part0037

Blake checked his phone. Hours had passed and still, sleep had not come.

After moving to his bedroom and crawling into bed, the chaos in his mind worsened. He thought of Harrison and wondered if he should ask him to come. Under the circumstances, Harrison might be able to now release resources. But Hopkins would see it as a slight if Blake did it behind his back.

He thought of Fezz, Khat, Griff, and Haeli. If only they were there, they could have acted more swiftly. At a minimum, they would have been able to spread out and cover more ground.

It didn’t even matter that they had yet to organize their own operation. Fezz, Khat, and Griff remained at the Agency, but they would have found a way to be there. They always did.

And what about Haeli? Why hadn’t he asked her to come the moment he realized there was more to the case than a runaway kid? Did it have anything to do with Anja?

The reality was, he hadn’t planned on encountering the type of threat they now knew existed. As far as he knew, he was stopping in for a day or two to help a friend with a family issue. The situation had devolved incrementally, never plummeting fast enough to set off the panic alarms. Until now.

It was like having an important conversation while driving. After arriving at your destination, you can’t remember how you actually got there.

Although he was transplanted into the ongoing drama, the current situation rested on his shoulders. If he had been more aggressive in his approach, if he had done what he was trained to do, what he spent half a lifetime doing, he could have limited the damage. Instead, he flitted about, acting like a normal person in an ordinary world.

These were uncharted waters, for sure. But instead of navigating, he had been letting the current take him.

He made a resolution. Starting at that moment. He was done staying in his lane. Done playing by the rules and conventions of society. It had never worked for him before, and it wasn’t going to work now.

Half a year ago, he had broken every law of man and nature in the name of justice. He and his crew had taken lives. Begged, borrowed, and stolen to complete their mission. Hell, they commandeered not one, but two helicopters.

Was that it? Was it the fact that he didn’t have his team? Was he not capable of acting alone?

No. He was more than capable. He had his own contacts, his own methods, people that owed him favors. Just as any of them did. And he had the skill and training to back it up.

In the morning, he would equip himself with what he needed to complete his mission the way it should have been done from the beginning. He’d need weapons and, most importantly, a fast boat.

Blake was no stranger to the sea. Most of his insertions were done by water. Typically, along with the team, rigid-bottom inflatable boats were dropped by helicopter, or in some cases by parachute. While he never piloted these crafts in combat, he knew his way around them well enough.

It was settled. Hopkins, the FBI agent schtick; all of it would need to be cut loose.

Blake sat up and felt around for the wooden chair over which he had draped his jeans. He pulled them on and headed out to the living room to recover his shoes.

Lying awake and stewing over his mistakes did not help him any. Not that walking would fix anything, but moving might settle his mind.

Slow and methodical in his movements, he left the house without waking Christa and Gwyn, he hoped.

As he left the porch and approached the road, he started to turn left. Then he stopped. The purpose of his jaunt was to clear his mind, not to rehash. He turned right and headed east on Narragansett Avenue. It was the first time since he had been there, he realized, that he had gone that way on foot.

Within two minutes, he was under the canopy. There, the night was so black he could barely see his feet touching the pavement.

About a quarter mile down, he came upon a side street on the right. He made the turn. If he had his bearings, the road should take him closer to the water.

As he moved between the row of dark houses, a dog began barking. The sound traveled throughout the entire block.

He hoped the dog would settle. Given everything that had happened, a man lurking around in the middle of the night would be sure to cause some concern, should anyone be awake to see him.

As he reached the end of the pavement, the road transitioned to dirt and veered off toward the right. He recognized the road as the one that skirted the cove and led to the small beach where Lucas would make his daily pilgrimage.

Between the road and the cove was what looked like a field of tall grass. A postcard-sized sign was attached to a thin metal post that poked out of the thicket. Blake got close but, even a few inches away, he couldn’t read what it said.

