Emily clung to Wilson, this new shock coming too soon on heels of her trauma and the relief of reuniting.
“Get dressed; we gotta get outta here,” Driggs demanded.
Wilson threw on his clothes and grabbed the pre-packed escape bags that contained food, water, clothes, and various other survival items. Forty seconds had passed. Suddenly, from the corridor outside the apartment came several crashing thuds and a muffled blast. Commands were shouted. Three heavily armed FBI agents burst through the door of the apartment. One of them turned to Driggs and shouted, “Get them out of here, now! Use the escape route.”
Driggs ran to the strategy room’s walk-in closet with Wilson and Emily behind him. He pushed aside the rack of clothes and opened a concealed door to a narrow hallway before pushing Emily and Wilson in ahead of him. They ran like scared rats through the dimly lit maze of hallways for what seemed like a city block until they reached another door. “Open it,” Driggs shouted from behind.
They entered a small stairwell and began running down twelve flights of stairs. At the bottom they entered another long, dark corridor that took them to an underground parking garage. Driggs pushed past them and stepped cautiously into the garage, his eyes scanning in all directions. He motioned toward a black Range Rover and handed Wilson the keys. “Get in and follow me to the street,” Driggs said, maintaining his reconnaissance. “If everything’s clear, I’ll join you there. Otherwise, get as far away from this place as fast as you can. Any questions?”
“No,” Wilson said, as he and Emily climbed into the vehicle obviously customized for battle: two shotguns attached to the dash, handheld automatics holstered on each side of the gear box with similar weaponry positioned behind the two front seats.
Driggs reached in across Wilson and pushed a remote control button on the console to open the garage gate. As the iron barrier rolled past the halfway point, five men dressed in black ran into the garage and opened fire on the Range Rover. The sound of the gunfire was muffled, which meant silencers, but the thuds against the doors and windows were deafening. Driggs hit the ground, violently waving his arm and yelling, “Go!”
Wilson jammed the accelerator to the floor. A barrage of bullets pocked the windshield. Driggs took out two of the five before the Range Rover reached the open gate. The three others kept shooting at the Range Rover as Wilson made a hard right onto Beacon Street, almost rolling the vehicle.
They headed north toward Boston Common. In the rear view mirror Wilson saw more men under the streetlights. Flashes of weapon fire brought more earsplitting smacks to the Range Rover’s exterior. He saw two more men fall before turning at the first intersection. Once on Storrow Drive, they sped through the Callahan Tunnel to Route 1 and I-95 North, Wilson continued to watch his rearview mirror. There was nothing.
“I don’t think anyone’s following us,” Emily finally said.
Wilson sighed, “What happened to Driggs?”
“God, I hope he survived.”
They drove hard and fast toward Maine with its 3,000 miles of coastline and countless coves and peninsulas, agreeing that it was the best place to hide out. While incessantly scanning the cars around them during their two-hour drive through New Hampshire and into Maine, Wilson asked about the kidnapping.
As Emily recounted her ordeal, Wilson thanked God she hadn’t been sexually assaulted or physically abused more than the nasty blow to her cheek. But it was obvious from her tearful account that the experience had taken its toll on her emotional and psychological well-being. He gazed at her for as long as he could without driving off the highway. Soulmates forever, he said to himself. After that, he told her what had transpired in her absence, filling in the details that Driggs had been unable to provide.
It was almost sunrise when they reached Mackerel Cove on Bailey Island in Casco Bay, ten miles northeast of Portland as the gull flies, forty miles on narrow roads by car. Wilson backed the Range Rover under the limbs of a large pine tree so it wouldn’t attract undue attention. He removed the two handguns and placed them in his bag.
Thankfully, there was a beehive of activity and plenty of chatter on the pier as local lobstermen gassed up their boats, hauled supplies on board, and gulped down their morning coffee. Wilson had worked on Bailey Island as a lobsterman’s apprentice for a couple of weeks one summer during college, and had returned on occasion to visit. The familiarity helped. As they walked into the Mackerel Cove Marina Store, Wilson asked for the owner, Mo Bobicki.
Mo was a heavyset blonde-haired woman who ran her marina store and restaurant with tender loving care. She was also a woman who told you exactly what was on her mind.
“Wilson? You’re early this year,” she said as she stepped around the corner from the restaurant. “We don’t usually see you until July or August. What’s the occasion?”
