by J. B. Turner
“Sorry for holding you up, man,” the older guy said.
Stone smiled and got back on course heading southwest, away from the fishermen. He felt the tension dissipate the farther away he got. Mile after mile. But all the while Beatrice didn’t move.
Thirty-Six
It was the dead of night and Berenger, unable to sleep, was sitting in his upstairs bedroom in a mansion on a Florida island, watching footage captured by the drone as it swooped through the Everglades.
His cell phone rang.
“Mark?” The gruff voice belonged to Fisk, the man who bankrolled the Commission. “Seems like Nathan Stone isn’t giving up without a fight.”
Berenger sighed. “We’re on it. And we’ll get him.”
“I’m not sure it’ll be that easy.”
“The drone allows us to track him. He’s ours.”
“Mark, I’m getting worried. I’m not a natural worrier. But this is not fucking good for my blood pressure. We’re making mistakes. One after the other.”
“Stone’s luck is about to change.”
Fisk sighed. “I hope so. Any sign of him so far?”
“Negative. But we will get him, make no mistake.”
“Mark, I keep hearing the same thing.”
“Sir, to be fair, this was badly conceived from the word go. That’s why it’s such a disaster. That doesn’t mean we won’t get him. He will make a mistake.”
“So when’s the breakthrough?”
“Sir, we’re on it. We’ve run into a few problems, I admit, some of our own making, some deriving from Stone’s ingenuity. But we caught a break with that flare.”
“Let’s cut the bull. Nathan Stone is outsmarting us. At every turn.”
“The drone will make the difference, of that I’ve been assured.”
“Assurances don’t mean shit, Mark. Why wasn’t the drone deployed earlier?”
Berenger rubbed his eyes. “We considered it, but de Boer thought it was better to use the operatives on the ground. He was concerned the drone would register on radar stations and people would start asking questions.”
“And have they?”
“Nothing so far. But the drone ownership traces back to a shell company in the Caymans, so there isn’t anyone to question about it anyway.”
“What if they shoot it down?”
“That’s not going to happen. The US Army is allowed to shoot down consumer drones, but only if they’re buzzing their facilities. So, it’s basically illegal to fly a basic-model drone within four hundred feet of a US Army base. But what we’re operating is a far larger long-range drone, or unmanned aerial vehicle, as the army likes to call them. They’re subject to the rules for manned aircraft.”
“So as long as we steer clear of federal airspace and passenger plane traffic, we’ll be fine?”
“Absolutely.” Berenger stared at the drone footage on his TV. Suddenly, up on the screen a tiny speck appeared in the sea.
“Are you still there?” Fisk asked.
“Yes, sir. Bear with me . . . I’m just going to put you on hold for one minute.” The onboard camera zoomed in fast on the airboat skimming across the water. It was clear as day: there was a woman lying flat on the bottom of the boat and a man driving.
The earpiece crackled into life. “Mark, it’s Kevin. Are you watching? That’s them.”
“Copy that.”
The camera zoomed in closer. Berenger could see the familiar features of Nathan Stone’s reconstructed face.
“Son of a bitch,” Berenger said.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” de Boer said.
“You better believe it. What’s his location?”
“Six miles northeast of Marathon.”
“Fuck. He’s going to make it ashore.”
“But not for long.”
“Don’t lose him this time. I want all resources deployed. He must be neutralized.”
Berenger ended the call. His heart was beating hard. He picked up his cell phone and relayed the information to Fisk.
“That’s what I want to hear, Berenger. That’s more like it. The next time we talk, I want to hear that the fucker is dead.”
Thirty-Seven
It was late and dark as Stone steered the airboat toward Sombrero Beach, Marathon, in the middle of the Florida Keys.
He took his foot off the gas as they got nearer. He let the boat’s momentum take it a hundred yards closer. Then he cut the engine as the waves lifted the boat up onto the beach.
Stone jumped out and lifted Beatrice out of the airboat, before slinging her over his shoulder. He took her farther up the beach and laid her gently down in the sand. He retrieved the bags with the weapons from the boat and kneeled at her side.
“Hey, man,” a voice said.
Stone turned and saw a kid ambling toward him smoking a joint.
“What happened to the girl? She looks out of it.”
“She’s a bit more than out of it. She was injured out on one of the Keys. Need to get her to the hospital. You got a phone?”
The kid stared down at Beatrice as if his brain was struggling to process Stone’s question. “Sure thing, bro,” he said. The kid pulled an iPhone out of his pocket and handed it over. “What the hell happened?”
“Long story,” Stone said, taking the cell. “We need to get her help.”
“She’s bleeding out onto the beach, man. Fuck.”
“Can you do me a favor?” Stone said.
“Yeah, of course, man.”
“Can you watch her for a minute while I make the call?”
“Sure, whatever. She’s not going to die, is she?”
“Just watch her.”
Stone headed farther along the beach, out of earshot. He punched in the number of an old friend. The call was answered on the fifth ring.
“Yeah, who the fuck is calling at this time of night?” Stone was relieved to hear the voice of Barney McKeever, a vet who’d been a medic in Vietnam.
