The Devil's Hand

by Carr, Jack

  Sawyer offered a condescending smile that bordered on pity. He clamped his hand around the stainless-steel tool and crushed the protective shell of his steamed Caribbean spiny lobster.

  “You know you are eating that all wrong, Eddie,” Sawyer replied, laying his seafood cracker on the table and using the long crab fork to pierce a section of the creature’s succulent meat.

  “You are just making a mess,” Thwaite countered. “Just like you did with this whole surveillance business.”

  Thwaite reached for his glass.

  “Enjoy that, Senator. It’s a ‘La Chatenière’ Saint-Aubin 1er Cru 2017. Perfect for this meal.”

  Thwaite took a large enough gulp he hoped would annoy his host.

  “Well, we’ve been here for almost a month. I’m starting to go stir crazy,” Thwaite said, dunking a chunk of lobster into warm butter.

  “Where would you prefer to go? Here, you are all but invisible. You’ve seen the news; everyone thinks you left town to avoid questions about illegal campaign contributions and conflict-of-interest issues.”

  “Those stories are planted. Christensen has the media in his pocket. They’ll do anything for him, to include running false stories to ruin me.”

  “Regardless, it appears to me that the country is getting along quite well without you.”

  “Fuck you, Erik,” Thwaite spat.

  “Remember, Senator, it was your ill-advised call to the president that tipped your hand. You were a bit too eager to ‘save the country’ by dropping bombs on it.”

  “That fucking virus, how could it not be contagious?”

  “If you were in your congressional seat, perhaps you’d be privy to classified briefings and might even know the answer to that question.”

  “Christensen probably orchestrated the whole thing just to give the country something to rally around and then ride in as their savior.”

  “With talk like that you should probably embrace your new life as a ‘retired’ expatriate.”

  “I can’t stay here forever.”

  “You do what you’d like. You are not here free of charge. I’m keeping track.”

  “Oh, I know you are, Erik.”

  Mustique was a place one with means went to escape, to disappear. A private island situated between St. Lucia and Grenada, it rose to A-lister prominence in 1960, when the island’s owner gifted ten acres to Princess Margaret. Since then, the destination had hosted the likes of Queen Elizabeth, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and Tommy Hilfiger, though land once the exclusive domain of royalty, entrepreneurs, and artists was now being encroached upon by financiers and tech oligarchs. With no cruise ships anchored in the harbor, no paparazzi prowling the streets, and a strict no-drone policy, it remained a bastion for those in the jet-set crowd more concerned with privacy than society page stories.

  “Lucky for you, my father was not a fan of government-imposed inheritance taxes. He made his money and wanted to keep it. He even made sure he passed away here.”

  “Lucky for you,” Thwaite countered.

  “Yes, he was a thoughtful man. Point being, you flew by private jet to Barbados and we used a private charter to get from Barbados to Mustique, as the one runway here is too short for the jet. This plot of land was owned by my father and is now the property of a holding corporation that shelters it from anyone who might want to tie it to me or Masada.”

  “That may be, but I don’t feel safe with only four of your goons on-site for protection.”

  “Believe me, that is more than enough for Mustique. You are free to leave anytime you desire.”

  “If I go back, I’ll be questioned by the FBI. They probably already know about the FISA warrants; your idea, I remind you. I’ll be destroyed.”

  “Then maybe you just ‘retire’ down here. You have enough to rent a shack or guest house.”

  “Fuck off, Erik. I just need time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Just time.”

  “You are not still spooked by that James Reece character, are you?”

  “No. Well, yes, aren’t you? He’s a fucking madman; the president’s personal assassin. We were close to proving it. You saw what he did to those men in Maryland. What was it, ten people?”

  “Eleven,” Sawyer corrected, turning his attention out to sea.

  “Eleven Jesus. Eleven against one, Erik, and he killed them all.”

  “Calm down, Senator. He is not coming to Mustique. He doesn’t even know you are here. Trust me. You are safe.”

