In those first moments, hustled on board the Coast Guard ship, he had been tempted to spill every detail he could remember about the crimes he had committed for Viscaya. With Miguel dead, he had no one left to protect. He could turn state’s evidence, testify against Esper and the others, do a little time and then start a new life somewhere.
Then he had seen the smug look on the face of the grim, square-jawed FBI man—obviously the boss—and that made the decision for him. The FBI could go fuck themselves. The only two people Gabe really loved had betrayed him. His marriage lay in ruin and those things—don’t think about them—had killed his brother. He’d lost his ship and most of his crew was dead. What more could they do to him than that?
Maybe twelve hours had passed since the Coast Guard ship had found them on the lifeboat the night before. Gabe had asked after the others—Angie and Tori and even Josh—but no one would give him any answers. The Coast Guard officers stationed outside his door would not speak to him. His only contact had been with the FBI, who had questioned him last night, allowed him four or five hours’ sleep, and then questioned him again this morning. Now they were back for round three, only with a twist.
A female twist. A new face. As though that would make some kind of difference.
“Let’s try this again, Mr. Rio.” The words came from Special Agent O’Connell. Thinning silver hair, fiftyish, salt and pepper mustache. They had spent too many hours together already, and Gabe had tired of his voice.
“Captain Rio,” Gabe corrected.
O’Connell sighed and exchanged a glance and a theatrical head-shake with his superior officer, Supervisory Special Agent Ed Turcotte. Gabe loved that the assholes introduced themselves like that, as if he gave a shit what brand of agent they might be.
“Are you kidding?”
This question came from the attractive, auburn-haired woman who had appeared in the room with Turcotte and O’Connell this morning, as though she had been there all along. Of course she hadn’t. Gabe had been exhausted and grieving—he still was—but he could never have encountered Rachael Voss and forgotten her. Not with that small, lithe body and the way she almost flaunted the pistol holstered at her waist. Not with the fire in her eyes and the tension in her every motion, and certainly not with the way she prowled the room side to side like a lioness about to pounce. The woman had smiled at him, introduced herself by name instead of title, but Gabe took one look at her and knew that, in her eyes, he was prey. Ed Turcotte might be running this show, and O’Connell might be his attack dog interrogator, but Rachael Voss had been the one hunting him, which meant that Josh Hart came from her team. Turcotte had already said he was Counter Terrorism, but the dynamic in the room made it obvious that Voss didn’t work for him.
“Excuse me?” Gabe said.
Voss leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms, trying to act aloof and failing. “I said you must be kidding with this ‘captain’ shit. I’m pretty sure your days as captain of anything but your cell block are over.”
Gabe leaned back and shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Voss. I mean, I’ve heard all of these accusations, but I haven’t seen any evidence. I told you what happened to my ship—“
“You’ve told us shit,” O’Connell interjected. “Wake up, Gabriel. You were just doing a job, man, and look what it cost you. Your brother, your crew, and you can bet your ass it’s going to get you some jail time. The question is, how much? Do you really want to take this hit alone? Give us Viscaya, and we can help you.”
Gabe shook his head, images of Miguel playing across his mind. His brother had grown up to be a trouble magnet, always dragging Gabe into his shit. As boys they had been inseparable, constantly in fistfights with other kids or with each other, sticking together no matter how ugly the scrape. Even then, Miguel’s mouth got them into tight spots, but Gabe had never minded. The first time he’d fallen in love, with a girl named Elena, Miguel had stolen a gold necklace for Gabe to give to her. It made him a thief, yes, but a thoughtful one. He could still remember the gleam of mischief in Miguel’s eyes when he showed Gabe the necklace, not to mention the delicious reward he’d received from Elena in return.
Gabe had loved his brother, even when that love—and his desire to help Miguel keep his job—had made Gabe into a criminal himself. And now he hated him, too. If Miguel had lived, perhaps one day they might have come to terms with what had happened, but now they would never have that chance.
“There’s nothing you can do to help me,” he said. “Can you bring Miguel back to life? I don’t think so.”
Voss stepped away from the wall and walked toward him. She moved easily, despite the gentle bob of the ship on the ocean, and he knew she’d spent a lot of time at sea. Yeah, chasing guys like you, he thought, and was surprised to find that he could not muster up any hatred for her. Jesus. Miguel is dead.
He exhaled and felt himself deflate.
“No one can help your brother now, Captain Rio,” Voss said, and her use of the word made him lift his head. He studied her eyes, trying to figure out her angle. “Everyone you left behind on the Antoinette is helping the past, now. The best thing you can do is help yourself. Special Agent Hart says you helped save his life last night, that you could have left him—“
“Agent Voss!” Turcotte warned, glaring like the damned Grim Reaper.
“—that you could have left him there, and that if you hadn’t given him a hand, it’s possible your brother would still be alive. That action is going to speak well of you at trial. But you are obviously a smart man, Captain. You know there is going to be a trial, and that you are going to prison.”
Gabe glanced at O’Connell and Turcotte, both of whom looked ticked. He liked that Voss had pissed them off.
“You don’t have any evidence,” he said.
