Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

After assembling the hit team and sending them north one at a time, Bo had been forced to wait. Sloan had so many bodyguards that it was impossible to get anywhere near the bastard under normal circumstances. But people, presidents included, can and do make mistakes. Sloan was no exception.

Samuel T. Sloan and Major Robin Macintyre announced their engagement only weeks after the New Confederacy surrendered. Very few people were surprised.

But the press release caused a stir nevertheless, especially when it became known that the couple were going to share a prenuptial holiday on a private island located near Bar Harbor, Maine. And that was going to give Bo the opportunity he needed.

The boat began to roll uncomfortably as it turned north. One of the new team members, an actor named Posey, was seasick. Rather than stick around and watch Posey barf over the rail, Bo entered the spacious cabin. An ex–navy bosun named Trey Sims was at the wheel. The African-American was built like a linebacker—and stood with his feet spread.

Gatlin, along with an ex-op named Misty Estrada, and a onetime Confederate Intel agent named Ricky Costas were seated at the table.

Bo reached out to steady himself as the boat rolled. Gatlin grinned. “It’s hard to believe that some people do this for fun. We’re going to play a few hands of poker. Would you care to join us?”

Bo had nothing better to do and figured it would be good for morale. But rather than the penny-ante game that Bo was expecting to take part in, the others began to place stacks of gold coins on the table. The same coins they’d been paid with.

Did it make sense to play poker with the money they hoped to retire on? No. But all three of them were risk takers and egomaniacs. Each believed himself or herself to be smarter and more capable than the rest of the people on the boat.

But there were things they didn’t know… One of which was that Bo was broke. All of Victoria’s stash had gone into giving the team half their pay up front, equipping them, and renting the yacht. Bo smiled. “I’d love to sit in. Are IOUs okay? My money is waiting for us in Canada.”

The relationship between the United States and Canada was still quite rocky. So the claim was credible, especially since the team had been led to believe that a helicopter was going to pick them up after the assassination and take them north. “Sure,” Costas replied. “We know you’re good for it.”

The next hour passed enjoyably, and by the time the boat crossed the Mt. Desert Narrows, Estrada had amassed a substantial pile of coins and IOUs. She had a narrow face, hungry eyes, and hollow cheeks. “Thanks, suckers… I’m going to think of you while I spend your money.”

“We’re twenty minutes out,” Sims announced from his position at the helm.

“Okay,” Bo said. “Let’s get ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Gatlin said as he slid off the seat. “I’ll check on Posey.”

One by one, the team members brought their duffel bags to the cockpit and stacked them on the starboard side. Bo was on the flying bridge by then, standing next to Sims, who preferred the topside controls for docking. The cruiser’s running lights were off, and the cabin was dark.

Bo brought the night-vision binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the island ahead. Having viewed the area on Google Earth, Bo knew that Bowtie Island was actually two oblong islets linked by a sandbar. The main house was located on the south end of what Bo thought of as island two. There was a separate cottage as well. That was where the island’s only permanent resident lived.

But what if Secret Service agents were on Bowtie? That would be a disaster. The presidential visit was days away, however… And, having been privy to such things in his role as a general, Bo figured the Secret Service wouldn’t move in for another day or two.

Everything Bo could see confirmed that hypothesis. Had security been in place, armed Coast Guard boats would have come out to warn the yacht off.

“The target looks the way it should,” Bo announced. “Take us in.” Sims nodded and nudged the throttles forward.

Each member of the team was equipped with a headset, radio, and night-vision gear. Bo keyed his mike. “Heads up… We’re going in. Sims and Estrada will remain with the boat. Everyone else will follow me. Posey will be last. Over.”

The team responded with a flurry of clicks as the yacht nudged the floating dock and Estrada jumped onto it. She secured the stern line as the others made their way up a ramp to shore. They were dressed in TAC gear and armed with suppressed pistols.

Bo was on point and pleased to discover that the old habits were still there. He knew that the trail led to the cottage, the heliport, and the house at the far end of the island. The caretaker’s residence became visible two minutes later.

Bo checked his watch. It was 2022. With any luck at all, George Owen was asleep. Bo knew the caretaker’s name thanks to reviews posted online. “Mr. Owen was wonderful!” “Thank you, George!” And crap like that.

Bo waved the team forward. A light was visible within the cottage. Because Owen was still up? Or was it a night-light? They were about to find out. Bo pointed to Gatlin, then to the door.

Gatlin nodded and, like the pro he was, tried the knob before resorting to force. The door opened smoothly. Owen felt safe on Bowtie Island. That was about to change. Gatlin entered first, with Bo behind him. Costas and Posey were on sentry duty outside. A visitor was unlikely. But if one appeared, they would deal with it.

The front door opened onto a small foyer. The living room was on the left—and a soft murmur was coming from the TV. A recliner was positioned in front of the set, and Bo could see that the back of a man’s head was visible. Was Owen awake? Or was he asleep? Gatlin circled around the chair, stopped, and pushed the barrel of his pistol up against the caretaker’s forehead. “Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

Owen jerked awake and attempted to get up, but the gun barrel kept him from doing so. “Who? What?”

“There’s no reason to be frightened,” Bo lied. “Just stay where you are for the moment. Posey? You can come in now.”

Posey arrived moments later. He’d been chosen for his ability to play a part, but more than that, because he was about Owen’s age and had a similar build. Posey removed a digital camera from a cargo pocket and began to snap pictures. Owen blinked as the flash went off. Later on, when the time came, the photos would help Posey to apply his makeup. “There,” the actor said as he took a final shot. “That should do it.”

“Good,” Bo said. “Okay, Mr. Owen, stand up. You’re about to take us on a tour. During the tour, you will tell Mr. Posey everything he needs to know about how to do your job. That includes the routine maintenance chores that you perform each day, the kind of problems that might crop up, and everything you know about the island’s history. If you do that, and do it well, I will allow you to live. Agreed?” Owen was terrified. His head bobbed up and down.

The tour lasted for more than three hours. Posey recorded everything Owen said so he could review it later. The sky had just begun to lighten in the east as Gatlin escorted Owen down the ramp and onto the yacht. The duffel bags had been transferred onto the dock by then, and the boat’s engines were running.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gatlin said, and pointed. “Look at that!”

Owen turned to look, and Sims shot him in the back of the head. There was a thump as the body landed on the deck. “Okay,” Gatlin said, “let’s haul him below. You know what to do after that.”

Sims nodded. “Take the boat out, drill lots of holes in the hull, and row the dinghy back.”