So the city of Houston had already been secured by the time Mac arrived. In an effort to find out what fate had befallen her father, Mac made her way to his office in the southern command and control center. It had been trashed. The Intel people had been there… And once they left, sticky-fingered soldiers had gone through the stuff that remained.
But there were some items that neither group cared about, including two photographs. One was a picture of a woman who Mac believed to be Bo’s second wife. As for the other, that was a photo of Victoria. And she was smiling.
CHAPTER 15
There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
NEAR BAR HARBOR, MAINE
It was dark. The boat’s twin engines produced a throaty rumble as the thirty-six-foot cabin cruiser left the calm waters of Southwest Harbor, passed Sutton Island, and began the run up to Bar Harbor. The bow rose and fell gently as it cut through the long rollers that chased each other in from the Atlantic. As Bo stood in the stern, he could see the multicolored lights that followed the coastline. The blackouts that had once been common were over as was the war itself.
More than a month had passed since Houston had fallen, and President Stickley had fled. Some said she was living in the Caymans. Others claimed that the politician and her loyalists were somewhere in Africa. Bo didn’t give a damn. He was on a mission, his last mission, and the one that would put him in the history books. Not that historical notoriety was Bo’s goal. He wanted to kill Samuel T. Sloan for personal reasons.
After assembling the hit team and sending them north one at a time, Bo had been forced to wait. Sloan had so many bodyguards that it was impossible to get anywhere near the bastard under normal circumstances. But people, presidents included, can and do make mistakes. Sloan was no exception.
Samuel T. Sloan and Major Robin Macintyre announced their engagement only weeks after the New Confederacy surrendered. Very few people were surprised.
But the press release caused a stir nevertheless, especially when it became known that the couple were going to share a prenuptial holiday on a private island located near Bar Harbor, Maine. And that was going to give Bo the opportunity he needed.
The boat began to roll uncomfortably as it turned north. One of the new team members, an actor named Posey, was seasick. Rather than stick around and watch Posey barf over the rail, Bo entered the spacious cabin. An ex–navy bosun named Trey Sims was at the wheel. The African-American was built like a linebacker—and stood with his feet spread.
Gatlin, along with an ex-op named Misty Estrada, and a onetime Confederate Intel agent named Ricky Costas were seated at the table.
Bo reached out to steady himself as the boat rolled. Gatlin grinned. “It’s hard to believe that some people do this for fun. We’re going to play a few hands of poker. Would you care to join us?”
Bo had nothing better to do and figured it would be good for morale. But rather than the penny-ante game that Bo was expecting to take part in, the others began to place stacks of gold coins on the table. The same coins they’d been paid with.
Did it make sense to play poker with the money they hoped to retire on? No. But all three of them were risk takers and egomaniacs. Each believed himself or herself to be smarter and more capable than the rest of the people on the boat.
But there were things they didn’t know… One of which was that Bo was broke. All of Victoria’s stash had gone into giving the team half their pay up front, equipping them, and renting the yacht. Bo smiled. “I’d love to sit in. Are IOUs okay? My money is waiting for us in Canada.”
The relationship between the United States and Canada was still quite rocky. So the claim was credible, especially since the team had been led to believe that a helicopter was going to pick them up after the assassination and take them north. “Sure,” Costas replied. “We know you’re good for it.”
The next hour passed enjoyably, and by the time the boat crossed the Mt. Desert Narrows, Estrada had amassed a substantial pile of coins and IOUs. She had a narrow face, hungry eyes, and hollow cheeks. “Thanks, suckers… I’m going to think of you while I spend your money.”
“We’re twenty minutes out,” Sims announced from his position at the helm.
“Okay,” Bo said. “Let’s get ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Gatlin said as he slid off the seat. “I’ll check on Posey.”
One by one, the team members brought their duffel bags to the cockpit and stacked them on the starboard side. Bo was on the flying bridge by then, standing next to Sims, who preferred the topside controls for docking. The cruiser’s running lights were off, and the cabin was dark.
Bo brought the night-vision binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the island ahead. Having viewed the area on Google Earth, Bo knew that Bowtie Island was actually two oblong islets linked by a sandbar. The main house was located on the south end of what Bo thought of as island two. There was a separate cottage as well. That was where the island’s only permanent resident lived.
But what if Secret Service agents were on Bowtie? That would be a disaster. The presidential visit was days away, however… And, having been privy to such things in his role as a general, Bo figured the Secret Service wouldn’t move in for another day or two.
Everything Bo could see confirmed that hypothesis. Had security been in place, armed Coast Guard boats would have come out to warn the yacht off.
“The target looks the way it should,” Bo announced. “Take us in.” Sims nodded and nudged the throttles forward.
Each member of the team was equipped with a headset, radio, and night-vision gear. Bo keyed his mike. “Heads up… We’re going in. Sims and Estrada will remain with the boat. Everyone else will follow me. Posey will be last. Over.”
The team responded with a flurry of clicks as the yacht nudged the floating dock and Estrada jumped onto it. She secured the stern line as the others made their way up a ramp to shore. They were dressed in TAC gear and armed with suppressed pistols.
Bo was on point and pleased to discover that the old habits were still there. He knew that the trail led to the cottage, the heliport, and the house at the far end of the island. The caretaker’s residence became visible two minutes later.
Bo checked his watch. It was 2022. With any luck at all, George Owen was asleep. Bo knew the caretaker’s name thanks to reviews posted online. “Mr. Owen was wonderful!” “Thank you, George!” And crap like that.
Bo waved the team forward. A light was visible within the cottage. Because Owen was still up? Or was it a night-light? They were about to find out. Bo pointed to Gatlin, then to the door.
Gatlin nodded and, like the pro he was, tried the knob before resorting to force. The door opened smoothly. Owen felt safe on Bowtie Island. That was about to change. Gatlin entered first, with Bo behind him. Costas and Posey were on sentry duty outside. A visitor was unlikely. But if one appeared, they would deal with it.
The front door opened onto a small foyer. The living room was on the left—and a soft murmur was coming from the TV. A recliner was positioned in front of the set, and Bo could see that the back of a man’s head was visible. Was Owen awake? Or was he asleep? Gatlin circled around the chair, stopped, and pushed the barrel of his pistol up against the caretaker’s forehead. “Rise and shine, sweetheart.”
Owen jerked awake and attempted to get up, but the gun barrel kept him from doing so. “Who? What?”