Island of Thieves

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  Leaning against the boulder felt good. He wanted to rest. Instead he bent his left leg and braced his foot against the ground so that he could prop his right arm on his knee. The Colt in his hand and pointed down the beach. Ready to take the shot the instant Shaw’s buddy showed an inch of himself.

  Come on, you fuck, Riley breathed to himself. Gimme one chance. I’ll send you on ahead to hell. You can hold the door open for me.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Shaw instinctively ducked at the echoing cracks of the shots, although he knew immediately that the weapon had been fired from somewhere down on the shore. At least fifty yards ahead and another forty feet below the edge of the bluff.

  Pistol shots meant a hostile. Any police tac team would be using long guns. Shotguns, M4s, maybe submachine guns like the one Shaw wished he still held right now. There’d been no answering volley. Return fire would have followed like a swarm of hornets if the pistol shots had been aimed at cops.

  One enemy shooting at another. Had he hit what he’d aimed at?

  The bearded killer who’d passed him in the woods had likely been drawn by the sound of the boat thumping against the shore, just as Shaw had. If so, the man must be close. Either just ahead, in the expanse of wind-scoured grass that rapidly sloped to the final short cliff, or working his way along the upper edge, searching for a place where he could climb down.

  Shaw moved forward in a crouch. Keeping low so that his silhouette would merge with the mass of trees to anyone looking up the slope from below. The rain drummed on his hood and shoulders. Hearing movement, as he had in the forest, would be next to impossible.

  He descended a step at a time. After ten paces he could feel the angle of the hill increasing beneath his feet. After twenty he was pressing himself back against the pull of the drop.

  Ten yards in front of him, the grass abruptly ended. The cliff’s edge. Beyond that he could see only waves.

  The killer wasn’t here. But the insistent, erratic bumps of the small boat against the rocks continued from Shaw’s right. A small rise in the landmass blocked the view in that direction. Shaw got down on his knees and crawled to the peak of the low hill, the Browning in his hand.

  He lifted his head above the rise. On the other side, nearer the cliff, he saw the broad shape of the bearded killer. The Viking stood tall, his rifle aimed downward at the beach. As Shaw watched, the barrel moved slightly left, then right. Seeking a target.

  Most of Rohner’s people had been accounted for. Had the cops arrived without Shaw hearing them? The brawny killer might be waiting for Guerin or one of the Feds to show themselves. That rifle had enough range to pick them off anywhere on the beach, even through the rain.

  The man was right-handed. Aiming down and to the left, his front facing the cliff so that his back was angled toward Shaw.

  Take this big son of a bitch out, quietly. The rain would cover his approach. A hard crack over the head and a choke hold. Take the rifle. Then deal with the rest of them, however he had to.

  He crawled over the rise. Down the other side. The Viking continued to aim at the shore, intent on finding his quarry. Shaw placed one hand down, one knee, one hand. Twenty feet from the man now. Fifteen. Watching.

  Shaw hadn’t made a sound. He was certain of that. But the Viking suddenly knew. His shoulders tightened, thick trapezius muscles squeezing reflexively to protect his vulnerable neck a split second before he began to turn. Shaw was already launching himself upward. The killer spun, the barrel of his rifle swinging around to meet the new threat. Too high. Too late. Shaw was underneath, driving forward, slamming into the killer like a runaway train hitting the end of the line.

  They fell. Down the slope. The incline so sharp that their fall stretched an extra yard, the impact a millisecond later than Shaw expected it. They hit and bounced. The Viking’s breath exploded from his huge chest with a grunt. Shaw was thrown aside, tumbling along the slope. His leg came down onto nothing. Dropping off the cliff’s edge. He let go of the Browning to claw desperately with both hands at the sodden ground, tearing away clumps of dirt. He managed to roll himself back the other way and up onto his knees.

  A huge form, rushing. The Viking’s kick hit him high on the shoulder. Spun him back toward the drop. He went with the force, rolled to the ground again. A second kick, trying to punt Shaw right off the edge, glanced off his hip. Shaw punched upward, aiming for the killer’s groin and hitting his ribs instead as the man stumbled to one knee. He grabbed at Shaw, one spade hand clamping over Shaw’s throat and pinning him to the ground. Bared teeth showing white in the black beard.

