The Mercenary (34 page)

Axe sighed and popped his neck. “Yeah. But how could he know anyone was on his trail?”

“How did the FBI know where he was?”

He stopped then and met her eyes.
That
was a very good question. Abbot walked back over then, and perched on the edge of the desk.

“Well—it didn't turn out like we wanted but it's not too bad, after all.” He looked at them both, a small smile on his face. “The Coast Guard has a dead man . . . or what's left of one.”

T
he “dead man” the Coast Guard thought they found cautiously surfaced a half mile from the wreckage. With just his face above water, the Sandman stared back out into the bay. There were at least four ships now, searchlights overlapping on the dark water as they looked for him. Smiling, he flippered steadily toward shore on his back, watching.

There were still some burning patches of debris, bobbing up and down in the waves. Several motorized inflatables were weaving back and forth, presumably picking up the pieces. Since no one appeared to looking toward the shore, the Sandman decided to stay on the surface. It conserved the air in his tank and made navigation a no-brainer. It was also faster.

Although he was in excellent physical condition and reasonably well rested, the wounds to his legs slowed him down considerably and it took nearly forty-five minutes to reach the breaker line. Treading water about fifty yards off the beach, the Sandman felt the rip current increase dramatically. Angling in at 90 degrees to the beach, Kane realized immediately that it wouldn't be enough. He was being swept down closer to the condo lights. There was no beach there, just a half mile seawall made of immense boulders that would smash him to pulp.

Aiming up the beach, he ignored the burning in his legs and started deep, powerful kicks. Still being carried toward the rocks at an alarming rate, he began a freestyle pull with his arms until he felt the breakers catch him. Gasping for breath, he gave a few more kicks that got him free of the current and into the surf. Trying to maintain balance with the heavy tank, the Sandman lost a fin, tumbled onto the beach and dug his fingers into the sand.

The receding surf tugged at his lower body and he felt himself slipping back toward the water. Clawing his way through the sand he stopped about ten yards up on his hands and knees, sucking air. After a minute he rolled over and collapsed on his back, staring up at the faint crescent moon and trying to breath normally. For several minutes he lay there, listening to the waves and letting his eyes focus before holding his watch up and squinting at the numbers.

12:35.

Sitting up, Kane surveyed the beach and realized he was on the strip of curved beach about 100 yards north of the condos. Remembering the map, he could either find the little dirt path that led around behind the homes or take a chance, climb the seawall and cut directly through the little community.

He decided on the latter choice. From where he sat, the entrance back into the Salt Ponds lay a mile due south, and by going straight down the beach he figured he could make it by 1:15 or so. There was no way to know how the authorities would react or when they'd get around to searching the beach, so the sooner he was out of the area the better.

Removing his remaining fin he got slowly to his feet, walked to the end of the beach and was pleasantly surprised to see that the seawall tapered off to a three-foot-high line of rocks. The mercenary kept everything else on till he got over the wall, then shrugged out of the BCD. Removing the tank, he tossed it into the high grass, slung the vest over one shoulder, and surveyed the area ahead of him.

He was in a dark, unlit patch of rough ground maybe thirty yards from the nearest house. Another row of homes was closer to the water on his left so there must be a street of some kind between them. There were no street lights, just the ambient light from the houses. Trying to sneak around the development would be risky, since he didn't know the terrain, and time-consuming.

He'd chance it.

The likelihood of anyone seeing him after midnight on a weekday were slim, so he just walked up through houses and down the dirt road. A casual figure returning from a stroll on the beach.

“T
hank you, Mr. Abbot,” General Sturgis was borderline exuberant. “Wonderful news. And may I congratulate your Bureau on a very professional and well-run operation.” He was being overly magnanimous in victory but felt good—for the first time in a week.

“Thank you, General. We still have some questions to answer, however, and—”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Sturgis interrupted. “But our part is complete. Thanks again and we'll talk tomorrow.”

David Abbot sighed and put the cell phone in his pocket. “He doesn't want to talk about it.”

“Big surprise there,” Axe yawned. “They find anything else?”

“Part of a life preserver, lots of fiberglass fragments . . . a few papers. Enough to confirm the boat as the
Wanderer
.”

“And the body,” Shipman asked. “How much of that?”

“Not much. Part of the head, but no jaw or teeth. A piece of lower torso down to one knee.”

