The Black Bullet

was ripped out during a hurricane, there would be a big root ball. Through the years, the plants that grew from a hole deeper than the surrounding ground would be shorter than those around them.”

Nick said, “This is like tracking Mother Nature.”

“Let’s use the metal prod and see if we can get lucky.”

“I’ll start in one part and work around ‘till I’ve covered the area.” He stuck the prod in the sand, using his weight to work the point deep into the soil. Nothing. He tried again in an area about five feet to the east. Nothing. He slapped at biting sand fleas and mosquitoes and said, “I’m gonna use the treasure finder.”

O’Brien picked up the prod and began working it into the sandy soil. He looked toward the watchtower, the light now like a firefly in the misty air. After several prods and in keeping an eye on the rotation of the light coming through the tower, he worked his way closer to the beach, “Bring that thing over here, Nick. Think I found something.”

Nick moved the metal detector just above the surface where O’Brien pointed. “Not a peep,” Nick said.

O’Brien picked up a shovel and removed a few large scoops of sand. “Try again.”

As Nick moved the detector over the hole, there was a faint beep … beep. “Pay dirt! Lemme help you.” He took the shovel and started digging. Within a minute, Nick hit something. It was metal clashing against metal, the dull sound of iron against an anvil. Nick dropped to his knees. “Hit me with the light!” O’Brien pointed the flashlight beam into the hole as Nick scooped out the sand with his hands. “We found it! We fuckin’ found the rest of the magic dust!” Nick used both hands to brush the sand from one canister, reaching in, struggling to lift it from the hole.

Within twenty minutes of intense digging and prying, they had removed eight canisters from the hole. “Hand me the prod,” Nick said. After a few more stabs through the sand, Nick hit something. He dropped back to his knees and, again, began moving the loose sand with his hands. “This one doesn’t feel like a canister. Hit me with some light.” O’Brien aimed the light where Nick dug. “Mother Mary!” Nick shouted, dropping the object and making the sign of the cross.

The vacant eye sockets of a human skull stared up from the bottom of the pit.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

O’Brien called Dave Collins. “We found them. We’re pulling them out of a hole on Rattlesnake Island about eighty yards north of the Matanzas Bridge.”

“Excellent. We’ll send agents. Mike Gates doesn’t want to alert the locals. He doesn’t want a lot of blue lights flashing or media getting wind of the pick up. It’s too dangerous. Couple guys he’s sending are bomb experts.”

“Dave, these aren’t bombs. They’re the fuel for bombs.”

“FBI folks have their way of doing things.”

“Maybe they have their own medical examiner.”

“You found a body?”

“Buried under the canisters.”

“State of decomposition?”

“Sixty-seven years. Picked clean.”

“We’ll send some people.”

“The vic’s probably what’s left of the German sailor Billy Lawson saw shot. They must have tossed him in the hole and buried him with the HEU.”

Andrei Keltzin and Zakhar Sorokin received the call as they were entering the parking lot of a Waffle House. Keltzin answered. In Russian, the voice said, “They are leaving now. Coming south from Washington Oaks. Destination … Bank of America at the corner of Beach and Oakridge in Daytona.”

“How many?”

“Four. One vehicle. Dark blue, Ford van. Tag … J79K1S5.”

“Very good.” Keltzin disconnected and drove slowly around the parking lot. At 5:00 a.m. there were only three cars in the lot, and one was a Florida Highway Patrol car. Keltzin said, “I see two officers at the counter paying their check. Do you think they know it was their last meal?”

Sorokin smiled. “I hope to keep blood off the uniforms.”

Three FBI agents handled the canisters like they were touching fully rigged nuclear bombs. They carefully loaded them in the back of a dark non-descript van they’d parked beside O’Brien’s Jeep. When the final canister was braced in the reinforced crate, Special Agent Bridges said, “We’ll get these into a secure area. Task force wants them stored in a bank vault. They’ve made arrangements to have the Bank of America opened tonight by the manager.”

“What are the plans for the dummy transfer?” O’Brien asked. “We have less than thirty-five hours.”

“Gates wants to extend the window as long as possible to give us more time to find where these unsubs are.”

A second van pulled near the first FBI vehicle. Two men got out, their dark windbreakers marked in bold white letters: FBI. They removed a gurney and body bag from the van. One asked, “Where’s the body?”

“Nothing left but bones,” Nick said, glancing toward the island.

O’Brien said, “Take our Zodiac. You can’t miss the hole. It’s about half way up the island. I left a shovel stuck in the sand, vertical. You’ll see it.”

“Appreciate that,” said the agent. They boarded the Zodiac with their gear and headed through the pass toward Rattlesnake Island.

The other four agents got into their van. The driver, Agent Bridges, lowered his window and followed the men in the Zodiac with his eyes before locking them on O’Brien. He said, “You guys made a hellava find over there. Nice bit of police work; we’ll take it from here.”

“How about if we follow you to the bank? You might need more back-up.”

The agent glanced at Nick, looked at O’Brien, and shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks. Orders from the top.”

“I need to be there for the transfer,” O’Brien said. “Their hostage is my employee. More than that, he’s the son of my close friend.”

“I understand. Take it up with Gates. We’re the messengers and right now, the delivery wagon. Why don’t you guys get some sleep?” He put the van in reverse, turned around, and headed south down highway A1A.

The blue van passed by Marineland, which was closed and dark except for a few security lights catching the acrobatics of bats. The FBI agents continued south through Washington Oaks and drove the highway hugging the beach, the moon reflecting off the breakers. Agent Bridges pushed the van to seventy-five miles-per-hour. He glanced up in his rearview mirror. Blue lights. “Shit!” he said.

“What’s wrong?” an agent in the back seat asked.

“We’ve got the locals pulling us over for speeding.”

“Probably one of the Barney Fifes looking to make his quota.”

“It’s the end of the month,” said the agent sitting on the front passenger side. “These guys have to make the town’s budget.”

“Yeah, but not on our time,” said Agent Bridges. He pulled over, lowered his window and waited. In the side mirror, he watched as the state trooper got out of the car, the strobe of blue lights crossing A1A and fading against the dark sea, the sound of the waves breaking over sand illuminated by the moon.

The trooper stepped to the window. “Sir, is there a reason you’re speeding?”

Agent Bridges said, “We’re FBI heading into Daytona in an emergency status.” He handed his ID to the trooper. The agent in the passenger side noticed something in his side-view mirror. He sat up, lowering his window. The trooper holding Agent Bridges’ ID, handed it back and said, “We’d be happy, sir, to offer an escort under blue light.”

“No thanks,” Agent Bridges said, placing his ID back in his pocket. He never made it. A nine millimeter bullet