Now tears clogged her throat and she swallowed. She hadn’t thought about Patrick for nearly six months, a record for her. With Rory’s comment about green grass tea she’d felt herself slipping backward, returning to the dark place where she was when it all began. Before Patrick died she’d been a conservative, careful woman looking forward to a life of the lab work she loved and marriage to a wonderful man. After, she became the daredevil in search of excitement that she now was. She pushed her body to run ultramarathon distances and took projects from Darkview. She ran her own company and drove herself to exceed in every way, mindless of the toll it would take on her.
A second gunshot sound brought Emma back to the present.
“Keep moving or we’re going to join the dead,” she said.
Twenty feet from the beach she stopped.
The beach was gone. In its place was twenty feet of water slamming against the mountain.
“Watch out for the water,” Rory said. A third gunshot rang out and Rory jerked. Her body sagged. She was dead.
Chapter 49
Emma lowered Rory’s body to the ground, the frothing ocean in front of her. To the left there was a vertical drop too steep to traverse. It would be a challenge on a dry sunny day, but impossible under the present conditions. To her right lay the manchineel tree stand, and beyond that the mansion. She only had two options: either reverse and go back up the trail and into the arms of the killer, or risk even more acid burns by running through the manchineel trees. One thing she was certain of, though: the man would encounter as much pain as she would if he decided to chase her through the trees. He wore no hat and his head, forehead, eyes, and face were exposed.
Emma could see the weak glow of the mansion’s lights through the cascading rain and tree trunks and headed in that direction. She pulled the coat back over her face as she ran. The already present burns began to blister. Her eyes were her most precious asset, and she kept the coat’s edge low, to her eyebrows. What she lost in peripheral vision she gained in safety. If the acid reached her eyes she would be blind for as long as it would take to heal. The coat over her head concentrated the sound of her breathing, and it echoed in her ears. She listened to the ragged breaths and kept her legs moving. The burn in her muscles remained, but she was used to the type of pain that came from a grueling run and ignored most of it. Plunging on, she kept her pace even and her face covered. After what seemed an eternity she reached the tree line on the mansion side. Still, she kept moving, running away from the trees and their spraying acid sap as fast as she could.
Emma came to a halt for a moment on a rise that faced the side of the mansion. It was shaped like a crescent that curved toward the ocean on each end. Behind it and closest to her was a pool and pool cabana. Beyond that were tennis courts, and beyond that another row of trees that hid the staff buildings from the main grounds. The mansion’s outdoor lights were on, but the drenching rain dimmed their brilliance.
A second section of trees crowded around the side. Emma took a deep breath and ran toward them. The ground leveled out at the hill’s base, where large sections of the lawn had disappeared under inches of rainfall. She hammered through several standing pools of water. When she was far enough from the manchineel trees she lowered her raincoat and glanced back.
No flashlight beam bisected the area behind her, and a flash of lightning revealed only dark tree trunks and flailing branches. She saw nothing that resembled the shape of a man or that could be described as man-made illumination. Emma felt a certain satisfaction at the idea that her guess had been correct; he hadn’t wanted to risk passing through the acid trees. His only option was to take the path back up, which would at least buy her some time to get an idea of whether this mansion was the one hosting the auction.
She skirted around the side, keeping low and jogging through the water. Meanwhile, she listened for the howl of dogs, but doubted that the animals or their handlers would be patrolling the grounds. If they were, she was counting on the chaos of the storm to render the dogs’ noses less useful and their hearing less acute.
She made her way to the side of the house, darting from tree to tree. A camera mounted at the corner of the mansion faced the back. As she had suspected, the owner was relying on the manchineel trees to protect the house’s flank.
The final twenty feet to a side window was open. She made it there and peered inside at a bedroom with a king-sized bed and an armoire. Light from a nearby door flowed into the room. She could see a bit of marble through the opening. It was an attached bathroom, and every so often the light would alter, indicating that someone was there. Emma crouched back down and ran along the side to the next window. This one was a tall piece of glass. She pressed her face against the house’s exterior and peeked inside.
She saw an ornate library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held books, and a couch and nearby leather club chair were arranged in the center. On the far wall there was a desk next to a bay window that faced the back of the house. A slender, dark-haired middle-aged man with a narrow face sat at the desk frowning down at some pages. Sitting on the paper, she saw a pile of small, blue, bullet-shaped objects.
Gotcha, she thought. She backed away from the window and ran along the wall toward the water. She reached the corner and took in the view.
The front lawn sloped down onto a portion of what must have been the sliver of beach but was now just water pounding upward. To the far side of the house she saw a dock. A large yacht bobbed in the pounding waves and three more were anchored offshore. Presumably the others were owned by the buyers. If she could get to the dock unobserved she might have been able to get the names of the boats. She could then transmit that to Banner and Stromeyer for later follow-up. She counted windows, trying to determine whether an occupant in the library would be able to see the dock and determined that he probably would notice her pass by. The house design maximized the view, and probably every room on that side would look out over the water.
