Reports of a shooting.” Mathers’s voice was tight. “Miami Beach Marina. Some guy on a yacht just got capped.”
Stevens felt his stomach drop. “Tell me someone made the shooter.”
Mathers held the phone tight to his ear. “Long-range,” he said, shaking his head. “Came from across the water. Nobody saw anything.”
“Jesus Christ. Who’s the victim?”
“Nobody knows. Boat’s called the Kyla Dawn. Owned by some rich guy, an importer or something.”
Stevens looked at Windermere. Windermere’s mouth was tight, her eyes hard. “Well, it happened,” she said. “Now for the big test.”
“We have guys in position?”
She nodded. “Miami PD and FBI. Airport security. They’re all inside the terminal, waiting on O’Brien.”
“Christ.” Stevens paced the floor. “Christ, I wish we were there.”
Windermere nodded. “Me, too.”