by Steve Hadden
“Shit!”
He began to pace as Tori watched him. David could see she was startled and stopped in mid-stride.
“I just can sit here and wait,” he explained.
Tori nodded.
He turned his back on her and kept pacing. “I know that asshole Brayton is behind this. But either way he was going to get a big payday with the IPO.”
“That is until I told him CGT had a problem a week ago.” Tori reminded him.
He continued to pace and he felt Tori’s gaze following him.
“That’s right,” he said. “The same day our plane went down. But your meeting was at four p.m. We were already in the air from San Francisco. There’s no way he could have heard the news, and then done something to the plane. And that crash was no accident. I’m sure of that now.”
Tori cocked her head in a curious pose but continued to track David as he executed an about-turn and continued his pacing.
“Doesn’t that leave your wife?”
David pivoted and looked sharply at Tori. She looked guilty, as though her comment had reminded her she’d slept with a married man.
“My soon to be ex-wife. I told her Saturday night in the hospital.”
“Now there’s a motive,” Tori pointed out.
David stared. Of course, she was right. With Adam and Prescott gone, Priscilla was the sole owner and trustee of the Rexsen Family Trust. With the divorce, she’d loose half, half of the estimated twelve billion dollars to be generated for the Trust by the IPO. He followed the string of logic until it reached its dangling dead end.
Then he shook his head.
“She’d never kill her father and her brother. She’s selfish, arrogant, and a great liar, but I can’t see her doing that. Besides, her share of the Trust would have been worth four to six billion. Her father was not in the best of health, and she and Prescott were the sole heirs. How many billions does a person need?”
David listened to the words tumble out his mouth. A week earlier, he would have thought that to be a stupid question; he would have answered it: as much as they can get. After all, it was how he used to keep score.
“Who else could it be?” Tori asked.
“The only ones with a big stake are Brayton, Priscilla, and the underwriters and investors involved in the IPO.”
Tori said, “Well, for my money, I think Brayton is either behind it, or he knows who is. Call it intuition or a hunch. He was so mad when I told him about the problem I didn’t get the chance to tell him it could be fixed. He caught himself, and then he tried to act like nothing was wrong. The next Monday, he promotes me out of the group and cleans out the lab.”
David stopped pacing. He had to agree; Brayton was the key. He had a lot riding on the IPO. It would be his redemption on Wall Street after the dot com carnage he left behind. The only piece that didn’t make sense was that everyone knew Rexsen would go public, if not now, a year from now. They had at least four treatments targeting cancer-causing genetic imperfections in the FDA pipeline. If CGT was delayed, it was no big deal. The IPO would be put off for a year and Brayton would still make his money. Probably more, if Rexsen’s research pipeline continued to bear fruit. Even David may have agreed to reorganize the CGT team after its leader, Jeff Reese, had been killed in the plane crash. After all, they would be moving to the marketing and production phase; the trials were over.
But he knew, David reasoned, Brayton knew there was a problem with CGT and it looked like he was covering up.
“Brayton?” David said looking at Tori for confirmation.
“Brayton,” she repeated nodding.
David’s original dislike for Royce Brayton quickly grew to hatred. He was certain Brayton had to be in on this. He somehow was involved in killing David’s mentor and friend, Adam Rexsen. He was somehow involved with the death of Prescott and the attempts to kill Tori and him. And, in David’s eyes, he’d be the one responsible for Amy’s death.
He looked sharply at Tori and leaned on the table.
“We’re going after that bastard!”
Tori looked surprised. David was tired; tired of being the hunted; tired of being on the defense. He was accused of being a cold-blooded killer and it was time he acted like it. At least three lives hung the balance. He’d hunt him down and stop him—an eye for an eye.
David saw the fear seep into Tori’s eyes. He could tell she was worried about heading back to the mainland again, right into harm’s way. He sat beside her and held her hands in his.
“I know. But it’s the only option we have.”
