Hargreaves pointed, and Tucker ran to the nearest outcropping of rock on the shore. When Tucker waved, Hargreaves moved past him to the next. Leapfrogging positions as each covered the other. They had made fast progress up the bare southern shore. Less than five minutes before, they’d spotted the FBI tactical team leaping from the beached police boats near Rohner’s personal art museum.
The two men had cut across the estate, seconds ahead of the Feds. Getting soaked to the bone by the frigging rainstorm.
Tucker had nearly tripped over something that turned out to be a chunk of aluminum flagpole, one end of it flattened and torn. The helicopter’s doing. Louis’s final flight. The night had gone to hell fast after that.
Was Rohner dead? Hargreaves hoped not. He wanted his own chance to end that Swiss prick. And Karla. He was sure the whore had been behind the cops showing up. She and Shaw must be working together. They’d convinced Rohner to pay up and then bolted before the trap snapped shut.
It had been slick, Shaw’s thing with the bomb or the smoke grenade or whatever that had been. And Hargreaves knew that the polymer invention was viable now. Morton had done at least that much good. That knowledge was worth something. He could get another operative inside Avizda. Take another batch of the chemical, by force if they had to.
There was a way off this island. The boat he’d arranged for Taskine and Riley. Had they cast off already?
Speed counted. If he and Tucker could beat them to the boat—or better yet catch them there by surprise—then finders fucking keepers. Those two psychopaths had exhausted their usefulness.