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Slade was frustrated and sick of the sun in his eyes. Screw the Mediterranean. He’d much rather be on the Mississippi in New Orleans, in a flat boat on the bayou, or in his adopted city of Richmond. His face was set in an angry scowl. Nothing had happened. No passenger met the description of St. Germaine. He’d watched passengers and crew disembark for almost two hours and hadn’t seen anyone that met the description of St. Germaine and he certainly hadn’t seen Mic. He cursed under his breath.
“I’m taking a break,” he said as he shoved the pictures of St. Germaine and Michaela toward the Greek SWAT commander. The commander’s team was in the black SUV about a hundred feet away.
The guy nodded and Slade headed toward Stoner, who was watching the computer monitor as close-up shots of passengers were displayed and compared with their ship identification.
“We got nothing,” Stoner said as he shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything or anyone at all who resembles St. Germaine.” He frowned, “Zilch... not a thing, no one who even resembles him.”
Slade shook his head. “Well, maybe the bastard isn’t getting off. He may still be aboard. Passengers can disembark whenever they want,” Slade said.
Stoner nodded. “Yeah, but these are the pictures of the people who haven’t left the ship and none of them look like St. Germaine,” he said in a disappointed voice. “My guess is he got by us in one of his disguises,” Stoner decided with a shake of his head.
“Has Jack looked at these?” Slade asked. “He could tell better than us, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. He’s only seen St. Germaine a couple of times and we have the same mugshots of him. The best picture is on his New Orleans vendor’s permit,” Stoner said as he pointed at the picture. “You know he was an organ grinder with the monkey and calliope, right? He hung out in the Quarter near the river.”
Slade nodded. “Yeah, the man was a fixture for years.” Slade pointed and said, “Why don’t we move over there? Then we can see passengers approaching to leave the ship from the elevator and the stairway.”
Stoner grunted and hollered for Jack. The three men stood by the stairs.
“We got a great big zero,” Jack said, a frown on his face. His body language suggested his disappointment. “There’s no other way they can get off the ship, is there?” he asked Slade and Stoner.
Slade shook his head. “Not that they’re telling us or that I know of,” he said, a sullen look on his face as he watched a man with dark, greasy hair, walk down the steps toward him. The man was familiar. Slade studied him for a couple of seconds and felt his gut constrict in recognition. Slade’s eyes immediately shot to the man’s hand where he saw the snake tattoo vivid and colorful in the morning sun.
Snake scanned Slade’s face. Recognition popped in his eyes and he turned around and ran back up the steps three steps at a time.
“Son of a bitch,” Slade said as he took off after him. He hollered at Jack and Stoner. “There’s the guy that tried to kill Michaela at her house earlier this year. It’s the perp who stabbed Angel. What the hell is he doing on this damned ship?” A second later, the three men as well as two Greek cops were in pursuit of Snake.