He kissed the tear rolling down her cheek. Tori took a deep breath and wiped her eyes.
“I’m with you, David.”
David hugged her. He loved her: for her bravery, for her selflessness, and for the love she gave back to him. He’d do whatever it took to protect her.
Suddenly David heard the distant hum of a marine diesel. He bolted to the sliding door and jerked it opened. He dashed to the rail and strained to see through the thick blanket of fog.
They’ve found us!
David turned to get the pistol from the console in the cabin, but the noise faded. A boater, moored in somewhere in Hamilton Cove, had briefly fired his or her engines. The false alarm reminded David that as long as they were wanted and until they exposed those behind this conspiracy, they’d be targets. And the killers could come to end their lives at any time, in any place. They could be coming now.
Tori, now frozen in the doorway, stared back at David.
David shook his head side to side and then said, “We leave tonight.”
CHAPTER 48
The two-man team was well equipped: MK 23 handguns with silencers and laser-aiming modules, combat knifes with six inch 1095 carbon steel blades, and LAR V Drager self-contained, closed circuit breathing apparatus. The knife was the weapon of choice; a silent kill preferred. The handguns would only be used as a last resort. The mission was well planned. The team had already slipped into the cold dark waters of Hamilton cove. The LAR V, which re-circulated the swimmer’s exhaled air and prevented any bubbles from reaching the surface, ensured they’d be undetectable until it was too late. The team had reported optimal conditions; the marine layer was thickening again on a moonless night. The target had been located.
Butch Donovan checked the red numbers on the digital clock on the wall of the dark command center. It was 8:12 p.m.; they were right on schedule. The room’s only light came from the four terminals that lined the wall. Two men monitored the surveillance information flowing in from over twenty sources and monitored all police, FBI, and Coast Guard radio traffic. Donning lightweight headphones and a mike, Donavan sat between them. His hulking figure blocked the light emanating from the flat screen in front of him. He listened with pride as the team he’d handpicked and drilled himself moved through the water and approached the catamaran moored three hundred yards from the coastline.
Donavan shivered. He could almost feel the cold water. His adrenalin surged as if he were in the water too. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the mission. They’d entered the cold murky water and swam two-hundred yards at the surface, when he’d received their last report. Now submerged, they would surface at the bow between the craft’s two hulls. After confirming the locations of the marks, they’d slip to the port side and silently board, concealed by the fog and darkness.
Donovan’s heart pounded slow but hard. He instinctively slowed his heartbeat. He checked the clock: 8:25 p.m.; they were close to the catamaran now, if not on board. In less than a minute the ice cold steel of the combat knifes would slice through the two jugulars like butter; they would slump to the deck with air bubbles gurgling from their throats between the throbbing gushes of blood. They’d live a few seconds; long enough to see their attackers and know they were dying. Their bodies would quiver, and then go quiet. And the team would slip back into the water—undetected. Donovan loved the kill.
CHAPTER 49
The navigation displays were
tucked in the forward corner and filled the main cabin with an eerie glow. The shadows on Tori’s face reminded David of his childhood friends sitting in darkness while they told horror stories with a flashlight held under their chins. His stomach knotted as it did back then. Without lights, the pair sat in silence and waited for their midnight departure, still nearly four hours away. David surveyed the cabin for the hundredth time. Paranoid after four attempts to kill him, he examined his surroundings, and escape scenarios raced through his mind.
David had carefully studied all sixty-two feet of the catamaran. With the main deck suspended five feet above the water between its twin seven foot tall hulls, it was clearly built for speed. The underside had been reinforced with Kevlar to protect against rupture, and the six watertight compartments spaced along each hull ensured safety and made the vessel nearly unsinkable. The main deck contained a great room that included the helm, galley, sofa, and a table. A navigation desk, loaded with communication equipment, Raymarine integrated sonar and radar, and a sleek color monitor connected to an underwater camera at the bow, were all crowded in the starboard corner. Its owner obviously loved to cruise the massive kelp beds in the area and amaze his companions with colorful underwater views of the teeming sea life. Outside, the cabin was surrounded by narrow decks with a thin silver rail protecting the perimeter.
