“Are you all right?” Kate asked Sam. The explosion had been muted, but they had all felt it shake the hull.
“Banged my shin on some piping trying to get some distance from the hole, but otherwise I’m hunky dory.”
“I hate to mention it,” AJ began, “but… we don’t know if that was the only bomb.”
“True,” Sam said. “We have to get them to shut down the jammers, call for help, and be prepared to evacuate the ship. We need to get to the bridge. Without getting shot.”
“Kitchen staff!” Emily blurted. “They’re probably right on the other side of this room and the pantry. “They’ll know the quickest way.”
“And they’re probably wondering what the explosion was,” Kate offered. “Let’s inform them.”
In moments, the quartet had found a reasonably level-headed crewman who understood their explanation, and was guiding them through the crew passages toward the bridge. When they came to a passage to an outer deck, Emily stopped.
“You three go on,” she said. “I’m gonna get outside and see if I can spot Boone.”
* * *
Alongside the yacht, Ernesto and Boone braced themselves for gunfire, but the security men weren’t in sight. Reaching the spot where they’d seen the eruption of water, Boone tossed the bloody shirt aside, took a lungful of air, and dived in. The shallows were shrouded in sand and silt kicked up from the explosion, limiting visibility. After a thorough search, he returned to the surface.
“I don’t see them!” he shouted. “I think they must’ve gotten aboard.”
“They did!” a familiar voice rang out.
Boone looked up to find Emily above, leaning over a railing. “Em! Thank God!”
Emily’s smile slipped a notch. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s just a graze.”
“Well, get your arse out of the water before your ‘graze’ attracts a bull shark, yeah? Hey, where’s Deek?”
* * *
Deek looked down at the console, trying to determine what the noise was. He spotted a phone in a holder, the screen lit up with the name “Dusty.” Sam’s detective friend! He tapped the accept button. “Dusty! This is Deek Morrison!”
“Deek? The maritime guy? Where’s Sam?”
“On Hildebrand’s super yacht. I think.”
“What do you mean ‘you think?’ Why do you have her phone? I’ve been calling for the past hour, it keeps going to voicemail.”
“I’m on her boat and the phone was aboard. Listen, there’s no time. We need Coast Guard and police units out to the super yacht, La Fiamma Azzurra. And I might need some police assistance myself. I’m chasing Hildebrand.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“There’s been an explosion. A bomb. I think Hildebrand is responsible.”
“For bombing his own yacht? Wait, never mind… where’s the yacht. Where are you?”
It’s offshore from Boca Grande, directly across from… I see a lighthouse.”
“White? Metal supports on the sides?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Gasparilla Island Lighthouse. And you’re there?”
“No, I’m southeast of there. I think Hildebrand is heading for Baskin Island.”
“Okay. I’ll call the cavalry. I’ll divert one unit to Baskin. Don’t do anything stupid!”
As Dusty ended the call the boat’s marine radio squawked. “Unidentified vessel, this is the United States Coast Guard, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Deek quickly repeated what he’d told Dusty as his boat continued to gain on Hildebrand’s tender.
* * *
Laura’s thoughts whirled, as she replayed the explosion, the eruption of water at the side. The explosion had likely occurred under the water, not aboard the ship.
“There is someone following us,” Roux said, looking astern.
Laura followed the Frenchman’s gaze and spotted the boat. What’s more, she recognized it; the oncoming boat belonged to that sheriff’s deputy who had been to Hildebrand’s house on Baskin Island. How on earth did she…? Laura thought quickly, her eyes flicking to Roux’s shoulder holster, revealed when the whipping wind fluttered his jacket.
“Damn… there’s a police boat coming out of Captiva Pass!” Hildebrand cursed, turning the wheel to starboard. “I’ll make for Redfish on the south side.” He increased speed, the roar of the engine filling the air.
Laura looked at the distant boat, a light flashing atop the cockpit. She glanced back at the pursuing boat. They’re both much faster than we are. Another moment’s thought, then she made her decision and sat down. Sliding open a compartment beside one of the seats, she removed the false bottom and retrieved the contents, keeping her hand at her side on the padded bench.
“Monsieur Roux, I don’t believe our pursuer is friendly,” Laura said loudly enough for only Roux to hear over the engine. “If your weapon’s safety is on, I suggest you remedy that. And crouch down… you’re too exposed!”
The Frenchman looked back at her, noting the fearful look on her face. He nodded and extracted his handgun. Crouching, he turned his head toward the boat behind them and thumbed the safety off.
Laura raised a Walther PPS compact pistol in a freshly gloved hand and popped off two rapid rounds into the side of Roux’s head. He stiffened and collapsed to the deck just as Laura threw herself down beside his falling body. His weapon bounced off a table post and Laura pinned it, dragged it to herself. She tossed her own weapon toward the wheel, took Roux’s gun, then sat up and lifted it in a two-handed shooter’s grip. By now, Hildebrand had turned at the sound of the shots.
