Wildfire (50 page)

"Under anything resembling normal circumstances, I'd have to agree with you." Mike Takahara nodded. "But seeing as how just about everything of any value on this boat has been pretty much destroyed anyway, the possibility that somebody's going to be stupid enough to try to row out here, try to jump-start the engine of an eighty-two-foot yacht, and then run off and try to hide it somewhere, is probably the least of our worries right now."

"You managed to get it started," Paxton reminded.

"Yeah, but I've got a degree in electrical engineering," Takahara said. "And I also had this," he added, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a small circuit board.

"What's that?" the acting team leader asked.

"The starter relay board."

"Which they won't have, I take it?"

"According to the manual, there's only one spare."

"Yeah, and where's that?"

"Right here. The original's in three pieces in the bottom of the trash can. One of the many reasons the engine wouldn't start in the first place."

"You needed a degree in electrical engineering to figure
that
out?" Paxton asked.

"No, not really. I just looked on the floor under the electrical panel and then tried to figure out where all the broken parts came from."

"But it
will
start up again once you put that board back in, right?" Paxton asked in clarification.

The tech agent nodded. "Most likely."

"Well, in
that
case," Paxton said, looking visibly relieved, "why don't you raggedy-ass crew types get down there and pump up mah dinghy so we can go cancel Bobby's charter. And we do that," he added, a dangerous glint appearing in his dark eyes, "then we're gonna take a ride over to the Cutlass Bay Club, find this asshole Bloom fellow, and start making somebody else's life downright miserable for a change."

Aside from being nearly swamped by the bow wave of a thirty-two-foot cabin cruiser, whose owner seemed to be in a hurry to get out into open water, the trip in through the narrow channel entrance to the Hawk's Nest marina was uneventful.

Lightstone steered the Zodiac straight into the shoreline adjacent to the far northeast corner of the landlocked marina, and then waited until his two partners managed to get themselves out of the flexible, rubberized craft and onto shore.

"Okay," Paxton said to Lightstone, "why don't you go get the gas tank filled and find someplace to tie this thing up, while Mike and I track down Bobby's charter and then see about renting a car."

"Aye, aye, boss," the lanky agent agreed.

A couple of minutes later, while Henry Lightstone was cautiously guiding the Zodiac over to the gas dock, and Mike Takahara was starting to negotiate with an elderly Bahamian native who was sitting under an umbrella that had the words "Jeeps for Rent" stenciled on it in bright green letters, Larry Paxton walked into the marina store.

"Help you?" the proprietor asked from behind the counter.

"Actually, I'm looking for a Mr. Tisbury—"

A slender gray-haired man looked up from the nearby pay phone. "Mr. LaGrange?"

"Well, actually, I'm one of Bobby LaGrange's crew," Paxton said hesitantly.

Sam Tisbury said something into the phone, quickly hung up, and then hurried over.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he said, reaching out to shake Paxton's hand. "I'm Sam Tisbury, and this is my son, Eric."

"Sam, Eric. Larry Higgins," Paxton nodded, shaking both their hands. "Sorry we're late, but we ran into some unexpected difficulties."

"That's perfectly all right. To tell you the truth, I was afraid we were the ones who had missed the connections."

The gray-haired executive paused when he suddenly seemed to realize that there might be a connection between Paxton's sling and cast, and his comment about "unexpected difficulties."

"Did something happen to your boat?" Tisbury asked, staring down at the huge cast, and then up at the cuts and bruises on Paxton's face.

"I'm afraid so," Larry Paxton nodded, easily dropping into his preplanned role. "We were coming in from a run off San Salvador last night when we got broadsided by one humongous ground swell. The boat was pretty badly damaged, and we ended up having to have the Coast Guard transport Bobby, his son, and one of our clients to the hospital."

"Dear God!" Sam Tisbury said, shaking his head sadly. And then: "Are
you
all right?

"Oh, I'm fine, just a little banged up." Paxton shrugged, gesturing with the heavy cast. "The problem is, though, it doesn't look like we're gonna be able to take you fellows out until we have a marine engineer and an electrician go over the boat from bow to stern. She's under way, but that's about all. We would have called and tried to leave a message here at the marina, but the radio started going out on us on the way in. The way things have been going, we figure we were going good just to get here in the Zodiac."

