Comm didn’t make it easy on himself.
The captain of the Island Joy swore innocence. The crew, Bahamian mostly, shrugged and held up their hands and said nothing. Windermere swore at them. Threatened, cajoled. Finally, she shook her head and turned to Stevens. “Let’s tear this boat apart.”
First they searched the house, the thirty-foot-tall superstructure that contained the bridge, the accommodations, the galley. They left a couple Coast Guard men to watch over the crew, and took the rest with them to scour the ship. The house yielded nothing. Comm wasn’t there.
The ship was an old tramp steamer, the wheelhouse situated midway between bow and stern. Windermere and Stevens left the assault team to tear through the engine room. They walked up the deck together toward the bow, guns drawn.
“So where is he?” said Windermere. “Is this bastard on board or what?”
Stevens looked down the length of the ship. The house loomed white in the night sky. “He’s here,” he told Windermere. “He’s here somewhere.”
They reached the bow of the ship. A stairway led up to the mast and the anchor winches. Beneath it was an iron door to the ship’s forecastle. Windermere walked to it. “What’s in here?”
She turned the heavy wheel and it groaned in her hands. Stevens watched her, tensed. She turned the wheel hard over. Then the door was flung open. It swung inward, too fast. Windermere stumbled back. “Shit.”
“You goddamn bastards.” A desperate voice from inside the forecastle, action-movie heroic. “You want me, you’re coming with me.” Then gunshots, three of them, like a snare drum. Windermere dived for cover. Stevens ducked behind a bulkhead, his head down. Another three shots. Then Phillip Comm stepped out on deck, screaming, incoherent, waving a pistol in the air.
Shouts from the house. The assault team ran forward, machine guns at the ready. “Don’t shoot him,” Stevens called back. “Take him alive, but be careful.”
“You fuckers,” Comm screamed. “You’ll never take me.”
Comm advanced from the doorway, staggering now, unsteady. His eyes were wide and wild, his pupils huge. He waved the gun at the advancing assault team, fired again. If they kill this guy, Stevens thought, we lose Killswitch. He watched Comm behind the bulkhead and searched for Windermere in the shadows, hoping she had the same notion.
As Comm advanced, Windermere crept around behind him, keeping low and to the shadows. Comm kept screaming at the assault team. Kept waving that gun.
He’s hysterical. High on something. Or terrified. Or both.
Comm steadied his pistol again. Aimed across the deck and squeezed off another three shots.
Windermere tackled him. Leapt out from behind and took him down to the deck. Comm dropped the pistol. The assault team swarmed. Stevens picked himself up from the bulkhead and hurried over to where Windermere had Comm pinned. Comm struggled against her. She held him. He looked around at the assault team, at Windermere and Stevens, and seemed to deflate. “Who are you?” he said, wheezing for breath. “You’re not him.”
“FBI,” said Windermere. “Coast Guard. Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“You were expecting someone else?” said Stevens.
Comm nodded, still gasping.
Windermere elbowed him. “Who?”
Comm didn’t answer for a moment. Then he laid his head back on the deck and stared skyward. “Killswitch,” he said.