What a shitty end to a fine officer and pilot
, Axe thought glumly. He was still a bit suspicious about the whole incident but couldn't see how John Kane could set up something like that. So he kept quiet.

“So what's next?”

“What we do have will be taken to Norfolk, bagged, analyzed, and written up.” He yawned too. “We'll continue to search for the plane, fit the puzzle together, and hopefully close the book on the mercenary—and John Kane.” Abbot looked at the two of them. “And tomorrow?”

Karen shrugged. “I, at least, have to be here for the opening of the Commander's Conference in the morning at 0830. So it's bed time for me.”

Doug Truax shot her a look that Abbot saw. Then he remembered they'd come in together, with Axe wearing the same clothes he'd had on all day. Well, why not? The agent was looking forward to getting up the peninsula to his own home and waiting wife.

As they stepped outside, both officers stopped and inhaled deeply. Fresh air. Axe closed his eyes. It tasted wonderful after the stale reconditioned stuff in the Command Post. Sweaty clothes, old coffee, and body odor.

He shivered and opened his eyes. Karen Shipman was stretching, arms over her head and those magnificent breasts rising with the sweater. She saw him staring and smiled. “Well? Are you coming back?”

He grinned. “Have to.”

“You don't
have
to do anything.”

“Sure I do,” Axe put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She put her hands on his chest and looked up into his eyes. “I forgot my boxers . . .”

Chapter
27

H
e'd slept
like a dead man.

Returning to the dock a few minutes past 2
A.M.,
he'd locked the companionway from the
outside, then squeezed down through the forward hatch, locking it in turn. So to
all intents, the
Bluefin
looked like any other boat
secured for the week. Pulling all the curtains, John Kane had stripped off the
wetsuit, cleaned his wound, then wrapped himself in a thick blanket and passed
out.

Voices outside and footsteps on the dock awakened
him around 10
A.M.
It appeared to be a
boat-to-boat search and he lay perfectly still when there were knocks the
companionway hatch and someone jiggled the padlock. Eventually, the voices faded
and he drifted back to sleep. Cold, hungry, and stiff, the Sandman woke again as
the sun was going down. Listening again for some minutes, he ventured a careful
look through the forward hatch and saw nothing.

Eating two cans of canned spaghetti, John Kane
thought through his night. He'd seen a few cars on the beachfront road, but none
close. Passing through the neighborhood, it had been a straight shot down the
deserted beach for a half mile until coming to the entry channel for the Salt
Ponds. He'd swam it at the narrowest point and came up on the other side.
Another quarter mile walk on the beach brought him to the dock access walkway
and then to the
Bluefin
.

Tonight he could either sail away immediately and
disappear, secure in knowing that the Chinese couldn't find him and the
Americans thought him dead. Or he could finish this, once and for all, then
leave forever. It was risky in that he'd have to cover the same routeas last
night but, he reminded himself, he'd never gotten into the Back River, so no one
at Langley or the FBI should have figured out his intent. Even if they had,
they'd think the danger past because he was dead.

Rummaging through his bag, he slipped into
oversized cargo shorts and a big T-shirt and went on deck. The diesel fuel tank
was a little over half full—not ideal, but it was enough—and the engine started
on the first turn. Letting the motor idle, he checked over
Bluefin's
dinghy as blue smoke drifted up from the stern. It was
smaller than his had been, about ten feet overall, but full of fuel. It was big
enough for two people.

Casting off forward, he crawled over the main cabin
to cast off the stern lines. This particular Beneteau had an aft cockpit and
twin wheel configuration that he was grateful for, given his injury. The boat
had been backed into the slip, so in a matter of minutes, he was off the dock
and heading down the channel. Some type of reception was being held, as there
were small groups of suits and gowns standing on the long L-shaped pier in front
of the clubhouse—they waved and he returned it.

Threading his way slowly and carefully down the
half-mile channel, he finally came to the funnel-shaped entry, spun the wheel
right, and brought the sailboat out into the Chesapeake Bay.

“B
eautiful view sir,” one of the young colonels pointed at the river and
Sturgis nodded. “Always loved Langley,” he added with a slight note of hope in
his voice. Kenneth Allen Sturgis smiled at that. This was the part he enjoyed
most—having the destiny of others in his hands, bestowing favors or punishment
as
he
saw fit.

“Yes. Today especially.”

He stared along the dark river and its winking
lights. Across the river on the far side, there was a faint gleam off some
sailboat's hull. Lucky bastard, the general thought. Someday.

