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The Guppy, Off the Coast of Molokai
Sunday, 9 May
1822 Local Time
Victor, scanning the ocean with binoculars, saw it first. He pointed. “There.”
Monalisa nodded and canted the wheel to port, aiming for a small cruise ship riding the ocean swells about five hundred yards away. It looked like the picture of the Fair Breezes she had pulled up on her phone from the company website—emerald-green hull and white superstructure with green accents. She gripped the wheel with one hand and toggled the radio mic with the other.
“Guppy calling Fair Breezes. Guppy calling Fair Breezes. Coming up on your stern, Breezes. How copy?” She repeated the call as they approached. No one answered from the cruise ship.
“This don’ feel good, mi hermosa.” Victor trained binoculars on the ship. Even with them braced against the dashboard, the image juddered around with the Guppy’s motion. “No one on deck. No passengers, no crew, no nobody.”
Monalisa cut off the forward throttle at a hundred yards and let inertia carry them closer. She used the joystick-driven motors to jockey them in close to the well deck on the cruise ship. The well deck was a drawbridge-like ramp at water level that allowed the cruise ship to launch and recover kayaks and inflatables. It could be raised or lowered as needed, though at the moment, it was lowered. And unattended.
Monalisa brought the Guppy in close and turned it side-on to the bigger ship.
“We’ll never fit in the boat well. Hold it here,” Monalisa told Victor. “I’m going to throw out the fenders so I don’t scratch Thad’s paint.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Monalisa ran out of the cockpit, opened lockers on the yacht’s starboard side, and draped thick bumper pads over the rail. When the fenders were out, she yelled to him to bring them in closer. Victor joggled the controls, and the yacht bumped into the Breezes’s stern. When the sides touched—well, slammed together—Monalisa picked up a coiled rope, one end of which was tied to a davit on the Guppy’s side rail. Nimble as a goat, she jumped the gap of blue water and tied off the line to a similar davit on the bigger ship.
Victor monkeyed with the joystick, trying to keep the Guppy from bashing into the cruise ship while keeping it close enough for Monalisa to jump back. It was harder than it looked.
His guts refused to settle, and not all of that was from seasickness. There was no response from the cruise ship to their radio calls. No response to the yacht pulling up to their back door. No activity on the decks.
“Hey, what was that famous ghost ship?” he said when Monalisa returned to the bridge. “The Frying Dishpan?”
“Flying Dutchman.” She shoved him off the controls. “And yeah, the same thought crossed my mind. Can you jump it?”
“You kidding? They don’t call me the Mexican Superman for nothing.”
“Ow. I rolled my eyes so hard they broke. You want a gun?”
“Always. You should stay here. Be ready.”
“Always,” Monalisa said.
Victor claimed the .45 and tucked it in the back waistband of his jeans. He climbed onto the gunwale, eyed the gap, and jumped before he could think about it. He splashed into ankle-deep seawater on the rubberized surface of the ramp and clambered up the sloping incline, past the pivot point, and onto the deck proper, which was more like a wide back porch than a deck.
Overhead, a sundeck jutted out partway over the launching ramp, like an awning over the porch. Racks of kayaks hung from brackets on the port side, and bundles of paddles were tied to the railings. Empty brackets on the starboard side looked big enough to hold an inflatable boat.
Flotation rings and gaffing hooks hung from the back bulkhead, and a closed door was located closer to the starboard side than the port. A stairway—or ladder, as the squids called it—slanted from port to starboard and connected the well deck to the deck above.
A crew member’s jacket with a Fair Breezes logo sewn on the breast pocket sloshed in the water surging across the well deck. A sleeve button was caught in the joint between the ramp and the deck. Seeing it there, lifeless and empty, gave Victor the major willies from his gonadal region all the way to his chest.
Chingade tu madre, he thought. Fucking ghost ship.
He hesitated, a hand on the lever that opened the door. Loud and stupid—or sneaky and dangerous? If he went in loud and stupid, and everybody was playing Yahtzee and drinking mai tais, no harm done. If there were nefarious characters involved—he liked the word nefarious—then going in loud and stupid would get him killed.
Sneaky it is. Victor checked Monalisa, who remained on the Guppy’s bridge, one hand shading her eyes as she followed his progress. Sweat trickled down his back. He pulled the gun from his waistband, thumbed off the safety, and held it low against his thigh. His left hand eased down the lever until he felt the latch give way. Victor raised the weapon and oozed through the smallest gap possible.
