Simmons placed a black hood over Henry’s head, and Henry took it. At least they didn’t gag him. His breath was hot and stale under the hood. He was smashed. Betrayed by his country, shot through his Achille’s heel by the man he’d respected and trusted more than most men he knew. Defeated by his ally. Henry sank to his knees.
The worst of it was the knowledge he’d let Suzanne down, put their lives at risk. He’d spent his entire adult life trying to defeat the bullies of the world, fighting against what he believed was injustice, and it was all for nothing.
It was like Carlos had said. The evil, the lightning, happened faster than the eye could follow. It shouldn’t be that way. It shouldn’t be like this.
He pushed himself against the rear of the enclosure and rubbed the plastic tie binding his hands against the metal fence, as he’d seen his former prisoners do. None had escaped, and he recognized the futility of it.
He pictured Taylor in the morning sunshine, hope and goodness, and he refused to surrender. His shoulders ached and his back burned as he moved his hands back and forth. Beaten, battered, yet still breathing, Henry struggled and raged against his bonds.
And something occurred to him, a detail he might have caught onto instantly under normal circumstances. It was after four in the morning in Nashville. Key West was an hour behind, still dark. But the video feed showed daytime. The feed wasn’t live. It was still chilling, terrifying. He’d talked to Bart, though. Maybe. Maybe they were crossing the water right now. Maybe Suzanne would live to laugh and love again someday. And on down the line, perhaps Taylor would remember him, a small fragment perhaps, a sunny glimpse of a moment which fades too quickly of a day on the water, and she might smile, then, looking back.
Henry prayed for his wife and child, something he seldom did anymore. God had let him down before, and he placed more faith in brains and brawn and bullets than he did in the Lord. Still, he tried. He prayed for his family and for forgiveness and strength.
Help me, God. To defeat me, they must destroy me. I will fight for my tomorrows. Even if I die, if my life mattered, then I am undestroyed. My memory lives on, at least, and the things I did right hopefully overshadow the things I got all wrong, and a part of me remains. Didn’t Daddy say something like that at the end? I didn’t get it then. I do now. I understand. Cancer had destroyed the old man, who wasn’t old when he’d died. Life knocked him down time and time again, yet Henry could hear his father’s voice, steady and wise and indomitable, still alive. It is not an easy thing to destroy a good man.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rangers Lead the Way
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
“Are you sure about this?” Suzanne said.
“Yes. I’ll be there,” Bart replied. “And if I’m not, then keep going. The coordinates are loaded into the hard drive of the GPS on the other boat.”
“Tell me this isn’t a suicide mission for you.”
“I want to live.” The house was dark. A single candle burned on the coffee table. Bobby Ray, Ginnie, and Taylor were sitting on the couch, looking at the back door and at Suzanne like they were not ready.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s not a suicide mission,” Bart said. “I can do this. Just because the army says my knee makes me unfit for duty doesn’t mean this old Ranger can’t still kick some ass. This is my duty. Henry would do it for me and mine. It’s time I repaid some old debts.”
Suzanne leaned forward and kissed Bart on the cheek, lips brushing against his beard. Since they’d decided to make a run for it, he’d been revitalized, a spark in his eyes again. There was a grim determination about him, though, which made her cold.
“Thank you, Bart,” Suzanne said. She touched Bart’s cheek with her hand.
Bart stood. “I’m glad our boy is alive, Suzanne. I hope…”
“Me too.”
“Time for a swim.”
She watched him leave, a sinuous shadow against the night.
Lead the way, Ranger, Suzanne thought. What did Henry say once? “Rangers never die, they just regroup in hell.”
She looked at her watch. Twenty minutes. It might be all she had left on this earth. The boats were ready. She wasn’t sure she was, though.
Bart staggered up to the dock, wielding one of Bobby’s rum bottles. He belched with vigor and urinated from the dock, thrusting his hips forward and arcing the stream six feet out into the water.
NVGs for sure. Hopefully not listening devices, ’cause if they’re using those, then we’re already fucked. Two-man team. Maybe one more, and that ain’t good. These guys are trained and smart. But I’m not your average terrorist, either. Okay. Sell it. Underestimate me, you assholes.
He leaned against the piling, feeling the cool, wet wood on his face, then plunked down, letting his legs collapse beneath him. He’d seen Bobby do it enough times that he knew what it looked like.
He dangled his legs over the dock, the bottle of rum in his hand, and he took a long swig. The bottle contained only water.
Bart glanced at the glowing dial on his watch. Just a few more minutes. I had a pretty good run, even though I screwed everything up. I’ve seen the sun set over the Kush in wintertime. I swam with dolphins and jumped from planes and shot and loved and fi ed. Never had kids, but that’s for the best. I destroyed my own marriage and almost smashed my best friend’s.
He let the bottle splash into the canal, and he slumped against the piling.
Time to reap what I’ve sown. And use what I’ve learned.
He toppled forward into the calm water. He kicked for bottom, only six feet down, and his hands found the knives he’d knocked over the dock earlier in the day.
He swam up the canal in the dark, letting the current propel him, feeling sponges and rocks and jellyfish graze his torso as he stroked. He angled toward the opposite side, a wall of coral dug from the remains of an ancient reef, spiny urchins and lobster lurking in the cracks and crevices.
He surfaced slowly, careful not to splash, and exhaled through his nose. The moon and stars were bright, and the water rippled with cheery indifference.
At a dock belonging to one of Suzanne’s neighbors, he pulled himself from the water.
The knives were not the shiny kind. These were dark composite steel, designed not to reflect light in the dark places. Bart hefted them, one in each hand, as he cut through a fence, creeping through the yards of fabulous vacation homes. His feet were bare and his heart was pounding.
He cut the screen by the patio and slipped through, crouching. The sliding glass doors were all locked. He moved to the side patio door, probably a bathroom. He quietly worked the lock, prying back and forth with his knife until the wood came away and he could slide the inner mechanism with the blade. The lock snicked, and he opened the door.
Dripping and cold, Bart crept into the house. The floors were white tile, and his feet made no sound as he moved toward the stairway. From upstairs, he heard quiet laughter.
There was a faint light emanating from a room above.
He padded up the stairs, a knife in each hand.
He hesitated, pressed against the wall beside the open door.
“…dumbest orders ever,” someone beyond was saying. “These people are idiots. I want to shoot them just because.”
“Yeah,” said another man. “I’d like to have a go at the blonde, though.”
“Yes, sir,” the first man said, his voice altered and suddenly professional. “No change.” There was a brief pause, several heartbeats which Bart felt in his temple. “Copy that.”