Each six foot wide hull was accessible from two narrow stairways on either side of the main cabin. The port hull was divided into forward and aft cabins elegantly designed to accommodate as many as four guests or crew. The starboard hull contained the owner’s suite that traversed the entire length of the hull. Behind a watertight door, a library, vanity, and master suite with a queenside bed justified the boat’s price tag.
The rhythmic sound of the water gently kissing the hull was occasionally broken by a creak as the boat rocked ever so slowly in the tide. As David completed his sweep, the color display on the navigation desk changed, and a soft but audible beep caused him to pivot and creep low to the display. He’d turned on the sonar and the radar as a precaution. So far three alarms had proved to be fish. But as he watched the display, these fish kept a constant pace and depth and on a bearing directly for the boat.
Still crouching below the windows that surrounded the cabin, he motioned for Tori to join him. Together they watched as the images closed. David glanced at Tori. Her eyes looked frozen in disbelief. He glanced back at the screen. His body grew rigid, and he tried to will the images away. But they kept coming. His muscles grew taut as he watched the colored blotches continue on a line directly for the bow: two hundred feet, one hundred and fifty feet, one hundred feet …
“Oh no, David,” Tori sobbed in a whisper. Taking her hand, he slowly grabbed the handle of the door leading to the forward work deck outside and pushed down. It squeaked and he winced. He opened the door and led Tori to the pitch black corner of the deck. Just beyond the low chrome rail, the dark blue trampoline stretched between the hulls and disappeared into the darkness.
David and Tori huddled in the chilling dark on the working deck just forward of the main cabin and waited. David’s heartbeats throbbed inside his ears and grew louder when he slowed his breathing to listen; timing here would be critical. Tori dug her fingers into his arm when he heard the water slosh underneath them; he held his breath; only the thin Kevlar skin of the hull separated David from the deadly predators as they stalked their prey and crept along the surface of the dark water between the hulls. David estimated they were close enough to touch. A click against one of the hulls sent his heart racing. He fought the invisible force trying to catapult him from his hiding place. Just a few more seconds, he thought, wait just a few more seconds.
The drips and muffled splashes tracked past them, then aft. He heard the water dripping from their bodies as they pulled themselves on board at the aft-port side hull steps and emerged from the water line. Tori’s hand, still gripping his arm, began to shake. He shared her fear. Who wouldn’t be afraid? They were floating in the middle of pitch black deep water cove with at least two killers on board less than thirty feet away.
David pulled Tori forward and then slipped over the rail to the trampoline. They had to move fast, but make no noise. They wormed along the damp dark blue canvas to the edge, and he looked over into the inky water swirling less than five feet below. He nodded to Tori, and she swallowed hard, threw one leg over the side and then rolled over the edge. David repeated the maneuver.
Clinging to a rope with his feet dangling just an inch or so off the water, David looked over at Tori. She was balled tightly around the rope. He couldn’t tell if she was more afraid of the murky abyss below or the noise of shuffling feet that approached above them along the deck. For the second time in as many weeks David closed his eyes and invoked God’s help. His arms began to ache; they wouldn’t last much longer. With his eyes still closed, David translated the sounds into a visual image.
At least two men moved along the deck on either side. Their footsteps stopped at the edge of the canvas on the forward working deck. This was it. If they detected David or Tori, they’d be dead in seconds, probably picked off in the water as they surfaced for air. David held his breath and prayed. The pain in his arms grew, worse in his right where he’d taken the gunshot days before. As he looked the length of the underside of the canvas trampoline, he spotted two sooty shadows, their hulking outlines frozen, except for their heads that slowly swiveled, apparently listening intently as they scanned the tarp. He was sure Tori couldn’t hold on much longer. Neither could he.
