Out of the Storm (24 page)

“What do you want with me?” Eric asked searching the bridge and the Sound for an opening or alternative.

“Got a message for you,” Carson said evenly, eyes never leaving Eric’s.

“Oh yeah?” Eric did his best to sound confident.
Never show weakness to your opponent
…Sun Tsu. “From whom?” he asked quietly.

Carson looked around at his companions. When he turned toward Eric again, he wore a wry smile. “One of our best field operatives.”

“Who’s that?” Eric asked casually.

Carson watched him, a casual look on his weathered face.

“Okay, enough with the cloak and dagger. Who is it?” Eric demanded.

“Your brother.”

Chapter Thirty

Eric stared at the older man in silence. His mouth hung open in amazement. He shook his head. He must have travelled to an alternate universe. That was the only explanation.

“Ralph? My brother?” he blurted. “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

A look of amusement crossed Carson’s tanned face. “I told you this was going to be interesting!” he said turning to his friends. “I know this may ruin a long-standing contempt you had, but yes, I’m talking about your brother.”

Eric looked back and forth between the three of them. The others wore the same smug look of satisfaction that Carson did.

“I probably should have shown you this.” The older man held his left hand up in a non-threatening manner, reached in his back pocket with two fingers of his right hand and extracted a worn leather case. Carson opened it and threw it on the seat he’d vacated.

Eric studied it. The case held a large gold-plated badge on one side and a plastic covered ID on the other. Carson wasn’t his real name. The ID had a photo of the older man taken years ago. Senior Investigator, Special Division, Department of Defense was etched into the badge’s surface.

“Stay cool, son,” the man said, looking at Eric. “We’re on your side…okay?”

Eric nodded slowly. “Didn’t know I had a side.”

The man calling himself Carson lowered his left hand, picked up the leather folder with his right, and put it back in his pocket. “I guess you came home thinking you’d left the bad guys behind, Eric.” He paused and shot a look at his companions. “There are bad guys everywhere.”

Eric’s stomach tightened. His mouth had gone dry. But he breathed easier as his adrenaline subsided. They needed him. And assuming they weren’t playing trick-or-treat these guys weren’t about to shoot him. They had something more useful in mind.

“Okay, I give up.” Eric said, giving the men a wry smile. “Thanks for the philosophy. What do you want and why the drama? Couldn’t we have met at a coffee shop? Did you have to tease me by letting me think I might earn a $20,000 commission?”

Carson shrugged and returned the smile. “You’re my kind of guy.” He slapped Eric lightly on the shoulder and looked at his companions. “I told you he was a cool one. You don’t get all those medals by shitting yourself when you’re in a tight spot.”

Eric glanced up. The other men watched him, showing cautious grins. Carson continued. “Well, here’s the thing. What I do. What we do”—Carson nodded at the two men with him—“is a little irregular.”

“Irregular?”

“Our jobs are special. Low profile.” He chuckled to himself. “Actually, damn near invisible. I report directly to the Secretary of Defense.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Eric said, feeling more confident. This was a dialogue not an interrogation.

“And why we’re here in Nantucket Sound, son. You’re being too modest. You’re a celebrity. People round here know you. Know what you’ve done. Scholar-athlete. All-American. Green Beret. Trunk full of medals. Put that together with the rumors that must be flying round about Ashley and Kylie. Who they are? Why they’re here? You get my point? So we set up this little meet-and-greet. Sure, we used a bit of theater.” Carson gave Eric a broad grin. “To tell you what’s goin’ on and how you can help us.”

“Interesting. You know the cast of characters. But if Ralph’s one of yours that makes sense.” Eric stared down the older man. “Look, Mr. Carson or whatever your name is—I’ve done my bit. Five goddamned years’ worth. Came home to nightmares and a dead wife.”

Carson glanced at his friends. “Okay, Eric.” He nodded at his companion. “Every one of us has demons. I’ve been at this for thirty years. I lost count of the ghosts.”

“Nice speech but every war has its silent casualties. What’s your point,” he demanded of Carson with a touch of the anger that was building.