Voss rolled her eyes. “Come on, Gabe. Before this is over, we’ll get evidence off of your ship and off the island. Even without it, we’ll have testimony from Agent Hart, as well as from Tori Austin and Angela Tyree. You don’t think they’ll give you up to make things easier on themselves? I don’t know why you’d bother trying to protect the guys you work for. They sure as hell aren’t going to hire you back when you get out of prison. We’ve got you, Captain. So why are you still fighting us?”
Gabe stared at Voss. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help it.
“Fighting’s the only thing I’ve ever done well.” But that only brought more thoughts of Miguel, grim nightmare images that wiped away all traces of his smile. A fresh wave of anger rushed through him and he turned to Turcotte.
“Look, if Josh—if Agent Hart—is awake, then you know everything I said about the island is true. Why are you even bothering with me? Dozens of people died last night. My people. My crew. Maybe they don’t mean anything to you, but what happens next time someone finds that island?”
“We’re here to talk about you, Mr. Rio. Nothing else,” O’Connell said. He had a file open in front of him. “Let’s go back to this fishing boat that Miss Austin told us about. How did you—“
“Dan,” Turcotte said. “Leave it, for now. There’ll be plenty of time later.”
Rachael Voss’s eyes turned stormy and Gabe thought she would argue, but then she relented. When Turcotte and O’Connell stood, the latter closing his file and tucking it under his arm, she moved with them toward the door.
“Turcotte,” Gabe said.
The Counter Terrorism agent turned to look at him. They all did.
“You don’t want to believe me, I get it. But at least check it out.”
“We did,” Turcotte said. “Scratch that. We are. We’re here now, Mr. Rio. If you had a window to look out of, you’d be able to see the Antoinette just off to starboard. I’ve got a boarding team on the way out to her right now.”
Gabe slid back in his chair, fear welling up inside him. He glanced around, knowing he had nowhere to run.
“You idiots. What the fuck are you…I thought
you were taking me back to Miami! Jesus!” he shouted. “Call them back, man. Keep your people away from the ship and don’t go near that fucking island!”
He stared at them, saw the shock and disdain in their eyes, and understood how his terror must appear to them.
“You wanted us to check it out,” Turcotte said, eyes narrowed. “We’re checking it out.”
Gabe sank into his chair. Whatever weight might have lifted from him before, another took its place now. He thought he had survived the nightmare, but they had brought him right back into it.
“If you do go out to the island, you’d better use the helicopter,” he said. “They won’t let you leave by water. And whatever you do, get all of your ships away from the island by nightfall.”
“We’ve got FBI and Coast Guard here, Mr. Rio,” Turcotte said. “These people are well-trained, and if it comes to that, well-armed.”
Gabe cocked his head and stared at Turcotte. “Yeah. So were we.”
~63~
Angie Tyree saw them every time she closed her eyes. Images played across her mind of the legless things hanging from the walkways of the Antoinette’s accommodations block, or slithering over the railings, pale and luminescent, as though their flesh consisted only of scars. She could still hear the echoes of Rogan’s screams, still see the things driving Miguel to the deck and tearing him apart.
She couldn’t stop crying and she hated that. All her life she had prided herself on being the tough girl. But all of that had been stripped away and she felt raw and jagged inside. The doctor hadn’t found anything physically wrong with her, but she knew that she would never be okay again. The fear had gotten deep inside her, not just under the skin but down to the bone, and it nested in her marrow like a cancer.
So when the door opened, the click of the latch alone was enough to make Angie let out a soft cry and slide across the cot, jamming herself into the corner, hugging herself protectively, wondering if she would die now. The sunlight streaming in through the window and the bright blue Caribbean sky did nothing to lessen her terror.
When the FBI agent entered the room, she let out a breath and her eyes fluttered closed for a second. She allowed herself to sit on the cot instead of crouching in the corner, but her muscles remained tensed, ready to fight or run. Angie told herself she would not die quietly, that she would scream the way Rogan had, so that her screams would ring in the ears of those who heard them for the rest of their lives. In that way, for a time, at least, she would be remembered. Someone would know she had been on this damned planet.
The agent had a plate of food, rice and black beans or something. When he spotted her perched uncomfortably on the cot, his eyes were filled with such humanity that Angie began to cry harder. She tried to staunch the flow of tears, tried to summon the inner bitch she had always worn as a mask at her own convenience, but it wouldn’t come.
“Ms. Tyree,” the agent said. He was a big guy, and decent looking--not one of the agents who had questioned her earlier. “I’m Special Agent Plausky. I thought you must be hungry. I don’t know when you ate last—“
“Why are we still here?” she asked, hearing the numbness of her own voice but unable to do anything about it.
Plausky set the plate on a little table in a corner opposite the cot, never taking his eyes off of her. The FBI body language spoke clearly—he wore his gun in an armpit holster like a cop in some 80s movie, and was aware both of the weapon and of the crying woman in his custody. He would not turn his back on her, give her a chance to try for the gun. Angie figured it must just be training, because the idea that she might attempt such a thing felt absurd.
