves lapping against the rocks. Fr
om where he stood at the bottom of a cliff, he couldn’t see Belenki’s estate, but he knew he needed to move if he wanted to stay hidden. Soon the sun would rise and the fog would burn away along with any element of surprise.

  He checked the load in his SIG Sauer. It would have to do until he could acquire another weapon from one of Fergus’s men. He still had his combat knife and three throwing knives. They would come in handy if he had to burn through his ammo.

  Flynn climbed the cliff face and found many hand and footholds as he worked his way up. Some of the rock was slippery from the fog and mist and he lost his footing a few times, but recovered quickly and kept climbing. The muscles in his legs and arms ached, but he finally reached the top and pulled himself all the way up.

  He carefully and quietly made his way through the woods surrounding the house. Cognizant of booby traps, he watched where he stepped. Belenki’s sprawling mansion rose through the trees with a small smattering of lights on inside the estate. But no security lights illuminated the grounds around it. Perhaps they were triggered by motion sensors?

  Flynn hid behind a greenhouse a distance away so he could reconnoiter the area. He didn’t notice any guards and he didn’t see any movement inside the house. He moved closer, staying in the shadows, hiding behind trees and shrubbery as he looked for a way in. A search for security cameras didn’t reveal any but Flynn knew they could easily be hidden. Where were Fergus’s men? Did he land on the wrong island again? He’d seen the estate on Google Earth, and this looked to be the real deal.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He crept around the perimeter of the house and ducked behind a hedge surrounding the back patio area. He moved past firepits and planters, and a wall of sliding glass doors. Bright lights inside illuminated a number of couches and chairs arranged in seating areas.

  But he didn’t see a single soul.

  He approached one of the doors and that’s when the security lights blinked on from all directions, momentarily blinding him. When his vision returned he found himself surrounded by Fergus and two of his men.