Their presence had quelled the insects and frogs. The only sounds were those from the deck as the divers prepared to go underwater.
“From now on,” Mike said softly, “hand signals only.”
The other two nodded.
Mike slipped into the water first, barely making a splash. Al followed, and they both disappeared into the murk.
Evelyn watched their trail of bubbles break the surface until they disappeared around the bend. She stared at the little green light on the walkie-talkie. She sat in the captain’s chair, hesitant to move a muscle as the searchlight continued to scan the area, reflecting off the water and tips of the weeds.
She looked up as the stirring clouds let one single star appear.
“Star light, star bright,” she whispered.
As long as Kane’s patrol boat didn’t venture any further from the mansion, she figured she would be secure in her nook.
The searchlight stopped its sweep. Evelyn couldn’t see where it had landed its beam—water or land. She crouch-walked to the bow and stood on her toes to investigate, but couldn’t see above the weeds. She stretched her neck, but still couldn’t locate the focus of their attention.
She returned to the captain’s chair and held the walkie-talkie to her ear. Nothing.
Please, please let them be safe.
A half-minute later, the searchlight continued its sweep. Evelyn slumped against the vinyl seat and let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. When she’d first seen the sweeping light, her stomach had knotted. Now, its constant tightness became an unexpected source of comfort.
• • •
The divers couldn’t see more than a few inches ahead. They moved along the bottom by clutching dirt, plants, and rocks, pulling their way forward handful by handful. They stayed in the deepest part, the middle, but even there, the surface was only six feet above their backs.
They pressed on.
Each time the bright sweep hit the water, they froze and didn’t breathe for fear the guards would see their bubbles. When the light moved on, so did they.
Mike touched Al’s arm and pointed up. They saw a boat’s outline and clawed past it. Now they were between the house and the boat. Mike motioned for Al to stay put while he surfaced to get their bearings. Al nodded, and Mike slowly rose until his head slipped out of the water. He scanned and saw a dock with several smaller boats. Beyond that was the house. He submerged and waved for Al to follow.
The water became deeper, and instead of crawling on their bellies, they swam underwater. The water grew colder as they finally surfaced under the wooden pier. They both grabbed onto the side of a dinghy bumping a pylon and dangled there. Mike let go with one hand and lifted his mask to his forehead. Al did the same.
They found a line tying the dinghy to a tree and used it as a guide, making their way hand-over-hand to the beach. They crawled onto the shore and took a breather behind some bushes. The searchlight from the boat still checked the land around the house, and they instinctively ducked every time it swept by. They took off their gear and placed it under the bushes, but kept their wetsuits on. Mike reached into the dry bag and pulled out two towels. Al smiled as they sat on a patch of grass and dried themselves.
Mike nodded, and Al gave a thumbs-up.
They crouch-walked to the house, timing their movements between the light’s sweeps, until they found themselves flat against the sidewall near the kitchen entrance. Al slid the keycard into the reader, and it answered with a green light. He opened the door and entered. The room was dark except for panel lights from the appliances, and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.
Mike pointed to a swinging door, which led to a small hallway and the library where they would plant their bug.
The rest of the house was dead silent.
As they entered the library, Mike smelled leather mingled with old cigar smoke. His flashlight revealed bookcases on all walls, large chairs arranged in a semicircle, each adjacent to a low table, a wet bar, a mahogany desk, and a globe on a stand.
He handed the bug to Al and pointed to the clutch of chairs. Al turned one of the small tables upside down and placed it gently on the carpet. He opened a Swiss army knife and used the Phillips-head screwdriver to remove one of the wooden braces holding the top to the side. Next, he opened the longest blade, carved an indentation in the small chunk of wood, and inserted the bug. With great concentration, he screwed the brace back into the table, making sure that the small wire antenna did not extend past the edge. He then licked his finger and dabbed the table’s bottom, making sure to pick up any wood shavings. Al turned the table right side up and aligned the legs with the dimples in the carpet.
Mike wanted to tell him how impressed he was, but instead he smiled and nodded.
Before they left, Mike took one last look around. He walked to the desk and studied the mementos and knickknacks on top. Then he walked to the far bookcase, perused the shelves, and found what he wanted. Al began to speak, but Mike put his finger to his lips.
They retraced their path through the hallway and kitchen, and found themselves once again in the bushes by the water. Al squinted at Mike, who held up his empty hands. Al shook his head, and they dressed for their swim once again.
Sliding into the water, they gripped the same rope they’d used before. It came loose, and the dinghy it had held to the shore drifted away. It was only a matter of seconds before the sweeping light would catch its movement.
It did.
The light beam sliced the water just above the swimmers’ heads and tracked their bubbles. As fast as they could swim, the light stayed with them.
A bullhorn bleated, “You, in the water. Come up.”
They swam furiously, diving deeper. They heard the bullhorn voice again, but the words were indistinct. The boat was now just above their heads.
Al saw a stream of air go past him, along with a zipping sound. Then another and another. Mike signaled for Al to follow and they placed themselves directly under the hull of the shooter’s boat. Mike pointed to his regulator, and then gave a cutting motion to his neck. They both held their breaths.
