“Where are you now?”
“Sheldon’s schooner. On the river. I found the diamond, the Civil War contract and the painting. And I found James Fairmont, or he found me. He blindsided me. Hit me with a syringe. The needle snapped. But some of whatever he was packing got in my bloodstream.”
“Where’s Fairmont?”
“He used a girl as a body shield to exit. Frank Sheldon’s out cold in his private cabin.”
“Sean, I’m calling 911. You’ll need to be air-lifted off that damn boat.”
“No. The man who killed your best friend and five other people is on this yacht. He can’t escape unless he goes overboard. I’ll find him.”
“If whatever poison is in your bloodstream slows you down, causes you to miss a beat…Fairmont will have the upper hand. He will kill you.”
“I’m more concerned about Kim. It’s my fault that Jackson has her.”
“No, it’s not, Sean. I’ll call the sheriff’s office.”
“Don’t. It’s too much cavalry. Silas Jackson won’t be taken alive. He’ll kill Kim, or use her as a hostage in a shootout.”
“Do you have a better suggestion? We don’t have time to—”
“I’ll find her.” O’Brien disconnected. He removed the plastic bag from his jacket, opened it, dropping his phone inside. “In the cloud,” he said, glancing down at Sheldon, slumped in the leather chair, his chest rising and falling.
O’Brien reached for a handful of Kleenex from a box on the desk. He held the tissue to his head, stopping the flow of blood. He gripped the Beretta in his other hand and stepped out into the flickering light in the hallway. He walked quietly back down the passage, not sure whether the guard was still unconscious.
The guard was there, slumped up against the wall, his breathing slow and steady. The woman who’d tried to flee from the cabin was there too. She was lying on her back next to the guard. But she was not breathing. Her head cocked at an abnormal angle, as if someone might twist the head of a doll, the dead woman’s eyes open, the flicking shadows drifting across her confused and lipstick smeared face.
O’Brien stepped around her body, stopping the blood flow from the cut above his eyebrow. He opened the door to the party on the deck, the guests dancing and singing as the band played Bob Marley’s Redemption Song.
EIGHTY-ONE
O’Brien knew he had very little time before Frank Sheldon’s bodyguards began their search of the schooner. Considering the rich and famous on board, the posse would have to be subtle as the men questioned powerful people and probed every nook and cranny of the sailing ship. O’Brien blended in with the crowd. He had no idea what his face looked like. At this point, many of the revelers were in some form of inebriation. None seemed to notice.
He couldn’t find James Fairmont anywhere on deck. Maybe he was hiding somewhere below deck in any of the cabins. Where would he go? Where could he go? Life raft. O’Brien remembered the two dinghies on the yacht’s stern. He ran to the railing and looked over the side. The light of a full moon reflected across the river. But there was no sign of a twelve-foot rubber dinghy on the surface.
O’Brien went to the other side of the yacht. One of the dinghies was just coming around the stern, a man rowing. Fairmont. O’Brien looked at the river’s surface, trying to read the current. He felt for the direction the wind was blowing. The dinghy was now almost fifty feet away from the schooner. O’Brien grabbed a rope from one of the masts, hoisted himself up to the railing and dove headfirst into the river.
“Oh my god!” shouted a raven-haired actress in a short white dress. “Did you see that? He jumped off the fucking boat!”
“Where?” said a tall music composer with a gray goatee.
“There!” She pointed and a dozen guests ran to the side of the yacht and looked down at the river. “He’s swimming to that life raft. Holy shit!” The actress smiled, her mouth wet from champagne.
“Maybe it’s a stunt,” said an actor wearing a white fedora. “Frank Sheldon knows how to put on a party.”
“If it is, it’d make a great scene,” said an angular stuntman. “Who the hell is that guy?”
A former Special Forces’ guard ran up to the edge. He pulled a 9mm from his waistband. The actor wearing the fedora said, “Wait a damn minute! This is no stunt! Don’t shoot! Dude, call the damn Coast Guard.”
The bodyguard ignored him. Finger on the trigger.
“At ease!” Shouted a senior ranking bodyguard running up. He had a granite jaw and the body of a heavyweight boxer. “The order comes from Mr. Sheldon. We don’t know who’s who out there.”
O’Brien swam hard. He could feel the pain from the piece of syringe needle still in his bone, his head pounding. Within thirty seconds he’d caught the raft. He grabbed the rubber pontoon.
James Fairmont raised the wooden paddle and brought it down hard, as if he was trying to split a log with an ax. O’Brien released his hands, just dodging the heavy blow. When the paddle bounced off the rubber, O’Brien grabbed it, pulling hard. It caught Fairmont off balance. He fell headfirst into the river.
The current pushed hard against O’Brien’s body. The dinghy moved further away, catching the surface current, moving quickly downriver. There was no sign of Fairmont. Maybe he drowned. Then he remembered what Alistair Hornsby had said: “James Fairmont was the kind of recruit who swam the English Channel just to prove he had a little more than the rest. O’Brien felt his muscles tightening. The contents of the syringe moving through his bloodstream. And then, from under the shimmer of the moonlight across the river, Fairmont rose up, a silhouette in the moonlight. He was less than four feet away.
And then he was on top of O’Brien. Almost like there was no physical movement. O’Brien felt the man’s hands around his throat. Fairmont used his thumbs to press into O’Brien’s trachea. He pulled the hands from his throat, swinging a hard right toward his attacker’s face. There was no connection.
“I’m over here, Sean O’Brien. Things a little distorted, are they? It’ll only get bloody worse. I’ll put you out of your misery, no different than drowning a few kittens.”
O’Brien reached for the Beretta, pulling it from the small of his back. He aimed at Fairmont’s chest and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He dropped the gun, waiting for Fairmont to make a move. O’Brien saw the moonlight turn blood red for a second. He knew the drug was causing the hallucination. Think. Stay sharp.
O’Brien felt Fairmont’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him down. Under the water. The red moonlight gone, the current in O’Brien’s face. He reached for Fairmont’s hands, twisting hard, breaking the vice-like grip. O’Brien swam for the surface. He breathed deeply, looking to the left. The right. Turning around. No sign of Fairmont.
From O’Brien’s back, Fairmont attacked. He wrapped one arm around O’Brien’s neck, putting him into a powerful headlock. He pulled O’Brien down, under the surface, ratcheting the grip tighter, attempting to snap O’Brien’s neck. They dropped further below the surface. O’Brien’s lungs seared. His muscles like lead. He bit hard into Fairmont’s forearm, the taste of blood in the dark water. The grip was released for a second. It was enough time for O’Brien to push his thumb into one of Fairmont’s eye sockets. O’Brien shot to the surface, sucking in the cool night air.
Fairmont popped up a few feet from him. He charged. Raising his clenched fist. O’Brien grabbed Fairmont’s wrist, holding. Then he brought his knee up hard, catching Fairmont between his legs. O’Brien clamped his right hand around Fairmont’s throat, squeezing. He saw dreadlocks grow from Fairmont’s head, the tentacles of hair went in the river water. The tentacles turned to black snakes, mouths gaping, snapping. O’Brien held his grip, squeezing harder.