The colonel nodded appreciatively even though he
had no idea what the general was talking about.

“General Sturgis?”

He turned to find Major Shipman behind him, drink
in hand.

“Ah, Karen . . . great to see you.” The
general had had a few drinks and his latent lust suddenly surged. “What a week,
eh?”

“And it's not over yet, sir.” She was wearing black
slacks with heels and a very snug-fitting turtleneck sweater. She looked
delicious. “I'd like to talk to you about the Taiwan incident.”

His little eyes were bloodshot and kept bouncing
from her face to her chest. “Not tonight, Major. I've had my fill of global
affairs and indreegue . . . intrigue, sorry, for one week.”

Maybe, he thought . . . maybe tonight is
the night to discover her career potential. The thought made him smile even
wider. But it faded abruptly as Doug Truax materialized beside her. In fact, it
slid off his face entirely when she put her arm through his.

So . . .

Suddenly, his career-long inferiority complex and
hatred of fighter pilots came bubbling up. What was Truax? A lieutenant colonel
. . . so fucking what? So he wore the Patch and had more real
decorations than Sturgis would ever wear. He, Kenneth Sturgis, was a general. A
mover and shaker. A Decision Maker for the Warfighter.

“Looks like the FBI saved your buddy Kane from the
Bay.” He grinned and took a long drink of bourbon. “Or some of him.”

Karen Shipman opened her mouth to speak but Axe
beat her to it. “He was coming for you, you know.” He'd had a few drinks himself
and frankly didn't care.

A dead threat made Sturgis brave and he stood up
straighter, still shorter than Axe by five inches. “If he had, then he'd be dead
sooner.”

Axe burst out laughing. Really laughing at that
absurd statement. Sturgis blushed and his lips tightened. Karen gave Axe's arm a
squeeze. “Let's go,” she said quietly, but the pilot didn't move.

“Dead or alive, he was ten times the man you are.”
Axe weaved a little, but his eyes were clear and hard. “You couldn't have killed
him with a bazooka.”

Sturgis's lip curled and he wanted to punch the
smug fighter jock right in the mouth. Then his face relaxed and he took a deep
breath. There was a better way. “Well, now . . . that's dangerously
close to insubor . . . insu . . . disrespecting a superior
officer,” he said, smiling. “You will report to my office at oh-eight hundred
tomorrow.” A year-long remote assignment to Afghanistan and this asshole would
be a lot less cocky.

“And”—Sturgis nearly winked at Major Shipman—“I
have a witness.”

“I didn't hear a thing, General.” She took Truax's
arm and pulled. “C'mon, Axe.”

They melted back into the crowd and left him
fuming. That little bitch, he thought, and finished his drink. Well, we'll see
how it really is when Truax is rotting in Kabul and she needs an OPR
endorsement. That, he knew, would be a sweet revenge. To fuck the woman while
her boyfriend was dodging Taliban mortars. She'd see. She'd see who really had
the power.

A
fter midnight everyone had left and Sturgis poured
himself another drink. The conference today had been a victory, he thought.
Fences mended and a new round of commanders paying homage. He was particularly
proud of his success keeping the F-22 and F-35 programs alive—it was one of the
more subtle knives in the backs of the fighter world. By supporting those
programs, he deflected criticism that he was anti-fighter pilot while
continuously lobbying to replace “legacy” systems like the F-16 and F-15 with
the newer jets.

Everyone was about saving money and he could prove
that smaller numbers of more capable jets saved money—he had the charts. What
Sturgis knew was that the planned “Spiral” expansion and upgrades to the Raptor
and Lightning would never take place.

But by that time it would be too late and many
thousands of fighter pilots would be out of a job—which suited him just fine.
UAVs like the Predator had been a wildly successful angle in the undermining of
the old “fighter pilot mafia” that had held sway for so long. Why pay and
maintain expensive jets and their narcissistic pilots when unmanned aerial
vehicles could be used?

It was a persuasive argument and one that had many
advocates among budget hawks and non–fighter pilots. The fact that it assumed
America would always deal with low-tech threats like Afghanistan mattered not a
bit to him. That, he reasoned, was what the anti ballistic missile defense
system and Space Command were for.