A narrow passageway led to a dining area with tables covered in white cloth and place settings arranged with precise care. Doors opened on either side, leading to what appeared to be cabins for paying passengers. The passageway was painted a soft ivory and splattered with crimson.
On the deck at his feet lay an older man in white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and white socks. He wore one sandal—the other appeared to be missing. So did a large chunk of the man’s head.
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1900 Local
When someone banged on the door to his cabin, Kimo left the woman and stomped to answer it, not bothering to put anything on. He flung open the door to find Alapai and Manu Ho. Kimo grinned when College Boy’s eyes flicked down to check out his swinging dick.
“Uhh...” Alapai’s cheeks flushed, and he locked gazes with Kimo.
“What is it? I’m in the middle of something.”
Manu Ho said, “News report say boat killed. Strike team three. Everyone dead.”
“Makani?” Kimo asked.
Alapai shrugged. “We have to assume he’s gone.”
“Then there’s no reason to wait, hey, brah?” Kimo said. “Start burning shit—”
“Already started,” Alapai said.
As if conjured by his words, Kenny Po and Hambone exited the command hut with arms full of paper, which they piled into a fifty-five-gallon drum they had placed there previously for just that purpose. Flames flickered up from the barrel, and Kimo smelled the faint tang of smoke.
Manu Ho spoke up. “Half men go to beach. Security for boats.”
“And the three at the overlook?”
“At beach.”
Kimo scratched his bare ass. “That’s it then, huh? Gimme a minute.”
He closed the door and started dragging on his clothes. When dressed, he looked around. Patted his pockets like a man ensuring he had his wallet and keys. Kimo considered the skinny blond on the bed. Her blue eyes were watery and dull as though her soul had already departed. Nobody home.
“Sorry, babe. I can’t stay.” He shot her in the head, once. Then Kimo walked out to join his crew in clearing the camp.
#
THE Guppy and Fair Breezes, Off the Coast of Molokai
Sunday, 9 May
1900 Local
Victor hopped back aboard the Cobalt yacht. “Call the Coast Guard.”
“What the actual fuck,” Monalisa barked. “You’ve been gone forever. I had no idea—”
“They’re all dead.”
“Who? Who’s all dead?”
“The passengers, the crew.” Victor drooped his head like a sad hound dog. “Everybody.”
“Oh no.” Monalisa touched his arm. “Your friends?” she whispered.
Victor perked up, a rekindled spark. “No. For true, that’s what took so long—checking the bodies. No Yeager, no Charlie. I found this, though.” He held up a sheet of paper. The back was stamped with a bloody boot print.
“What’s it say?”
“Today’s activity: A hike into the Molokai Forest Reserve.”
“So they might be...?”
Victor shrugged. “I have to hope so, chica. I need you to drop me off at this...” He squinted at the pamphlet “Cow-and-caca? No, Kaunakakai Harbor. Then call the Coasties. I need to go up in this Molokai Forest thingy.”
“What? And leave me to deal with this mess?”
Victor cupped Monalisa’s broad, open face in his palms. “Ah, mi que linda pirata, you have done your job, yes? You have delivered the marine to fight. This is what the navy does. You must stay and watch over the dead, mi hermosa.”
“Aw, hell. I know when you start using Spanish on me, I’m getting a snow job. Your act is not as charming as you think it is.”
“Call the Coast Guard,” Victor said. “Call the Molokai police or—what is it? The forest rangers? Yeager and Charlie, they’re probably sitting around with a bunch of tourists, waiting for a boat ride back to the ship, going ‘What the fuck?’ Or they came back, saw the situation, and left already.”
Monalisa narrowed her eyes. “You’re doing that macho shit again, trying to protect the little lady. Need I remind you, Lieutenant, I was a master-at-arms in the navy.”
“Then you know your duty,” Victor said with a wink. “Never leave a crime scene.”
Her mouth opened... and closed. No words came out.
“Hah!” Victor laughed. “Gotcha.”
Monalisa’s shoulders slumped. “Asshole.”
“Sea hag.”
“Cast off the line. I’ll give you a head start, then I’m calling the Coast Guard from Kaunakakai Harbor.”