  “Safe? I trusted you to eliminate him in D.C.”

  “Actually, it was Virginia.”

  “You failed, Erik. It was a simple mission and you failed. Don’t think for a second that a man like Reece will let that go.”

  “You are right, Senator. And that is why I’ve taken measures to ensure we won’t have to deal with James Reece ever again.”

  “Oh, what are you talking about? Your goons couldn’t handle him before; what makes you think they can handle him now?”

  “Because I’m not using my goons, as you call them. There’s a man who solves problems for me, a man whose only job now is to kill James Reece.”

  “A problem solver? Like an assassin?” Thwaite asked.

  “Just like that,” Sawyer said.

  “Delightful,” Thwaite acknowledged. “Where is this man and when will it be done?”

  “Patience, Senator. These things can’t be rushed when dealing with professionals. Men like this are careful. They don’t take chances or make rash decisions. They are calculated and discerning. That’s how they stay alive.”

  “Well, finally some good news,” Thwaite said. “In celebration I think I’ll pour myself another glass of your fine wine.”

  CHAPTER 74

  REECE AND OX STEPPED from the small yacht tender and onto the dock at Basil’s Bar. Live music cascaded from the deck where the Wednesday night band provided entertainment to residents, guests, and sailors. No one paid much attention to the two men dressed in the appropriate attire of those who belonged: beige slacks and tropical-colored button-down shirts. Ox wore a light tan jacket to ward off the breeze and Reece had added a navy blue blazer just in case he needed to melt into the shadows. The outerwear also helped conceal the suppressors attached to their subcompact pistols.

  The eighty-foot catamaran moored just offshore belonged to a charter company owned by the CIA’s Maritime Branch. The seaborne equivalent of Ground Branch, they reported to Vic Rodriguez’s Special Activities Center and operated covered maritime assets around the world.

  The two operators ascended the steps to the main-level bar and passed among the dancing revelers, free to let loose with the bar’s no-camera policy, knowing their pictures would not be plastered all over social media the following day.

  “What do you want?” Ox asked, as they approached the bar.

  “Whatever you’re buying,” Reece replied.

  Ox waited at the bar while Reece scanned the crowed. He was searching for someone.

  “What can I get for you?” a distinguished-looking black man asked. His hair was almost all gray and he was dressed in a long, flowing white robe open to his chest. A beaming smile pushed his round glasses up off his cheeks, the soft lights that illuminated the bar reflecting off the thin lenses.

  “What do you suggest, sir?” Ox asked, scanning the selections.

  “I recognize a kindred soul when I see one,” the old man said. “How about a Hurricane David? Most powerful drink on the menu, blend of rums and vodka. Since I can tell it’s your first time here, I’m going mix in a new Ko-Hana rum from a friend in Hawaii.”

  “Mighty kind. I’ll take two,” Ox said.

  The CIA man turned back to Reece. “See him?”

  Reece nodded.

  Their target was not hard to find: young, gelled hair, tight polo to show off his chemically enhanced muscles covered with full-sleeve tattoos. He danced with a woman twice his age on the dance floor. Instea
d of a Patek Philippe or Panerai on his wrist, he sported a Casio G-Shock.

  “I’ve got him,” Reece said.

  “Here you go,” the old man said from behind the bar, sliding the drinks across.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ox said, putting two twenties and a ten in U.S. dollars on the bar.

  “Thank you. Call me Basil. Enjoy your stay.”

  The former Delta Force sergeant major turned back to Reece and handed him the most expensive cocktail he’d ever purchased.

  The two operators moved to a darker corner of the bar, pretending to drink and enjoy a carefree conversation like the rest of the patrons.

  When the contractor they’d already nicknamed “Muscles” broke away from his cougar and sauntered across the floor, Ox looked to his partner.

  “Ready to ruin his night?” he asked.