Move you bastards. Move!
As if they heard his pleading, he saw the silhouettes retreat and heard the footsteps re-enter the main cabin. He waited for the noise. It would indicate they’d moved below. The timing had to be perfect. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing, and remembered the exact creaking of the steps. He’d memorized the sound when he had Tori move down the carbon stairs into the starboard hull, while hanging in exactly the same spot on the first day here. Prior planning pays, he repeated to himself.
His muscles were beginning to go into lactic acidosis. Pain now ripped through his biceps, and they began to shake. He glanced over just as Tori slipped down, then caught herself. Her shoes submerged in the cold seawater, and her panicked look said it all; she would drop any second.
Then he heard the soft creak of the carbon-fiber steps.
“Now!” he whispered and nodded topside. He strained to pull himself up. His muscles shook violently, and he wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. This was it. Push yourself. One more step. He reached over the edge of the trampoline and pulled himself up. He looked to the left. No sign of Tori. He couldn’t help her. He was exposed. He sprinted along the trampoline to the working deck. The silence was broken when his foot stomped with a thud onto the hard surface of the deck.
He imagined the armed assassins looking up from inside the starboard hull and sprinting back to the watertight door. It was a foot race; and if he lost he’d take a bullet, center mass. He vaulted through the door and pivoted to his left in the cabin. He heard them coming. They were closer to the door than he’d planned. Lunging for the door, he saw their shadows. He slammed the door and jammed the steel rod across the bolt. Simultaneously, they hit the door hard. It bowed, and they hit it again.
Tori! Where’s Tori?
David spun and looked to his right towards the bow. No Tori. He heard the Zodiac motor roar to life, and he snapped his head towards the stern. It had to be her. He harnessed the jolt of adrenalin surging through his body, stormed out of the cabin, and dropped off the port hull into the Zodiac. The Zodiac lurched forward, and he swore he saw Tori laugh. As the catamaran disappeared into the darkness behind them, David pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number and spoke.
“Omaha.”
CHAPTER 50
Tori aimed the small flashlight ahead of the Zodiac as it skipped along the coastline. David’s eyes traced the beam that cut through the blanket of darkness and thickening mist and
illuminated the water’s dark surface. He knew at this speed a partially a submerged rock would disintegrate the craft and result in an unplanned burial at sea. Keeping his main focus on the treacherous path ahead, he traced the silhouette of the rugged coastline to his left that towered over them. He estimated they’d reach the rendezvous point in ten minutes. But that presented a problem; they’d be early—too early.
The cold spray cut deep into his cheeks as the craft sliced through the waves. He cut a glance over his shoulder and checked for the pursuit he knew would eventually come. These people weren’t common criminals. They were well-trained; they’d have contingency plans. He’d remembered Joe’s Special Forces stories. In every case they achieved their objectives.
Nothing but darkness—so far.
He turned back into the mist now condensing on his cheeks and running down his face. The droplets burned, and he tasted the saltwater on his lips. He lowered his head slightly, and pressed on. Holding the front of her windbreaker over her face with one hand, Tori held the light steady with the other. She didn’t look back. He wouldn’t either. Looking at the coastline he recognized the outline of Willow Cove. He’d snorkeled there several times, trying to impress voluptuous young women who’d filled the void left by his wife’s adultery. He looked at Tori still battling the bow wake. Those days were over.
The Zodiac lurched, and the spray slapped David from his daydream. Ten minutes to White’s landing. The code name Omaha was Joe’s idea. With the widest sand beach on the island, Joe had called the beach Omaha in homage to the World War II landing site. Now, it wasn’t such a good name; too many noble men had died there.
The plan was simple. They’d meet at White’s Landing at midnight. Joe had come up with a high speed power boat and would meet them there. He’d pick them up close to shore, then head to Newport Beach. From there, he’d arranged for a vehicle so David could launch his planned assault on Brayton.
