Wildfire (31 page)

Paxton and Lightstone couldn't decide whether they found this explanation to be mildly reassuring or just plain unnerving.

In any event, as best the agents could tell from their dock-level position, approximately half of the Windbreaker Marina's hundred-and-ninety-two slips were currently empty, which should have made the task of checking names on the remaining ninety-some sailboats, yachts, and ocean cruisers a relatively easy task. Or at least it would have been, had it been light out, and had all the remaining boats been bunched together. But, of course, it wasn't and they weren't.

And not only were the remaining boats not all together, but most of them were tied up bow first, which meant the agents had to work themselves around to the outer edge of each slip, and then hang out over the water with flashlights in order to read the names painted on the stern plates. The three apparently insomniac boat owners they met in the process of doing this were reasonably friendly and understanding, but none of them professed to have ever heard of a fishing boat named the L
one Granger.

At two-forty-five a.m. the four agents were back at the far end of the main dock, hungry, sleepy, dripping with sweat, and glaring at one another.

"What did you say the name of that boat was again?" Thomas Woeshack asked from his sitting position on the pile of duffel bags. Aside from mentioning that the sweat was starting to make his cast itch—a complaint that failed to elicit the slightest degree of sympathy from his fellow agents—the diminutive Eskimo agent was the only member of the covert team who appeared to be enjoying himself.

"The
Lone Granger.
G-R-A-N-G-E-R," Lightstone said absentmindedly, squinting as he continued to search with a growing sense of unease for some sign of the familiar figure of his long-time friend.

"What'd he call it that for?"

"Probably because he's got a warped sense of humor," Mike Takahara suggested.

"I don't understand." The Eskimo agent shook his head. "What's so funny about being a lone granger, whatever that is?"

"What, you mean you never heard about the Lone Ranger when you were a kid?" the tech agent asked in a disbelieving voice.

"No, I don't think so. Who was he?"

"Just one of your average everyday white-hat cowboy law enforcement types," Larry Paxton said. "Usually spent his days riding the range and taking unfair advantage of his ethnically disadvantaged partner . . . which has pretty much turned out to be a tradition down here in the lower forty-eight," the supervisory agent added with a meaningful glare at the members of his covert team.

"Aye aye,
kemo sabe,"
Mike Takahara chuckled.

"Now I really don't understand," Woeshack said, looking even more confused than before. "How come they called him the Lone Ranger if he had a partner?"

"Tell you what, Thomas," Henry Lightstone said, patting the Eskimo agent on his shoulder, "first we'll explain what
kemo sabe
really means.
Then
we'll tell you about the Lone Ranger. It'll make a lot more sense that way."

"Speaking of things not making any sense," Dwight Stoner reminded.

"Yeah, I know, I'm starting to feel real uneasy about this whole deal." Lightstone nodded. "I could be wrong about the name of the marina, but Bobby's always been real sharp on making his connections, no matter what. And the way things have been going downhill the last few days . . ." He left the rest unsaid.

"You think somebody might have gone after him, on account of us?" Mike Takahara asked.

"I don't know." Lightstone shrugged. "But you said it yourself. Whoever it was who broke into that warehouse up in Boston knew a hell of a lot about electronic communications, not to mention locks and burglar alarms. And if they were that sophisticated, who's to say they didn't have our phone tapped at the safe house?"

"You did run a check on that, didn't you?" Larry Paxton turned and asked his tech agent.

"Not after the break-in." Mike Takahara shook his head ruefully. "Never thought about it. I was too busy trying to figure out how the S.O.B.'s got into our alarm system."

"So what you're saying is that whoever was messing with us up there in Boston could have front-tailed us down here, knowing we're going to link up with Bobby?" Dwight Stoner asked.

"If they tapped into the phone line, they'd have both sides of the conversation, plus Bobby's area code and phone number." Mike Takahara nodded. "You give a professional that much information, he'd have been down here a long time ago."

"Shit," Henry Lightstone muttered.

"Listen, before we go off half-cocked, let's first work on the assumption that we might be at the wrong marina and go check out the Windsong," Larry Paxton said.

"Sounds good to me." Lightstone nodded.