  The crushing fingers closed. Trying to tear out Shaw’s windpipe. The world went bright around the edges of his vision. Shaw coiled into a ball, lashing out with a kick. The sole of his boot smashed into the man’s jaw. The Viking heaved up with the force of the blow, took one step back.

  Disappeared. There and then suddenly not there, like a magic trick.

  Shaw rolled onto his stomach and crawled to the cliff edge.

  Below, the shimmering water lapped at the narrow strip of shore. The Viking’s body lay in a twisted X halfway between the cliff and the latest receding wave. Shaw could see his white face in profile. The head nearly submerged in a tide pool, the riot of beard floating on the ripples.

  A muzzle flash blazed from Shaw’s right, down on the beach. He ducked back. The Browning was somewhere in the patchy grass. He went looking on his hands and knees, with the afterimage of the flash still floating in his vision. His pistol lay a yard from the drop, along with the killer’s rifle. Shaw slung the long gun over his shoulder and crawled to the cliff to cautiously look over its edge once more.

  The single shot had come from only twenty feet down the shore. Near the cliff itself. He could see nothing in the deep shadows. The horizontal length of the flash made him guess that it had been aimed along the beach, not upward at him.

  Aimed at what? He looked down the beach to his left. After a moment he heard a splash. A figure ran from the cliff to a spot where the shore dipped a few feet, just above the tide line. The running man ducked below the lip of rock.

  The rainy night greedily leached color from the world, but Shaw had been certain that the figure was wearing a suit of pearl gray. Hargreaves.

  He was trying to reach the boat. Pinned down by the man shooting from the cliff face.

  Shaw’s Zodiac, if it was still where he’d left it, was a few short yards behind the shooter. Along with the spot where Shaw had ascended the cliff face to tear the tree from its roots. He could climb down to the shore there. He crawled in that direction. Rainwater flowed from his muddy arms and legs to the wet soil and grass beneath, as if he were melting into the island.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Hargreaves knelt beneath the rocky overhang. His hands had been scraped bloody by the barnacles and the stucco texture of the shore. The knees of his suit pants were ragged and the skin below torn as well. He’d seen Tucker die. The round had blown half the man’s back away. A ribbon of hot liquid had lashed through the rain to join the surf.

  Riley or Taskine. He’d known immediately by the sharp spitting noise of the suppressed round. Using the rifles he had given them himself. Traitorous shits.

  He’d returned fire. Maybe hit one of them. There hadn’t been an answering shot. Still, he’d lain flat for a full two minutes before daring to move. If both those madmen were on the beach, he was outmatched.

  Then, as if the gods were granting him a gift, Taskine had appeared. Splat. It was darkly funny, the way the pumped-up ape had hit the rocks thirty feet from where Hargreaves lay, his head leading the charge by a fraction of a second.

  He was dead. No question about that. Taskine’s skull must be halfway to two-dimensional after that impact. The monster must have slipped while trying to clamber down the cliff.

  Which left just Riley.

  Emboldened, Hargreaves dashed for a closer position, a low spot he could duck beneath.

  Riley fired once. A pisto
l this time.

  Hargreaves risked a glance. He wasn’t far from the little speedboat now. The vessel was almost completely ashore as the tide flowed out. Only its stern rose gently with each new wave.

  Kill the creep Riley first? Or use the boat as cover? He could cut the line and pull it into the water. Ten rounds left in his Glock if it came to a fight.

  From the opposite end of the island, he heard the honk of a voice through a bullhorn. The words incomprehensible at this distance, but Hargreaves had the gist. Telling anyone still in the estate to come out. Police teams would be sweeping the island before long.

  Decision made. Get to that boat. Leave this cursed place behind forever.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Rain and trickling mud had made the bluff slick. Shaw descended slowly, testing each toehold before daring to move his hand down to the next spot that offered a grip. The sheer face was only twenty feet high, but it might have been a thousand for the caution Shaw had to give it. Slipping and busting his leg or worse on the beach would be the same as painting a fluorescent target on himself.

