Randy White - Dead of Night

I said nothing.

“Goddamn it, I’m trying to help. Did you kill Broz?”

I said, “Somebody killed somebody. I saw a body.”

She translated. “Good. You got two of them. I don’t think I could have taken all three myself. Aleski-he was the most dangerous. He knew my moves.”

I could hear myself earlier telling the woman that she had nothing to gain in helping me-wrong. Now I understood. She’d needed muscle. I’d provided it.

Luther Earl had told me the truth. She’d freed the snakes to keep searchers at bay, then hid in my cell.

“The key to the handcuffs. Where’d you keep it?”

She replied, “In my mouth. I was afraid you’d catch on and frisk me.”

I watched her take a cloth and begin to scrub the shotgun’s exterior, erasing my fingerprints.

“Instead of going to all that trouble, why didn’t you just tell me what you wanted?”

She paused to glare at me. “Would you have done it?”

Of course not. A pointless question.

She added, “Unless you make it seem like their idea, most men are too stupid to understand anything. When Aleski showed up, though, I thought we were both dead.”

I watched her stand, step to the window, and toss the shotgun into the bushes. With no wasted motion, she knelt beside the body of Luther Earl and squeezed the revolver into his left hand.

I started to speak but she cut me off. “He was left-handed. Do you take me for a fool?”

She gave the scene a last, critical sweep as she snapped off the surgical gloves. Would authorities read it as she intended? Mr. Earl’s dear friend, Dr. Stokes, had died horribly, so he’d committed suicide out of grief-and, perhaps, guilt.

“Follow me. Keep your mouth shut and they probably won’t question you. But Bahamian feds can be assholes no matter how much bribe money they’re paid.”

I stood, feeling ridiculous. But was also relieved. I’d assumed she was going to kill me. Sphincter muscles are barometers of the elemental. Mine began to relax. Tentatively.

I followed her through the hallway, toward the main entrance. I was shirtless, bruised, and filthy. The whopa-whopa-whopa of a helicopter was shaking the house. I had to raise my voice to ask, “When the Coast Guard starts asking questions, what’s my role? How are we going to work it?”

Dasha stopped, turned. From the canvas bag, she took a sheaf of papers and held them up for inspection. “The only role you have here is to do what I tell you. Dr. Stokes signed title of his property over to me in exchange for Applebee’s computer files. Which I gave him. I cut the tape on his arm and handed him a pen. The doctor… seemed very eager to trade.”

“You handed him a pen, and… what else?”

“I gave him what he asked for.”

Did she mean the scalpel?

The woman continued toward the door. My instincts told me to bolt in the opposite direction, but she dragged me along as if caught in a weird force field. “These papers are witnessed by Dr. Stokes’s late administrative assistant, and notarized by a Nassau judge. A good woman, respected. The Bahamian cops aren’t going to ask many questions once they find out I’m the new owner. They depend on landowners for bribes. But, Ford?”

Dasha was stepping onto the porch into the sun, the green of tropic foliage melding with the jade of Caribbean Sea beyond. A mild smile changed the feral contours of her cheeks, as iceberg eyes took in all that heat and light. “If you ever do want to play a role? Come back and stay a few days.” She faced me. “Last night, on the plane? Maybe you had an interesting dream. Fun. Between professionals. It could be like that.”

I was grateful for the noise of the helicopter hovering above us because I was afraid to answer. The woman scared me. I focused on the aircraft, as if I hadn’t heard.

The copter wasn’t local Coast Guard. It was a U.S. special ops chopper used to ferry commandos into tight spots, a “Little Bird.” The cockpit was a Plexiglas bubble attached to a fuselage bristling with miniguns, rocket tubes, antennas, and infrared sensors.

Withering firepower, plus speed.

The craft displayed no markings, which I found odd. It had to be American.

Dasha stood her ground, as ropes were deployed, and four men wearing body armor and masks fast-roped down, weapons already shouldered: two submachine guns aimed at her, two. 50 caliber machine guns covering the cutters. The helicopter then rotated a few degrees so that its rocket tubes communicated an unmistakable message to the Bahamians: Interfere, we’ll open fire.

The chopper descended, touched earth tentatively, then settled. It was then I realized why the aircraft was operating clean, no ID. In the doorway, Hal Harrington appeared looking like a corporate executive, in gray suit, gray tie.

How the hell did he know I was on the island?

The intelligence chief swung out of the fuselage, a black SIG-Sauer held vertical to his leg, concealing it. He stayed low, taking long strides, then stood. At the same time, he pointed the handgun at Dasha.

The Little Bird was maintaining rpms. Harrington had to yell over the noise. “Ford! You okay?”

I nodded, aware that he was assessing my condition. Not good.

“Do you have more business here?” Harrington was looking at Dasha, weapon still aimed. The two had locked eyes. I got the impression the woman saw something in the man that scared her. Her cheek, I noticed, had begun to twitch. She was capable of emotion.

I yelled, “I’m clear. Let’s load up and move. Get our feet wet.” Meaning, let’s get over the water.

When we were airborne, I’d tell him about the barge carrying the drone helicopters. Harrington’s decision. Order Little Bird to sink them or let the FBI deal with it.

I walked toward the chopper, but stopped when I realized Harrington wasn’t following me. The fire team wasn’t going to budge until their boss was safely aboard.

“Hal? Do we have a problem?”

He still had the weapon aimed at the blonde. “Who is this woman? Are you sure you don’t need more ground time?” The man had great instincts. And he probably already knew who she was.

I said, “It’s the woman who owns this island, Hal. We’re leaving. My call.”

Slowly, the man lowered the SIG-Sauer. Turned, gave me a bitter glance-You owe me, pal-and ducked toward the chopper, done with her.

Dasha moved her eyes to mine. I shrugged: We have a deal. Then climbed aboard, determined not to look back.

The troop seating in the Little Bird helicopter was cramped, the interior dark except for red tactical lighting, and the green sweep of radar screens. I slid into the nearest seat, aware of an odd odor among the familiar smells of diesel, graphite, and webbing.

Patchouli?

The four members of the fire team were boarding, and I heard one of them mutter, “I swear to God, skipper, I’d rather stay here with the bandits. That fucking hippie’s perfume makes me gag.”

A familiar, indignant voice replied, “For your information, officer, it’s not perfume. It’s fragrance. I’d explain the difference, but I’m not allowed to speak.”

“Officer? The guy still thinks we’re fucking cops. What planet’s he from?”

The familiar voice said, “Exactly. There’s an interesting topic for the flight home. Regression to previous lives-don’t let your hostile cop natures fool you. It’s waiting out there.”

My eyes were still adjusting, which is why I recognized the voice before I recognized the familiar man across from me: goatee, stringy surfer’s hair, and still wearing hospital scrubs.

We both banged our heads on the low ceiling when we stood. “Tomlinson? What the hell are you doing here?” “With Harrington,” I didn’t add.