by Tripp Ellis
"Um, okay," she stammered.
"When was last time you spoke with Damian?"
"Why?"
"We're trying to locate him. Hopefully we can reach him before he makes a terrible mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"How close are you with Damian?"
"Not close anymore. We broke up a few days ago."
"May I ask why?"
"I don't think that's any of your business. Is he in some kind of trouble?"
I couldn't tell if she was playing dumb. "He will be if we don't get to him first. Do you know anything about what he has planned?"
"No. What does he have planned?"
"So, he hasn't said anything to you?"
"No. What's going on? You're starting to freak me out."
"Do you know where he is right now?"
"No. I told you, we haven’t spoken in a few days. We broke up. And if I never talk to him again, that would be too soon."
"If you hear from him, I need you to call me immediately. It's of the utmost importance."
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
I hesitated. "We think Damian may be involved in a terrorist plot."
"What!?"
"That's all I can say at this time. He hasn’t mentioned anything to you, has he?"
"No."
"Has he been acting strangely?"
"Well, yeah, breaking up with me was kind of strange. I thought we had something special. I guess not."
“Save my number in your phone. Like I said, call me the minute you hear from him."
"Okay."
I ended the call and dialed Sheriff Daniels and told him about Samara and our conversation.
"Do you want me to send deputies to pick her up?"
"No. But put eyes on her. Tell the deputies to keep their distance. She may be telling the truth, or she may be running cover for Damian. He may try to contact her, possibly escape the island with her. My contact has ears on her phone right now."
"I'll put Erickson and Faulkner on it. You might like to know that an Altimari 60-foot flybridge has been reported stolen,” Daniels said. “It’s got a royal blue hull with white trim and a teak deck. Named the Good Life. Could be our guy. Everybody and their brother is out there looking for it, you idiots might as well, too."
"We are on it," I said. "Any word about the golf tournament. Are they going to shut it down?"
"Nope. The tournament organizers feel like an increased security presence will be enough. From what I hear, the President is committed to attending and won't back down."
I grimaced.
"How certain are you about this intel you extracted from Grant and Jonah?" Daniels asked.
"Hard to say. We could have been fed a line of bullshit, but let's just say Officer Shaw's interrogation tactics were… hard to resist."
"Keep me posted," Daniels said before hanging up.
We went back to Diver Down and locked up the restaurant. Teagan was still at the bar, reconciling the day's receipts and cleaning up.
I helped her wrap things up, then loaded the animals, and their supplies, into her car. She said she would stop by her apartment, pack a bag, then head north.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," she said.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "You're tried."
"I swear, I really am psychic. Sometimes." She extended Damian's lighter to me.
"Why don't you hang onto that? Maybe something will come to you later when you're not stressed out?"
"I doubt it." She hesitated for a moment.
"Does the name Good Life mean anything to you?"
"Is that the name of the boat?"
I nodded.
Teagan closed her eyes and thought about it for a moment. Her face twisted with a frown. "I think I'm just too stressed out to focus."
"No problem."
"What are you guys going to do?" she asked.
"We're going to find Damian and stop this thing."
A concerned look twisted on her face. "But what if you can't do that?"
I shrugged.
"You're not going to stay here during the attack, are you?"
"I'm not leaving until I neutralize the threat," I said.
"But you could be…"
I didn't really want to think about what would happen if we failed to find Damian. Things would get ugly. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."
She flung her arms around me and hugged me tight. I hugged her back.
She felt good.
Too good.
"I don't want anything bad to happen to you," Teagan said.
"Nothing has killed me yet. Well, that's not exactly true."
She broke free. "I've never met anybody who had two near-death experiences."
"See, I'm perfectly safe!"
Her eyes narrowed at me. "That's not what I meant. How many second chances does a person get?"
That hung there for a moment.
"And I don't want you to think I'm just worried about my job." Her teal eyes looked away, shyly. "It's more than that."
I got the impression this was a little more than casual concern for her boss.
I forced a grim smile.
"Promise me you'll be okay?"
"I'll be fine,” I assured. “I promise."
"What about me?" JD asked. "Doesn't anyone care if I live or die?"
Teagan rolled her eyes. "Of course I care about you, JD."
Jack smiled.
"Get rolling," I said to her.
"Aye-aye, sir!" She gave me a mock salute, then hopped into her car and twisted the ignition.
JD stood in the parking lot and watched her pull away.
"That girl likes you," he said.
"What am I supposed to do about it?"
"Just an observation," JD said.
"I am not going to date an employee."
"Well, just think… If you lose Diver Down, she won't be an employee anymore."
"Well, that's one way to look at it," I muttered.
We trotted down the dock to the Vivere and began to load up our gear. We staged everything on the dining table in the salon—night vision goggles, tactical vests, assault rifles, extra magazines, flash-bang grenades, thermal imaging. We loaded all the gear onto the WavePro, along with two Draeger rebreather's, fins, goggles, etc. We filled a cooler with bottled water, diet soda, and snacks. We hauled the ice-filled chest down the dock and heaved it aboard the WavePro. The plan was to use the little watercraft to search every nook and cranny of the island, looking for anything suspicious. With night vision opticals and thermal imaging, we'd hopefully have an advantage.
