The Shop

“It’s not important. So what are you going to do? Arrest your own uncle?”

“I can’t arrest him now. I need evidence.”

“The kid was gay, right?”

“So?”

“You his mother?”

“No. But someone should have been.”

“He was a throwaway.”

“To them.”

“You’ll never find him—Dial. He’s long gone.”

“I know that.” She could have told him that you could convict someone without a body, but didn’t.

He said, “The vice president’s dead. He’s out of it. Nobody’s going to prosecute him now. You think you can nail your uncle for covering it up?”

“I have no idea.” She nodded to his arsenal. “You going to use all of those yourself?”

He looked at her but said nothing.

“If you let me go, I could protect my family.”

“You’re more good to me here.”

She tried again. “Can’t we get them off the island?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know what you’re up against. A team of operatives is coming—killers.”

“All the more reason to let us get out now.”

His lips tightened in a thin line. “When Cardamone and his crew get here, I’ll let all of you go.”

“If Cardamone comes. There’s no guarantee he’s coming.”

“He’s coming.”

“You’re going to leave me chained like this?”

When he didn’t answer, she said, “I have to be able to protect myself.”

Shadows from the raindrops on the window crawled down the side of his face like ants. His expression was unreadable. Dark in here, even though it was midday. Half his face was in shadow.

“You were wrong when you said you didn’t need me,” she said. “I was a sharpshooter champion.”

He motioned to the gear bag. “If you can get yourself out of here, you’ll have all the firepower you need.”

And he left her there.

It seemed as if hours went by, but when Jolie looked at her watch, it had only been forty-five minutes.

Staring at the image on the monitor so long it was a blur.

Trying not to think about Brienne Cross and those kids killed in Aspen. Hard to believe what Cyril had told her.

But she did believe him.

Her eye caught movement in the bay. She realized now that most of the boats were gone. Now there was just a steady curtain of rain and gray-green mist, the rain so thick it washed away the shadows. But she saw at least one boat out there. She couldn’t tell distance, but it was beyond the waves coming in on the little beach, just a smudge, a shadow. There one moment, and then the waves moved and she wondered if it was her imagination.

She caught something else, the screen that showed the causeway. A man walking toward the mainland. It could be Cyril, or it could be someone else.

She looked at the place where the boat was—what she thought was a boat.

Couldn’t see it now.

Then the room went dark.

Staying under cover, Landry made his way toward the gatehouse. The media was gone. In just ten minutes, it had gone from dozens of cars and news vans to a couple of stragglers on Cape San Blas Road.

He entered the gatehouse and, concealed from view, waited. It wasn’t long before an SUV on the mainland slowed down on Route 30, stopping less than an eighth of a mile away. The headlights shone through needles of rain as it pulled off onto a cleared space and engineered a K-turn. The vehicle moved slowly, as if the driver was worried about getting stuck in the mud. The SUV backed up almost to the water, blocking Landry’s view. Then it pulled back out onto the road, going in the other direction.

Landry had gamed this scenario himself, with Jackson, Davis, and Green. They’d gone over the schematic showing the landline and utility power running along the causeway in a flexible conduit, connecting to the mainland, how they could cut the power at its source, a junction box just above the water line. The box was concealed by bushes for aesthetic effect.

It would take a while for the op—possibly a former Navy SEAL like himself—to make it to the cable running along the causeway. Landry stayed in the gatehouse and scanned the water, looking for one of three things. Rising bubbles from SCUBA gear. He saw none; if the swimmer used SCUBA gear, he would have to ditch it before he reached the shallower water near the causeway. Landry looked for a snorkel, or perhaps a floating plastic bottle hiding a snorkel. He saw nothing like that. Then he looked for the man’s forehead and nose to come up very briefly in the wave troughs. There was a large expanse of water along the causeway, a continual pattern of wavelets cresting and disappearing, some dark, some white. All running together. Landry concentrated on the water and waited.

He almost missed him—a small movement, disappearing almost instantly. His eye followed the trajectory, and after a very long time, he saw the tip of the man’s nose again. At the same moment he heard the whop-whop-whop of helicopter rotors in the distance. He wondered if the local news affiliate had a helicopter, or if the helo belonged to Cardamone.

No time to wonder—here was his chance. He kept low to the other side of the causeway, walking along riprap, his eye on the water, and hid opposite the junction box behind the rocks at the edge of the causeway. The swimmer would have a cable cutter and a knife—possibly two. But Landry had surprise, and he also had a knife.

His quarry came out of the water, hugging low to the rocks and slipping into the concealment of the bushes. Before he could hack all the way through the cable, Landry was on him. They toppled into the water and Landry piggy-backed on him, pinning the man’s back with his knee against the rocks beneath the surface. Holding the swimmer’s forehead with one hand and his chin with the other, Landry jerked the man’s head back with as much force as he could muster. But his bad hand slipped, losing purchase, and his quarry pried at his hands with strong fingers. Landry kept the swimmer’s head underwater, pushing him down into the silt and sharp rocks with his knee. This was incredibly hard to do—his legs felt as if heavy weights were tied to them. The swimmer’s legs scissored —aided by flippers—and he twisted like an eel in Landry’s grip—incredible strength driven by panic. One more time Landry took hold and jerked back, and this time he felt the neck go.

Even though he was sure the swimmer was dead, Landry held him a little longer, to make sure. They had a saying in the SEALs: “Never assume a frogman is dead until you find his body.”

Finally, he released him and kicked away along the causeway to the gatehouse, where the two black SUVs were parked cross-ways in front.

Thinking: One down.

The helo was overhead now, circling. A news copter after all? The Bell JetRanger had a big white “8” on the side with the call letters WFLA NEWS. But the letters didn’t look right—a rush job. The searchlight came on, blinding white and lighting up the ground around the gatehouse. Bursts of shot hit the water and came ever closer, smacking the pavement in a deadly pattern, smashing into the roof of the gatehouse.

He knew it was diversionary, but even so, they could hit him. He made it to the Suburban closest to the compound and crouched by the right front tire, hoping the engine block would stay between him and the helo until he could get into the vehicle. He’d left the keys in both vehicles for just this purpose. The helo hovered, like an angry dog poking its snout through a cat door. Landry launched himself in through the passenger side into the driver’s seat. He floored the Suburban across the causeway, shot pellets shattering the back window. Jammed the