Randy White - Everglades

But then he told himself to hold on, slow down. Think about it. He’d been living peacefully on his little island for more than three months under the name of Craig Skaar, not a hint of trouble. The way Izzy had worked it, covering his trail every step of the way, not even the FBI could have found him. So what were the chances of some dopey biologist accomplishing what the FBI couldn’t?

Nil.

So Izzy had one of his people, Giorgio, talk to a couple of the staff at the Colony. Turned out, it was a total coincidence. The nerd was in Granada to study some kind of weird freshwater shark that lived in the lake.

“What the hell’s a bull shark?” Izzy said when Giorgio told him.

He’d been swimming off his beach in the lake every day, and hated the idea of sharks being out there.

Smiling, Giorgio had clacked his teeth together, and said in Spanish, “The kind that bites, Chief.”

So Izzy had nothing to fear. Not from Ford, anyway. But his being in Granada was a big pain in the ass for two reasons: One, living on an island, Izzy had learned, was boring as hell. And, two, Granada really was a fun town.

Izzy enjoyed walking the streets and open markets, looking for young girls. He liked the Spanish architecture, everything painted in Caribbean pastel blues, corals and greens. He liked the feel of the old mansions, the way they were built around a central park that had a bandstand where marimba groups played almost every night.

Izzy liked eating and drinking at the Mediterraneo and Dona Conchi’s, where the American adventurer William Walker had supposedly dodged a firing squad. He especially like a quirky little bar outside town, Restaurante Aeropuerto 79, that served excellent and unusual food, such as crab-and-iguana-tail soup.

When he got bored with Granada, he’d hop in the Land Rover he’d bought and drive to Masaya, a little village famous for its two massive markets-that was always interesting. There were lots of bars there; plenty of women.

Nicaragua was also famous for its volcanoes. There were dozens of them; maybe hundreds. At night, from his island, he could see them glowing in the distance.

Once, Izzy decided to have a look at a volcano just to see what it was like. Masaya supposedly had one of the largest, so he’d driven miles up the mountain road, got out and stared into the mouth of the volcano for which the village was named.

Mah-SIGH-uh -that’s the way the locals pronounced it.

The crater was huge, smoky. It smelled of heat and sulfur. If he really leaned over and looked, he could see orange lava way down there, nearly a thousand feet below.

No more volcanoes after seeing Masaya, Izzy decided. If there really was a hell, that’s the way it’d look. Plus, there were plenty of other things to do around Granada.

But not with Ford around. Ford being in town was a pain in the ass because it made it impossible for Izzy to leave his island. Granada was not a large town, and he couldn’t risk being seen.

Which meant he’d just have to wait patiently until the nerd got on a plane and left. Which he almost certainly would. Soon.

As an extra precaution, though, Izzy had his people spread the word: Let him know immediately if the biologist rented a boat, a canoe, anything that floated. If he was on the water, Izzy wanted to know where.

Otherwise, he was safe, and hidden away. After all, Izzy’s island was more than a mile offshore. What was the guy going to do? Swim?

Ford arrived in town on a Tuesday. Now, five days later, Izzy was going stir-crazy. Every night, he had his staff bring out a different woman; two, sometimes three at a time-so it wasn’t too bad. But today was Sunday, and nobody in the whole country worked on Sunday, not even the hookers.

Fucking Catholics.

It was the only day of the week when Izzy was alone on the island, so he’d come to despise Sundays.

So what he did was work on his Internet stuff. He had to keep the generator running outside to do it. The massive casa he was building wasn’t done; he hadn’t yet gotten the electric cable laid from Granada, so the wood-and-tile house in which he now lived was primitive but comfortable.

Izzy was careful about the way he used the Internet. He knew that it was one of the few ways he could be tracked. An individual’s Internet habits have a signature, so he varied what he did, the sites he accessed; kept a low profile.

He hadn’t put the video of the Merry Widow on line yet. Same with the two dozen porno tapes he’d made since he’d arrived in Nicaragua. He kept all the tapes in his office, neatly cataloged on wooden bookshelves.

No. He was taking it slow, getting his new identity established, playing it cool. He’d begin to market the tapes soon, very soon. And the money would start rolling in.

At dusk, Izzy went for a walk; walked the entire perimeter of his island, looking at similar islands to the south, then the red tile roofs of Granada to the northeast. He did the walk nearly every afternoon, partly for exercise, but also for security reasons.

No boats out there anywhere.

Then he stopped at the boathouse and checked the lines of his new twenty-six-foot Mako. Same thing. Habit. He did it every night.

As he returned to the house, there was a silver, crescent moon, he noticed, floating above a horizon of volcanic peaks.

Izzy was still sitting at his computer at a little after 10 P.M. when the computer, the lights, everything went out.

Shit.

Because it wasn’t unusual for the generator to run out of diesel fuel, he had glass oil lamps all over the house. He lighted one now.

Goddamn Pablo didn’t fill the tank before he left like I told him to do.

Pissed off, bored, Izzy carried the lamp to the back door, opened it… and dropped the lamp, he was so shocked to see who was standing there.

The glass shattered, spilling kerosene across the tile floor. The room was immediately bathed in the eerie light of spreading flames.

A deep, articulate voice said, “Hello, Izzy. Hey-you need to be more careful. Or maybe you never learned not to play with fire.”

Izzy took a step back.

Jesus Christ, it was the fucking nerd biologist, standing there in a black sweater and black shorts, his face painted green, a watch cap pulled down to his ears, water dripping from him. He was smiling. It was like he was an old friend or something, happy to see him.

Not in his eyes, though. What he saw in Ford’s eyes was scary.

Izzy turned to find water, a blanket, something to stop the fire, as the biologist said, “Hold it right there. I’m a little cold after my swim. So let’s just let ’er burn. Okay?”

“Fuck you, mister!” Izzy was still walking away. Where he was really headed was his desk to get the Beretta. After that, he’d worry about the fire. “You just don’t show up without an invitation, come into a man’s house and start giving orders.”

Which is when he felt the man’s big hands grab him from behind. Just as he’d been trained in martial arts, Izzy swung back hard with his left elbow, already pivoting to slam the palm of his hand into Ford’s nose-but Ford had somehow managed to remain behind him.

Christ, it was like fighting the Italian all over again.

Izzy had the same kind of feeling-overpowered, helpless-as Ford took him to the ground.

“You’ve got no reason to do this to me. Why are you doing this?”

Ford said, “I want to have a chat, Izzy. A little come-to-God meeting you might call it.”

As he talked, with not much effort at all, he got Izzy’s right arm behind him, then his left.

Izzy heard a ripping sound.

Fuck! He’s taping my hands.

“I want to talk about Geoff Minster, and what you did to his wife, Sally. And I want to talk about Frank DeAntoni. The guy you put in the trunk and shot execution-style. Remember?”