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A sniper with a thermal or night-vision scope could nail me without breaking a sweat, Shane thought. He glanced back toward Two Rivers as he heard another crash, but he could see the lights glowing in the kitchen windows and Agnes looking just fine through the back door as she threw things into the hall and yelled at that idiot Taylor, and he realized he’d rather be out here chancing a sniper than in there chancing Cranky Agnes in a rage.
Shane turned back toward the water as the darkened silhouette of a boat painted flat black skirted the near bank of the Blood River, a hulking figure behind the center console, a smaller figure sitting erect to the right rear. Shane stood, sliding his pistol into the holster, and walked down the metal gangplank to the floating dock.
He grabbed the line the driver threw him and quickly tied the jet boat off. It was low to the water and when the engine was cut, the sounds of the low country descended once more.
“Carpenter,” Shane acknowledged the driver.
“Shane.” The tall black man dressed in a one-piece camouflage flight suit looked around and smiled. “Nice digs.”
The sound of more china shattering came floating through the night, and Carpenter’s smile disappeared. “Trouble?”
“Not mine.”
Wilson, dressed as always in a well-cut gray suit, climbed up on the floating dock, said “Good evening, Mister Shane,” walked up the gangplank to the high dock, and took a seat, and Shane followed him.
Wilson had a Boston accent, enriched in some Ivy League school and fostered among the good old boy network of the World War II hotshots from the Office of Strategic Services, of which he was just about the last one standing. Shane knew he was in his early eighties, but the man was as spry as someone twenty years younger, and despite the evening’s heat, there wasn’t a drop of sweat on the slightly wrinkled skin on his forehead.
“I’m considering retirement,” Wilson said.
Shane blinked at the unexpected opening.
“I must consider who my replacement would be. My position has special requirements. An absolute devotion to duty without any personal considerations is one of them.”
“That goes without saying,” Shane said.
“You made personal considerations a priority last night This makes me question my inclination to make you my successor.”
Shane straightened a little. Running the Organization could do a lot to alleviate the boredom he’d been feeling lately.
“You were not at the debriefing.”
“I had a family emergency to attend to. The first in my career.”
Wilson’s head turned toward the house, as if just noticing the ongoing crashing inside. “It appears the emergency is still in continuance.” He turned back toward Shane. “The individual you killed in Savannah was a mid-level mob contact who was to transfer the payment for Dean’s hit”
“Then why did the intel indicate Dean was at that club?”
“A mistake from one of our lesser agencies. It’s surprising they got that close to Casey I Dean.”
“It wasn’t very close,” Shane observed.
“You took out Dean’s source of payment. That will upset Dean.”
“Who is Dean’s target?”
“You have no need to know.”
Shane had heard that answer more times than he could count in his time working for Wilson. If he got Wilson’s job, he’d know a lot more.
“We believe Dean will still try to fulfill the contract.”
“Without being paid?”
“We believe the contractor will still pay.”
“Who is the contractor?”
Shane braced himself for another No Need To Know. But instead Wilson turned and looked out at the low country. “Don Michael Fortunato. He’s coming here for a wedding. We think the Don is doing a preemptive strike, taking out someone who’s a threat to him while he’s here for the ceremony. It appears the Don fears a rat.”