They watched as a small flashlight drew a line around the boat. They held their breaths. Once more, the flashlight outlined the boat. Mike thought his lungs would explode. He could see Al’s terrified face through his mask. He was barely holding himself together.
Finally, the boat glided away.
Mike breathed, but his partner had gone limp, floating in space without bubbles. Mike grabbed him around the neck and side-stroked him to the bank. He pulled him onto the muddy shore, where Al spat out water, coughed, and reached for air. Mike removed his mask and mouthpiece and held Al’s head while he breathed in fits.
“I think I’m shot,” he managed to whisper. “Shoulder, I …” He fell unconscious. Mike checked his pulse—it was slow, but steady. He yanked off his gear and did the same for Al. They were down to their wetsuits, and Mike could see a ribbon of crimson streaming from Al’s right arm, just below his shoulder. He ripped one of the towels into a strip and tied it around the wound. Al groaned.
Mike found the walkie-talkie and turned it on. He immediately heard Evelyn’s desperate voice.
“Mike. Mike, where are you? I heard shots. Hello? Why don’t you answer?”
He turned down the volume to where he could barely hear it.
“Al’s been shot. Not sure where we are. Stand by.”
He poked his head above the cattails and saw that all of the lights in the house were on. He heard people shouting. He couldn’t see the boat that had followed them, and he didn’t know if it had gone back to the dock or was still searching.
Immediately, he got his answer. The beam hit him in the eyes and he went blind. He dropped to the ground and felt in the dry bag for his gun. Shots whizzed over his head. Several cattails spewed cotton. In a prone position, he steadied his pistol and shot at the light. A second later, he heard glass shatter, and it was dark again. Thr
ee rapid shots went over his head, and he heard someone on the boat scream.
“Over here!”
“Evelyn, can you hear me?” Mike said into the radio.
“Are you okay?”
“I need you to get the flare gun. It’s under the console.”
“Hold on. I have it.”
“Aim it at a forty-five degree angle toward the house.”
A cold, white light burst above the house and grounds. Mike could see the shadows of trees and people. Without missing a beat, the boat revved its engine and blasted toward the house. Mike threw the tanks and equipment in the weeds and covered them with whatever he could find.
“Evelyn, stay where you are. We’ll come to you.”
He lifted Al on his shoulders and walked along the bank, squishing into the mud with each step. He turned around once to see the house aflutter with people running around. He kept going, each step getting him closer to his boat. He could barely hear Al breathing. He fell to his knees from the pain in his side, got up, and kept trudging until he was finally able to see the boat’s outline against what little light the nascent dawn was offering. He carried Al on his shoulders into the water and finally onto the boat.
“Go, go!” he said.
Evelyn gunned the engines.
Mike lay on his back, exhausted. He looked over at Al. The piece of towel on his arm was now bright red and soaked through.
Once again, Mike felt the pain in his side. He sliced a hunk from his wet suit and saw that he, too, had been shot. He pressed the slab of rubber over the hole, and the bleeding stopped. He was too tired to move. He just lay on the deck, feeling the vibration of the boat as it sped away.
When they were far enough from the house, Evelyn slowed the boat and turned around. “Will he—”
“I don’t know.”
Chapter 47
When Al awoke, the first thing he saw was Mike staring down at him. A bright examining light shone like a halo behind his head. “Glad to see you’re up, buddy. How’s the shoulder?”
The hard metal table made his back cold, and his feet extended beyond the edge. To his right hung an IV bag holding a clear liquid.
“You’ve been out for a few hours.”
Al’s head ached and his shoulder throbbed.
“How’s my patient?” the doctor said, taking a pen flashlight from his pocket that read Dr. Arin Narzanian in red script. He flicked the flashlight up and down into Al’s eyes. “Looking good.” He checked his pulse and listened to his heart. “Fine, fine. Anytime you feel strong enough, you’re okay to leave,” he said as he patted his patient’s good shoulder and removed the IV needle from his arm, replacing it with a fresh bandage.
“Thanks, Doc,” Mike said. “Here, check this out.” Mike showed Al a vial with a mushroomed hunk of metal. “That came from your shoulder. Doc said it wasn’t too deep. Your bicep will be sore for a couple of days.” He shook a medicine bottle as if it were a maraca. “Painkillers for you.”
“What happened? What hospital am I in? Why is this table so cold?” Al wiggled his toes. “And short?”
Several dogs barked. Mike smiled.
“No? Really?”
“We couldn’t take you to a regular hospital.” Mike grinned. “I’ve known Arin for years. He used to take care of Flash. She was a great dog.”
“What the fuck, Mike?”
“If it was really bad, I would’ve taken you somewhere else. But look—he fixed me up, too.” Mike pulled up his shirt to display a large bandage just above his hip.
Al touched his forehead and closed his eyes. He shook his head from side to side.
Just then, Evelyn walked in, carrying a tiny pug. “How are you feeling, Al?”
“Great. Just fucking great. I need to get the hell out of here.” He put his feet on the floor and stood with Mike’s help. “I’m a little shaky.”