“Barney, it’s Nathan.”
A long silence.
“Yeah, I’m not really dead.”
“In the name of God. Is that you? Nathan? I heard you died.”
“Somewhat exaggerated,” Stone said.
“Fuck. You’re not dead?”
“Not yet. Look, this is way out of left field, and I know we haven’t talked for years, but I need your help. Right now.”
“I thought you had—”
“It’s a long story. I’m nearby and I need help. Right now. Got an injured woman. Will you help me? I need to know one way or the other.”
“Where are you?”
Stone told him.
“Marathon, eh . . . What happened?”
“Long story. She’s been shot, soft tissue near the shoulder.”
“Is she conscious?”
“No. She’s also lost a lot of blood.”
Barney groaned. “That’s not good. What’s wrong with the hospital?”
“I’ve got people on my tail. I need a favor. A really big favor. I’m calling them all in now. I need you.”
A sigh. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Barney was as good as his word. He reversed his pickup truck down onto the beach. Stone loaded Beatrice into the back. He climbed in beside her and held her hand.
“Keep your head down,” Barney said, throwing a tarp over them.
The stoner kid dragged on his joint. “I hope she’s okay, man. She looks blue.”
Stone nodded. “Appreciate your help, son. I owe you one.”
“Where’s the ambulance?”
“We’ll get her there first, don’t worry.”
Thirty minutes later they were at Barney’s place near a beach on Lower Matecumbe Key.
The garage door opened automatically and they drove in. It shut behind them, and the lights flickered on.
“First stage complete,” Barney said. “Let’s get her inside.”
Stone pulled back the tarp and carefully lifted B
eatrice out of the back of the pickup. He followed Barney into an adjacent utility room. Then through another door into a large kitchen.
The blinds were all already drawn.
Barney flicked on the lights.
Stone laid Beatrice down gently on the wooden table.
“Boil some water, Nathan,” Barney said. “A lot of hot water.”
Stone did as he was told and poured the boiling water from the kettle into a bowl.
“You look like shit, Nathan,” Barney said.
“Yeah, feel like shit.”
“You smell like shit too.”
“Been out in the fucking Everglades for days.”
Barney washed his hands and switched on a stronger overhead light. He put on medical gloves. Then he put on a headlamp as he prepared to treat Beatrice’s injuries.
He opened a black doctor’s bag and took out some first-aid essentials, including disposable scalpels and iodine.
“This looks nasty,” he said. “Helluva mess.”
Stone watched as Barney cut the bloodstained bandage with scissors and then Beatrice’s top, exposing her bare flesh. The light showed the splintered skin tissue around the shoulder. He injected a local anesthetic deep into her wound. He picked up a clean cloth, put some antibacterial soap on it, and dipped it in the boiling-hot water. He carefully swabbed the dirt and dried blood from the area. Then he sprayed an antibacterial spray into the wound to wash it out.
“Looks superficial,” Stone said.
“Let’s see.” Barney washed it again with iodine. He peered at a quarter-inch-thick gash in the shoulder. “I can see a tiny little fragment. You see it?”
Stone looked closer at the wound and shrugged. “Can’t see a thing.”
“Just a tiny bit lodged near the tendon.”
Stone thought he saw a sliver of gray bullet fragment. “Yeah, I think I see it.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“We leave it. We start slicing her open to pull it out, chances are it could cause more harm. She could easily bleed out. Go into shock. Die.”
“So we’re going to leave a bullet fragment inside her?”
“In the circumstances, that would be the smart thing.”
“Won’t that cause problems over time?”
“Perhaps in the longer term. But I can guarantee that without being in a trauma unit with access to arthroscopic equipment, she’s better off with us simply cleaning it. I’ve got antibiotics and some excellent painkillers, and she can take a full course of them after I get her bandaged up.”
Stone nodded. “Clean her up good.”
Barney took twenty minutes to clean the wound until he was happy with it. Then he bandaged her up. He gave her smelling salts. A few moments later she came to, looking groggy, face ashen.
“What the fuck is happening? Who the fuck are you?” she asked, staring at Barney.
“Relax, honey,” Barney said, “you lost a bit of blood. You need to rest up.”
Beatrice looked up at Stone. “Why is my shirt off?”
Stone patiently explained what had happened and where they were.
Beatrice winced as she sat up on the table, Stone supporting her back. She looked at her bandaged shoulder. “You got something to cover me up?” she asked. “And something for this fucking pain.”
Barney got a blanket and wrapped it around her. He gave her a couple of morphine tablets, a sleeping tablet, and a glass of cold water. She knocked them all back in one.
“How long have I been out of it?”
“Hour or more.”
Beatrice looked around, eyes squinting as she winced in pain. “Are we back on the mainland? Please God.”
“Yeah, not far from Marathon, Florida,” Stone said, “down in the Keys. Take it easy.”
“I made it?”
“Yeah, you made it. Now you need to sleep.”
Within a few minutes, Beatrice was asleep on the table, wrapped up in the blanket.
