Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

There had to be something here.

In a plastic in-box tray, he found something that sent his antennae buzzing. A photocopy of a list of names, from the National Association of Securities Dealers, of people who had received licenses to trade securities for investment purposes. The list ran on for pages, hundreds of names and securities firms, from all across the globe. Hauck scanned down-what would Dietz be looking for?

Then, all of a sudden, it occurred to him just what was unique about the list of licenses.

They had all been granted within the past year.

As Hauck paged through it, he saw that several names had been circled. Others were crossed out, with handwritten notes in the margins. There were hundreds. A long, painstaking search to narrow them down.

Then it hit him, like a punch in the solar plexus.

Karen Friedman wasn’t the only person who thought her husband was alive!

There was a printer-copier on the credenza adjacent to the desk, and Hauck placed the security list along with Dietz’s notes in it. He kept looking. Amid some scattered sheets, he found a handwritten note on Dark Star stationery.

The Barclays Bank. In Tortola.

There was a long number under it, which had to be an account number, then arrows leading to other banks-the First Caribbean Bank. Nevis. Banc Domenica. Names. Thomas Smith. Ronald Torbor. It had been underlined three times.

Who were these people? What was Dietz looking for? Hauck had always assumed that Charles and Dietz were connected. The hit-and-runs…

That’s when it struck him. Jesus…

Dietz was searching for him, too.

Hauck picked up a scrawled sheet of paper from the tray, some kind of travel itinerary. American Airlines. Tortola. Nevis. His skin started to feel all tingly.

Dietz was ahead of him. Did he possibly already know where Charles was?

He placed in a copy of the same sheet in the printing bay and pressed. The machine started warming up.

Then suddenly there was a noise from outside the window. Hauck’s heart slammed to a stop.

Wheels crunching over gravel, followed by the sound of a car door slamming.

Someone was home.

Hauck’s blood became ice. He went over to the window and peeked through the drawn curtains. Dietz’s office faced the wrong direction; there was no way to determine who it was. He removed the Sig 9 from his belt and checked the clip. He was completely out of bounds here-no warrant, no backup.

Inside, Hauck was just praying it wasn’t Dietz.

He heard a knock at the door. Someone shouting out, “Phil?” Then, after a short pause, something that made his pulse skyrocket. The sound of a key being inserted in the front door, the lock opening. A man’s voice calling.

“Phil?”

Hauck hid behind the office door. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the Sig and stood pressed against the door. He had no way out. Whoever it was had already come inside.

Hauck heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the creak of bending wood on the floorboards. “Phil? You here?”

His heart started going wild. Panicked, his mind flashed to whether or not his Bronco might have been seen. He realized that sooner or later whoever this was, if he made his way around the house, would notice the smashed rear windowpane. Would find his way back to the office. Whoever this was had access. On the other hand, Hauck was there totally unlawfully. He had no warrant. He hadn’t notified the local police. He would be cited just for bringing in his gun. The footsteps came closer. He wasn’t sure what to do. Only that he’d gotten himself into a sizable amount of shit, and it was getting deeper by the second. The man was walking around the house. Should he make a run for it?

Then something happened that sent Hauck’s pulse into a frenzy.

The fucking printer began to print.

The pages Hauck had fed into the tray, they were suddenly going through. The hum of the machine was like an alarm bell.

“Phil!”

The footsteps got closer. Behind the door Hauck gripped his Sig, pressing the muzzle up against his cheek. The machine continued to print. He couldn’t stop it! Think, think, what to do?

Hauck froze at the creak of a nearby floorboard as whoever it was came around the corner. He peeked inside the office. Hauck held, rigid as a board.

“Phil, I didn’t know you were here…”

The man paused, remaining in the doorway. The pages continued to feed into the machine one by one.

Hauck held his breath. Shit…

A second later the heavy office door slammed into his chest, taking him by surprise, the Sig flying out of his hand.

Hauck’s eyes darted after the gun, the door barreling into him again, striking him in the side of the head, dazing him, the gun clattering across the floor.

The man crashed the door into Hauck one more time, this time following it into the room, mashing Hauck’s right hand in the hinge. Hauck finally threw the brunt of his weight against it and rammed it back with all his might, sending the man reeling into the room.

The man had close-cropped hair and a large nose, his cheek bloodied from the blow. He glared at Hauck. “What the hell are you doing here? Who the fuck are you?”

Hauck stared back. He realized he had seen him before.

The second witness. The guy in a warm-up jacket at AJ Raymond’s hit-and-run. A track coach or something.

Hodges.

Their eyes met in a stunned, glaring gaze.

Hodges’s eyes were equally as wide. “You!”

Hauck’s glance darted toward the gun on the floor, as Hodges took the nearest thing available, a decorative scrimshaw horn Dietz kept on a side table, and lunged in Hauck’s direction, slashing the sharp point of the horn through Hauck’s sweatshirt and tearing into his skin.

Hauck cried out. The horn dug through his chest, his ribs on fire.

Hodges slashed at him again, Hauck flailing desperately for the other man’s arm to block the blow, pinning it back, while Hodges pushed with all his might with his other hand against Hauck’s neck.

He kneed Hauck sharply in the side of his chest, his wound.

“Aaagh!”

“What are you doing here?” Hodges screamed at him again.

“I know,” Hauck grunted back. “I know what’s happened.” Blood seeped through the ripped, damp fabric of his sweatshirt. “It’s over, Hodges. I know about the hit-and-runs.”

Straining, Hauck forced back his attacker’s fingers, reaching for the handle of the horn. It fell, skidding away.

Hauck faced him, clutching his side. “I know they were set up. I know they were done to protect Charles Friedman and Dolphin Oil. The police are on the way.” He was still dazed from the first blows, short of breath. His neck was raw and throbbing where Hodges had squeezed it. “You’re done, man.”

“Police…” Hodges echoed skeptically. “So who the fuck are you, the advance guard?”

Eyes ablaze, he darted to the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker there and swung it at Hauck as hard as he could, narrowly missing his head by inches and striking into the wall behind him, shards of dug-out plaster splintering over the floor.

Hauck dove headfirst into him, knocking Hodges back against the desk, heavy books and photos tumbling all over them, the printer crashing down from the shelf.

They rolled onto the floor, Hodges coming up on top. He was strong. Maybe a few years back Hauck could’ve taken him, but he was still dazed from the body blows of the door and the gash on his side. Hodges fought like he had nothing to lose. He kneed Hauck deeply in the groin, sending the air rushing out of him, and grabbed the iron poker lengthwise with both hands, pinned it across Hauck’s chest like a vise, forcing it into the nook of his neck.