The sweating glasses disappeared from the tray. Fisher turned to leave but was stopped short by a shout from one of Zahm’s men: “Hey, I thought Charles gave you guys the night off.”
Fisher turned. “No, sir. I am here.”
“You’re not Alberto.” The man pointed a wobbly finger at the embroidered name on Fisher’s smock.
“No, senhor. Pierre.” Fisher gave the man a subservient smile.
“Huh. Pierre.”
“Yes, senhor.”
“Okay, then. Keep ’em coming, Pierre.”
“Yes, senhor.”
Fisher walked back to the steps and started upward. When the curve of the stairs blocked the pool area from view, he stopped, crouched down, and set aside the tray. He crab-walked back down until he could again see the pool. He was under no illusion about his Cottonball ruse: The tranquilizer would probably not be enough to render everyone unconscious. What it would do — what he was now seeing — was effectively double the group’s inebriation level and give him the advantage he needed. One of the women, the skinniest of the group, was the first to react, stumbling toward a chaise lounge, where she collapsed, giggling and holding her mojito glass aloft in a babbled toast.
Fisher gave it another ninety seconds, then retrieved his tray and trotted back down the steps. As he walked onto the deck, he held the tray up to shoulder height with his left hand as though announcing the arrival of another round, while reaching behind him and gripping the butt of the SC with his right hand. He walked directly to the densest cluster of people — two of the men and two of the women — and closed the distance to ten feet before he was noticed.
“Hey, there!” one of the men called. “More—”
Fisher let the tip of his foot catch a seam in the deck and stumbled forward, dropping the tray as he did so. As it sailed toward the group’s feet, he drew the SC, brought it up, and fired three times in rapid succession, taking down both men and one of the women. The fourth one reacted surprisingly fast for a drunk, spinning on her heel and running toward the couple who stood twenty feet away. She got halfway there before Fisher’s dart in the nape of her neck took her down. Even before she sprawled to the deck, Fisher shifted aim and fired again, taking out the woman on the chaise lounge. He turned, focused on the couple. From eight feet he fired twice, but a gust of wind took both darts wide, giving the man a chance to reach toward the gun in his waistband. Fisher fired again and this time the dart struck home, hitting him in the hollow of the throat. Beside him, the woman stood still, her arms raised and her mouth agape.
“Please, don’t—”
Fisher darted her in the thigh. She went down.
He spun, SC extended, looking for more targets. There were none.
Fisher immediately realized he’d made a mistake, but given the plethora of fatal errors that accompanied all missions, it was an oversight he could manage: He’d brought flex cuffs enough for only Zahm’s men, so after dragging the bodies closer together he secured the three men and four women in a convoluted daisy chain, wrists and ankles crisscrossing one another until the group resembled a Twister game that had gone awry. Even sober, the best the group could manage would be a disjointed scuttle across the deck; the stairs would be impossible.
Fisher trotted back up to the villa, trussed together the couple in the guest room, then returned to where he’d left Zahm. He was still unconscious. Fisher pulled his balaclava down, then checked his watch. He waited another ten minutes, then went into the kitchen, filled up a pitcher of ice water, and dumped it over Zahm’s upturned face. The improvised waterboarding had the desired effect. Zahm convulsed and sputtered and rolled onto his side, where he vomited. Fisher let him catch his breath, then knelt down beside him and stuck the barrel of the SC into his eye socket. Hard.
“Hey! Who—”
“Shut up.”
Retired or not, drunk or not, Zahm’s soldier instincts kicked in at once. He snapped his mouth shut in midsentence and studied Fisher with a special operator’s gaze.
“I want the combination to your safe,” Fisher said.
Zahm didn’t answer.
“You can talk.”
“Go to hell, mate.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“And if it isn’t, what? You’re going to shoot me?”
Fisher shook his head. “Yes or no?”
“No.”
“I thought as much. On your feet.”
22
Fisher cut Zahm’s feet free, then stood back as the man got up. Normally, Fisher would’ve felt confident keeping a couple of arms’ lengths from an adversary. Zahm rated three.
“What now?” Zahm asked.
“That depends. The safe?”
“Can’t help you, mate.”
“It looks like we’re going fishing.”
“Huh?”
Fisher jerked his head toward the door, then followed Zahm down the hall and out the sliding doors toward the terrace steps. Zahm started down. Fisher kept his eyes alternately fixed on the small of Zahm’s back and his shoulders; if the former SAS man tried to make a move, one or both of those spots would telegraph his intentions, giving Fisher the extra split second he needed.
The lack of any computers in Zahm’s home suggested that the man was technologically unsavvy, but Fisher didn’t believe this. Zahm led one of the most successful gangs of thieves in British history and hadn’t even come close to being caught. So the question was, why no computers? Fisher suspected Zahm simply didn’t trust digital storage. While he wasn’t certain he’d find what he was looking for in the safe — or that it even existed — it seemed the logical place to start.
His choice regarding Zahm’s interrogation, however, was based solely on instinct: The former SAS man wasn’t likely to crack under normal methods. What Fisher had planned was abnormal in the extreme.
When Zahm reached the pool deck, he stopped and stared at Fisher’s handiwork. “They dead?” he asked.
“No.”
“What did you do to them?”
“Stop talking. Keep walking.”
When they reached the beach, Fisher ordered Zahm to the jetty.
“Stop here,” Fisher ordered as Zahm drew even with a skiff. “Get in.”
Zahm turned and gave Fisher a smarmy smile. “Sure you don’t want to take the
“This’ll do. Get in.” Gun trained on Zahm, Fisher knelt down and steadied the boat’s gunwale as Zahm stepped aboard. “Sit in the bow, facing forward.”
Zahm complied. Fisher cast off the painter, then stepped down and took his seat at the motor. It was a low- powered trolling model with electronic ignition. At the touch of the button the motor gurgled to life and then settled into a soft idle. Fisher cast off the stern line, then twisted the throttle and pulled out, aiming the bow for open ocean.