Stone got the backpack and opened it up. He handed Barney the survivalist’s $5,000 dollars in cash. “Take it.”
“What the fuck is this?”
“For helping me out.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“Take it!”
Barney reluctantly took it. “Are you kidding me? What’s this for?”
“For helping us. But also I want to borrow your truck.”
Barney shrugged. “Sure, take it. It’s a piece of fucking junk anyway. But I don’t want your money.”
Stone smiled. “Shut up and take it. You’re doing me a major favor.”
“You look and smell like shit, man.”
“Rough couple of days. And nights.”
“With her? Who is she?”
Stone explained what had happened.
“Fuck, man . . . that’s crazy. Flat-out crazy. She was hired to lure you into a trap?”
Stone nodded as he looked at the sleeping woman. “One hundred percent. She didn’t know anything about it. She was set up too.”
Barney poured himself and Stone double bourbons; there was a slight tremor in his hand. He knocked back the drink and closed his eyes. “Motherfucker, that’s good.”
Stone did the same. He felt the booze warm his insides.
“So, you’re not dead. But your face is all different to how I remember.”
“Long, long story.”
“Which you don’t want to share.”
“It’s not good.”
“Well, just glad that you’re still alive and kicking.” Barney tapped the side of his glass. “You want another?”
“Maybe another time, Barney. I need to get her out of here.”
“Already? Where the hell you going?”
“Someplace I can keep her safe and sound.”
Barney looked at the woman wrapped in the blanket. “She’s pretty.”
Stone stared at her. She was twitching as if she was having a nightmare.
“Tell me about these guys. I still know some cops.”
Stone shook his head. “Cops won’t be able to save me or her if these guys find us.”
Barney poured himself another double and knocked it back. “You want my advice? Get the hell out of Florida. At least for now.”
“That’s the plan. For now I’m going to lie low until she gets a bit stronger.”
“I wish you all the best, Nathan. You need any help, I’ll be there. I’m a shooter. I know all about guns, you know that.”
“I know you do.” Stone went quiet as his mind flashed through the searing events of the past few days. “Thanks, Barney.”
Thirty-Eight
When Catherine Hudson’s flight landed at Miami International Airport, she checked her cell phone. She had text messages from her husband. Her heart sank. He was wondering where she was. Was she coming home? What the hell was going on? Her daughter missed her. How long would she be gone for?
The more she thought about her home life, the more depressed she got. She knew her marriage was on the rocks. She was headed for divorce whether she liked it or not.
The fact of the matter was she couldn’t truthfully answer any of her husband’s or her daughter’s questions. She claimed she had some “urgent business” to attend to in Florida. She imagined it made her appear like a psychotic workaholic, unable or unwilling to be more flexible and put her family first. Maybe John thought she was having an affair.
She wondered how long she could go on like this.
Catherine tried to push thoughts of her personal life to one side. She stepped outside into the sunshine, put on her sunglasses, and picked up her rental car. It felt good to feel the sun on her face. She began driving from the airport across Miami to an unassuming office block in Doral, used occasionally by CIA operatives. The specter of Nathan Stone hung over her, making her more and more anxious with every passing minute.
The latest news was that Stone had made it out of the Everglades and was now down in the Keys. How was
that even possible? Stone knew too much, but no one seemed capable of taking him out. Perhaps she had been wrong to insist on no collateral damage on the streets. Perhaps she should have stepped in and instructed Berenger to neutralize Stone in cold blood outside the bar. But hindsight was 20/20. Besides, she would have been going against the very core of the rationale that underpinned the Commission: they were autonomous. No direct links to the Agency.
She sensed that Stone hadn’t finished humiliating them yet. Not by a long shot. It was as if he was enjoying himself, turning the table on his tormentors.
Her cell phone rang, and the Bluetooth in the car kicked in. She didn’t recognize the caller ID.
“Catherine, hope you don’t mind me cold-calling you.” The voice belonged to Becky McFarlane.
Hudson felt a chill run down her spine. Her college friend had now been in touch twice in the space of a few days after nearly twenty years of silence. She wondered if she shouldn’t just call her out, put an end to whatever subterfuge this was. But before she knew what she was doing, she was playing along, saying, “Becky, what a lovely surprise. Sorry, it was a bad line.”
“I just wanted to see if you’re free for lunch in the next week or so.”
“Lunch?”
“I’m in DC real soon and was wondering if you wanted to meet up.”
Hudson shook her head. “Absolutely,” she lied. “That’d be great.”
“So where are you now?” Becky asked.
Hudson thought that Becky was too nosy for her own good. “I’m down in Florida on business.”
“I am so envious. You know how much I love the sun. Aargh . . . the weather in London is just the worst. Rain. Cloudy. And occasionally some sun. But only very occasionally.”
“Sounds like Detroit on a good day.”
“You’re absolutely right. It’s terrible. Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads-up. Is it okay if I call you in a couple days and we’ll pick a time?”
Hudson seethed at the intrusion on her world. “That would be . . . perfect. Look, got to go, Becky. I’m on the highway. Catch up soon.”