She watched the waves crash over the dock. Even if she could reach it undetected she wouldn’t be able to run to the end to get closer to the offshore boats. In the driving rain it would be impossible to read the licenses from the shore. The potential gain wasn’t worth the risk.
Emma backtracked to the first tree line and began working her way around the lawn toward the staff quarters. She breathed a sigh of relief once she plunged into the darkness of cover and jogged past the various staff buildings until she reached a utility building at the back. Like a large barn, there were two ride-on lawn mowers parked outside in the rain, as if someone had forgotten to put them away. She checked for cameras, saw none, and ran to the door.
It was open, and a relief to get out of the rain, if even for a moment. She stood still in the dark room, pulled out her gun while letting the water flow off her coat, then flicked the flashlight.
The shed contained yard equipment in one corner, pool cleaning equipment in another, and a section that appeared to be spare nets and paraphernalia for tennis court maintenance. Piled alongside this was a wet/vac vacuum cleaner, and next to that an industrial fan shaped like a snail shell. She walked down the open aisle, scanning it with the flashlight. At the far end of the room she saw a stack of firewood wrapped in burlap carry bags and a double door shed with a cabinet inside. She opened the cabinet and found rows of bottles and mason jars. Several contained dried leaves and were marked with labels. She recognized most of the plants grown by the voodoo woman.
Emma closed the door and looked at the firewood. Next to it was a basket with a lone, half-rotted apple from a manchineel tree. She took a closer look at the firewood and spotted a leaf left on one of the sections. The wood was manchineel.
Emma took a step back, heard a noise and spun around, gun raised and ready to shoot. The beam of her flashlight fell on Richard Carrow.
“Don’t shoot,” he said.
Emma swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Hiding. I managed to get away from Joseph. The owner here
hired him to kill you and Sumner. I don’t know why.” Carrow told her about the voodoo priestess and overhearing Joseph’s claims that she and Sumner were dead. “She hit me with her powder.”
“Any hallucinations?”
Carrow nodded. “A few. But nothing as awful as reality. He made me ride in the trunk with her dead body.”
Emma closed her eyes. She couldn’t imagine a ride so horrific.
“I’ve been sitting in here trying to think of ways to kill him. And his boss. He’s the owner of this villa. His name is Shanaropov. I’ve never met him and I doubt many on the island have. He’s been a loner. Now we know why.”
“He may be an arms dealer looking to sell a revolutionary new bullet that can pass undetected through metal screening devices. The auction is tonight. I’ve been asked by a contract security company to derail the sale.”
“We won’t get off this island alive if we don’t do something drastic. Joseph is still out there and I watched him leave with a second man.”
Emma nodded. “Carl. He’s one of them.” She looked at the stack of wood. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll help you.”
“Let’s start a fire, shall we?”
Chapter 50
Kemmer headed back to the dock and the Siren’s Song. He wanted off the cursed island and away from them all. While the storm was dangerous, he figured he could take the boat offshore far enough to be safe from Joseph but not so far as risk capsizing. He’d stay in the protected part of the harbor until the rain lessened and then strike out for St. Martin, leaving the nightmare behind.
He made it to the dock and onto the Siren’s deck. The boat pitched and rolled and water washed over the sides, but it seemed seaworthy. He went below, closing the door against the wind and rain with a sigh. He froze when he saw Joseph standing in the living area holding a cushion from the nearby sofa. The cabinets in the wet bar were thrown open and bottles, napkins, and glass were strewn all over the floor. Joseph had unzipped the cushion’s cover and seemed to be about to cut the pillow open with a knife. His rifle was propped against the sofa’s arm.
“Where did she put the minerals?” Joseph asked.
Kemmer swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. “In the cooler abovedecks.” He was lying, trying to buy some time.
“I already looked there.”
“Then she must have taken them with her.”
Joseph dropped the pillow, picked up his gun.
“Don’t!” Kemmer said.
He felt the bullet enter his chest in a flare of pain. A second shot rang out and he watched Joseph stagger and then fall. Kemmer looked behind him and saw his tenant from St. Martin holding a gun. In two strides he was at Kemmer’s side and caught him as Kemmer began to slide to the floor. The man helped him into a comfortable position.
“Let me get something for the wound,” he said. “Don’t move and don’t close your eyes.” The man disappeared and seconds later returned with a dish towel that he wadded up and balled against the wound.
“What’s your name?” Kemmer said. “I guess it’s not the one on the lease.” The man gave him a grim smile.
“Cameron Sumner,” he said. “The wound looks bad, but I’m hoping he didn’t nick an artery. I’m going to load you in the car and get you to the airstrip. We’re flying out of here.”
Kemmer nodded. “I always said you seemed like a useful guy to have around.”
Then, despite the warning not to, he closed his eyes.