  Reece set down his untouched drink and moved toward the restroom.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later the three men approached the driveway of Sawyer’s villa on the eastern side of the island, just south of Macaroni Bay. Muscles drove the Mule, a side-by-side four-person vehicle used by most island residents to go from the tennis courts to the beach to Basil’s.

  “Like I said,” Ox reminded “Muscles.” “You cooperate and you get immunity from whatever comes of this. If not, at the very best you are entering into years of legal trouble where your opponent has government attorneys and you have to pay for yours.”

  “We are here for your boss,” Reece said. “Not you or your friends.”

  “I understand,” Muscles said.

  It hadn’t taken much: a marshal badge and the recognition that two serious CIA operatives wanted a word with Erik Sawyer and his guest. The suppressed SIG P365 pistol Reece held as Ox explained the situation didn’t hurt, either.

  “Once again,” Reece clarified. “We have no issues with you or your team. We just need you to stand down. If not, we will kill all of you and I’ll make sure you take the first bullet.”

  Muscles swallowed hard and nodded.

  * * *

  “How about a cigar?” Sawyer asked. “This one’s on me. I won’t even add it to your bill.”

  “That’s generous of you,” Thwaite said, his voice the epitome of contempt.

  “The deck then. It’s a beautiful night,” Sawyer said, rising from his chair and picking up a glossy black and red box from a wood sideboard filled with china.

  The doors leading to the balcony that overlooked the pool and ocean were already open.

  “I smoked my first cigar out here,” Sawyer said, taking in the view. “We’d spend a few weeks here every season.”

  “You were a lucky fucking kid,” Thwaite said.

  “That is true,” Sawyer conceded, opening the box and holding it out for his guest.

  “What do we have?” Thwaite asked.

  “Cohiba Spectre. Even I had a tough time finding them.”

  Thwaite picked a thick cigar from the box and ran it under his nose, closing his eyes to inhale the sweet nut and maple flavors of the exquisitely aged leaf.

  “A woman is only a woman…” he said.

  “…but a good cigar is a smoke,” Sawyer added, completing the Rudyard Kipling line from The Betrothed.

  “Ha! Isn’t that the truth,” the senator stated. “Pass me your lighter, would you?”

  * * *

  Reece left Ox holding his weapon on the kneeling four-man contracted guard force and made his way up the stairs and down the hall. The contractors were the modern equivalent of mercenaries. Their loyalty was to the dollar. None of them were ready to die for their CEO. One way or another their boss was going down. They were not about to drown with a sinking ship. Ox’s Glock 43 along with zip ties reinforced with rigger’s tape ensured they wouldn’t have a sudden change of heart.

  At the end of the hall, Reece inched a tall door open. Two dirty dinner plates were at opposite ends of a long table. Hearing voices from the balcony, he moved toward his objective.

  * * *

  A shadow warned them they were no longer alone.

  The blood drained from Thwaite’s face and his hand fell to the armrest of his wicker lounge chair, the ash from his cigar dropping to the deck.

  Sawyer’s natural reaction was to go for his pistol, but he recognized the intruder immediately and thought better of it.

  “James Reece, what a surprise,” the Masada CEO ventured, his voice masking an unease he hadn’t felt since the streets of Mogadishu.

  Reece moved onto the expansive balcony, weapon extended, a light breeze rustling through the fronds of the imported palm trees below.

  The two men sat in high-backed dark wicker chairs. A rattan coffee table was positioned between them, adorned with a massive glass ashtray. Reece redirected the pistol from Sawyer to the senator.

  “This ends one of two ways, Senator. You either come back with me or I spill your brains all over your friend’s outdoor furniture.”

  “And what about him?” Thwaite asked, pointing his partially smoked Cohiba at the Whore of War across from him.

  “Oh, he’s coming, too.”

  Sawyer took a deep pull of his cigar, exhaling the sweet smoke into the island air.

  “How did you find me, Mr. Reece? I’m curious.”

  “Trade secrets, Sawyer. You aren’t quite as smart as you think.”

  “Fascinating,” Sawyer said, making a mental note to fire his attorneys.