“Give me fifteen minutes. If I haven’t got your attention, I promise we’ll leave you in peace and try to find another way to get the people we’re after. And believe me…we have to get them.” Carson’s words were hard, brittle. “No choice about that.” Any trace of humor was gone. “I thought knowing your record you might want to help.”

As he delivered his patriotic sales pitch, Eric got a hollow feeling in his gut. Was Ashley one of
them
? He hoped to God she wasn’t playing games, playing him—that she was what she appeared to be—an innocent victim. Caught in a web of deceit. The thought that she was lying to him, using him was…

“You better throw out the anchor,” Carson observed as he studied the water around them. “Our rate of drift and the current are pretty quick. You’ll be in the shallows in ten minutes.”

Eric found himself smiling. “You’ve never been around boats?”

“Some time on cruisers and destroyers.”

Eric looked at one of the team. The taller man shrugged.

“I have to bend the truth in my position. Part of the job description. Not something I enjoy. But it can’t be helped.” Carson and the others followed Eric down the ladder and waited in the cockpit until he went forward and released the anchor using the remote foot switch.

Carson gestured toward the door and they went inside the cabin as Eric rejoined them. “Got any beer on board?”

“Don’t know. Not my boat.” Eric shook his head. He checked the fridge. A dozen bottles of a microbrew cooled inside. “Help yourself. Leave the money on the counter for the owner.”

Carson chuckled, took out a twenty, and left it on the refrigerator.

“You were right earlier.” The man pulled his shirt away from his ample frame as Eric tossed him and his friends a beer. “It is damn hot today.” He looked at Eric, who’d taken a Pepsi. “You’re not joining us?”

Eric sat on the counter and stared at the three men. Carson eased onto the couch facing him with the taller man. The second sat on the chair in the corner of the cabin. Eric shook his head. “I want to keep my wits about me to hear this.”

“Good idea.” Carson nodded.

“All right. You’ve gone through this charade and got me out here in the middle of the Sound.” Eric stared at Carson. “I assume it wasn’t so we could exchange war stories?”

“Wish it was.” Carson shook his head and glanced at his companions. “This is a hell of a lot more serious.”

“Okay.” Eric shrugged. “Let’s have it.”

“First let me really introduce my friends. The tall guy on my right is an expert in terrorism and international crime. Former
company
man. Call him Jack.”

The man nodded, gave Eric a smile and a casual wave.

“This burly gent on my left is former CIA, too. Deadly with his fists and about every weapon you could imagine. Like you, Eric. He’s a specialist in surveillance techniques and explosives. On lend-lease from MI-6. Call him Ian.” The man Carson called Ian reached across and shook Eric’s hand. “He can set up an ultra-sensitive parabolic mic that could hear an ant fart on the moon.” Carson grinned. Ian sat without moving.

“Great. I’m impressed.” Eric tried to hide the sarcasm. “What does any of that have to do with me? Or is it my new roommates you’re interested in?”

“Bingo.” Carson nodded, pointing a finger at Eric. He looked at his friends again. “I know you’re very fond of Ashley and from what we’ve seen the feeling’s mutual, so this may be hard.”

“You’ve been watching us?”

Carson nodded again.

“So that was
you
parked on my street?”

Carson glanced at his companions and chuckled. “No. We’re not that obvious. You’re gonna laugh but those guys were just coincidence. Guess your neighbor wanted Direct TV. We didn’t want to spook Ashley so we…politely asked them to leave. You know, made up a good cover story.”

He had to know. “Okay. Is Ashley one of the bad guys?”

Carson found his eyes. “Absolutely not, Eric.” Carson looked at his hands then glanced at his friends. “She’s just what she appears to be. A sweet, innocent kid who fell into something very bad. Ashley had no idea the hornet’s nest she was getting into.”

“All right, so how did you guys find us and get into our lives?”

“We’re a special ops team. Very special. They call us when something’s so dirty, so complicated, and covers so much territory it doesn’t fit anywhere else. This is one of those cases.”

“How does Ralph figure into this?”

Carson looked around at his companions and sighed. “Everyone figures that field agents are all whiz kids from MIT or Harvard and look like James Bond.” He shook his head and made a frown. Pulling out a cigarette, he offered one to Eric. Eric obliged and Carson lit them both using a scarred Zippo. “Some are like that, right out of central casting, but we need tough, street-savvy operatives. Men and woman like Ralph. People no one would suspect or take note of and that fit into situations like a chameleon.”

