Storm Surge (25 page)

When he felt
his feet hit, he let his knees buckle and rolled, just as if he were landing on
a drop zone. He made one quick roll,
then
sprang to
his feet, snapping the torch on and aiming it in the direction of the ladder.

There was no
one there.

Phillips let
out a long shuddering breath that was threatening to turn into a giggle of
relief when he felt rather than heard a presence beside him. Instinctively, he
dropped again, so that the pistol barrel that had been about to connect with
the back of his skull caromed
off
the top instead. It
still hurt like blazes, but had the blow connected as planned, it would have
knocked him cold. Phillips tried to bring his own weapon to bear on the center
mass of the shadow he could see closing on him, but his assailant was already
inside the arc of his swing, so he tried to shove his shoulder into the
attacker’s midsection instead. The man was moving too, fast, however, and
Phillips couldn’t get his legs into the motion. Then the man was on him,
wrapping him up from behind and yanking him to his feet, with his throat in the
crook of an elbow. He felt the unbearable pressure of bicep and forearm against
the sides of his neck, choking off the blood flow through the carotid arteries.
Sleeper hold
, he thought dimly. He tried to hammer his elbows backwards
into the person who held him, but his vision was growing dim and his arms
weaker. Then there was darkness.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

“Glory,”
Sharon said, “Maybe if you get him something to eat, he’ll be quiet.”

Mercer and
Bohler
had left. Sharon and Glory were in the back bedroom.
Captain Jack, the marina cat, was with them. The animal had fled from any
attempt to pick him up or comfort him, but continued to pace back and forth,
yowling inconsolably. Sharon was trying to take pity on the poor beast, but the
noise was working her frayed nerves without mercy.

“Poor thing,”
Glory said. “He’s scared to death.”

“I know how he
feels,” Sharon said, “but he’s making me nuts.”

Glory bent
down and held out her hand.
“Here, kitty.
Here, kitty.
Pretty kitty.”

The cat was
having none of it. He sat down on his haunches just out of reach and eyed her
balefully. At least he was quiet.

“Okay,” Glory
said, “Let’s see if we can get you some nice tuna fish. Would you like that?”
The cat continued to glare. Glory turned to her mother. “I’m going to check the
kitchen.”

“Okay,” Sharon
said. Glory walked out the door. The cat watched her go. It looked back at
Sharon, meowed,
then
bounded out the door after her.

Sharon lay
back on the bed. She had had some long hard days at work—double shifts, short
staffing, difficult customers—but she was more tired than she’d ever been in
her life. She felt like if she could just close her eyes, she could sleep for a
thousand years. But the fear and confusion kept her raggedly, exhaustedly
awake, wired like a speed freak.

She realized
that Glory had been gone a long time. She sat up. “Glory?’ she called out.

No answer.

“GLORY?”
louder this time.

No answer.

She leaped to
her feet.
Ran to the top of the stairs.
“Honey?” she
called down.
Nothing.
“ANSWER ME!”

Nothing.

They had left
her the shotgun and a couple of
shells,
She snatched
the ineffectual weapon up and raced down the stairs. “GLORY!” she screamed.

The front door
was standing open. The cat was in the entryway, finishing off the last scraps
of a can of tuna from a china soup bowl.

Glory wasn’t
there.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Phillips awoke suddenly, snapping into
consciousness with perfect clarity as to where he was and the very
very
deep shit he was in. He realized immediately that his wrists
were bound behind him with what he surmised was duct tape. He saw his own
electric torch set upright, pointing up into the ceiling to provide a dim
illumination for the watch room. He saw a man squatting a few feet away, a
knife held upraised in his hand, displayed significantly for Phillips’ benefit.
Another man stood behind and off to the side, holding a machine gun pointed
more or less at Phillips’ head. He noted with professional detachment that the
man with the machine gun did not appear comfortable with the weapon. Not that
it would do any good. With that distance, even a rank beginner could cut him
down if he tried to stagger to his feet and charge. He also noted that the man
was wearing one of their headsets. Maybe even Phillips’ own. He sighed.

“The rats are gone,” the man with the
knife said.
“For now.
But if I use this to open a few
deep cuts on your legs, they’ll smell the blood. They’ll come out. And…”

“For God’s sake,” Phillips said.
“Spare me the bloody theatrics. I’ll tell you all I know, which, I feel I
should warn you,
is
fuck-all. Then you can kill me and
be done with it.” He squinted at the man with the machine gun. “You look
familiar.” Then, to the man with the knife: “I assume you’re this Mercer
everyone’s been in such an uproar about.”

The man with the knife nodded. “Pretty
brave words.”

Phillips laughed sharply. “Bravery’s
got nothing to do with it. This mission’s fucked. And I owe Blake nothing. In
fact, I think our fearless leader was planning to cut my throat himself at some
point. Or have his attack dog do it.”

“Yep,” Mercer flipped the knife over
and buried it in the wood of the watch room floor. “So you don’t have any
problem talking to me.”

“No,” Phillips said, “As long as you
do one thing for me.”

“You’re not in much of a bargaining
position.”

“A favor, then.
Professional courtesy, if you will.”

Mercer nodded. “I understand. Tell me
what I want to know, and I’ll make it quick.”

“I probably can’t tell you what you
want to know,” Phillips said. “Blake kept things strictly compartmented. You
can understand, but I can agree to tell you everything I know. That’s all I can
do.”

Mercer thought for a moment. “Okay,”
he said.

“We have a deal, then,” Phillips said.

