by Cap Daniels
“When some Russian colonel targets me directly with an operation like that son of a bitch did, I get to hand out punishment.”
“I know how you feel. It feels personal and directed right at you, but that’s not what happened. Tornovich built an almost perfect op against American covert operations, and you happened to be in the line of fire.”
“I was in love with her.”
Clark put his hand on my shoulder. “No. You were in love with who and what you thought she was. She was an actress playing a role, and you fell for the character she and Tornovich created.”
He was right and I knew it, but I wasn’t capable of looking at it from the outside. It would’ve been like asking Jonah to describe the whale who swallowed him. I was too close.
“I’m not beating you up here, but we have to talk about the mess you’ve made.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. I didn’t like believing I’d made things worse, but he was right, again. I’d done nothing to improve my—or our—situation. And most likely, I’d done a great deal to make it horrifically worse.
“I know I screwed up. I should’ve put two in his skull and walked away, but I got cocky. And like you said, I made it personal.”
“We all do it sooner or later, man. It doesn’t do any good to kick yourself while you’re down. We have to learn from it, deal with the fallout, and move on. None of that makes us bad operators, but continuing to do it absolutely makes us bad operators.”
I nodded, knowing the conversation was far from over.
From the back seat, Tony spoke up. “Have we got a plan? Are we going after these bastards, or what?”
“There’s nothing I’d like more than to hunt these guys down, but I don’t have a clue where to start,” I said. “They’ve got an hour’s head start on us, and Interstate Ninety-Five is ten minutes away. They could be sixty or seventy miles in any direction by now.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Tony. “If we ain’t goin’ huntin’, I say we ought to get back to the girls. I suspect they’re gettin’ pretty worried by now.”
Except for the periods I’d spent traveling with my parents, I’d lived most of my life in the South, where Southern accents are a part of life, but Tony’s Appalachian drawl was stronger than most.
I punched Clark’s leg. “Why don’t you sound like your brother?”
Before Clark could answer, Tony jumped in. “It’s ’cause he ain’t cool enough to pull it off.”
“Actually, I used to sound just like him,” Clark said, “but I caught so much crap for it once I joined the army, I had to learn to speak English.”
Tony popped his head between our front seats. “Hey, I speak English. It just ain’t the King’s English. And didn’t we whoop the king’s ass pretty good a couple hundred years ago?”
I didn’t want to pass Tony’s fireman buddy again, so we drove a circuitous route to get back to Kirsten and Chloe’s B and B. It was around three a.m. when we finally knocked on their door. Skipper yanked the door open with a pistol in her hand.
“Put that thing away,” I said.
Skipper hugged Tony, and Kirsten held my gaze, wearing a look I couldn’t quite identify. It may have been sadness or maybe even fear. It was impossible to tell.
She approached me and placed her hand against the side of my face. “You’re not a trust fund baby, and you’re definitely not a writer . . . are you?”
She’d taken down her ponytail, leaving her hair falling across her shoulders. She was beautiful, even wearing the look of concern.
I brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I’m neither of those things, but what I am is sorry I dragged you into this.”
She tried to smile. “You didn’t drag me into this, Chase. I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you earlier. I was—”
I stopped her. “Don’t apologize. You had every right to be mad. I just couldn’t tell you what was going on.”
“Can you tell me now?”
“No. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you everything, but maybe I can clear up a little of your confusion.”
“You’re like a spy or something, aren’t you?”
Clark heard the question and responded with me in unison. “We’re not spies.”
I was beginning to believe that had become our mantra.
Skipper put her hand on Kirsten’s arm. She whispered, “They’re spies.”
“We’re not spies,” I reiterated, “but we do play ball on the same field as spies. We’re sort of like bounty hunters. We find people who don’t want to be found.”
Clark raised an eyebrow at me. “Be careful what you say next, Chase.” He and Chloe walked out to the second-story balcony overlooking Old St. Augustine.
I continued, “The girl I thought I saw tonight isn’t just my ex-girlfriend. She really is a spy, but not for the good guys. I’m pretty sure she’s dead, but the girl I saw tonight could’ve been her twin. I think she was leading me into a trap, and I fell for it. The people who grabbed me are looking for the girl—”
Kirsten shook her head. “Wait. This is getting hard to follow. The people who grabbed you were looking for the girl you chased down the alley?”
“No, I’m sorry. This is tough to explain, but there’s so much I can’t tell you. The people who grabbed me are looking for Anya, the woman I thought I saw, but who’s really dead. They just don’t know she’s dead, and they want to find her and take her back to Ru . . . back to their country.”
“Russians?” she asked excitedly. “Are you serious? These people are Russians?”
“I didn’t say that. I said they want to take her back to their country.”
“Are Chloe and I in danger?”
“No.” I tried to comfort her. “You’re not in danger. They don’t know who you are or care about you. You were in their way tonight when they grabbed me. I’m sorry you got hurt. That should’ve never happened.”
“I’m okay,” she said again. “I never thought stuff like this happened in real life. It’s all a little too James Bond for me.”