"But before we do that," Paxton said, "I want to make damn sure nobody around here knows anything about the
Lone Granger."

"So how are you going to do that, wake everybody up?" Thomas Woeshack asked.

"By going over and having a little chat with the owner of that boat," Paxton said, gesturing with his head.

The four agents all turned around and seemed to notice for the first time the huge luxury yacht tied up along the extended L-shaped end of the main dock. There was obviously a light on in the upper-deck cabin.

"Christ, is that thing really a boat?" Henry Lightstone exclaimed, staring at the huge craft through the glary dock lights.

"Looks more like one of those Star Destroyer space ships in
Star Wars,"
Mike Takahara commented as he and the other agents picked up their bags and began to walk toward the sleek, white multi-decked craft that—from their angled, bow-end perspective—looked as if it had been designed more for racing than deep water cruising and sports fishing. The sharp angles formed by the superstructure gave the glistening yacht a visual sense of being in forward motion in spite of being securely lashed to the dock.

"Either that or a floating hotel," Dwight Stoner suggested as the five agents stopped at the edge of the chained-off gangplank and stared up at the massive triple-decked cruising yacht.

"Wow," Thomas Woeshack whispered softly.

"You really think a guy with the dough to run a boat like that is going to be the least bit interested in any of the other smaller boats around here?" Lightstone asked dubiously.

"Oh, I don't know, I'll bet you these boat-owner types are all pretty much alike, no matter what size boat they've got," Mike Takahara said. "Probably spend at least half their time keeping an eye on each other. You know, who's fishing where, who's using what, and who's got the latest in gizmos and gadgets."

Larry Paxton looked up at the enclosed bridge of the huge yacht and then cupped his hands to his mouth.

"Ahoy up there, anybody home?"

The agents waited for about thirty seconds. There was no answer and no indication that anyone was aboard, in spite of the light shining through the closed curtains.

"Windsong Marina?" Lightstone said.

"Might as well," Paxton nodded.

As the agents started to gather up their gear again, they realized that Thomas Woeshack was still staring at the oversized cruiser, his dark eyes wide with amazement and curiosity.

"What's the matter, Woeshack? Don't you guys have boats like this up in your village?" Paxton asked, looking up from his duffel bag.

"Not that I ever saw." Thomas Woeshack shook his head. "Man, I bet it'd take at least five hundred walrus hides to build a boat like that."

Henry Lightstone turned to stare at the young Eskimo agent. "Woeshack," he said after a long moment, "how in God's name did you ever manage to pass that pilot's exam?"

"Hey, it sounds reasonable to me," Dwight Stoner said, winking at Paxton. "Bet they only needed a half dozen walruses and a couple rubber bands to build that piss-ant little plane these turkeys crashed up by that glacier."

Thomas Woeshack really didn't understand that his native Alaskan naiveté had provided the necessary spark to regenerate the flagging spirits of his fellow agents. But Larry Paxton certainly did, and as the acting team leader, he took immediate advantage of the opportunity.

"Woeshack," he said, "don't you let these ignorant crackers bother you none. Fact is, if I really thought you knew how to turn an igloo full of rotten walrus hides into a fine boat like this, I'd retire right now and hire you on as my business partner. Hell, Ah'd even split the profits even, all the way down the line."

"And in doing so, immediately start taking advantage of your ethnically disadvantaged partner?" Mike Takahara suggested.

"Hey, fair is fair." The supervisory agent smiled cheerfully.

"Does that mean I'd get to call you
kemo sabe
too?" Woeshack asked.

"You bet."

"So how big do you think this thing really is?" Stoner asked as the agents continued to stand there at the extended edge of the dock and stare up at the huge, white fiberglass and stainless steel boat.

"Beats me." Paxton shrugged as he swung the heavy duffel bag over his shoulder again. "Have to ask the owner next time we're by this way.

"And just what makes you think the owner's gonna be interested in talking to a bunch of ignorant landlubbers like you guys?" Bobby LaGrange inquired as he leaned out over the side of the high top deck of the
Lone Granger
and glared down at his late-arriving crew.