They sat staring each other down, Eric still in disbelief that his brother was an undercover agent for some deep-cover covert agency he’d never heard of.

“Well, your brother was nicely ensconced in the position we’d put him in—maître d’ at the base officers club. It’s divided into sections and he was assigned to the area where the higher ranking officers ate. You know, the guys with the fruit salad on their cap brims.”

Eric was hearing the words but still finding it hard to believe. Ralph, super spy?

“How long had he been doing this?”

Carson grinned. “Well, you know your brother. He didn’t come on board easily.” Carson opened the cabin door and threw his cigarette into the water. “It’s a long story but it must be at least fifteen years. We needed eyes and ears in a sting operation and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

Eric shook his head in confusion.

Carson held up his hand. “There was a child who’d been crippled by some bad guys. When Ralph heard about that he came aboard right away.” Carson wore a distant look. “That was his soft spot. He could be a slippery pain in the ass, but when it came to kids, he took no prisoners.”

The other two nodded and wore smiles.

Wow
. All those years and his brother had been a good guy. As he contemplated Carson’s words, a series of brilliant flashes invaded the cabin through the cabin door. Everyone stood and tensed as they rushed to the cockpit. In a second the peaceful hum of small boats and seabirds was shattered by three thunderous crashes.

Standing on the deck, Eric felt his stomach turn and his throat tighten as the other three pointed toward the river and what lay beyond the small spit of beach that served as a breakwater.

“Jesus,” one of the men whispered as he stared at the flames rising into the placid May sky.

Carson took Eric’s shoulder. “Get the fucking anchor up and let’s get back there.”

Eric nodded as if in a nightmare…Ashley, Kylie, Bobby, they were all there. Where the plumes of smoke and fire rose from. He looked at Carson.

“Let’s get out asses in gear, son. I don’t believe in coincidences and I think the bad guys just sent a message.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Instinct must have taken over. Eric only remembered the young harbor patrolman yelling as he sped up to the Bertram. And by then the big cruiser was almost at the entrance to the river.

“Hurry up. You gotta come real quick,” the young man yelled. “There’s been a bad accident at the marina! Real bad.”

Eric steered into the channel behind the Harbor patrol boat. The patrolman violated every rule, driving his Whaler upriver at twenty-five knots. Eric punched the throttles, trying to keep up. His throat tightened as he saw the plume of smoke, dying flames, and ashes rising, funneling skyward from dock three—dead center of his marina. By a whimsical stroke of luck the gods had spared the fuel dock. One spark in a fuel tank and the whole marina would have been blown into dust.

As he pulled abreast of the last dock, Eric threw the Bertram in neutral, letting the tide and current bring the big cruiser against the pilings.

“Take it,” he said to his companions as he dashed off the flying bridge and down the ladder, leaving the tie-up to Carson and company.

As he jumped onto the dock and headed to the parking lot he kept asking himself: What about Ashley, Kylie, Bobby—his crew and customers? Were they all right? Had they been hurt? The noise and activity from the emergency vehicles and their personnel turned the scene into organized chaos. Eric ran toward the blackened cinders where dock three had been an hour before. Smoking pilings and the hulks of several badly damaged boats were being sprayed by the Yarmouth Fire Department. Debris stretched halfway across the river.

“Hey, buddy. Get the hell away from here.” A police sergeant grabbed Eric’s arm. “There’s no guarantee something else won’t blow. There’s a shitload of combustibles over there. Every boat has a fuel tank that could—”

“It’s okay. I know. I’m the owner,” Eric interrupted, telling the officer through the confusion.

“I don’t care who you are. Until they give me the all clear”—he pointed to the firemen aiming high-pressure hoses at the remaining docks and boats—“you stay behind this yellow tape! Got it?”

Eric gave in and nodded as he scanned the parking lot.
What the hell happened here?
Relief washed over him as he glimpsed Bobby and Ashley being attended to by paramedics. But no sign of Kylie. He ran toward them at Olympic speed.