“I know. It’s hard to understand, and again, I’m sorry for getting you involved. You’re going home tomorrow, right?”
She glanced at her watch. “Yeah, later today, actually.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll get out of here so you can get some sleep.” I wrote my number down on a notepad by the phone and handed it to her. “Here’s my number in case you ever want to call.”
She stared at the small square of paper and sighed. “I don’t know. This is all too much for me right now.”
I kissed her gently on the cheek. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t react.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “Kirsten and Chloe need to get some rest. They’re driving home tomorrow . . . well, later today.”
Clark kissed Chloe goodbye, then Skipper, Tony, Clark, and I left the B and B.
As we walked across the dimly lit parking area of the B and B, Tony said, “I’ll take care of the Jeep. I’ll stick it in one of them park-n-pay lots and wipe it down for prints. It’ll sit there a couple days, but they’ll tow it sooner or later, and then it’ll be somebody else’s problem.”
Skipper grabbed Tony’s hand. “I’ll help Tony, and we’ll see you in the morning. Try to get some sleep. You guys look beat.”
I didn’t like the idea of Skipper being involved, but there wasn’t much I could do to stop her. She’d be safe with Tony.
When Clark and I made it to the marina, we poured a drink and sat on the aft deck.
“Let’s see if we can piece this together.” Clark leaned back in his seat and propped his feet on the table in front of us. “They baited you with an Anya look-alike and you fell for it, but you were smart enough not to follow her down the alley. Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much how it happened.”
“So, even though you didn’t follow her, they found you a few blocks away and threw you in a van.”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t let them take me. They were pros, and they—”
He cut me off. “You’re a pro, too. We have to teach you to fight. No two-man grab team should be able to take you. We’ll make sure that never happens again.”
“You’re not going to make me clip bonsai trees, are you?”
“No, and we won’t be sanding floors or waxing cars either, but you’re going to learn how to stop getting your ass kicked.”
I raised my glass. “Here’s to not getting my ass kicked.”
I told him the whole story of the night. He stopped me several times to clarify points or make sure he understood every detail. Clark was thorough and smart. I was glad he was on my team.
“So, you told Tornovich that Anya was in Langley spilling her guts. That’s brilliant,” he said. “Now the Kremlin will be pissing their pants thinking Anya is in CIA custody and telling all their secrets . . . if Tornovich survived.”
“That’s it!” I said. “You’re a genius! If Tornovich is still alive, he’ll need a surgeon soon. He can’t live more than a few hours with two nine-millimeter bullets in his gut.”
Clark immediately picked up his phone and dialed a number. He spent two minutes describing what he needed and gave both his and my number to the person on the line.
“The word will go out to every hospital within a hundred miles to be on the lookout for a fifty-year-old with an abdominal gunshot wound. If he shows up, they’ll call us immediately.”
I didn’t know who Clark had called, but I was thankful for his contacts.
“If he died before he could tell anyone what I’d told him, the Russians still won’t know that Anya’s dead.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Regardless of Tornovich telling them anything, they have no way to know she’s dead. They have to be working on the assumption that she’s either gone rogue or been captured. Either way, they’re going to keep looking for her.”
“Tornovich knows about the submarine, and the Russians didn’t kill him,” I said. “That means one of two things. Either he’s on the run, in which case, he’s unsupported and desperate, or he’s on a mission sanctioned by his president. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here looking for me.”
Clark bit at his lip. “Yeah, but either way, if he’s still alive after the gutshots and fire, he’s still coming after you, and he’s still looking for Anya.”
“Yeah, he’ll definitely keep coming after me. I’m his only link to Anya.”
“No, you’re not,” he said with instant concern in his voice. “Dr. Richter.”
“Oh, shit!”
He was right. Part of Tornovich’s plan was to make Dr. Richter believe Anya was his daughter. If the Russians were working under the assumption that she was still alive, I wasn’t the only sucker close to the action. Dr. Richter was the next logical target, but he’d never survive an interrogation like the one I’d endured. I had to make sure he was safe.
I dialed Dr. Richter’s number and was relieved when he answered on the first ring. “Dr. Richter, it’s Chase. Listen, I have to talk to you. You may be in danger,” I said in haste.
“Relax, my boy,” said Dr. Richter in his typical calm tone. “I’m on the other line with Dominic now. He’s briefing me on everything. I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about this old man. I’ve been dodging Russians for fifty years, son. You get yourself somewhere safe and keep your head down.”
I hung up, relieved he was okay.
“Dr. Richter and your dad both said I had to get out of St. Augustine. What do you think?”
He’d been on the planet longer than me and had a dozen years more experience in dealing with bad guys, so I wanted Clark’s opinion. While I’d been playing baseball, he’d become an Army Ranger and then a Green Beret.
“I think they’re probably right. This place is a little too hot for you right now.”
I played with the ice cubes in my tumbler, watching them slide against the sides of the glass and dance together in the golden amber scotch. “I’m not crazy about going back to the Keys in the middle of hurricane season.”
“No,” he said, “I wouldn’t do that. How about you and I go the opposite direction anyone would expect?”