“You might call it an early escape from the insanity down south,” Wilson said, smiling at Emily. He introduced Emily and then reminisced briefly about the last time he stayed at the Marina.
“You know the loft’s not available until after May 1st,” Mo said with a wry smile on her face. “The only reason we’re open at all is the unusually warm weather this season. Lobstering started early this year.”
“Are you willing to make an exception for a loyal customer?” Wilson asked, expecting she’d say yes. Maintaining the friendly chitchat was draining him of what little energy he had left. He could imagine how Emily felt after her ordeal. But he didn’t want Mo to see any of the fatigue or turmoil inside them.
“It hasn’t been cleaned. We only have a limited staff.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of everything,” Emily said, apparently sensing Wilson’s need for help.
“You remember how to start the wood burning stove?”
Wilson nodded.
“Okay. It’s open,” she said, noticeably anxious to return to other duties. “I’ll have someone come up later with fresh towels and linens.”
Perched above the marina store and restaurant, the loft’s three walls of windows offered a panoramic view of everything from the single highway onto the island, to the lobster boats in the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond the cove. We’ll be safe here, Wilson thought.
Emily went to the bathroom to take a shower, while Wilson sat down at the small round table overlooking the pier to call Hap Greene. He punched in the numbers on the cell phone he’d taken from the Range Rover. He’d tried Hap’s emergency number earlier, but there’d been no answer. This time he was relieved to hear Hap’s voice. “It’s Wilson.”
“Are you okay?” Hap asked.
“We’re fine. What about our families?”
“Everyone’s safe. Emily’s parents and her three sisters are under protective surveillance on Martha’s Vineyard. We flew her sisters and their families in last night.”
“What happened at the apartment?” Wilson asked.
“Tate and his partners had an informant inside the FBI. An agent named Switzer. He’s in custody, but there’s bound to be others.”
“Is Driggs okay?”
“Superficial wound to the side of his head, but he’s fine.”
“What about Tate and the others?”
“Kamin blew himself to pieces with plastic explosive in his Manhattan apartment. Malouf and Tennyson are in custody,” Hap said, pausing a moment. “Tate and Swatling have disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Wilson said loud enough for Emily to hear him from the bathroom.
“Unfortunately,” Hap said quietly.
“Things are under control, right?”
“We weren’t in charge there, but we are here.”
“Now what?”
“Arrests of the CEOs and their facilitators of vice have begun and will continue throughout the day, as fast as the federal judges can issue warrants. Everything’s happening a day earlier than planned. The FBI’s trying to keep a lid on the press until tomorrow morning.”
Suddenly, Wilson realized that Hap hadn’t asked him where he was. Then it dawned on him. “You’re tracking us, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You’re somewhere on the coast, northeast of Portland, Maine. We’ve been tracking the Range Rover. I have three of my people on their way to you right now. They should be there in an hour.”
There was silence on Wilson’s end as alternate reactions dashed through his mind. Then he asked, “What makes you think Tate hasn’t compromised one of your guys? Or that the men you sent aren’t being tracked?”
“They’re the best I have,” Hap said.
“Not good enough, Hap. We won’t be here when they arrive. Just make sure my family’s safe. Tell Kohl and Johns the same thing.”
“Wilson…”
Wilson pushed the end button before Hap could finish.
“You remember Boothbay Harbor, don’t you?” Wilson asked as he entered the bathroom. They’d hung out there over a long weekend during their college days.
“How could I forget?” Emily said, smiling playfully as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her.
It was great to see her smiling and with only a towel around her, but they didn’t have much time. “Believe me, I wish we could take advantage of this moment, but the FBI’s been compromised. And they’re tracking the Range Rover.”
“Who’s tracking it?” Emily asked, her eyes suddenly on fire.
“Hap is, but the FBI knows everything he’s doing. He has three men on their way to protect us. But given the circumstances, I don’t think it’s in our best interest to stay around waiting for them.”
“I agree,” Emily said.
“I’m going to drive the Range Rover to Boothbay Harbor. The Marina has a lobster boat. Hopefully it’s available. If not, I’ll pay double a day’s catch to one of these guys,” Wilson said, pointing to the hubbub on the pier. “Can you take the boat to Boothbay and pick me up at the main pier downtown?”