“Laura! What—?”
Laura Smythe shot her boss twice in the chest.
* * *
Deek was gaining on the tender when it abruptly turned to the south, and the man and woman in the passenger compartment ducked down. Damn, they’ve seen me, he thought, but then spotted the flashing light of the police boat coming out of the pass on the north side of Baskin. He was about to try and reach them on the radio when two loud pops echoed across the water, followed by two more. Looking back at the tender, he now saw that no one was at the wheel.
What the hell? Deek was already at top speed, so all he could do was continue his pursuit as the unmanned boat continued plowing through the waves. The police boat to the north turned south and joined the chase. Deek was fifty yards behind the tender, when the woman rose from the deck and staggered to the wheel. Deek watched as she tentatively held her hands over the controls, then grabbed the wheel and throttled down. In moments, the boat slewed back toward the Gulf and coasted to a stop.
The woman turned to face Deek, tears streaming down her cheeks. Blood seeped from a wound on her forehead. “Don’t shoot!” she cried, raising her hands.
As the police boat came alongside, the woman cried out, “My name is Laura Smythe. I’m an assistant to Mr. Hildebrand. I… I’m not sure what happened, but he… his bodyguard…” She trailed off, swayed, and abruptly collapsed to the deck.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Deek stood near a marina on Pine Island, near the Lee County Sheriff’s Gulf District Office. He recognized a nearby pier as the location where the small fishing boat had mysteriously caught fire several days ago. Perhaps that had been no coincidence, that the fire had occurred so close to the police marine unit’s station, which was situated nearby.
Deek waved as the catamaran dive boat approached with Emily at the wheel. In moments they were tied up and the occupants began stepping across.
“Where’s your shirt, Deek?” AJ asked.
“I donated it to Boone’s shoulder wound,” he replied. “Boone, you all right?”
Boone was shirtless as well, and indicated the large adhesive bandage atop his shoulder. “I’m okay. You?”
“Exhausted.”
“I bet!” Emily sympathized. “We’re right knackered, too. Got the yacht crew to listen to us and shut down their jammy thingie, and the Coast Guard showed up.”
Sam, AJ, Em, and Kate recounted their ordeal aboard the yacht. “So you were right about terrorism,” Kate said at the end. “That man you’ve been chasing… he and another diver set the bomb, right?”
“Yeah,” Deek said, then turned to Sam. “It looked like they were headed for shore… you should—”
“Already had Dusty put out a BOLO on them,” Sam assured him.
“But… was it Hildebrand that hired them, you think?” Kate asked.
“Not sure. It might have been his bodyguard. The surviving witness, Laura Smythe? She was Hildebrand’s executive assistant. She said the bodyguard was ex-French foreign legion, so he probably had a lot of overseas contacts.”
“And they killed each other?” AJ asked. “Hildebrand and the bodyguard?”
Deek nodded. “That’s what Ms. Smythe said.”
“I met her on Baskin Island,” Sam said. “She had been tied up by an intruder, remember?”
“Right. Pretty sure it was the same man who set the bomb.”
“As I recall,” Sam said, frowning, “when we found her and freed her… she wasn’t exactly a blubbering mess, was she?”
“No…” Deek said, recalling. “She was pretty calm and collected.”
“Not… crying and fainting or anything.”
“No.”
“Where is she right now?” Sam asked.
“Ambulance left with her about fifteen minutes ago,” Deek answered. “She had a nasty cut on her forehead, and the EMTs thought she might have a severe concussion. Kept passing out while the police were questioning her.”
“What exactly did she say happened?”
“She said Hildebrand had a pistol stored near the captain’s chair. He turned on the bodyguard but the man must’ve seen it coming. They shot each other. She thinks it was a double-cross, but she wasn’t sure who did the double-crossing.”
Sam frowned. “You see it happen?”
“No. I was looking toward an approaching police boat when it happened.” He thought for a moment. “Laura and Roux were ducked down right before I turned away,” he mused.
“Where were Hildebrand and Roux shot?” Sam asked.
Deek shuddered. “It was messy. Hildebrand was shot in the chest. Roux…” He stiffened. “I think he was shot in the side of the head, now that I think of it.”
Sam clawed out her phone and made a call. “Dusty! It’s Sam… I’m fine, no time for that! The ambulance that just left here with the witness, can you find out what hospital it’s going to?”
Her eyes went wide as she listened. “Call me the moment you hear anything!” She hung up. “Deek… the ambulance was found just off the road. Both EMTs were unconscious, and the witness is gone.”
* * *
“Laura Smythe” thanked the Uber driver, tipping him generously. His account registered a five-star rating from the beautiful woman. “Thank you, Miss Wilson!”
“Don’t mention it,” she replied, a Southern twang in her voice. “You earned every penny.”
“And I’m sorry about your head,” he said, nodding toward the small adhesive bandage on her upper forehead.