Burping periodically he made his way to the big
glass-enclosed sunroom covering the back half of his house. From here he could
enjoy the view without the mosquitoes. Dropping heavily into an oversized wicker
chair, Sturgis sighed contently and took a big sip of his drink as his thoughts
turned to Karen Shipman. True, she was twenty years younger than he was, but
that only added spice. For him to take a prize like her away from younger men
made him feel good. Made him feel like the man he thought he was.

And dealing with that asshole Truax. He'll be next.
First thing tomorrow he'd have that prick on the carpet at attention and Axe
would be on his way to Bagram Air Base or some other shithole for a year.
Sweet
, he mused. That would be sweet. Not as sweet as
watching John Kane's career end five years ago, but satisfying nonetheless. Kane
simply hadn't cared—he'd been monumentally unimpressed with the Big Picture and
with Kenneth Allen Sturgis. Well, the general chuckled thickly, he'd gotten the
last—

What the hell . . .
the lights went off and the room was suddenly dark but for a splash of
moonlight across the tile floor.

These fucking old
houses.
He lurched to his feet and turned around. They looked nice
but they were a pain in the ass. Creaking, leaking and . . .

There was someone standing in the doorway.

He swayed a little and stammered, “Who are
you?”

The big dark figure didn't move. But it
laughed—quietly.

Sturgis froze.

“What . . . whaddya want?”

Silence. The figure simply stood there.

The door, he thought wildly. The back door was a
few steps away. The general looked back at the unmoving silhouette. He didn't
fully comprehend the situation but he could sense the danger.

Could I get to the door and
get out in time? Could I—

“You'd never make it,” the shape said.

“Hey—you're gonna hafta go.” Sturgis's voice shook.
Steadying himself with the back of the chair, he swallowed hard and mustered
some bravado. “Tha pardie's over . . .”

The shadow laughed again and stepped into the
moonlight.

“Not for you, it isn't.

K
aren
Shipman awoke to an empty bed and sat up, rubbing her eyes. Yawning, she saw his
clothes on the chair and slid out of bed. Slipping on a sweatshirt and nothing
else, she walked to the big glass doors that faced the ocean and opened
them.

Axe was lying in a lounge chair, staring out at the
water. With the coming sunrise the sky had lightened enough to barely make out
the distant horizon. It was a million-dollar view—the entire mouth of the
Chesapeake Bay opened up from the deck of her house on Willoughby Spit. She'd
often sat right here and watched the ships.

“They say the ocean has no memory,” he said,
without looking at her. “I'd like to see if that's true one day.”

She rubbed his shoulders. Karen really liked this
man. He was very strong—mentally and physically. But there was something else.
Certainly not a weakness, but a definite chink in the armor—he was a
thinker.

“You haven't been sitting out here pondering
that.”

Several miles farther out, a sailboat was headed
out to sea, the sunrise just glinting off her mast. Closer in were two big
container ships slowly and ponderously making their way into the bay.

“I was thinking about John Kane.”

“I know.”

“We were friends, I think. I should've done a
better job with that. Maybe he'd still be alive today.”

Something in the way Axe said it caught her
attention and she leaned over his shoulder, looking into his eyes.

“This man we've been hunting . . . he
wasn't the same pilot you knew.”

He met her gaze and held it. “Maybe.”

“He was a dangerous, violent son of a bitch.” She
took his chin in her hand. “And he's gone.”

Axe stared back at her for a long moment, then
turned to gaze at the sea. The sun had risen and the distant sailboat had
disappeared in the sparkling light.

“Son of a bitch better
stay
gone . . .”

F
ive
miles off Willoughby Point, the mercenary smiled, meeting Sturgis's gaping,
panicked eyes as the general slipped under the waves, his face contorted with
horror. Twisted with the recognition of John Barrett Kane and with knowing there
was no way free of the anchor fastened around his legs, dragging him down. Down
to his death, suffocated and crushed by cold water of the Atlantic. The water
that would bury him forever without a trace.

The pale face faded in the green depths and the
Sandman knew it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever replace
them
. Nothing could ever bring them back.

But . . .

Lifting his head, he stared back at the shore and
remembered the life he'd led. At everything he'd once been and would never be
again.

“Good-bye . . .” he said softly, seeing
the quiet graveyard and the two coffins glistening in the rain.
And rest in peace.

Facing forward he paused, letting it all fall away.
Then, barefoot and shirt open to the breeze, the mercenary felt the warmth on
his face and smiled as he sailed east into the rising sun.