“Yeah, we have a deal. Tell me what
you know. You prefer it in the back of the head or the front?”

“Heart, actually,” Phillips said.
“Silly, I know, but if by some miracle my body makes it back home, my Mum
would prefer an open casket. You know how it is.”

“Agreed.”

Phillips leaned his head back against
the wall and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out. He opened his
eyes again and looked at Mercer, his grip on calm restored. “It’s good to deal
with professionals.”

“Wait a minute,” the man with the
machine gun said. “No one’s going to be shooting anybody here.
In the head, heart, or anywhere else.”

Phillips turned and looked at the man
curiously. “And you are…?” Suddenly, his face brightened. “Ah!
The policeman.
The one whose job it was to get everyone off
this idiotic sand spit.” He smiled sardonically. “Good work.”

“Deputy Len
Bohler
,”
the man with the machine gun said. “And I’m placing you under arrest for the
murder of…”

Phillips looked at Mercer. “He can’t
possibly be serious.”

Mercer looked sour. “I’m afraid he
is.”

Bohler
went on doggedly. “For the murder of
FBI agent…an FBI agent named
McMurphy
and the crew of
a Coast Guard helicopter.”

Phillips
laughed,
a deep belly laugh that reverberated off the old wooden beams and rough floor
of the watch room.

“You think this is funny, sir?”
Bohler
said,
his voice icy.

Phillips recovered himself for a
moment. “I think it’s bloody priceless. Tell me Deputy, assuming for the sake
of argument that any of us make it out of here alive, how do you intend to
prove my guilt of this crime? Did you see me pull the trigger?”

Bohler
set his jaw. ‘No sir,” he said. “But
I imagine you have the weapon somewhere…”

“And how to you anticipate getting a
ballistics match?” Phillips taunted. “Have you got this alleged helicopter
about to make tests?” At
Bohler’s
confused look,
Phillips laughed again. “Deputy
Bohler
, this is a
damned battlefield. Furthermore, it’s a battlefield in a hurricane. Good luck
collecting evidence.”

“So, since this is a battlefield,”
Mercer broke in, “I should just kill
you,
instead of
letting Deputy
Bohler
at least try to take you in for
further investigation.”

Phillips considered this.
“Hmmm.”
He said at last. “Perhaps I have not thought this
all the way through.”

“Perhaps,” Mercer said. “Perhaps you’d
better start talking. Why are you here?”

“We’re here for whatever artifact or
paper or, for all I know, jewel encrusted
falcon’s
in
the safe in Senator Buchan’s house.”

“And you have no idea what it is,”
Mercer said.

“No. Blake was very clear. We were
never to know. However, it’s something our employer wants very much.”

“And you don’t know who the employer
is?”
Bohler
asked.

“Okay. How many people are there on
the island?”

 “Who the hell knows?” Phillips
said. “I’ve been living in a state of constant amazement this past day or so.
New people are popping up here like dandelions.”

“Let’s put in another way,”
Bohler
said. “How many people did you bring with you?”

“First,” Phillips said, "you have
to understand that these are most likely not real names.”

This time it was Mercer’s turn to
laugh. “Imagine that.”

Phillips ignored the outburst. “The
leader’s name is Blake. The safecracker is Montrose. They managed to spring her
out of Federal prison somehow.”

“Wait,”
Bohler
said, “how did they…”

“I believe the American term is
‘juice,” Phillips said. “Someone has it. Someone used it to spring Ms.
Montrose from jail.”

“Who the hell has that kind of pull?”
Bohler
said.

Phillips shrugged. “To put together something
like this?
And to dare to try to rob the house of a United
States Senator?
I have to believe it’s someone else at that level.
Or maybe higher.”

“Go on,” Mercer said grimly. “Who else
was with you?”

“Well,” Phillips said, “There was
Barstow, who I believe,” he looked at Mercer, “you killed.
With
a large, bladed weapon from the looks of it.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Mercer said.

“Nor should you,” Phillips said. “The
man was an idiot. If he hadn’t been playing silly games, he might be alive
today.”

“Pretty nasty thing
to say about a comrade,”
Bohler
observed.

Phillips gave Mercer a
can-you-believe-this-guy
raising
of the eyebrows.

“Deputy,” Mercer said, “people like us
do not have comrades. They have fellow employees.”

“Just so,” Phillips said. “Then there
was Worth. Not a bad sort. Steady in a crisis.
But tended to
worry too much.”

Bohler
looked at Mercer. “I think he’s dead,
too.”

“Pity,” Phillips said. “I rather liked
him. That would make the last one you have to worry about a fellow named Moon.
Nasty piece of work, that one.
Pure
killer.”

Mercer didn’t answer.

“Oh, I imagine you fancy yourself one,
too,” Phillips went on. “And I’ve seen some examples of your handiwork, so I
won’t say your confidence is completely unjustified. But your work shows a
certain…emotionalism.
A certain degree of anger.
I
don’t think Moon’s capable of it.”

“Doesn’t mean he
can’t bleed.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“How were you supposed to get off the
island? Once you got whatever it was you were after?”

“Cigarette boat,” Phillips said.
“Fast racing boat.
Smugglers use them a lot. It was supposed
to swoop in during the brief period of calm during the eye and take us off.”

Mercer looked at
Bohler
.
“No boats on the island.”

“No boats on the island,” Phillips
agreed. “But I’m beginning to think the idea of us being taken off on a fast
boat was just a bit of window dressing.” Phillips grimaced. “Blake didn’t tell
us that Moon was on the island. There’s only one explanation I can think of for
that.”