“What am I going to do with Skipper?”
He answered as if he’d already thought through the question. “Send her home to her folks, bring her with you, or treat her like a grown-up and ask her what she wants to do. From where I sit, those are your only three choices.”
“It doesn’t sound to me like there’s any choice to be made. She is a grown-up, even though her folks won’t admit it. In the ten weeks she’s been on the boat with me, I’ve seen her mature into a responsible, well-adjusted woman. I’m proud of her. I think your brother may have had quite a bit to do with that.”
“Ha! Saying Tony’s a role model for maturity is like saying a shark is the poster child for the vegan lifestyle. Tony will never grow up.”
“Yeah, but what I meant was that he’s a couple years older than her, and he’s got his life together. He’s making rank in the Coast Guard, and he’s extremely good at what he does. But he’s also lighthearted and still boyish enough to keep her entertained. I think she’s in love with him.”
“What does a twenty-year-old know about being in love?” he scoffed.
I took a sip and brought my mind back to Anya and the way her skin felt when I touched her. The way her body reacted to mine. The way she looked at me when she didn’t know I noticed.
“What do any of us, at any age, know about being in love? Have you ever been married?”
“Me?” He chuckled. “No, I’ve never been married. Came close once ten or eleven years ago. I’d just finished Ranger training and I was stationed at Fort Benning. I met a girl who thought I hung the moon. Then deployment came around, and she found out there were plenty of moon hangers left behind when we Rangers got sent off to do dirty deeds done dirt cheap.”
“That sucks.” I poured him four more fingers of scotch.
“Yes, it did, my friend. I came home from an eight-month deployment, and she was six months pregnant. I didn’t go to college like you, but even I can do that math.”
“Maybe it was for the best,” I offered.
“Maybe. I’ve had a lot of fun in my thirty-four years on the third rock from the sun. I’ve seen a lot of places and loved a lot of women—even if it was only a few hours at a time. But I’m thinking it might be nice to have a nine-to-five job and a house with a white picket fence. You know, a Labrador Retriever and two-point-five kids.”
I focused on the night sky and watched a falling star shoot through the Big Dipper. “As long as we do what we do, I don’t think picket fences are in our future.”
“Yeah, this ain’t no life for a family man. The longer I live it, the more I understand why my mom and dad split up.”
We sat in silence for a long time, watching the stars, drinking our scotch, and thinking.
I poured the last inch of scotch from my tumbler down my throat, probably for courage. “I want to know what really happened to my folks.”
Clark lifted his drink and stared the glass. “I know you do, partner, but sometimes knowing ain’t the best thing.”
I couldn’t decide if I agreed, but I wasn’t going to argue with him at four in the morning.
“I guess we should get some sleep,” he said. “You’ve got a talk with Skipper ahead of you in the morning, and then we’ve got a long sail up to the Chesapeake Bay.”
I chewed on my last remaining ice cube. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
9
Momma
My boat wasn’t configured to sleep three people who weren’t sleeping together. The starboard hull was my abode. The master stateroom was aft, and a large, comfortable head was forward. In between the two was a sitting area and locker space for my clothes. The forward portion of the portside hull was Skipper’s room. The head was amidships, and the aft stat
eroom had been converted into a workshop containing every tool I could ever need to maintain the boat.
Clark had been camping out in the main salon. The settee pulled out to make a queen-sized bed, but I wished I had more comfortable and private quarters for him. He didn’t seem to mind, though. I guess he’d slept in a lot worse places over the years. In fact, I don’t remember hearing him complain about anything. He always followed his own advice and simply embraced the suck.
I drifted off to sleep minutes after crawling into the bunk. Boat sleep is some of the best sleep in the world. The rocking motion and sound of the water lapping at the hull is hypnotic. Someday, I’d live in a real house, but I was in no hurry.
Morning came, and as always, I was up with the sun. Clark already had coffee made, and he was scrambling eggs and frying bacon when I climbed the stairs out of my hull and into the main salon.
“Morning.” I wiped the sleep from my eyes. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good morning,” he said. “I slept well. I really like that bunk.”
I poured a cup of coffee and refilled his mug. “Nobody likes pullout bunks.”
“No, that one’s nice. It doesn’t have that bar running across my back like a sofa bed. It’s comfortable.”
We had breakfast on the upper deck and watched the Old City come to life. I rarely knew what day of the week it was, but the traffic on the Bridge of Lions told me it was definitely a weekday.
Earl from the End came shuffling by on the dock.
I whistled flirtatiously and leapt to my feet. “Where are you going, baby girl? How much longer are you going to make me sleep alone?”
She waved and pointed at her backside. Earl didn’t use the head on her boat. I don’t know if it was superstition or she didn’t want to dirty up her holding tank, but she always used the bathroom at the marina. When she came waddling back down the dock after her morning constitution, I asked, “How much would you charge to change my oil?”
“Stud muffin, I’d change your oil for free, but if you’re talking about the oil in them diesels, you buy the oil and filters, and I’ll do it for two six packs.”
