Noiselessly the redhead pulled himself out of the water and slipped back into his clothes. He checked his gun — absolutely dry. Overhead a bird cried out and in the brush some night creature answered. Nature seemed calm, but Shayne told himself all wasn’t natural on the island. Somewhere on this isolated body were men who had gotten Tim into trouble and him shot at.
Sticking to the shore, he moved silently northward. The island provided him lots of natural cover, but it didn’t seem to matter. He saw absolutely no one or heard any human sounds.
Reaching a cove, he glimpsed his first unnatural sign. A light from behind some tall pines. As he headed toward it, he suddenly tripped. Lying on the ground he looked around. Driven into the sand were a series of pine stakes. The new Eden described in the brochure he had found must have been in its first day of creation. The only building he could see was one of those pre-fab metal structures you found at construction sites. Parked side by side in front were the unlikely duo of a brown jeep and a Rolls royce limo.
Like an alligator Shayne crawled toward the building. Still no sign of anyone. He crept closer to the light, which he could now tell was coming from a small window. Stepping on a broken orange crate, he peered in cautiously.
Sitting around a makeshift table were four men in silk shirts and golf slacks playing cards. One of them he recognized from the videotape as Edward McCord. What the hell was going on? This quartet hadn’t travelled across the state to sit in a metal shack and play poker.
Shayne felt the cold steel against his neck before he heard anything.
“Turn around slowly, senor. Very slowly,” commanded an unseen voice.
Shayne pivoted as ordered. The fact he had been sneaked up on successfully told him he was dealing with pros.
A light caught his face. He blinked a couple of times. When he could see clearly, he knew he was in trouble.
Staring at him were three Uzis held by a trio in green army fatigues.
VI
One of the captors shoved his Uzi into the redhead’s ribs. Another reached out and took the .38 automatic from Shayne’s belt. The third opened the door to their right. Like a steer in the stock-yards, Shayne was driven into the metal building.
For the first time Shayne noticed a fifth figure inside. Dressed in fatigues, wearing a full beard, and chewing on a big cigar, he looked like a young Fidel Castro. The figure was momentarily caught off-guard. He shot a glance at the four card players who had turned to see the source of the commotion. Then he inhaled on his cigar and his steel eyes shifted to Shayne.
“This island is very private, senor.”
“I was just out for a midnight swim, saw your light, and thought I’d drop in,” answered the detective.
The butt of a gun drove into his kidneys. He flinched but didn’t make a sound at the pain lancing his body.
“You have a smart mouth, my friend. It is too bad your brain is not its equal,” said the bearded man who Shayne concluded was the uniformed group’s leader. “Now tell me why a man would sneak onto this island at night with a gun?”
“A little snipe hunting, maybe,” came Shayne’s reply.
This time the gun butt struck the redhead in the back of the neck, sprawling him in front of the card players. Shayne had been in tight spots like this before. Instinctively he knew that anonymity was his best chance at self-preservation. What he needed most now was time — even if the best way to buy it was with pain.
One of the greyhairs around the table looked down at Shayne and said with alarm, “My god, man, don’t make things worse. We’re dealing with Alpha Red.”
The name didn’t ring a bell, but the heavy bootheel clanged against his skull just before he lost consciousness.
The dark tunnel seemed shorter now. In the midst of a distant, dim light four faces hovered.
“He’s starting to come around,” a voice said.
Shayne dragged himself to his knees, then felt hands helping him to his feet.
“You O.K., fella?”
The redhead forced the pain to go away. He was still in the pre-fab building with the card players. The soldiers of Alpha Red had vanished. Picking McCord’s face out of the group, he started to piece together what he had seen.
Suddenly one of the men started banging his fists on the table. “They’re gonna kill us! I know they are. They’re gonna kill us.”
“Calm down, Jerry,” said McCord.
“We’d better fill in out visitor on what’s been happening here,” said another.
Rubbing the back of his swollen neck, Shayne interrupted the frightened speaker. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s been going down. McCord here has this development project. He needs some investors to get if off the ground. He chooses some of his friends from the club and brings them over here to check out the project.”
“How did you know Ed?” said a startled figure whose face looked vaguely familiar to Shayne. “And how did you find out about Mangrove Key? This was supposed to be a secret.”
“Somehow the Alpha Red group discovered what was going on,” said Shayne, “and moved in. My guess is they’re holding you for ransom.”
McCord stepped forward. “And just who are you?”
“Someone looking for a friend,” Shayne returned. “Did any of you meet a reporter from the Miami Daily News named Rourke?”
Each man shook his head. A frown formed on the redhead’s craggy features. “Are you sure? Rourke’s scarecrow-thin and drives a beat-up Ford.”
Nobody showed any recognition. Shayne was getting nowhere. All the evidence pointed to Tim’s being on the island. Why, then, had none of them seen his friend? Shayne tried not to dwell on the obvious conclusion that Alpha Red had found him first. He wouldn’t let his mind believe that Tim was beyond help.
“The first thing we have to worry about,” Shayne said, “is getting out of here in one piece.”
“Why should we?” asked McCord. “Right now my assistant, Remaley, is busy making the arrangements that will get us out of here safely. He should be able to put together the money by dawn at the latest. All we need do is to sit tight and wait.”
The typical mentality of the rich, thought Shayne. Money can buy anything, get you out of any situation.
“They’re going to kill us,” blurted the short, round man whom McCord had called Jerry.
“You’d better listen to him,” Shayne spat out. He was beginning to let his disgust show. “Kidnappers like our friends outside don’t leave witnesses. Once they get their money, you’re dead meat.”
“They gave us their word,” said one of the men.
“Did it come with a gentleman’s handshake?” Shayne asked sarcastically.
Suddenly the door burst open and a body came hurtling in. Staggering to his feet, a small man in a plaid suit tried to catch his breath.
“Remaley,” said McCord. “What happened?”
“Raoul is angry at how long it’s taking to get the ransom together,” the assistant said.
The man whom Shayne thought he had seen before spoke up. “Why is it that everybody thinks that wealthy people carry around millions as though it were pocket change. Don’t they understand investments, treasury bills, liquidity?”
“Guys like Raoul understand one thing,” said the redhead. “You’ve got the money and they want it, whatever way it takes.” The detective tugged at his earlobe. “Remaley, you were just out there. How many men are there?”