Varadero, Cuba
Reclining in a beach chair under a thatched cabana, the man known as Angler took a sip from the perspiring can of Cristal and looked out at the ocean. A fishing boat floated in the waves, and he watched it for a time. The Florida Keys lay a hundred miles beyond; doubtless the Beeracuda would have returned to its homeport by now. The captain had earned his pay, waiting for Angler to reach him even as police and Coast Guard radio traffic had begun to swarm the airwaves. Angler had taken the dinghy straight in toward shore until out of sight of the yacht, before hooking out to sea and circling around to rendezvous with the Beeracuda in the Gulf. The crossing to Cuba had been surprisingly uneventful, after the events of the last week. That odd young man, Justin, had turned out to be an able seaman, and Angler had tipped him an extra three hundred dollars when they dropped their passengers off near Havana.
Angler briefly wondered what Grady Foster was up to. Having paid the man with funds from the Cayman Islands withdrawal, Angler had given the man the slip in downtown Havana. Foster didn’t have the kind of discretion to lie low, and now that the job was complete, there was nothing to do but take the final payment, and get out of this line of work. Seek a new life.
Angler picked up his latest burner phone and glanced at the time: 9:59 a.m. He watched the time flip to ten, then triggered the VPN and tapped the banking app. Angler stared at the balance in the account. Zero.
He took a breath. Perhaps the transfer would take a while. Maybe the 10:00 a.m. time he’d been told was the transfer time on Hildebrand’s end. And it probably wouldn’t be a direct payment; too easy to trace. Who knew how many detours the money would take?
Angler drained the Cristal and signaled a waitress for another, then settled in to wait. An hour later, the balance still read zero. He drained his second beer and thought a moment. He and Foster had maintained radio silence and destroyed their previous phones during the voyage. A feeling of dread washed over him as he opened the browser on his phone and brought up the news.
There, at the top of the feed was the headline: Billionaire Harold Hildebrand shot dead by bodyguard.
The old merc sighed and dropped his phone into the sand beside his lounger. Apparently, fate wasn’t ready to let him move on with his life just yet. Crushing the beer can, he caught the waitress’s eye and signaled for another. It was a beautiful day at the beach. Might as well enjoy it.
* * *
Islamorada, Florida
Deek Morrison parked his rental car and exited the air-conditioned interior into the Florida sun. He had just left the parking lot when his phone rang. It was his boss. Well… his former boss. He answered it. “Deek Morrison.”
“Morrison, this is Powell. Listen… some information has come to light, and apparently… well… apparently, I owe you an apology.”
Deek didn’t answer, just walked to the sidewalk and strolled toward his destination.
“Morrison? You there?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here.”
“Well… as I was saying… I owe you an apology. Apparently, you were right about the whole terrorism thing. And… well, I’d like to offer you your old job back.”
“Thank you, sir. But that’s not necessary.”
“No, no, I insist! We need men like you.”
Deek laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, sir… that’s exactly what the man from Homeland Security said.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It seems my research and diligence in regard to this plot reached someone at the DHS. Apparently, my skills would compliment a number of their divisions. So, as I said… your offer to hire me back? It’s not necessary. I’m interviewing with them tomorrow.”
“Morrison—”
Deek hung up and entered the pawn shop. When the man from Homeland Security had asked him to travel to their offices for the interview, Deek had admitted that he really didn’t have any funds on hand to make the journey on short notice. When he explained why he had no funds, the Department had provided him with a generous travel stipend. Generous enough that he’d have sufficient money to get to DHS HQ and still have enough left over for something else he needed to do.
Deek went straight to the glass cases with the watches. The pawn shop owner came over and Deek pointed at the Omega Seamaster Professional he’d pawned several days ago.
“That one.”
“You sure? It’s pretty beat up.”
Deek smiled. “We’ve been through a lot.”
* * *
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