At a public phone booth near the entrance of the Windbreaker Marina, a disreputable-looking young man in ragged white overalls and a pair of slowly decomposing open-toed sneakers dropped a quarter into the coin slot and carefully dialed a number that had been block-printed in pencil on what was now a thoroughly worn and water-soaked three-by-five card.

"Mr. —uh—Jones?"

"Yes?"

The man on the other end of the line sounded alert, refreshed, and wide-awake. There was no indication at all that—in the span of the last twelve hours—he had killed a total of twelve law enforcement officers, security guards, lawyers, and federal witnesses, kidnapped two professional counter-terrorists, and then transported those two captives in a private jet down to Fort Lauderdale.

Instead, the voice on the other end of the line sounded alert, awake, cold, gravelly, and malicious, causing the young man to shiver in spite of the indigenous southern Florida heat and humidity.

"You said you wanted to know if anyone came around asking for the
Lone Granger,"
the young man reminded.

"Yes, so?"

"Five guys just showed up."

"When?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"Describe them."

"Uh, there's one tall black guy. He acts kinda like he's the leader. And one huge bastard, looks like he mighta played pro ball somewhere. And one little guy who kinda looks like he might be an Indian or maybe a —"

"Fine, thank you," the cold gravelly voice interrupted, and the phone went dead in the young dockworker's hand.

At a quarter to four that Saturday morning, while Bobby LaGrange was patiently demonstrating the entertainment package in the master stateroom of the
Lone Granger
to a gleefully incredulous Larry Paxton and his disbelieving fellow agents, a rented green van with dark tinted windows drove into the entrance of the marina, pulled around back, and came to a stop next to the trash dumpsters, and then flashed its headlights.

Ten minutes later a disreputable-looking young man in ragged white overalls and a pair of slowly decomposing open-toed sneakers hurried over and got in through the front passenger side door.

"What's happening now?" Riser demanded, the expression in his cold and foreboding eyes nearly causing the terrified dockworker to void his bladder.

"Uh . . . th-they're still out there on th-the extension dock," he stammered.

"Are they fueled up already?"

"Uh—y-yeah, sure. I —uh—f-filled his tanks early this morning." The youth was so terrified that his entire body was trembling now.

"Good." Riser nodded. "When are you due to go off duty?"

"Uh —uh—at s-six-thirty."

"When are you due back?"

"Uh . . ."

"When are you due back?" Riser demanded impatiently.

"W-Wednesday!" the youth blurted out.

"Good."

The man known as Riser looked out both side windows of the rented van, checked the rearview mirrors, and then — in a motion too fast to follow with the human eye—slashed the hardened edge of his right hand into the youth's throat.

The young dockworker's head snapped back against the rear cab window as he gurgled in shock. Then, as the youth's sagging body started to fall forward, Riser quickly reached across with both hands to grab and twist sharply his loosely hanging head. The crack of snapping neck vertebrae signaled the end of the night-shift dockworker's thankless career.

After checking the windows and mirrors one last time, Riser grabbed the front of the youth's overalls with his right hand and then—with no apparent effort—lifted the lifeless body out of the seat and tossed it into the back of the van like a leftover sack of trash.

". . . so my lawyer and Kleinfelter's lawyer got their little shyster heads together, and they came up with this deal . . . thanks, Justin," Bobby LaGrange said, accepting a steaming mug of hot coffee from his fifteen-year-old son who had just come up from helping Mo-Jo—the elder of the two part-time Jamaican crewmen—load the rest of the supplies for their planned shake-down cruise.

Justin LaGrange handed out identical mugs to the five agents, all of whom were either sitting casually on the salon's incredibly comfortable starboard side couch, hanging around the control station of the bridge, or—in Paxton's case—sitting next to LaGrange in one of the newly designated commodore's chairs.

"Justin, you're starting to look and act more like your dad every day," Henry Lightstone commented as he took a careful sip of the hot beverage.

"Is that good?" the slender T-shirted youth asked.

"Not necessarily. I'll talk to you about that later."

"Dad said I'm not supposed to listen to anything you tell me until I turn twenty-one, and if I'm smart, not even then," Justin LaGrange said, which got the expected laugh out of everyone on the deck.