Chapter 38

The boom and pop of the weapon’s fire sounded again.

The boom was the initial shot followed by the pop of the bullet breaking the sound barrier as it whizzed by Dagan’s head and bit into the pebbled beach beyond. For an ordinary man, that double report would cause chaos and terror. For him, it generated white-hot anger and stone-cold determination.

Thanks to that second muzzle flash, he knew the shooter’s location. Thirty feet away, where the pilings ended and the solid base of the pier’s retaining wall jutted up against the beach.

Chancing a quick glance at the surf, he was relieved to see that Chelsea and the dinghy were well hidden behind one of the big pilings. For the first time in her life, the stubborn, confounding, delightful woman had done what he had asked her to do.

Good. Trained to be a fully operational army of one, the last thing he needed was her “help.” Plus, he could keep his mind on the task at hand if he didn’t have to worry about her.

Adrenaline was fuel for the fire in his veins as he scrambled up the beach, darting from piling to piling. He bent briefly to snatch the only weapon available to him since they had left their sidearms and tactical knives back at Rusty’s. Even if they were flying out of a private jet terminal, since it was an international flight, they would still have to clear customs once they reached the states. There was no way they would be able to do that with semi-autos, tranq guns, and pig stickers in hand.

When he reached the back of the pier where a huge brick wall connected the road above to the harbor arm, he bolted out from under the pier on the opposite side of the shooter. Compared to the darkness beneath the harbor arm, the starlight above and the lights of the town behind cast the beach in a twilight glow.

His heartbeat was metronome steady, and his lungs drew deep, even breaths as he jumped to grab the top of the retaining wall on the side of the pier. Hauling himself up took some effort, especially with the weight of the pack on his back. His boots scrabbled for purchase on the rough face of the wall, but with a mighty heave, shoulder muscles burning, he pulled himself over the top.

Halfway there.

He trotted the few feet to the railing running the length of the pier. The retaining wall on which he stood was still a good five feet below the pier’s walkway, so he had to grip the railing’s bottom rung and once again pull his full weight up and over. Once he’d done that, he crouched low and scanned the length of the harbor arm. Ears cocked for any sound. Eyes narrowed and slightly unfocused. It was a trick to catch minute movement.

A black shadow flitted farther down the way, near the middle of the pier. But it was just a crow pecking at what were likely the remains of a dead fish or a pile of bait left behind by a fisherman.

With stealth honed over many years and during too many assignments to count, Dagan ran on silent feet across the walkway. Stopping at the opposite railing, he noted the subtle smell of spent cordite that tinged the night air and turkey-peeked over the edge.

That’s Roper fuckin’ Morrison down there! Or Spider. Or Shit for Brains. Or the Seventh Horseman of the Douchepocalypse. Or any other colorful moniker that might apply to the evil old bastard.

Morrison appeared to be alone, which Dagan thought was highly improbable. A man like Spider wouldn’t do his own dirty work, much less do it by himself.

Where was Morrison’s backup? Dagan scanned the pier again, then turned his attention to the beach. Look. Listen. Unfocus and look again.

Nothing.

He didn’t get that lifted-hair-on-the-back-of-his-neck, prickly-palms feeling either. The one that usually happened anytime he found himself in the middle of someone’s crosshairs.

The tinny echo of a voice came from below. It sounded like someone was saying, “Hop smooting,” but that didn’t make any sense. Dagan strained harder to hear when the voice came again, this time with a long string of hissed syllables.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Morrison’s backup was communicating through an open telephone line. Not exactly high tech or clandestine, but it could get the job done in a pinch.

He saw Morrison lift his hand, and the small revolver glinted malevolently in the starlight. Since there was only one thing Morrison could be aiming at, Dagan made his move.

One graceful leap had him over the railing. He scampered quietly over the top of the retaining wall and didn’t hesitate to launch himself off it once he was directly atop his target. The cool air teased him, kissing his cheeks and tousling his hair on the way down. The smell of sea and surf was overwhelming. And the white glow of the lighthouse at the end of the harbor arm seemed to shine with sinister glee.