“Ms. Tyree, this is a major FBI investigation. The operation is not going to be over any time soon. When my superiors feel like they’re done with you, and if opportunity arises, I’ll do my best to have you transported either back to St. Croix or to Miami. You’ll remain in federal custody until someone decides to let you go.”
The words fell upon her like icy rain. Angie shivered, shaking her head.
“You don’t get it. You don’t get it,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. She glanced at the window and turned quickly away, afraid of what might appear there, despite the sunshine. “I can’t stay here. None of us can stay here.”
Plausky sighed and dragged the chair over from the small table. He perched on the edge of the chair, maybe trying to make her feel comfortable by moving down to her level, but still not letting his guard down.
“Ms. Tyree—Angie—trust me when I say you’re not in any danger, now.”
She laughed, but the laugh became a sob and she broke down, bowing her head. “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding?”
Again, Plausky sighed. “Look, I’m trying to be polite here, but you’ve got to get it together. A real conversation wouldn’t be a bad place to start. If you want to help yourself, you could start by talking about the Rio brothers and Viscaya, and what you know about the guns.”
Angie shuddered, closed her eyes, and heard gunfire that made her flinch. But it wasn’t happening now, only in her memory.
“The guns are gone.” She opened her eyes and fixed him with a stare, breathing evenly, and managed to stop crying. Sniffling, she wiped at her nose. “You people are fucking crazy. The guns are gone.”
“But you saw them?” Plausky asked, obviously interested now that she was talking about his precious investigation.
Angie took a long breath, steadying herself. “Yes. I saw them.”
Plausky tried to keep a straight face so she wouldn’t know how pleased he was with this. When he had tried to question her before, Angie had been unable to stop crying, had barely been able to speak. It had all been a blur to her, but she thought she had been screaming as well.
“Can you describe what you saw?” Plausky asked. “What type of guns, and how many?”
Angie hugged herself and glanced at the window. Forcing herself to stand, jaw tight with fear, she climbed off the bed and went to peer out through the glass. In the distance she could see the island. Closer—much closer—the Antoinette loomed in the water, dark and menacing. It looked abandoned, but she knew that was not the case.
“Not enough,” she whispered.
“What’s that?”
Heat rushing to her face, she rounded on him. “Not enough!” she screamed, fists clenched at her sides. “We didn’t have enough guns, you stupid fucking Fed. These things were endless, like cockroaches. Bring all the guns you want; it won’t make a difference!”
Plausky got up from his chair, backing away so quickly that he tipped it over. She saw the alarm in his eyes, saw his hand twitch toward his weapon and the way he tensed, and she started to fall apart all over again.
“Please,” she said, slumping back against the wall. The images forced themselves into her head again, and now she did not even have to close her eyes. Rogan’s screams lingered in the air around her, following her, haunting her. “You’ve got to get me out of here. I don’t care where you send me, but please don’t make me stay. I’ll say whatever you want, but please…”
Her body shook and she crawled back onto the bed, pushed herself into the corner, and watched the windows and the door and the shadowed corners, despair crushing her.
“Angela, listen,” Plausky ventured. “You’re totally safe here. I swear.”
She turned from him, covered her face, and curled into a fetal ball. Words had failed her. All she could do now was wonder how many hours remained before nightfall. How many minutes were left for her to live.
~64~
Tori had a great many reasons to scream, but one overwhelming reason not to—her head ached fiercely, like someone had clamped a vise on the back of her skull. The Coast Guard ship—the Kodiak—had a doctor on board, and the man seemed to have stepped out of an old movie. Fiftyish, with a Jack Lemmon sort of everyman quality, Dr. Paul Dwyer had a gentle smile and kind blue eyes, and made her feel like maybe her head hadn’t actually
cracked open. In the time he had spent with her, Dr. Dwyer had also made her feel like she was not a prisoner.
But when Dr. Dwyer left, the FBI agent in the hall had glanced in at her and then nodded to the two Coast Guard officers, who had shut the door and locked it behind them, leaving her alone with her splitting headache, her blood-matted hair, stitches in her scalp, and a couple of lovely Percocets.
The painkillers had allowed her to sleep for a while, but they had worn off too quickly, and now the sunlight streaming through the window made her cringe. The doctor had told her she had a minor concussion, but it did not feel minor. There were scratches and bruises all over her body, but none of that hurt her. The pain in her skull overrode any other stimuli.
But she had other reasons to scream. Memories, to begin with. Kevonne, Bone, Pang, Pucillo, and so many others were dead. As much as she had come to despise Rogan and Miguel, no one deserved to die like that. Despite how close she had come to death—or perhaps because of it—the images in Tori’s head were jumbled. She remembered white flesh and black eyes and the way the creatures stuck to the sides of the derelict ships and slithered up onto the Antoinette. She remembered blood and thrashing and shrieks of agony. Yet somehow she could not form a real picture of one of the sirens in her mind. If she had a pencil and paper, she could not have drawn one.
Perhaps that was a mercy.
Yet even with her head splitting and the horrors fresh in her mind, her number one reason to scream actually put a smile on her face. For as Tori stood at the window, squinting against the daylight, and stared out at the Antoinette and the island beyond it, she felt a sublime sense of bliss, a mad elation that soothed her even better than Percocet.
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