“Yeah, go.” Coastie had picked up a waiting MP7, and they both charged out through the curtain of dense, swirling smoke. A guard appeared, coughing, and Double-Oh downed him with a three-shot burst.
Swanson hadn’t altered his sight pattern for new range and distance readings, because any new action would center around the body. A man with a pistol jumped from a car and Kyle blew him away instantly.
Another burst of fire blasted when Coastie ripped a guard. Then she and Dawkins emerged from the smoke cloud and were beside the corpse. Double-Oh turned and took a knee, firing selective shots now, as Coastie searched Guerrera and grabbed the cell phone, with all its information, and took the wristwatch and the wallet, too, in case they might also contain information.
“Gimme!” she yelled, reaching out to Double-Oh. Without looking back, he tossed her a small bar of Composition C plastic explosive. She ripped a sticky strip off one side of the malleable claylike block and inserted a pre-set fuse, then shoved the device beneath the body. “I’m done here,” she said with a prankish grin. “Thirty seconds. Go!”
They had sprinted almost clear of the smoke cloud when the C-4 exploded and bits of Maxim Guerrera sprinkled along the waterfront like dirty red rain. “That’s for Mickey, you asshole!” she hollered, and Double-Oh grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside the doorway of their hide.
Swanson was poundiging down the steps, cradling the Excalibur. “Let’s get moving,” he said, leading the way to the back, where a couple of the Vagabond’s crew of ex-special-ops veterans had a Range Rover waiting. They were gone in thirty seconds, without another shot being fired.
The yacht headed directly east, away from Isla Mujeres, at a leisurely pace. There was no link between it and the attacks. The yacht crew had been visible to observers doing strange things like launching weather balloons, scuba diving, fishing, and partying. The torpedo had been launched unseen through an underwater port, and the double launch of the sea-to-land missiles appeared to be part of a gigantic fireworks display. Many luxurious private boats came to the island for a few days, spent a lot of time playing, then sailed away again. The Vagabond was no different. After the gunfight in town, several other boats also had hauled anchor.
With the shore team back on board and everything secure, a council of war was held in the day cabin, fueled by celebratory champagne. Coastie looked as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted from her mind and her shoulders. Punishing Maxim Guerrara had been worth the risk, although she felt sorry about killing the polo ponies.
“Did we get some good stuff?” she asked. The material she had taken from the drug king was sacked in transparent plastic evidence bags that were sealed and labeled. Not that it would ever see the light of day in any courtroom, but the government labs would pick it apart and suck out every molecule of information.
“I certainly think so!” Sir Jeff crowed. “The call directories and histories on the phones should lay out a big map of Señor Guerrara’s empire.”
Swanson poured himself a refill. “I called Lucky to pass that Big Thunder number along, and we fly out first thing tomorrow to hand-carry this cache to Washington and maintain the chain of custody. I will give it to Marty and he’ll unleash the alphabet agencies on it. Meanwhile, Lucky will have the data on Big Thunder. So, yeah, it’s some good stuff.”
“Only thing I want is the intel on that Big Thunder place.” Double-Oh was as calm as if he were reading a comic book. “That’s where we’re going to find Luke Gibson. By the way, Coastie, you done good back there. Cracks me up when somebody underestimates you.”
Beth Ledford sank into a deep cushion. “No prob. It had to be done if I ever hoped to put my husband at peace. Sad about the horses, though.”
Lady Pat walked over and took her hand. “Think, instead, of all the people you’ve saved by getting that monster out of the way.”
Dinner was a leisurely affair of cold cuts, cheese, fruit, and wine, then the Cornwells retired to their cabin after the long day. Double-Oh was also weary and went to binge-watch Netflix. Coastie and Kyle sat side by side in deck chairs on the stern, watching the Gulf waters flow by. The engines were a monotonous, quiet hum.
“So what now?” she asked. Red wine had helped the events of the day slide into perspective. She felt better than she had in a long, long time, comfortable and protected and without worry.
“We go get Luke.”
“Of course we will. That’s not what I’m asking, you silly boy.”
Kyle blinked at her. The lovely hair and tanned skin, the curve of her cheeks and the compact body in tan cargo shorts and a loose white shirt. “Well, that’s a tough one, isn’t it?”
Coastie reached over her chair and touched his right hand lightly. “I love Mickey, you know that. And I miss him terribly.”
“Yeah, so do I. Think about him all the time.” He turned. The moonlight seemed to halo around her. He gently squeezed her hand. Could he say the words?
She squeezed back, leaning against the cushion, her eyes soft. “But I love you, too, Kyle. I never really stopped.”
He broke the spell and got out of the chair, walked to the rail, and left her alone. Several deep breaths made his shoulders heave. Then he spun about and turned to see not a pixie with the soul of a stone-cold killer but the warm-hearted woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. He slowly lifted her to her feet. “I never stopped loving you, either, Coastie, and now I love you more than ever,” he said. The hug led to a slow kiss, which led to her stateroom.
Luke Gibson was trotting through the sagebrush and trees on the thousand-acre spread of the Big Thunder Ranch, letting the horse lope along at a gentle pace on an old cattle trail. The big black could go anywhere it wanted to and still be on the Big Thunder. Five hundred acres on the U.S. side of the border and another five hundred across the invisible border in Canada. The ranch had been carefully crafted over the years onto the national land of both countries, and blended into even more protected acerage.
Checking with his GPS would have been a waste of times; he knew he was about equidistant between Plentywood, Montana, and Crosby, North Dakota. Over the border, Regina, up in Saskatchewan, lay to the north and the south was desolate all the way down to Wyoming. It had been planned that way to create an oasis in the middle of nowhere. The only place to really avoid was the customs border checkpoint in Regway.
The border literally ran right through the living room of his beautiful log ranch house, and he could walk unimpeded into either country. The family had carved out the idea decades ago, and it had given law enforcement fits on several occasions, but the CIA connections scared away the local badges, although they thought it might be a central point for transporting heavy drugs across North America.
Ragged brush whipped against his leather chaps as he rode up a rise that gave him a big-sky view for miles, and he pulled the horse to a stop beside a watering hole. The saddle squeaked as he dismounted, took a drink himself, and estimated his position and the time, with neither compass nor watch. He was the best sniper in the world, and those skills had become habits. Gibson scratched at a mosquito and settled in the shade.
He had beaten Kyle Swanson, and now he would take a few months off, stay near the ranch, and let the manhunt furor cool down. He was about as far from the action as he could be, safe in the family fortress, while Swanson was, at best, a caged vegetable with a broken neck and a crushed spinal cord. His source in the agency had sent a digital photo of the X-rays, and there was no doubt that most men would have been dead from that injury. Swanson always was a stubborn one. At any rate, the quest was over, and victory was sweet.