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Prologue
Death Is a Lonely Business.
The Ray Bradbury title pops into my head uninvited. I push it away and try to stay focused. Death is probably coming tonight, either for me or for Luis. Maybe for both of us.
I stare out into the waters off Fort Morgan, waiting for his boat. A waning moon hangs over the Gulf of Mexico, scattering shards of silver light on the uneasy water. Beneath it, a black wall of clouds rises. A storm is coming. It won’t arrive for at least half an hour, but the air is already breathless and thick, even by southern Alabama standards. The weather is a complicating factor, but I’ve accounted for it.
I inhale deeply to calm my nerves, pulling in the mixed scents of sea and land—the wild salt odor of the ocean and the domestic smell of freshly mown grass from the fort’s grounds. Perspiration prickles my forehead and I’m tempted to take off my light jacket—though I can’t, of course. I shove my hands into my pockets.
I hear Luis’s boat before I see it. The veteran smuggler is used to operating without lights. The low cough and chug of his motor comes across the water for several seconds, growing slowly louder before the low silhouette of the boat detaches itself from the shadows around the tip of the peninsula.
I’d expected him to tie up at the little pier a few yards away, which would have put him fully in the moonlight while I stayed partially in the shadows. Instead, he tips his motor up and lets the skiff’s momentum carry it up onto the beach. We’ll both be fully in the light.
The little boat’s bow slides softly onto the sand, and he jumps out. He pulls it up with a sharp tug and turns toward me. He’s not a tall man, but he has thick shoulders and gorilla arms. A large pistol is holstered on his right hip.
He starts walking toward me.
“That’s close enough,” I say when he’s about ten feet away.
He frowns but stops. “Where’s the money?”
“You’ve been fully paid. You won’t get a bonus by blackmailing me.”
He snarls and his hand twitches toward the gun. “I can destroy you!”
“That would be stupid, Luis.” I try to keep my voice calm and reasonable. “Think about it. You’re making more money now than you ever could smuggling drugs or people. Why ruin it by being greedy?”
“You’re greedy!” His hand twitches again, getting a little closer this time. “You give me ten thousand tonight or I tell all those nice rich ladies. I tell the museums. I tell everyone everything! I have the list!”
It’s true, unfortunately. He somehow got a partial client list from a delivery driver. The driver has already been dealt with, but Luis is still very much a problem. My problem. “But it won’t be just ten thousand tonight, will it? You’ll want another ten thousand after you’ve spent the first one. And your friends will ask where all the money came from, and you’ll brag about how you outsmarted the gringos. The other smugglers will hear about it, and they’ll figure it’s safe to blackmail us too. We can’t start down that road. You must see that.”
He stares at me for several seconds. He seems uncertain, but it’s hard to read his face in the dim gray light. Maybe he’s actually considering what I’ve said.
“Give me ten thousand,” he says again, but with less conviction.
“No.”
His face hardens. “Give me ten thousand!”
“No.”
He puts his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Give me—”
“Take the gun out slowly and drop it. Keep your finger away from the trigger.”
His gaze flicks down for a split second. His eyes widen. There’s a reason I wore a jacket on this sultry night—and a reason I’ve had my hands in my pockets during our whole conversation.
He pulls the gun out deliberately, finger off the trigger. But as soon as it’s free of the holster, he dodges sideways and points it at me.
He’s very fast, and my first shot hits his arm rather than center mass. The impact jerks him as he pulls the trigger, and he shoots into the air.
My second shot hits him in the stomach, and he doubles over. I pull the gun out of my tattered pocket and put a bullet into the top of his head. He collapses onto the beach and lies still.
My heart races and my breath heaves in deep gulps, like I just finished a marathon. I blink away the afterimage of the muzzle flashes and turn in a quick circle, scanning for lights or movement. Nothing. The only sounds I hear over my pounding pulse are the surf and a fitful sea breeze.
I grab Luis by the ankles, drag him back to the boat, and shove him in. I pick up his gun and the bullet casings. The only evidence left on the beach is the dark stain where he had lain, but the coming rain will take care of that.
The storm clouds cover the moon as I push the boat into the water and climb in, and the darkness becomes almost complete. I fumble with the unfamiliar motor, and for a tense moment I’m afraid it won’t start. But at last it coughs and comes to life.