JD had recently picked up an IR Tactical™ thermal binocular. The Recce X2 was a multi-sensor, long-range imaging device in a compact, lightweight package. With Bluetooth connectivity, it offered live video and wireless streaming. It had a 10 X optical zoom, and delivered crisp, thermal HD imaging. It had built-in optical stabilization, GPS, and laser rangefinder.
"I talked to my buddy in the Coast Guard," JD said. "They're boarding and searching any vessel that looks suspicious in the marinas around the island and on the water. I'm not sure how much we'll be able to add to that."
"The more eyes, the better," I said.
"This whole thing is starting to piss me off. We're missing out on Fusion Fest. We could be getting in all kinds of trouble on Oyster Avenue right now," JD grumbled.
JD took the helm, and I cast off the lines. He cranked up the engine, and the motor burbled. We idled out of the marina and cruised around the shoreline.
Daniels had deputies in patrol boats scouring the area, along with the Coast Guard.
The waxing moon hung in the sky, and the stars shone bright. We carved through the inky black water, and I used the Recce X2 to survey every watercraft we encountered. It had several display options.
There was an eerie stillness about the air. Ominous and foreboding. A sense of doom closed in and hovered around me like a wet, heavy blanket. Despi
te all the toys and technology, and all the departments and agencies searching for the terrorist, I worried that one guy with a small drone could slip through our fingers and wreak havoc on our precious little paradise.
33
Daniels texted me a picture of the stolen boat. He had sent the same image to every agency in the hunt. We cruised along the shoreline, heading toward the Country Club. With the thermal optics, I had eyes on every vessel that even remotely resembled the Good Life.
It didn't take long before a Coast Guard Defender class patrol boat pulled alongside, announcing their intention to board. A petty officer stood at the foredeck shouting at us through a bullhorn, his tinny voice squealing.
A few other petty officers had their assault rifles shouldered. I'm not sure how they could have confused us for a 60-foot luxury yacht, but I had to admit we did look rather suspicious.
I cautiously pulled my badge and flashed it—the gold shield sparkling in their spotlight beam as my eyes squinted.
"Coconut County," I shouted back at them, raising my hand to block the light. "We're on the same team."
They still wanted to come aboard for a closer look.
The Defender pulled alongside, and within seconds, two petty officers with assault rifles boarded the little wake boat. They took a closer look at our credentials.
A petty officer said, "Sorry about the interruption. Carry on."
The two disembarked and returned to the Defender. The engine roared, and the patrol boat sped away into the night, leaving a trail of white water.
JD griped for a moment, then throttled up. The engine rumbled, and we continued slicing through the swells. Mists of seawater sprayed, and the smell of salt water filled my nostrils.
Rotor blades pattered overhead, and spotlights slashed the night. The search for Damian would leave no stone unturned, but he had managed to remain elusive.
We cruised into the marina at the country club and did a lap around the luxury yachts and bluewater sailboats. The Coast Guard had already been through and searched anything and everything of interest. FBI and Secret Service swarmed the grounds in preparation for the event that kicked off tomorrow.
"Damian's not here," I said. "He'd be a fool to think he wouldn't be discovered. If it were me, I'd be miles from here."
"And what, come within range at the last moment?" JD asked.
I nodded. "That's if he hasn't been exposed to the virus. He could be dead or dying."
"That's wishful thinking."
"One can hope, can't they?"
We left the marina, and JD throttled up as we hit the open water. He shouted over the engine noise and wind. "Where would you go?"
"Somewhere without all these eyes, maybe?" I suggested. "He could be anywhere. There are dozens of small islands out there. Everybody's looking for the Good Life. Hell, we don't even know if he stole that boat. Somebody else could have stolen it. Damian could be on a different craft entirely."
A hopeless sense of frustration twisted inside me.
"Nobody's looking at Angelfish, Barracuda, Stingray, or Urchin Key," Jack said. "Should we give it a shot?"
I threw my hands in the air. "Why not?"
He throttled up, bringing the boat on plane. We headed across the inky blackness into the abyss. The small boat cut through the swells, rising and falling.
"You know what really chaps my ass?" JD said.
"What?"
"Londyn and Summer never texted me back. I just can't get over that. They seemed so enthusiastic at the time. Could I have misread them?"
I stammered. "Um… I don't think you misread them. I think they were genuinely interested in hanging out with us. Maybe something came up?" I said.
"Doubtful."
"Don't be so hard on them."
JD's eyes narrowed at me, curious about my defense of the models. "What are you not telling me?"
"Nothing," I said, trying to keep a straight face, but failing miserably.
He could read my look right away. "Don't tell me… You didn't, did you?"
I shrugged innocently, not denying it.
"You bastard!" he exclaimed with jealousy. "Which one?"