"Murphy's Law strikes again." Eric Tisbury smiled.

"If that's the one that says everything that
can
go wrong
will
go wrong, Ah sure can't argue with you none," Paxton nodded.

"Apparently it's been one of those weeks," Sam Tisbury said cryptically, shaking his head.

"Real sorry we messed up your plans like this, Mr. Tisbury," Paxton went on, "but Bobby said to tell you that he owes you a free trip, once he gets back in operation again."

As he was talking, Paxton saw Henry Lightstone enter the store, and got ready to make the additional introductions. But then he saw the lanky agent turn away suddenly and start looking through the beer cooler.

"Please tell Mr. LaGrange that we appreciate his concern
and
his generosity," Sam Tisbury said, "and that my son and I will be sure to get hold of him before our next trip."

"You know, Ah might be able to help you guys locate another charter if Ah call around," Paxton offered hesitandy as he gradually shifted over into a deeper version of his South Carolina accent, "But Ah—"

"Don't worry about it." Sam Tisbury shook his head. "I'll simply call my booking agent who gets paid to handle this sort of thing. We'll let him earn some of that money for a change."

"Appreciate your understanding, Mr. Tisbury," Paxton said, shaking hands with father and son. "Hope the rest of your week turns out a whole lot better." He stood there politely as the two vacationers turned and walked back outside.

Lightstone waited for a count of twenty, and then came up beside Paxton.

"Where's Snoopy?" he asked.

Paxton immediately picked up on the sense of urgency in Lightstone's voice.

"Outside, renting a car. What's the matter?"

"That kid."

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Remember the young guy I told you about, down in the Arlington Courthouse basement, yelling on the phone?"

"You mean that 'wildfire' business?"

"That's right."

"
You
sure?"

"No question about it." Lightstone nodded.

"Did he recognize you?"

"I don't think so. He was looking at one of those fishing rods, and I turned away as soon as I saw him."

"What the hell's he doing
here?
And for that matter," Paxton added, "who the hell
is
he, anyway?"

"Interesting questions."

"Damn right they are," Paxton muttered. "And too damn much of a coincidence, as far as I'm concerned."

"Let's go find Snoopy," Lightstone said as they looked cautiously out the door and then hurried over to where Mike Takahara had just finished signing a rental agreement and a credit card charge slip.

"You see 'em?" Paxton asked, looking around.

"Yeah," Lightstone said, "over there to your left, in the far parking lot, getting into that red jeep."

"You guys ready to—" Takahara said, and then found himself being hustled away from the smiling rental car dealer. Paxton and Lighthouse quickly explained the situation.

"You know, we should probably notify Halahan," the tech agent said hesitantly, watching the red jeep backing out of the dirt parking spot.

"We don't have time for that." Lightstone shook his head. "Look, they're taking off right now. If we don't get going, we're gonna lose them."

Both agents turned to Paxton, who sighed deeply and then reluctantly nodded.

Moments later all three agents were climbing into their newly rented bright green jeep.

"Don't worry about it," Lightstone advised Paxton from the backseat as Mike Takahara awkwardly shifted the gears with his left hand and then accelerated the open jeep toward the narrow asphalt road. "You never really figured you were going to get to keep that promotion anyway."

Sam Tisbury sat in the front right-hand passenger seat of the open jeep and tried to block everything except the beautiful scenery out of his mind as his son skillfully maneuvered the rented vehicle down the road leading away from the Hawk's Nest marina.

Coming up to the McQueen junction, the younger Tisbury turned south, drove a few more miles, and then turned left onto a narrow and partially concealed dirt road about four miles north of Devil's Point.

About a hundred yards from the road, they stopped at the gates where Sam Tisbury leaned past his son and spoke into the microphone.

After about thirty seconds, when nobody responded, Eric Tisbury fed his father's coded access card into the slot and then waited impatiently for the gates to open.

As he did so, his eye caught a flash of bright green in the right side-view mirror.

