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“You don’t waste time. I like that.”

The Naked Man in the Forest tried to focus on the man’s face, but the acid was making his goatee stretch and distort into a beard. He just smiled back.

The man walked toward him. “So what’s your thing?”

The Naked Man in the Forest looked around the clearing. “Over here.” He pointed to a log. “Sit here and watch.”

The man sat down on the log and looked up at him. “All right. Now what?”

“Close your eyes.”

The man looked up at him skeptically.

“Just close your eyes. Let me get something out of my wallet.”

The man closed his eyes. The Naked Man in Forest leaned down to his pants and grabbed a large rock.

“This better not get…”

The man’s words were cut off when he was struck in the temple. He struggled to get up but The Naked Man in the Forest hit him again and again until his skull cracked open and blood poured to the ground.

For a moment, the man’s face changed into the face of the hunted man on the television but The Naked Man in the Forest knew that was just wishful thinking.

51

Mitchell slowed the engine down and looked at the pier. Once they’d come to terms for his surrender, his escorts gave him a wide berth. The fact that none of the men on either the Coast Guard or Marine Patrol vessels had proper gear also made a difference. The people Mitchell was negotiating with didn’t want a replay of what happened that morning.

The pier ran 1,000 feet out into the ocean. Mitchell could see that it had been cleared of fishermen and sightseers. The beach on either side had also been evacuated in a mile radius. He looked to his left at the various Coast Guard and other patrol vessels. They were moving into position to keep other boats away and to form a blockade if Mitchell decided to run again.

He could count at least three television news helicopters in the sky along with various law enforcement ones. Since that morning, having things be public wasn’t as reassuring to him. They had no problem acting stupid with the world watching. From the news reports, it was clear they were catching hell for what happened.

One hundred feet away from the floating dock at the bottom of the pier, Mitchell stopped the boat and then went into the cabin. He dug through some drawers and found a roll of high-test fishing line.

He took the other flare gun from the floor of the cockpit and tied the fishing line around the trigger. He flipped open the gas cap and pointed the flare gun down into the tank. He then gently pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up alongside the dock.

Still holding the spool of fishing line, he tied the boat off. He knew it wasn’t going to work because he’d already shot the flares from both guns at the sniper in the trees. He’d found extra flares but decided to only reload the one he had on him.

The fishing line was his own bit of theater. Maybe they could tell the trigger probably wouldn’t work. But as long as there was the possibility it would, it gave Mitchell’s threat some additional weight.

Mitchell unspooled the fishing line and walked up the stairs that led to the pier above. As per his request, there was a table and a chair at the end of the pier within sight off the boat. On it were two cell phones, a walkie-talkie, a bottle of water and a bag of takeout from Outback Steakhouse.

Mitchell hadn’t eaten all day and didn’t want to enter into negotiations on an empty stomach. He walked over and sat down.

A voice came over the radio. “Are you happy?”

Mitchell looked inside the takeout bag, “You forgot the steak sauce.”

“It’s inside the container.”

Mitchell opened the Styrofoam container. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Are you ready to talk now?”

Mitchell pulled the food out and unwrapped the knife and fork. “I need to make a phone call first.”

He looked down at the food. He’d heard stories about the police drugging food they sent to hostage-takers. “If I feel the least bit woozy after eating this, I’m going to pull the cord. Is it safe to eat?”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts. No games on our part.”

Mitchell picked up the phone and dialed. Rookman’s familiar voice answered. “Mad Mitch! I’m watching you eat right now on television. Couldn’t you have gone a little more upscale?”

“I’m sticking to what I know,” said Mitchell as he ate a mouthful of baked potato. “Do you have a name for me?”

“Yep. I got the biggest cock puncher of them all for you. He’s the guy you go to whenever somebody needs to stick a thumb in the government’s eye.”

Mitchell remembered the name from a few high-profile cases. “Thanks. So what do you think my chances are?”

“You know how in movies it’s your most trusted friend telling you it’s safe to come in? I’m telling you it’s safe to come in. So where are you?”

Fuck. Mad Mitch dropped a piece of steak back in the container. Rookman telling him things were safe was his way of telling him things were absolutely not safe. In every thriller, if a friend tells you it’s safe and then asks where you are, it means people are coming to get you.

Mad Mitch stood up. He looked around. There was nobody anywhere near him. Of course he knew that didn’t mean there weren’t Navy SEALs using gear like he had, waiting to disable his booby trap and shoot him.

Mad Mitch picked up the radio. “Is there anyone within 500 feet of me on land or in the water?”

There was silence. “Everyone is a safe distance away from you.”

“That’s not answering the question!” Mad Mitch looked over at the boat. How would they try to disable his threat? He looked at the water around the boat. There was less than a foot of visibility. “If I see so much as one drop of fuel come from the side or some hole one of your divers made in the bottom of the hull to empty the fuel tank, the deal is off.” Mad Mitch thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

“Tell us nothing about what?”

Mad Mitch took the cell phone and the radio off the table and walked back down the stairs to the floating dock. He put the cell phone in his suit and pulled the other flare gun out and aimed it at the boat. He couldn’t see any fuel leaking into the water, but that didn’t mean they weren’t about to try.

Mad Mitch stepped into the cockpit. He looked at his console and turned on the depth finder. The screen showed him a sonar image of the ocean floor below.

“I see two very large fish under my boat.” Mad Mitch flipped a button that made a sound whenever something came within a few feet of the hull. It pinged. He held the radio to the speaker. “I shouldn’t be hearing that sound.”

The voice on the radio spoke up. “It’s a fishing pier. There are going to be fish there.”

Mad Mitch was looking at two very big fish on the screen. “Then tell Aquaman that he needs to call his friends back.” Mad Mitch looked over at a gaff stick under the sidewall of the boat. He picked it up and held it aloft for the helicopters to see.

Mitchell spoke into the radio. “Are we being sincere with each other?”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts. We’re very sincere.”

“Then if I stick this gaffing stick under here and try to stab the ‘fish’ under my boat, you won’t be bothered by that?”

There was a pause. The images on the screen drifted away. The sound of the depth finder dropped. “We may have had some people who were trying to secure the area who drifted away from their position.”

Mitchell did a face palm. He let out a sigh and then spoke into the radio. “Listen, man. I know what happened today was a clusterfuck of epic proportions and you guys are profoundly embarrassed by what happened. I’m sure some genius there is telling you that you can make up for it by doing some commando-style shit to get the upper hand on me.