“Of course. Will the emergency tires get you there?” Emily asked, knowing that the tires were full of bullet holes.
“The vehicle computer says we’ve got forty miles left. That’ll do.”
“Why don’t we drive together and rent a boat there?” Emily asked as she quickly dressed.
“As much as I hate the idea of being separated from you again, getting a boat in Boothbay could take time we don’t have. This way, I’ll ditch the Range Rover in town and find cover somewhere near the main pier. You can drop anchor offshore until you see me. Then we can get lost anywhere,” Wilson said insistently. He wasn’t going to put her in harm’s way again.
“I’m not crazy about you driving to Boothbay by yourself,” she said with a frown, running her fingers through her wet hair.
“I don’t think we have a choice. We’ll only be safe once we get rid of the Range Rover,” he said, putting his arm around her and walking to the door. “This way, you won’t be put in harm’s way again, and they won’t try to stop me until I’ve reconnected with you. It’s smart and safe.”
Downstairs in the marina store Jaclyn, Mo’s store manager, told Wilson that their lobster boat was in the dock shop getting an overhaul. The only charter boat available was a sixty-foot sailing yacht, which would be too much for Emily to handle by herself. Wilson tried to stay calm as he asked if she knew of any other boats for rent. She gave him the names of two retired lobstermen who lived at the end of the cove but warned, “No guarantees this time of year.”
“Thanks, maybe I’ll give them a try,” Wilson said casually. No use drawing any undue attention, he thought.
“Wanna boat fur hire?” asked a large red-faced man as Wilson and Emily walked out of the store. “Couldn’t help overhearin’.”
“Yes,” Wilson said cautiously.
“Where you wanna go?”
“The lighthouses at Cape Elizabeth.”
“Name’s Paddie,” he said sticking out his hand, “I can take you.”
Shaking his hand, Wilson began slowly, “We sort of wanted to get out on our own. You know, just me and my wife.”
“Got experience?”
“She grew up on Martha’s Vineyard boating and sailing since she was five. I worked here as a lobsterman’s apprentice, and my family has an eighty footer and a twenty footer on Nantucket,” Wilson said, probably a little too anxiously.
The man squinted at Wilson and Emily, his eyes nearly lost in his weather-beaten face. “Costs more for goin’ alone.”
“How much?”
Once again, Paddie looked them up and down.
They both tried to appear as calm and casual as they could.
“$300 for half day.”
“Can we go right away?”
“Just gassed her up.”
“Great. My wife is going to meet me in the next cove. I have to pick up a few things.”
“I need some collateral.”
“Uh. Okay. What did you have in mind?”
“Car keys, driver’s license, somethin’ of value.”
Wilson pulled out his driver’s license and his father’s Mercedes keys. He gave them to Paddie with $360 in cash. “Tip’s included,” he said.
Paddie examined Wilson’s driver’s license and gave it back. “I’ll keep the keys. Meet you on the boat. She’s the yellow and green one at the end of the pier.”
Wilson and Emily kissed each other good-bye, with more than a little apprehension, before Wilson left for the Range Rover and Emily walked to the end of the pier.
As Emily was listening to Paddie’s instructions, Wilson was already speeding off the island in the bullet-marked Range Rover. Avoiding attention from the State Police was going to be a challenge.
Ten minutes later, Emily cruised north out of Mackerel Cove toward Boothbay Harbor, knowing she’d make it to the harbor well before Wilson. But she wasn’t happy that Wilson was taking all the risk, especially in a bullet-marked SUV in broad daylight. Little did she know what was in store for both of them.
There was no sight of Wilson as Emily approached Boothbay Harbor, but it had been less than twenty minutes since she left Bailey Island. She dropped anchor off the eastern peninsula and began surveying the main pier six hundred yards away through a pair of binoculars she’d found on board.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty minutes. Still no sign of Wilson. She pulled up anchor and started the engine. She had to do something. After docking at one of the longer piers away from the center of town, she put on a stocking cap, boots, and a full-length yellow slicker from the boat’s storage compartment. Thankfully, a light rain was falling from an overcast sky, allowing her to use the slicker’s large hood without drawing unwanted attention. She walked briskly up the pier into the community of Boothbay Harbor. For another ten minutes she scanned the quaint New England streets near the harbor, looking at every face she saw. Panic was starting to set in.