“Doc says that’s normal.” Mike shook his keys. “Wanna go for a ride? Wanna go for a ride?”
Al stifled a laugh, which triggered a spasm in his shoulder. “Not funny, Mike.” He lagged out the front door and into the parking lot, which was empty except for two cars. The bright morning sun stabbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Around seven.”
He pushed Mike away. “I’m okay, I’m okay. I can walk on my own.”
Evelyn caught up with them and unlocked the car door. “Wish I could’ve kept that little guy. Where to, fellas?”
“Some breakfast first. Then I want to hear what we’re getting from the bug,” Al said, his voice more solid than a few minutes earlier.
Down the road, they found a diner whose window promised unlimited coffee. Al took advantage of the offer.
After breakfast, they drove to a commuter parking lot situated about a mile from Kane’s mansion, just inside the bug’s transmission range. The lot was already full, and among the cars was a blue minivan that blended in with all the others. They unlocked the back door and stepped inside.
Al slipped into a chair positioned in front of a makeshift desk with radios, cables, and headphones. The others unfolded bridge chairs and sat beside him.
“Excellent,” he said, holding one side of the headphones to his ear. He removed it and turned up the volume on a set of small speakers.
Evelyn stood when she heard the first voice. “That’s him, that’s Kane,” she said.
“Who’s he talking to?” Al asked.
“Inside job. Is that what you’re saying, Hicks?”
“Hicks is his head of security,” Mike said softly.
“Yes, sir. They got in with a keycard. We’re certain of it.”
“How could something like this happen?”
“I don’t know, sir. Is anything missing, Mr. Kane?”
“Not that I can … Wait, damn it! The Senufo statue. It was right here on this shelf. It’s gone.”
“The what, sir?”
“Senufo female statue. The Senufo people were from what is known today as parts of Mali, Burkina Faso, and Côte d’Ivoire. It’s an abstract piece of art dating from the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, and there are only five known pieces in the world. A few years ago, Sotheby’s sold one for over forty million dollars.”
“I can work with the insurance carrier on this.”
A long pause.
“No, you can’t, Hicks. There are only five known statues of its kind. I have the sixth, and it was given to me as a sort of gift, you might say, from an African politician with whom I was doing business.”
“I see, sir. How would you like me to handle this?”
“Find the motherfuckers who stole it, Hicks. Do whatever you have to do. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
When they heard the library door close, Mike turned down the volume knob and reached into the drybag.
“This,” he said, holding the woodcarving. “Forty million? I would have thought a million or two, just because it belonged to Kane. But forty? That’s something, eh?”
He handed it to Evelyn, who studied it and placed it on the table. “And you took this why now?”
“Insurance for us. If nothing was missing, Kane might think someone entered for another reason—like to plant a bug. Why else would someone enter and not take anything? This way, Kane is focused on the theft, and not on the fact that someone is listening to his private conversations.”
“What if we hadn’t had that problem last night and we’d gotten away clean? Kane wouldn’t know squat.”
“You have a point, Al.”
Al’s nostrils flared. His face reddened. “You’re saying you had doubts that we might not make a clean getaway?”
“There was always that chance.”
“Goddamn it, Mike.” He winced and massaged his shoulder.
Evelyn crossed her arms and glared at Mike.
“Think of it this way,” he said, “if Kane is a bad guy, then we keep the statue as some sort of karmic leveler. If he turns out to be an honest citizen, then
…” He held the statue up to the light and spun it around. “I kind of like it.”
Chapter 48
Their shoulders were slumped and their eyes bloodshot. Governors Pike and Rennert still wore makeup as they stood outside the television studios. After several days of nonstop interviews with the TV networks, cable news, and newspapers wanting to talk to the two men who were spearheading what was being dubbed by the media the “Run Government Like a Business Movement,” they were exhausted.
“Let’s talk privately,” Pike suggested. “We’ll go for a ride.”
Governor Rennert nodded, and they climbed into a black town car. Pike gave the driver instructions, then leaned back in the seat. “What are you hearing on your end?”
“When we announced this, the floodgates opened. I underestimated just how angry Californians are at the federal government. What’s funny,” he said, adjusting his seatbelt, “is their anger at congressional gridlock. They would prefer Congress do something they dislike rather than not doing anything at all. They want movement, even if it’s two steps forward and one step back.” He leaned into Pike. “The other thing we’re hearing is how much voters hate the amount of money spent on campaigns. They consider it a waste. They despise the mudslinging, the name-calling, and the gotcha moments they see. They’re sick of it, and they see this as a possible cure.” He studied Pike’s face. “And you? What are the Lone Star Staters saying?”
Pike cleared his throat. “I got some hardcore fringes on the left and right—mostly on the right—and they love the states’ rights aspect of this idea. They’re eating it up. Even the hipsters in Austin are backing it. If it were legal, my voters probably would secede from the union and never look back. Right or left, they hate the federal government. The pundits say voters don’t like change but, I’m telling you, you’d never know it by my citizens.”
Pike’s phone rang. “Just a sec. I gotta take this.”
USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1) Page 19
