He entered the gatehouse and, concealed from view, waited. It wasn’t long before an SUV on the mainland slowed down on Route 30, stopping less than an eighth of a mile away. The headlights shone through needles of rain as it pulled off onto a cleared space and engineered a K-turn. The vehicle moved slowly, as if the driver was worried about getting stuck in the mud. The SUV backed up almost to the water, blocking Landry’s view. Then it pulled back out onto the road, going in the other direction.
Landry had gamed this scenario himself, with Jackson, Davis, and Green. They’d gone over the schematic showing the landline and utility power running along the causeway in a flexible conduit, connecting to the mainland, how they could cut the power at its source, a junction box just above the water line. The box was concealed by bushes for aesthetic effect.
It would take a while for the op—possibly a former Navy SEAL like himself—to make it to the cable running along the causeway. Landry stayed in the gatehouse and scanned the water, looking for one of three things. Rising bubbles from SCUBA gear. He saw none; if the swimmer used SCUBA gear, he would have to ditch it before he reached the shallower water near the causeway. Landry looked for a snorkel, or perhaps a floating plastic bottle hiding a snorkel. He saw nothing like that. Then he looked for the man’s forehead and nose to come up very briefly in the wave troughs. There was a large expanse of water along the causeway, a continual pattern of wavelets cresting and disappearing, some dark, some white. All running together. Landry concentrated on the water and waited.
He almost missed him—a small movement, disappearing almost instantly. His eye followed the trajectory, and after a very long time, he saw the tip of the man’s nose again. At the same moment he heard the whop-whop-whop of helicopter rotors in the distance. He wondered if the local news affiliate had a helicopter, or if the helo belonged to Cardamone.
No time to wonder—here was his chance. He kept low to the other side of the causeway, walking along riprap, his eye on the water, and hid opposite the junction box behind the rocks at the edge of the causeway. The swimmer would have a cable cutter and a knife—possibly two. But Landry had surprise, and he also had a knife.
His quarry came out of the water, hugging low to the rocks and slipping into the concealment of the bushes. Before he could hack all the way through the cable, Landry was on him. They toppled into the water and Landry piggy-backed on him, pinning the man’s back with his knee against the rocks beneath the surface. Holding the swimmer’s forehead with one hand and his chin with the other, Landry jerked the man’s head back with as much force as he could muster. But his bad hand slipped, losing purchase, and his quarry pried at his hands with strong fingers. Landry kept the swimmer’s head underwater, pushing him down into the silt and sharp rocks with his knee. This was incredibly hard to do—his legs felt as if heavy weights were tied to them. The swimmer’s legs scissored—aided by flippers—and he twisted like an eel in Landry’s grip—incredible strength driven by panic. One more time Landry took hold and jerked back, and this time he felt the neck go.
Even though he was sure the swimmer was dead, Landry held him a little longer, to make sure. They had a saying in the SEALs: “Never assume a frogman is dead until you find his body.”
Finally, he released him and kicked away along the causeway to the gatehouse, where the two black SUVs were parked cross-ways in front.
Thinking: One down.
The helo was overhead now, circling. A news copter after all? The Bell JetRanger had a big white “8” on the side with the call letters WFLA NEWS. But the letters didn’t look right—a rush job. The searchlight came on, blinding white and lighting up the ground around the gatehouse. Bursts of shot hit the water and came ever closer, smacking the pavement in a deadly pattern, smashing into the roof of the gatehouse.
He knew it was diversionary, but even so, they could hit him. He made it to the Suburban closest to the compound and crouched by the right front tire, hoping the engine block would stay between him and the helo until he could get into the vehicle. He’d left the keys in both vehicles for just this purpose. The helo hovered, like an angry dog poking its snout through a cat door. Landry launched himself in through the passenger side into the driver’s seat. He floored the Suburban across the causeway, shot pellets shattering the back window. Jammed the brakes, shot forward again, slewing right and left like a slalom skier. At the boathouse he rolled out, rolled all the way into the brush. Crawled to the shelter of the boathouse and peered out the small back window, checking to see if anyone was around. That was when he saw the Carolina skiff pulled up into the reeds on the shoreline.
The cameras were out. Everything was out. It was the storm. Jolie hoped it was the storm. She listened, waited for the generator to kick in. Twenty seconds. Everything was dark. It was gloomy outside, the rain coming down hard, but in this shed it was very, very dark. Jolie rummaged around for the walkie-talkie.
A loud sputtering sound rent the heavily laden air. A cough, and the stench of gasoline. The lights flickered on. Automatically, she looked at the camera screens. Saw movement—two figures near the boathouse.
Just before the lights went out for a second time.
Jolie couldn’t find the walkie-talkie. It had to be right near her. Her hand scoured the desktop. She needed to be able to communicate with Cyril. She could see the shapes of things in the gloom. Her fingers landed on the walkie-talkie, but she knocked it to the floor.
Reached down, feeling around her chair.
Hands running down the heavy links of the chain to the padlock.
Her fingers nudging the padlock as she fished around for the walkie-talkie.
Something sharp protruded from the lock. The key.
Relief poured over her, warm and welcoming. Followed by gratitude—Stockholm syndrome again. But the exhilaration of this moment was too great. Tears seeped from her eyes. He’d given her an out. He’d given her a chance to get away, or to go and protect her family.
Protect her family. Whatever their flaws, whatever they had done in the past, they were her responsibility now. They belonged to her, and she would see them through.
She held the chain, let it down to the floor quietly. She didn’t want to attract anyone to this building. Jolie debated turning on one of the flashlights, but decided against it. She felt around for the gear bag with the arsenal Cyril had brought with him. She took a knife along with its scabbard and hitched it to her belt. She strapped her own Walther PPK to her ankle. She pulled on a dark windbreaker, took another .45 and stuck it in one pocket, and put the walkie-talkie in the other. She emptied the gear bag of everything but the remaining weapons and added three Maglites. Took one of the sound suppressors and screwed it onto a Heckler & Koch .45 semiautomatic. Time to go.
Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. There was nobody in the doorway. Jolie wished she had power, wished she could watch the cameras, but they were useless to her now.
She remained crouched—a smaller target—and followed the wall to the doorway. Worried. Wondered if the men coming for them had FLIR scopes. Any minute, she could be dead before she heard the crash of the bullet—
Couldn’t think like that. And in fact, she encountered no one. The shifting wind blew the rain against her back and then into her face, needles that were warm but somehow chilling, water trickling down her neck, but the windbreaker was good. She kept to the sides of the buildings, concealing herself wherever she could by bushes or trees, duck-walking where there was empty space.