Chapter 51
Ivan Shanaropov rose as his guests filed into the library. There were four, one African from Sierra Leone who dealt in blood diamonds, one Romanian who acted as the Eastern European business manager for a Somali warlord, the head of a vicious drug cartel from Mexico, and the lieutenant of an equally vicious rebel stronghold in Chechnya. Of them all, Shanaropov distrusted the Chechnyan the most, probably because he’d dealt with the breed many times over the years and they inevitably would attempt to double-cross him in one way or another. He continued to deal with them only because, as a Russian living close to their borders, they were impossible to avoid. All of the men took in the room, gazing at the bookshelves and expensive furnishings with approval and respect. The Mexican’s gaze was locked on the sparkling blue bullets that Shanaropov had deliberately placed on the desk in full view. He nodded at each of them and reached for a cigar box.
“Gentlemen, please take a seat, and may I offer you a smoke?” He spoke in English. The Romanian, African, and Mexican all nodded and chose a cigar before moving to the library’s sitting area. Only the Chechnyan refused. Getting ready to screw me and not willing to accept any gifts? Shanaropov thought. Or too ignorant to understand English? He kept his face neutral, however, closed the box and replaced it on the desk.
“They are Cuban. I hope you enjoy them,” Shanaropov said. He bent his wrist to look at his watch. He wore a Patek Philippe Platinum World Time watch worth over two million dollars. Shanaropov had never agreed with the standard view that one was born with class, one didn’t purchase it. He’d proven the adage wrong time and again. His homes were on the finest, most exclusive islands, his cars were exotic, and his watch was considered one of the most expensive in the world. Wealthy men came to him when their businesses floundered and were happy to accept his loans in order to avoid the disgrace of bankruptcy. These men would rather pay usurious rates of interest than let the world know they were failures. He routinely loaned the funds and then destroyed the businesses when the inevitable day came that the assets were forfeited to him. Many never knew that their businesses had foundered not because they were bad businessmen, but because he had paid well to disrupt their contracts and destroy their reputations and customer base.
Only two companies that he’d recently attempted to undermine managed to continue as going concerns. One was Pure Chemistry, a small laboratory run by the Caldridge woman, who had interfered with a past mission of his, and the other was Darkview, a much larger company that had thwarted many of his more shadowy operations worldwide. Neither business was aware of his backdoor manipulations, of course, but Shanaropov had every intention of prevailing against them. He’d sell the bullets and then devote his entire attention to destroying the two. The Darkview company, in particular, would be a wonderful asset to acquire. Shanaropov knew that Edward Banner employed some of the best and most unique set of contract security personnel in the world. Shutting down their operations would leave him free to continue without anyone hindering his progress.
“Are those the bullets?” The Mexican pointed to the desk, and his comment snapped Shanaropov out of his reverie.
“They are,” he said.
“I have heard that they have a tremendous failure rate. Is this so?” the Romanian asked. Shanaropov shrugged in his best imitation of nonchalance.
“While they do misfire at times, this is to be expected given their construction. I think we all know how difficult it is to create a bullet without the usual metal jacket. Some reduction in performance is to be expected.” Shanaropov took out his own cigar, cut the end, and lit it. He puffed for a moment while he thought about what to say next.
In fact the bullets failed nearly ninety percent of the time. He’d told his salesmen to claim a much lower misfire rate in order to lure potential buyers. His own venture partner, a pockmarked Bulgarian who assisted him from time to time with arms sales, had told him to forget about selling them. The minerals to make them were rare, difficult to mine, and the resulting product so poor as to be nearly useless. Shanaropov, though, had decided to go forward with the sale. He would use the excuse that the bullets were so rare that he couldn’t allow anyone to test them as a way to avoid revealing the true extent of their failure.
One of the long French windows rattled as the wind pummeled it. Rain sheeted down the glass.
“Filthy night,” the Romanian said. “Will this storm turn into a hurricane?”
Shanaropov shook his head. “It’s predicted to taper event
ually.”
“What about the quarantine?”
Shanaropov waved his cigar. “Not to worry. No one in this villa has contracted the disease, and the rest have left the island.” The last was a lie. Ten of his staff slept and one had already died, but he saw no need to alarm his guests. “I can’t imagine a quieter, or safer, place to host a transaction such as this, can you?”
The Romanian nodded. “You have tremendous luck. First to create the ideal bullet and then to have a deserted island to yourself to auction it.”
The Chechnyan eyed the ammunition. “How much?” The blunt question was what Shanaropov expected of the uncouth rebel.
“The bidding starts at one million dollars each.”
The Mexican snorted. “Are you crazy? For one bullet?”
“For one bullet. They cost at least half that to make, so consider it a deal.” This wasn’t true, but none of the men before him could possibly have determined what the bullets cost to fabricate.
“And the gun?” This was from the African, who hadn’t blinked at the cost. Shanaropov had chosen that one wisely. Money flowed in Africa, just not to the average African.
“Ten million,” he said.
“Ridiculous,” the Chechnyan said.
Shanaropov focused on him. “Too much to pay for a gun that can sneak past the Russian prime minister’s metal detectors and security systems? I think not.” He looked at the Mexican. “Or for you to do the same with your country’s president?”
The Mexican got a gleam in his eye as he stared at Shanaropov. He had boatloads of money, Shanaropov knew, and spent most of it on elaborate villas complete with zoos. Cost was not a significant factor for him.
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