Matt Hilton - Cut and run

A young black guy in baggy shorts was at the controls. An older man unhitched the ropes from the wharf and used a kick of his foot to push us clear. He clambered past us towards the cabin, talking quickly to the young man. I didn't catch a word they said to each other.

Watching Bryce's expression, I said, 'No. We don't intend sailing all the way to Maine.'

The motor stuttered then roared and the cabin cruiser angled out into the gently undulating water. The older black guy was doing a lot of gesticulating while the younger one ignored him stoically. Father and son, I assumed.

'Used these guys before?' I asked Rink.

'No. But they're being paid to keep their lips zipped. You don't have to worry about them.'

'Where are we going?' Bryce had sat on a bench and was watching Rock Harbor recede away from us.

'Out in the Keys,' Rink said. But that was all.

Back during Fidel Castro's takeover of Cuba, many people fleeing oppression and poverty had sought a new life in the States. As it was less than one hundred miles between Cuba and Key West, 'boat people' often used the islands as stepping stones to the mainland. Now, all these years later, illegal immigrants still chose this route into the USA. People with the necessary cash could purchase entry via any number of men willing to smuggle them ashore. Ordinarily I'd balk at using men who profit from the suffering of others, but in the circumstances I just had to keep my opinion to myself. Desperate times, as they say.

'We're taking a chance out here,' Bryce said. 'There was no other way you could think of?'

Because of the problem of illegal immigrants, the US Border Patrol was very active in this area, watching for suspicious boats or sea planes. We were running the risk of being hailed by a patrol boat. But that wasn't what Bryce was getting at.

'There are many agents based here,' he offered in a whisper. The Keys were also a staging post for people entering Communist-controlled Cuba. 'People who might recognise me.'

'Just keep your head down, Bryce.'

'Want my shades?' Rink asked.

We were on the boat for over an hour, and during that time, I brought Rink up to speed with everything that had happened. He checked out the photographs that Bryce had brought along. Rink had worked with Schilling, Hillman and Muir on a few missions and I could see the sadness in his eyes as he studied the photos. The sadness was replaced by anger when looking at the innocent dead: the women and children. His shoulders tightened and I knew that my friend was thinking bad thoughts about the people responsible.

'And now they have Imogen.'

'I'm trying not to think about that,' I said.

The Florida Keys are an archipelago of more than seventeen hundred islands, many of them inhabited, but others merely nameless limestone mounds on the surface of the sea. Depending on the hurricanes that roar through the area, some of these islets disappear and reappear like Brigadoon of the fables. A large number of islands have been colonised by plant life but have no natural fresh water and in general people avoid these as dwelling places. We were headed for one such island now.

The old guy set up a new fluster of gesticulations that his son accepted without argument. The cabin cruiser swung in and approached an island that rose from the surface of the sea with dramatic limestone cliffs crowned by bushes and the occasional palm tree. On closer inspection the cliffs weren't as tall as they first looked, little higher than twenty feet, but they still appeared to be a natural bulwark against the sea. We followed a spur of the cliff and turned into a natural cove, where men with automatic rifles waited for us.

Bryce inhaled sharply, but a quick glance at Rink's nonchalance made him relax. Rink raised a hand in greeting and the men lowered their guns and waved back.

Rink bunged the old guy a roll of dollars as we disembarked on to a short jetty made from weathered wood. Then the cabin cruiser backed out and took off for Rock Harbor.

Twenty minutes later, the three of us were on a plane headed north on the first of three hops to Maine. In a few short hours we'd go from tropical sunshine to icy rain and just the thought made me shudder. But it wasn't the prospect of the impending cold that made me shake: it was what I might find when we arrived there.

In a woodland glade near to the Narraquaquas River in Washington County, Rickard shot Imogen Ballard.

It was easier transporting her if she couldn't put up a fight.

Depending on her outlook when she finally woke up, she'd probably prefer it that he'd used the gun with which he'd shot the state troopers instead of the same tranquilliser gun he'd used on her the first time.

He propped her in the passenger seat of his newly appropriated vehicle, a blanket tucked round her and a pillow behind her head as though she was taking a well-earned nap. He slipped a hand under the blanket, caressing her thigh while he made an overdue telephone call to his wife.

'Hi, honey, it's me.'

In their loft apartment in Miami, Alisha held her breath for a second too long.

'Aren't you happy to hear from me?' Rickard asked.

'Of course I am, Luke.'

'Me too, babe. I'm missing you. Are you missing me?'

'Yes.'

'Doesn't sound like it.'

'I am, Luke, I'm missing you like crazy. I wish you were home…'

Rickard smiled to himself, and allowed his hand to slip between Imogen's legs.

'There's nothing more that I want, but you know how things are: if you want all these fine things, I have to work all the hours I can. You're not growing ungrateful, I hope…'

'I don't care about anything else, Luke. I'd be as happy with nothing.'

'As long as you're with me, right?'

'That's what I meant, Luke. I only want you.'

'I want you, too.' Rickard closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, shuddered it out again. His fingers were working with more urgency. As deep as she was in slumber, Imogen squirmed in an effort to get away from him.

'When will you be home?' Alisha's voice came out barely above a whisper. Rickard withdrew his hand and made a fist on the steering wheel.

'I don't know for sure. A day, maybe two. Why do you ask?'

'Because I… uh… I miss you.'

'If it was possible I'd be there now,' he said. 'But it isn't. But just think how great things will be when I get back.'

'That's what keeps me going, babe.'

'Tell me, honey. Tell me what you're going to do to me when I get home.'

Alisha told him, and his fist unfurled. After a few seconds it crept back under the blanket. But all he did this time was straighten Imogen's clothing.

Rickard hung up.

He could feel the serpent coiling inside him and he glanced at the rear-view mirror in hope of catching it out. All that looked back at him were his own deep-set eyes. They were creased with anger and it was an effort to make them smooth out.

Alisha, the little whore, was in need of reminding about the correct etiquette for answering his calls. She'd said the right words, but her tone had done nothing to reassure him. The fear was there, and that was good. But the desultory, almost robotic pitch of her voice was as faked as those phone-sex hookers he occasionally called. He was beginning to think that the ungrateful bitch didn't fear him enough.

Beside him, Imogen was as still as a mannequin. Her face was pale and waxen. After the troubled moans she'd made minutes ago, she was silent; even her breath was barely audible. He wished now that he hadn't doped her so deeply; he would do to her what he planned to do to Alisha on his return. Imogen, he knew, would show him the correct amount of terror.

Among his tools he had brought an antidote to the tranquilliser and he was seconds away from administering it. But he decided no. There would be time for Imogen later. He had other things to do first.