“Why, thank you!” she said with a brilliant smile on her face beneath a pair of dark sunglasses. She laughed. “I swear, I’ve got to be more careful around low branches. Drive safe now, y’hear?”
Laura turned away from the car and the smile vanished. Walking with purpose, she entered long-term parking for the airport, sliding on a fresh pair of gloves as she reached a white SUV, rented with a pre-paid debit card—the same card that “Miss Wilson” used for her Uber app. She unlocked the vehicle with a key fob and got into the front seat.
Turning on her phone, she opened a home screen folder with several innocuous icons in it. Tapping one, she triggered an app that wiped all data, factory-reset the operating system, and then bricked the phone. With practiced ease, she popped the SIM card out and pocketed it. She opened the glove compartment and dropped the phone inside, then retrieved a purse and a blond wig from within. Sliding the wig over her black bob, she winced as she pressed against the cut on her forehead.
Deliberately smashing her head against the metal support aboard the tender had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but had paid dividends in minimizing the questioning by authorities. Laura arranged the bangs to cover the small bandage and gave herself a quick check in the SUV mirror. Satisfied, she took a new phone from the purse and brought it online. She swiftly brought up available flights and purchased a seat on one that was leaving in less than two hours. Laura placed the phone back inside the purse beside a wallet and passport.
Exiting the front seat, she got into the back and retrieved a carry-on suitcase and unzipped it. Looking around and determining no one was nearby, she changed out of her pantsuit into a simple sundress, then gave the suit a quick fold and stuffed it into the carry-on. She took a moment to close her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. Not everything had gone to plan, but enough of the train had stayed on the tracks. The closest she’d likely come to having everything unravel had been when Angler had unexpectedly showed up at one of the houses, with that sheriff’s department deputy and the government pencil-pusher right on his heels. Tying herself up had been a spur of the moment decision—if everything had gone south then-and-there, playing the victim card would have been her best bet.
Exiting with the bag, she locked up the rental and shoved the gloves into an outer pocket of the carry-on. The nitrile gloves she’d worn when shooting Roux and Hildebrand had been disposed of in the Gulf as the tender raced along, long before the police boat arrived, floating away on the tides—if ever discovered, they would likely be far, far away from the incident. She walked briskly to the airport shuttle, and luck was with her; one pulled up just as she reached the shuttle stop.
As the shuttle moved through the parking lot, Laura opened another innocuous-looking app on her new phone. This one showed a series of bank transfers. She smiled when she came to the latest batch, which had been scheduled to trigger at noon. Hildebrand had been entirely too careless with his banking information, and it had been a simple matter to insert some of her own software into his systems. More challenging had been her intervention into his plans to sabotage the negotiations. A sneer came to her lips. A single scuffle… one man shot? Half measures.
She had intercepted Hildebrand’s and Angler’s messages and played the middleman, allowing some messages through while altering others, steering the mercenary toward her much more ambitious goal. A minor shooting from a zealot? She didn’t want a little hiccup in the pipeline deal… she wanted outright war between Armenia and Azerbaijan, scuttling any chance of an agreement ever occurring.
If the device had gone off as planned, the entire conference room would have been shredded by high-velocity shards of metal propelled by a block of C-4. A series of false communications would appear in several of the delegates’ email and social media accounts, and both sides would suspect the other of committing the heinous act. And further “proof”—much more extensive and detailed—would be discovered in the coming days, revealing the mastermind of the entire plot to have been Hildebrand himself, with damning communications and payments coming directly from Hildebrand’s shipping and energy companies. The payment routed to Angler in the Cayman Islands alone would be sufficient to send investigators digging into his accounts. And with the man himself now dead, there was no one to refute the evidence.
But something had gone wrong with the device. Perhaps Angler was dead, blown to bits in the shallows beneath the yacht. But just in case… Laura cancelled a pending transfer of funds and deleted the recipient from the system. After all, she didn’t pay for failure. On the other hand, plenty of funds would soon be making their way into her own unmarked accounts all over the globe. Hildebrand had invested a lot of money in his shipping company in anticipation of his own plans coming to fruition, but with his terroristic scheme soon-to-be revealed, the highly-valued stock of Hildebrand Energy and Hildebrand Shipping would tank. Which would be enormously profitable to anyone who had shorted those stocks. Which, of course, she had… to the tune of nearly a half billion dollars. And she’d have plenty of money to buy up bargain-basement stock for the Georgia pipeline, the only viable alternative left standing.
Inside the airport, she approached the departures counter for the flight she’d selected. By some miracle, there were two agents open, a man and a woman. She chose the man and flashed him her pearly whites. “Good afternoon,” she said in a thick Scandinavian accent. She held out her passport which listed her has Astrid Svensson, then showed the agent the reservation on her phone.
“Good afternoon, miss!” the man said, checking her out. “Where are we flying today?”
“New York. Then Stockholm,” she said. Then on to Istanbul.
Zehra “Şeytan” Taciri took her boarding pass and strolled away from the counter.