I drew out the suspense while JD's eager eyes surveyed me.
"Both."
His jaw dropped. "Mother fucker!"
I shrugged again. "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."
"Apparently," JD said. He frowned. "I can't believe you didn't call me."
"Oh, right, like you'd turn down a threesome with two hot models."
A resigned sigh escaped his lips. "Fair enough."
"I felt bad about it, if it makes you feel better."
He held his thumb and index finger about a millimeter apart.
I chuckled.
We both needed some levity at the moment. The situation was starting to seem pretty grim.
We reached Angelfish pretty quickly and circled the island. There was no sign of the Good Life or Damian. We moved on to Barracuda Key, then hit two other small islands without discovering the terrorist.
I was tired, and our search wasn't productive. I felt like we were just wasting time. We finally headed back to Coconut Key.
It was the wee hours of the morning by the time we made it back to the marina at Diver Down. My eyelids were heavy, and my brain was mush. We refueled the WavePro and headed back out on the water.
I called the Sheriff's Department and spoke with a deputy. So far, none of the other agencies had turned up anything.
34
The tournament was set to kick off within a matter of hours. The President was slated to give a brief introduction at the opening ceremony. That would be the most likely moment of attack.
The sky began to lighten, and the fiery orange ball inched over the horizon. My bleary eyes still searched for the terrorist on the water.
We cruised back to the marina at the country club. Helicopters pattered in the air, and the Coast Guard had secured the coastline by the club. A patrol boat was on us immediately as we approached. We had to show our credentials again to get near the area.
The grandstands were beginning to fill up. The opening ceremony was scheduled to kick off at 7 AM. Secret Service swarmed the grounds, and FBI snipers sat atop rooftops. The country club had been locked down tight. Everyone in attendance had gone through security scanners and were patted down. Secret Service agents lined the grandstands.
No one was getting near this place that didn't belong. If a drone tried to enter the airspace, it would be shot down before it got close—but that presented its own set of problems. A sniper shot at the drone could release the virus, though the collateral damage probably wouldn't be near as severe as it would if it had deployed its payload. Still, without proper containment, one infection could spiral out of control in a matter of days.
We drifted along the shoreline by the first tee. We had a direct line of sight and would be able to see the President make his introduction. I was able to watch the opening ceremony on my iPhone, streaming it live from the tournament website. An uneasy feeling rumbled in my stomach. My eyes flicked from the screen on my phone to the sky above, looking for threats.
A sense of dread filled me.
The crowd cheered as the President took to the podium. It was part introduction, reciting the storied history of the Coconut Key Open, and part campaign speech. It was met with roaring applause. A few protesters shouted and were generally disruptive, which earned them a quick escort from the premises by the Secret Service.
A nervous sweat coated my skin. I buzzed with adrenaline as I waited for the other shoe to drop.
But nothing happened.
At least, nothing I noticed.
Someone could have been in the crowd, infected, coughing and sneezing. But that seemed too mundane for a terrorist attack. Not dramatic enough. This would be a statement. And the terrorists would want the world to know who had done it.
The minutes rolled on, and the President finished his speech to more applause. He smiled an
d waved to the crowd as the Secret Service escorted him to a reserved section in the grandstands.
Woody Cougar teed up at the first tee box and lined up his shot. The President gave him a thumbs up. With a graceful swing, Woody knocked the ball 350 yards down the fairway. The clubhead connected with a ping that rung out across the water. The tiny white ball soared into the sky as if guided by the hand of God to a perfect resting place in the center of the fairway. The muted claps from the grandstands filled the area.
I looked back to the sky, still waiting for the impending doom. Minute after minute passed with no obvious attack.
I knew better than to think we had gotten lucky. I began to doubt the intel we had received from Grant Andrews and Jonah Murphy.
"I don't think this is the target," I said.
"It's the biggest draw on the island right now," JD said. "If that's not a high-value target sitting in the bleachers, I don't know what is."
"It's a distraction," I said. "That's what it is."
"What other targets are worth hitting? Where else are there thousands of people out in the open susceptible to an aerial spray of a pathogen?"
"The Fusion Fest on Oyster Avenue."
JD's eyes rounded with recognition. He throttled up the boat and banked around. The engine roared, spitting a frothy white wake.
I called Kennedy Shaw. "The target is not the tournament!"
"Why do you say that?" She asked.
"The attack hasn't happened at the club."
She paused for a moment. "The day is not over yet."
"I'm telling you, the club's not the target."
"What is?"
"Fusion Fest. They're going to hit us in a blind spot. It's completely unprotected."
"Do you have actionable intel?" she asked, her voice drenched in skepticism.
"A hunch."
"Please don't tell me you're basing this off of your psychic friend?"
"No."
She paused for another moment. "Sorry. The golf tournament is the target. I'm not diverting resources."
"That's not your call."
"Call the FBI and plead your case. Besides, we tracked the drone purchase back to the manufacturer and got the device ID. Once the drone connects to the navigation satellites, we'll have its position."
