Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

A gull passed overhead, keening, then flew on, leaving an abrupt and weighty silence. Kirstie became uncomfortably aware of the desolation around them, the bleak stretches of open water broken only by the coral ridge’s polished fangs and, in the far distance, the green shimmering mirage of Pelican Key.

“That’s too bad,” she said. To Steve: “Did you know him well?”

He nodded, eyes hooded. “Better than I wanted to.” He fingered the case a moment longer, then zipped it shut once more. “Anyway, it’s not a pleasant topic. Sorry I brought it up.”

She looked at Jack. “What made you want to talk about something like that?”

“I’ve got a morbid streak in me. Didn’t Stevie tell you?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. You used to entertain him with horror stories about these islands.”

“Historical anecdotes, if you please. Although I guess ‘horror stories’ would be equally accurate. There’s no shortage of material to draw on. A lot of people have died in the Keys.”

“But none on Pelican Key?”

Jack got up and stretched luxuriously, displaying the ropy sinews of his arms, the bunched muscles of his abdomen. His powerful physique made a clear contrast with Steve’s obvious lack of conditioning.

“None,” he answered, showing that same ambiguous smile. “At least, not yet.”

A tremor passed over Kirstie’s shoulders, lifting them in an involuntary shrug. Suddenly she felt the need to get away, though she couldn’t quite say why.

“Well,” she said lightly, “it looks like my premonition of disaster was a false alarm. Guess I’ll be heading back.”

Jack stretched again, pectorals flexing. “We’ll follow you in.”

“Sure you were through diving?”

“Yes,” Steve answered. “We’re through.”

He wasn’t looking at her anymore. Wouldn’t meet her eyes.

She wondered why that simple fact seemed frightening to her.

Restarting the motor, she angled the dinghy to face Pelican Key. She throttled forward, running at a slow, steady pace.

Sun rays fractured on the shifting surface of the sea, bursting into multicolored fragments like a kaleidoscope’s whirling shards. On the eastern horizon, a sportfisher rushed noisily into the deeper blue of the Atlantic, plowing a wide furrow in the water, casting spray like seed.

Kirstie glanced back and saw the motorboat trailing at a distance, Steve at the controls.

Her fears had been groundless, it appeared. Her husband had never been in any danger. He and an old friend had simply been passing the time on a summer afternoon, swimming among the coral towers and talking idly about nothing in particular while they sunbathed on the boat.

An attractive picture. She could almost believe in it.

Almost.

Jack was feeling pretty good about things.

Seated on the sailing thwart, facing astern, he felt flurries of spray peppering his back as the motorboat plunged landward, each droplet stinging like a fleck of spattered grease.

He didn’t mind. The discomfort was minimal compared with the indignities of prison-and prison was a trap he had only narrowly avoided.

For a few tense moments, it had looked as if Steve would draw the gun and confess everything to Kirstie. Luckily his courage had faltered, and now Jack was sure the mark was his.

He’d bitten on the hook. All that was necessary was to reel him in, just as Pavel Zykmund, CSGI’s last customer, had been hauled, thrashing and flopping, into the net.

“You almost made a big mistake, Stevie,” Jack yelled over the buzz of the Evinrude outboard.

Steve gazed toward the distant runabout and said nothing.

“Fortunately I was here to remind you of the consequences. Did you see your wife’s face when I told her about our mutual friend who’d gone to jail? She was shocked, wasn’t she? Imagine her looking at you that way.”

Steve nudged the throttle arm forward, revving the engine higher. The boat bounced lightly on the water.

“You’re better off doing things my way. And she’ll be better off, too. You made the right decision.”

“I haven’t decided anything, Jack.” His voice was soft enough to be nearly inaudible. “I said I’d give you a chance to convince me you’ve got a viable plan. Go ahead.”

A setback. The sale was not yet closed. Well, it would be, soon enough.

“No problem.” Jack put all his breezy confidence into his tone and body language. “All we need is Captain Pice’s boat.”

“How are we supposed to get hold of that?”

“It’s no more difficult than stealing a car. Which I did last night without breaking a sweat.”

“Pice is a big man.”

“You’ve got a gun. Remember?”

Steve smiled, not kindly, and tapped the bundle of gear at his feet. “Don’t worry, Jack. I hadn’t forgotten. So we hijack the Black Caesar. Then what?”

“You said it was a thirty-foot sportfisher, right? A boat like that can take us to the Bahamas in less than a day.”

“The Bahamas? Oh, Christ.”

“It’s the perfect destination. Seven hundred islands, American tourists coming and going all the time. We’ll blend right in.”

“As soon as somebody recognizes the boat, we’re finished.”

“We’ll rechristen her, paint over the brightwork, make a few other modifications. Has she got a tuna tower?”

“No.”

“We can add one. That’ll change her appearance dramatically.”

“A new tower won’t come cheap. And we can’t exactly charge it to our credit cards. What do we do for money?”

“I brought ten thousand dollars with me. Twenties, fifties, hundreds. Stashed most of it in those grocery bags on the runabout after I came ashore, except for a few bills I stuck in my pants pocket in case I got separated from the boat somehow. Believe me, we won’t run short of cash for a good long while.”

“We’ll need more than money. In a foreign country we’ve got to have passports, visas-”

“A guy I know can supply us with whatever documents we require. We’ll change our names, alter our appearances, start new lives.”

“As beachcombers.”

“As anything we want. There’s business in the Caribbean, lots of it. Me, I’m planning to stay in the investments game. You’re a lawyer; my friend can get you a law degree in your new identity from any university you want. Quality paper, the kind that will check out. Then just type up a resume and name your price. Rake in the bucks, pay no U.S. taxes, and spend your weekends lying on the beach.”

“It’ll never work. We’ll get caught. And instead of two years in prison, I’ll get twenty.”

Despite the constant rebuffs, Jack could sense Steve’s sales resistance weakening as one objection after another was knocked down.

“We won’t get caught,” he answered soothingly. “Hey, you think I’m an amateur at this? Yesterday morning the FBI raided my place of business in L.A. Surrounded the building, thought they had me. And I walked right out.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Same way I’m going to manage this. By outthinking them. They’re looking everywhere in the whole country for me. They don’t know where I am or what I’ll do next. They’re boobs, pal of mine. I can run rings around them. Already have. And if I can outmaneuver the feds, how hard can it be to do the two-step around the Bahamian police?” Jack chuckled. “It’s almost not enough of a challenge.”

Puddled water shivered on the floorboards, silver in the sun, like spilled mercury. It was cold against Jack’s bare feet. Steve’s too, most likely, but Jack didn’t think Steve noticed anymore.

“How long have you been planning all this?” Steve asked slowly.

“Years. Which is why I’ve had ample opportunity to work all the bugs out. It’s glitch-free, foolproof.” Sell it now. Sell hard. “And you can do it with me-if you’ve got the nerve. It’s your choice. Lie on the beach… or rot in a cell.”