  He reached the shore and dropped to crouch in the crook of the cliff wall. Water trickled from the crags above, giving thicker shape to the rain. The shooter, if he hadn’t moved, would be fifteen long paces to Shaw’s right. Hargreaves another twenty yards to the left, on the far side of the beached speedboat.

  The two combatants at a standoff. Neither, Shaw thought, aware that he was crashing the party. He glided along the projections and hollows of the cliff face as though listening closely to the island’s whispered secrets.

  He saw the man’s legs first. Extending from an especially deep shadow, toes of his boots almost straight up toward the sky. Shaw held very still. One of the legs turned an inch. The man was seated upright. Mostly upright. Slumped against the vertical wall. Arms down at his sides, loose. Left hand empty.

  Shaw covered the last five yards in a rush. He pressed the muzzle of the Browning hard against the man’s temple, forcing the head to one side, as he clamped his other hand down on the man’s right forearm. A Colt pistol fell from the killer’s loose fingers.

  It was the other hitter, the snaky one with the eyeglasses. The left side of his neck and his shoulder so coated that the tinny blood smell wafted strong through the rain. His glasses were askew from the force of Shaw’s gun against his head.

  The killer’s eyes turned to him, slowly, peering over the black frames.

  “Hey,” he breathed. “Look at you.”

  His lip curled up, maybe attempting a smile. The last of his air rasped out. His chest shuddered for an instant and then was still.

  From the distance, past the boat and wherever Hargreaves hid on the shore, came the low drone of someone speaking through a bullhorn. The tac team, clearing the house and estate grounds.

  Splashes. Against the glitter on the rolling waves, Shaw saw Hargreaves duck behind the body of the speedboat. A moment later the bowline fell limp to the beach and the boat began to slide backward into deeper water. Pulled by Hargreaves on his knees.

  Shaw unslung the rifle from his shoulder. The glistening hull of the boat was the brightest thing in view. It turned, tugged by Hargreaves’s unseen hand, until the bow pointed parallel to the shore. The boat tilted to port to show Shaw a portion of its white belly. Hargreaves, climbing aboard on the far side, his weight making the small boat list.

  Shaw raised the rifle as the boat came back to center. Hargreaves now a ghostly gray shape just ahead of the outboard engine. An easy shot. The sniper rifle’s supreme accuracy would counter the night and the boat’s slow rise and fall on the waves. Shaw used the scope, breathing easy. Plenty of time to put the crosshairs right where he wanted them.

  The speedboat’s engine started with a buzzsaw roar. An instant of life before Shaw’s .300 round hit it, shattering the plastic hood and half the works within. Shaw heard Hargreaves’s cry of alarm as metal fragments and gasoline sprayed over the cockpit.

  With the motor’s abrupt silence, the island seemed even quieter than before. Even the rain had lessened.

  “Toss the gun,” Shaw shouted.

  Hargreaves stood dazedly in the boat. A scarecrow figure, his suit torn and stained, shirt loose and transparent with wet. Fresh cuts on his forehead and cheek welled up, the blood caught immediately by raindrops and racing to drip from his brow and chin.

  “Do it,” Hargreaves called. More at the island than at Shaw, who remained cloaked in darkness.

  The boat receded slightly with each wave, floating out toward the channel. Toward the great swells that rolled from the north. Without its engine and forward momentum, the little boat would be swamped within minutes. Its foam-and-fiberglass construction might not allow it to sink completely, but it would be hardly better than a floating log as it was borne out to sea. Along with anyone still clinging to it.

  Hargreaves, apparently resigned to the fact that Shaw wasn’t going to kill him outright, turned to look out at the horizon. There was nothing to see. Any islands in the distance, shrouded in rain clouds and night, might as well be another continent. Only the merciless straits awaited.

  “Come on!” he yelled. The boat rose on an upsurge and settled again, another few feet farther from land.

  Shaw waited. He believed that Hargreaves would accept a bullet. He was morbidly curious whether the covert spook could face a slower death.

  A long moment passed. Hargreaves stepped onto the boat’s rail and into the water. He swam and splashed his way to shore. His hands were empty.