"Looks like we've got some company," he said to his father, who turned back around in his seat and leaned out around the roll bar to look back down the road.

"It appears to be that black fellow from the charter boat," Sam Tisbury said.

Eric looked up into the rearview mirror and recognized Larry Paxton—and his plaster-casted arm—sitting in the middle of the rear seat. Then his gaze shifted over to the figure sitting in the front passenger seat of the rapidly approaching jeep, and he blinked in disbelief.

Unable to comprehend what he was seeing in the jeep's rearview mirror, Eric Tisbury whirled around in his seat.

"Oh, my God, it's Lightstone!" he gasped.

"Lightstone?" Sam Tisbury said, turning back around to stare at his son. "You mean
agent
Lightstone?"

"What is he doing
here?"
Eric Tisbury whispered, ignoring his father's question as he continued to stare in horror at the oncoming jeep. His normally tanned face had taken on a deathly ashen pallor.

"How do you know about—" Sam Tisbury started to demand, but before he could finish his question, he found himself being flung sideways and backward out of the front seat as his son suddenly released the clutch and then accelerated the jeep through the opened gates.

Sam Tisbury landed hard on his back, the impact driving the air out of his lungs.

Mike Takahara brought the bright green jeep to a dust-billowing halt at the open gateway just as Sam Tisbury managed to bring himself up to his knees and yell out: "Eric, stop! Come back!"

But his efforts were to no avail.

Eric Tisbury was almost halfway between the gates and the villa when the explosive roar of a double-barreled, four-bore rifle blew the front windshield completely out of the red jeep and tossed the panicked youth out of the driver's seat like a broken rag doll.

An instant later, as Sam Tisbury continued to kneel there in the dirt in absolute shock, Henry Lightstone, Larry Paxton, and Mike Takahara scrambled out of their rented jeep and dove for cover.

Chapter Thirty-four

The members of the ICER Committee who were still in the villa—Harold Tisbury, Sergio Paz-Rios, Nicholas Von Hagberg, Wilbur Lee Edgarton, and Jonathan Chilmark—and Walter Crane all heard the concussive boom of the four-bore rifle from inside the dining room. And then several smaller-caliber shots.

To a man, they all wanted desperately to do
something—
to go to the window and see what was going on, or to dive beneath the table, or to fleefor their lives—but they didn't dare. Not with Gerd Maas sitting there in his wheelchair, holding a sound-suppressed 10mm semiautomatic pistol in his hand, and staring at them with his cold blue eyes.

Then they all turned to look when a figure holding a deadly looking fighting knife in his right hand came running through the living room and stopped in the entrance of the dining room.

"The fools brought Lightstone with them," Alex Chareaux said, a crazed expression appearing in his reddened eyes.

"Ah,
Herr
Lightstone,
sehr gut!"
Gerd Maas grinned widely.

"He killed my brothers, so he's mine. You remember that," Chareaux snarled, which made the German counter-terrorist laugh out loud and then level his cold gaze on his Cajun poacher accomplice.

"Ja,
he can be yours first, but you must try harder to kill him this time."

Alex Chareaux's reddened eyes flashed with anger, and he started to respond with an explosive curse when Sergio Paz-Rios interrupted.

"Henry Lightstone, the wildlife agent, is
here?"
The Chilean industrialist blinked, his eyes widening in shock as he stared at Alex Chareaux.

"Stupide enfant,"
Chareaux snarled. "Shut up."

Driven by blind and thoughtless rage, as well as his male macho-dominated upbringing, Sergio Paz-Rios lunged to his feet and then went down immediately in a fit of spasmodic gurgling and kicking when Chareaux slashed the razor-sharp edge of the knife across his exposed throat.

"Ah,
gut!
You practice." Maas smiled.

More shots rang out below the villa, followed by another loud, concussive boom as Sergio Paz-Rios's legs made one last spasmodic kick and then grew still.

The remaining ICER Committee members and Walter Crane sat frozen in their chairs.

The front door on the first floor exploded into a shower of wood fragments, and Maas cocked his head.

"I think it is time we go," he said, his cold blue eyes glittering with anticipation as he wheeled himself past the dining room table and then stopped beside Walter Crane.