He took out his phone. The light from the screen was enough to illuminate the printed words. It was a notice, designating the salt marsh as a protected area.

Earlier, before the mayhem, he had intended to search the area for Lucas. Seeing the tall grass, he realized that a thorough search would have been more difficult than he originally considered.

The landscape on the island was dense. Aside from the water, there were few open spaces. On much of the east coast, there weren’t many places humans didn’t trample on a daily basis. Here, so much of nature was off limits.

Christa had mentioned as much. She talked about how conservation was a priority and the many areas designated as preserves. Bird sanctuaries, estuaries, and salt marshes, like this one.

Blake wondered if these protected places should be a focus. If he were a kidnapper, a rapist, a serial killer, and he had just abducted a victim, he’d be looking for a place where people didn’t go. A place to operate without fear of being stumbled upon. A place he could get in and out of without being spotted.

It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. But not this place. The thin strip of grass provided some visual cover, but it was too small. Too close to the road. Somewhere else, maybe. Somewhere out of the way.

Blake continued along the road until he reached the sand of the small beach.

The term ‘beach’ was one of convenience, used only because it was a spot that gradually touched the water. Other than that, the location had little in common with what most people would think of when they heard the word.

The term ‘sand’ was just as much a misnomer. It was more a mixture of sticky sediment and finely ground shale stone.

Blake got as close to the water as he could without getting wet. As he walked, his shoes sunk deep into the muck. Each step accompanied by a suction sound. Its smell was reminiscent of old shellfish or rotten eggs. Only not as unpleasant.

To the left, the outline of the causeway separating Sheffield’s cove from Mackerel cove was barely visible, despite his eyes having fully adjusted.

To the right, about a quarter mile down the coast, the lights of the West Ferry made the marina landing stand out against the otherwise darkened landscape like Shangri-La.

From that angle, he could see the line of boats tethered to their outhaul rigging. The sight of it, a reminder of his failure. He clenched his jaw against the flood of anger.

Then he noticed something. Something he would have noticed sooner if he hadn’t been brooding.

There were no gaps. A boat in every slot.

Could he have returned to the same place he was nearly captured? Could he be that careless? Or cocky?

Blake climbed over a few large rocks and pushed through a patch of tall grass before finding another thin strip of beach. He followed the shoreline toward the pier to get a better look.

Passing through the yards of several beachfront homes, he zeroed in on the slip from which the suspect had made his earlier escape. It looked like the same boat.

As he got close enough for the spill of the flood lights to reach him, he stayed to the shadows. He scurried along the rocky terrain until he could climb into the wooded area at the base of the pier.

Blake scanned the parking lot. There was no movement.

Leaving the cover of the trees, he walked along the edge, passing the first set of grated stairs, then the second.

Nearly upon it, there was no longer doubt. It was the same boat. He was sure of it. And the door to what Blake assumed was a small cabin was open.

If the suspect were below deck, he would be trapped. But Blake would have to move quickly.

He sprinted to the stairs and descended, his feet hitting only two of the risers before he leapt. He landed on the boat’s deck with a thud. It bobbed and rocked under Blake’s weight and the force of gravity.

He dove toward the open companionway and peered inside. There was nothing but random garbage below. Some rope, a few gas cans, a box of tools. But no suspect.

Unsure if the tiny cabin extended aft underneath where he knelt, Blake gripped the fiberglass around the edges of the opening and leaned further into the cavity. Behind and to the sides of the short ladder there was a solid fiberglass bulkhead. What he could see was all there was. And it was clear, no one was there.

Blake pushed with his arms to slide his body back so he could extract himself from the precarious position. Before his head cleared the top of the opening, he felt the deck shift from side to side.

Although he intuitively knew what it meant, he never saw the man. He never saw the butt of the Maglite careening toward his head or the man’s foot as it thrust into his back, forcing him further into the bowels of the boat.

The last thing he did see, before losing consciousness, was the floor of the cramped cabin coming up to meet him.