  From far up the beach, Shaw saw the glittering dots of flashlights. And a police launch, thundering at half throttle, coming from the same direction. He walked away from the cliff, the rifle trained on Hargreaves, who offered no resistance other than a look of hatred. The blood trickling from his face gave him a demon’s visage.

  “Fucking coward,” he said to Shaw.

  The beam of a searchlight on the police launch pierced the night. The light swept past them, reversed, pinned them like dragonflies to a corkboard.

  “Every man his own courage,” said Shaw.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  They held Shaw for a month. The charges were felony escape and criminal trespass, but those were appetizers, the state prosecutor’s office promised. More serious indictments would quickly follow if he refused to cooperate. Bail was an unlikely prospect, and given that three different law-enforcement agencies were demanding hours of his time every day for interviews and crafting what would become his sworn statement to the court, Shaw said to hell with it and stayed in the King County lockup. At least it spared him the commute.

  Not that Ganz had been idle. Reenergized with Linda Edgemont’s killer in custody, the attorney was out for blood.

  He joined Shaw for every one of his meetings with cops and Feds of various ranks, not even delegating the rubber-stamp work of drafting motions for discovery to his firm’s associates. He was just as active away from Shaw as well, working the phones and giving holy hell to any delay in attending to his client’s legal rights and privileges. The duel with the lawyers of the other defendants had begun, fingers pointing in every direction.

  Ganz passed news to Shaw as it developed. Jane Calloway, the erstwhile C.J., was denied bail as the states of Washington, Louisiana, and New York investigated her for multiple counts of homicide. Her MO had remained largely unchanged for some years. Now that detectives had a face and a name to match with unsolved murders committed with suppressed .22-caliber handguns, they were boring in.

  Calloway, in turn, was rolling over like wood on a lathe on her boss, James Hargreaves. Looking to dodge the death penalty by tying other cold cases to the lethal pair of Taskine and Riley, about whose activities she knew far more than she had confessed to Shaw. Duplicitous to the end.

  Every day seemed to bring a new line of investigation on James Hargreaves, and on his firm, Paragon. Ganz shared that the New York cops had essentially created a task force to grill all the intelligence firm’s operati
ves. And Paragon’s clients were scrambling to cover their asses. Given Hargreaves’s shadowy background and uncertain level of influence, the cops had first kept him in isolation at County, only a floor or two away from Shaw. Then somebody whispered in somebody else’s ear, and Hargreaves was quickly and quietly transferred to the federal detention center at SeaTac, where his former agency was probably listening in to every syllable he uttered, rights be damned.

  Morton looked likely to get off scot-free. He’d cooperated with authorities, thanks to Karla Haiden’s convincing him that any other decision would end with Hargreaves ensuring the chemist’s permanent silence. And Morton’s lawyer could make a reasonable case that his client was unaware of the full nature of the industrial theft from Avizda and the crimes committed as a result. Maybe it was even true.

  Pollan had survived the havoc on the island. The FBI tactical team had found her hiding in one of the maintenance sheds. She was out on bail within days. Anders had told police that Kilbane’s bunch had been brought in as bodyguards for himself and Sebastien Rohner, without knowing what the sale of the chemical involved.

  The security woman wasn’t the only person Anders was looking to protect. The Droma chief of staff had set himself up as the lightning rod for every charge aimed at his friend and employer, Sebastien Rohner. Anders claimed that he’d been behind the negotiations with Chen Li to give Droma access to the Chinese market, in exchange for Droma’s assistance in securing the missing details of the stolen polymer. Anders also said he’d been the one to engage Paragon to infiltrate Avizda. He was emphatic that Sebastien Rohner had believed the entire affair was legal and aboveboard.

  The fly in that particularly slick ointment, ironically, was Hargreaves. While the former spy himself was hiding behind his own phalanx of attorneys, he hadn’t had a chance to delete all the voice recordings made of Anders’s phone conversations or the conversations between Linda Edgemont and Edwin Chiarra, who was spilling every bean he could find in an effort to avoid prison. Anders was holding tight to his story, even as the recordings put the lie to it.