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1910 Local
Yeager advanced through the trees. Pyle flanked him on the right. The older man moved well enough, though he was breathing hard and his face glowed red from exertion. Pyle appeared “switched on”—eyes sweeping, weapon ready, alert to danger. Even though he couldn’t hear a plate drop on a tile floor, he seemed totally engaged in movement to contact.
The sun had fallen below the hills to the west, though it hadn’t truly set. Darkness seeped into the spaces under the vegetation. Before long, Yeager would be traveling by feel more than sight.
They had swung wide south to approach the camp along the same trail he and Pettigrew had used the night before. It had the advantage of both familiarity and decent cover, at least until they reached the stream bordering the south side of the camp. Having scouted the camp, Yeager had a fair guess as to the likely position of any observation posts or ambush sites. He very much intended not to blunder into either.
Yeager heard the trickle of water before he saw the stream. The scent of water carried through the foliage moments later. He held up a fist to halt the advance. Pyle took a knee by his side. The acrid tang of sweat wafted from him, and Yeager knew his own body smelled like a dead goat. At least the breeze quartered in from the east, carrying their scent away from the camp. One of the things he learned early in Afghanistan: sweat stink gave away a stalking enemy as often as sight or sound.
Yeager leaned over his watch—a cool-looking G-Shock with dials and buttons and a rubberized case that Charlie had bought him for Christmas. A teeny button that Yeager’s thumb always fumbled over activated a dial light.
“Nineteen ten,” he whispered then remembered to hold the watch where Pyle could see it. He motioned Gomer to a prone position. “We’ll hold here. Take a breather.”
Go time was set for 1930 hours. Yeager stayed on one knee as his companion rested. He was too keyed up, and too close to the enemy, to take his own advice and relax for the next twenty minutes. His head was filled with thoughts of his wife, kidnapped and under duress. The last time she had been taken, he’d been useless to her. She’d faced down her captors and escaped on her own. The next time she faced a killer, he was in Mexico getting some good men killed—again, unable to protect her. In fact, the dog had been more useful than Yeager.
This time... this time he had the deep-rooted conviction he was failing her once again. The clock was ticking, and Charlie needed him more than ever. And yet, here he was, stuck in a forest less than three hundred yards away. Close, but not close enough.
Hold on, Charlie. I’m coming.
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1915 Local
Winston Pettigrew snaked along at a crouch, as low as he could get and still be on his feet. I am a shadow, he chanted in his mind. Habits learned in a different jungle, in another age, snapped into place as if they’d only been waiting for the switch to be flipped. Moving in the forest was never truly silent. The trick that Pettigrew learned was to avoid sounding like a human animal—avoid the crackle, the scuff, the shuffle of human footsteps. Break the regularity of movement so his sounds blended in with the surroundings.
He approached the camp from the west, edging northward toward the ridgeline. His objective: the rear of barracks B. Somewhere farther back, Osterchuk waited, allowing Pettigrew to clear the way.
A huff of wind stirred the palm trees. Their brittle fronds clattered. Along with the breeze came the sharp reek of smoke. Individual trees took shape, backlit with an orange glow—fire in the camp.
That ain’t good. He picked up his pace. Terrorists lighting fires meant all kinds of bad news. He’d seen on the internet some video of people in a cage burned alive by ISIS, and the barracks were made of extremely flammable material. He wouldn’t put it past these assholes to try the same thing.
Someone coughed.
Pettigrew froze.
Directly ahead, covered in shadow, a terrorist must have gotten a whiff of smoke that irritated his lungs. Rushing forward had nearly gotten Mama Pettigrew’s little boy killed. He might as well have stomped right up the sentry and stuck the man’s gun in his mouth.
The glow from the fire brightened as though more tinder had been added. With the enhanced light, Pettigrew could just make out the regular outline of the target building forty—maybe thirty—yards ahead. Not on fire, thank God. Not yet, anyway.
Between him and his objective was a hidden sentry—based on that one cough, about halfway to the barracks. And don’t forget the guard post between the buildings, by the tree. And there could be a rover.
Yeager was due to kick off the party in mere minutes, and Pettigrew needed to be in position within seconds of the first bang. The distraction would pull the sentry’s attention to the south and give Pettigrew an edge. The question was, could he wait that long? There was a lot on his plate, and after the balloon went up, time would be shorter than a Kardashian marriage.
Pettigrew eased to his belly and crept forward. I am a snake. I am a shadowy snake.