  “You can’t just come in here and threaten me. I’m a sitting United States senator, for God’s sake.”

  Reece raised the pistol and watched Thwaite shrink back into the cushions of his chair.

  “You, Senator, are much more than that. You leaked a video extremely damaging to the security of the country. You also issued an order to kill me and a doctor trying to save the lives of almost half a million of our fellow countrymen.”

  “I deny these unfounded accusations!”

  “You can deny all you want, Senator. Sawyer’s wannabe operators sang like canaries. You can come back with me or you can die here and end up a part of island lore.”

  Thwaite’s mouth opened agape, looking to Sawyer for help.

  The former Army Ranger took a drawn-out puff of his Cohiba, weighing his options. When the opportunity arose, he’d go for his Glock and do what his underlings had proven incapable of; he would kill James Reece.

  Create your opportunity.

  “I think we will stay right here, Commander,” Sawyer said, buying time. “The American public will soon forget any good you may have done. They will be much more concerned that a president has a lone-wolf assassin running around in violation of international law and our very own Bill of Rights.”

  Just create the space you need to go for the Glock. Action is faster than reaction. You’ve got this.

  “That’s a distinct possibility, Sawyer, and something we can’t control. What you can control is how this night ends.”

  “My lawyers will have me out of this as soon as I set foot on U.S. soil. It’s best for you to let this lie. No good can come from it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Sawyer. Something will come from it.”

  “Oh yeah, and what’s that?” Sawyer asked, shifting his weight to give him better access to the modified pistol in his waistband.

  “Justice,” Reece said.

  Three shots tore through the night air in rapid succession, but they didn’t come from Reece’s gun.

  The first two rounds missed completely, sailing off into the night. The third caught Sawyer just below the heart, his body contorting around the wound. His hands fumbled at his shirt as he grabbed for something in the front of his pants.

  Reece spun back to the senator and went to a knee to change his elevation in time to see Thwaite fire another round from a shiny silver small-framed revolver. The fourth round entered Sawyer’s forehead, taking most of his skull with it, a large chunk of gray brain matter catching on the wicker seatback. His head dropped to his chest
and his lifeless body fell forward in his chair.

  Reece slowly stood, his weapon trained on the senator, who still had his pistol pointed at the man who had so tormented and ultimately failed him.

  Depending on the model, Reece knew it still had one or two live rounds in the cylinder.

  “Senator, you have one chance to put that down.”

  Unable to take his eyes off his psychological tormentor, Thwaite slowly moved the Smith & Wesson revolver to his lap.

  “It’s over,” he whispered.

  “It’s over,” Reece repeated, his finger taking up slack on the trigger.

  “You know,” Thwaite said, a knowing smile slowly forming on his lips as he turned his head to Reece. “You won’t live through the year.”

  To Reece’s inquisitive look he continued: “I just killed the one person on earth who can call off a hit on you.”

  The senator’s smile broadened.

  Then he brought the revolver to the side of his head, closed his eyes, and blew his brains across the veranda.

  CHAPTER 75

  Catoctin Mountain Park, Maryland

  “I GIVE US A one-in-ten chance of making it alive,” Katie teased.

  It was the inaugural voyage of the 1985 Jeep Grand Wagoneer that had once belonged to Reece’s father. It was finally up and running, the 5.9-liter V8 delivering a whopping 140 horsepower. Katie couldn’t help but give Reece a hard time about his “classic” as the heavy four-by-four lumbered up Route 15 toward Thurmont.

  “Oh, come on,” Reece replied. “Sixty percent of the time it works every time.”

  Katie rolled her eyes at the old movie line.

  “I even got the back window to roll up,” he said proudly.

  “Correction: an army of mechanics attempted to fix the back window, but now it’s stuck in the ‘up’ position.”

  “You see—progress.”

  They turned onto Rocky Ridge Road and crossed over Big Hunting Creek.

  “This is where she really excels,” Reece kidded, stepping on the gas.