The Shop

from above and wavelets washed over him from below. He saw Franklin and Jolie circle around, pick up the girl, and return to the dock.

He let himself drift, because he was drifting in the right direction.

He took stock of his injuries. His right arm was still useable in the water, although he had limited movement. The duct tape helped. His back still felt wrong from the shot he’d taken in the tunnel. The vest had saved his life, but that whole section above his kidney throbbed, and he wondered if there had been a hairline crack in the bone and maybe some internal damage. Nothing he could do about that, so he took inventory of his other injuries. His nose was broken, and he bled profusely from a gash in his scalp. The propeller had nicked him close to his eye. Scalp wounds bled a lot. He managed to rip off his shirt, wrap it around his head, and put pressure on the wound, keeping his hand clamped hard against it. There were other, lesser injuries. He wouldn’t worry about them now. He bobbed up and down in the water as he’d been trained to do at Coronado, his good arm keeping the shirt pressed hard against his head. Up, down, like a cork. Using his legs to kick up, then sinking back down beneath the surface, lower and lower, holding his breath, before kicking back up. He was drifting east, in the direction of the road leading to the peninsula.

A long way to go, but that didn’t bother him. He had been trained for this. He kept up the rhythm. Down, up. Down, up. When he felt the wound had coagulated, he left the shirt tied around his head and treaded water with his arms.

Hours. The rain came down harder. It got darker. Sirens, lights. Cop cars racing down the strand, converging on the island. They were followed by a cavalcade of black SUVs—swift, dark, and silent. A police helicopter flew over, its light just barely missing him, and landed at the compound. He could barely see through the waves and the rain and the dark, but the lights blinked along with the pulsing pain.

He’d drifted too far to the north. The closest shore was due east. In the dark he looked at his watch, at the lighted numbers of the GPS. Changed his trajectory slightly, keeping the dark mass of land in his vision. Knew he could go all day, all night if he had to.

More sirens. More lights. More SUVs. Paramedic trucks, their lights and sirens off. But he was encapsulated in his own little cocoon of self-preservation. Just keep the direction…

When he made landfall, he crawled on his belly into the reeds. He did not move. He would not move until the early hours of the morning.

When three a.m. came and went, he followed the road north. The convenience store he’d spotted on his way to and from the compound was locked up for the night, dark—the only structure on the road. The store dated from the seventies, which was good news for him. An old place like that might have a pay phone on the wall outside.

And it did.

His brother answered on the first ring.

Landry said, “How’s Ocala?”

“It’s great, bro. Beautiful! Seen a couple of yearlings I like. Thanks for the trip.”

“Good.” Landry took a breath. Fatigue was beginning to set in. “Sorry, but you’re gonna have to cut your vacation short,” he said. “I need you to come and get me.”

63 TWO MONTHS LATER

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA, CONCOURSE B

Jolie Burke walked past banks of television monitors on her way to gate ten. She didn’t have to watch the screen to know what was on. The cable networks were following the story. The former attorney general of the United States had been indicted by a grand jury for his role in the cover-up of the death of Nathan Dial by the vice president of the United States.

Jolie had been a witness for the prosecution.

She’d been warned by the prosecutor that while there had been enough to seek an indictment by the grand jury, there was little direct evidence of the crime. Nathan Dial’s body had never been recovered. While there was enough for a trial, he said, it was unlikely that anyone involved in the events on Indigo Island would spend a day in jail.

Milky sunlight came through the windows as Jolie approached the sitting area near her gate. The televisions continued to blare from every wall. She saw herself, dressed in a good suit, walking down the steps of the U.S. District Court in DC, a forest of microphones held up to her face. Her lawyer pushed their way through the crowd, shielding Jolie, saying, “My client has no comment at this time.” That particular segment had been on cable news for the better part of an hour.

The worst moment for Jolie had come immediately after the indictment had been handed down and the grand jury was dismissed. She’d been ushered unceremoniously through a little-used corridor and had come face-to-face with Kay, Zoe, and Riley.

Kay, who had been crying, saw Jolie. She broke away from the group and walked up to Jolie.

“Why did you have to drag us through all this now? Why?”

Zoe came to stand by her mother. She looked mortified. “Mom, she—”

“Saved your life,” Kay said, not taking her eyes from Jolie’s face. “I know. And I thank you for that.” She sounded anything but thankful. “But what’s going to happen to Riley’s father? Did you think about that?”

Jolie had no answer.

Kay turned away. Zoe stayed where she was for a moment, torn. Then she followed her mother down the corridor.

The trial would be many months away, but for Jolie, it was over in so many ways. She’d lost her cousin and best friend. She’d lost her livelihood—Skeet had finally found a way to lay her off. And she was a pariah in a county where Haddox money had always greased the wheels and kept businesses, large and small, going.

And what did they have to show for it? Conspiracy to cover up a crime. That was the only repercussion from a government-sanctioned killing spree that took the lives of Brienne Cross and so many others.

But there was little to no proof of these crimes.

The two white supremacists who had been charged in the deaths of Brienne Cross and the Soul Mate reality show contestants were released due to lack of evidence. Donny Lee Odell claimed he was at the Evergreen Tavern in Salida, Colorado, almost four hours away by car from Aspen, at the time of the murders. Two people had recently come forward to confirm his alibi. Jolie thought it was interesting that they had come forward now.

The tests of the blood found on the knife at Odell’s home proved inconclusive.

Mike Cardamone’s body was never found. The dead men on Indigo and the dead men in the house on Sea Oats Lane remained unidentified except for the FBI agent, Eric Salter, and a private investigator named Ted Bakus. The three other men in the house might have never existed at all. Their fingerprints were not on record. A raid on Cardamone’s office provided nothing. Everything about the business was legitimate. There were no assassination teams. No names in the databases, no payment records.

Every byte of computer data they could find had been analyzed by an outside consultant.

There was nothing. The computers had been wiped clean, magnetized, and destroyed. Sanitized.

Whitbread Associates owned two jets. The manifests did show that they had been to Panama City and Tallahassee on the day of the firefight on Indigo. Their serial numbers had been recorded.

The FBI would look into it.

Meanwhile, the images of the dead men had been released to the media. But no one came forward.

Media requests to law enforcement on every level were met with disinterest.

Pretty soon a picture emerged. A rival Congolese megachurch used rioters to burn Reverend Wembi’s church, which had been under investigation for money laundering. Experts posited that the megachurch also ordered a hit on Grace’s family on Indigo.