He landed beside Morrison with a mighty thud, his knees screaming with the impact. Karate-chop style, he brought his arm down on Morrison’s outstretched hands, and the little revolver hit the beach and skittered toward the waves lapping under the pier. As for Morrison? Well, the blow was enough to knock the evil old man to his knees where he howled in alarm and fury.

Dagan made a grab for him, getting his arms around the bastard in a bear hug that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with his mad desire to squeeze the life right out of the fucker. Morrison had shot at Chelsea. As far as Dagan was concerned, that was reason enough to put him six feet under.

Morrison surged to his feet, biting and hissing and scratching and kicking. Dagan had to give it to the scrawny old fart. He was strong for his age.

And slippery as a fuckin’ eel!

Morrison managed to get an arm free and…wham! He elbowed Dagan square in the jaw. Dagan’s teeth clacked together. Stars flashed in his field of vision. The blow loosened his grip, and Morrison was able to scramble away.

Sonofa—!

The old man made it three feet before Dagan pounced. Simultaneously reaching into his pocket for his weapon and grabbing the ridiculous knot of hair at the back of Morrison’s head, he yanked the old man against him. Without an ounce of care, he shoved the sharp tines of the fork he had grabbed from the beach against Morrison’s wrinkled neck.

“Don’t move, motherfucker,” he hissed.

“Fuck you, you bloody fuck!” Morrison yelled, his voice traveling over the beach and echoing across the water.

“Now I ask you, is that any way to talk to the man who holds your life in his hands? Where’s your backup?”

With his front against Morrison’s back, Dagan could feel every ragged breath the man took. Morrison was trying to act brave, but it was obvious he was scared shitless.

“You should be afraid,” Dagan assured him. “The missions I’ve run? The men I’ve killed? It’s like a drug, an analgesic that enters the bloodstream and numbs a man to the worst of life’s horrors.” Was he laying it on a little thick? Maybe. But there was also truth in every one of his words. “I could dispatch you to the next world without an ounce of regret. The only thing holding me back right now is that I want to know where your backup is.”

Particularly if that backup had a bead on Chelsea.

The thought was enough to make Dagan sick to his stomach. He regretted that hasty bowl of Frosted Flakes…er…whatever they were called on this side of the pond.

Straining his ears, he listened for her. But the crashing surf and Morrison’s wheezy breaths made it impossible to hear anything else.

“If I tell you, you’ll just kill me,” Morrison snapped.

“Maybe. But I can promise it’ll be quick and painless. On the other hand, if you don’t tell me, I’ll stab this fork into your carotid. Believe me, it will hurt like hell while you slowly bleed out. Plus, you know, the posthumous humiliation of the mighty Spider having been taken out by silverware.”

Morrison, who had continued to put up a weak struggle, stilled against Dagan. Then the old man did the strangest thing. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You think I’m Spider? That’s rich!”

Dagan suddenly had that lifted-hair-on-the-back-of-his-neck, prickly-palms feeling. He dragged Morrison toward the pier until the side of the thing was at his back, Morrison acting as a human shield at his front.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, mate,” Morrison said. “I’m just the weather vane. I don’t make the wind blow.”

“I don’t have the time to translate fuckwit into English. Speak plainly.”

“You want plain? I’ll give you plain. You have the wrong man. I’m not Spider.”

Now it was Dagan’s turn to go stock-still. Morrison wasn’t Spider?

For a moment, he considered that the old man was lying. If Morrison was Spider, it wasn’t like he’d go around admitting it, right? Then again, Dagan had always recognized the truth when he heard it. And the truth rang loud as a bell in Morrison’s words.

“Then who is Spider?” he demanded.

“Is he the one you’re truly after?” Morrison panted.

“Yes.”

“Tell me where you’ve hidden the thumb drive you used to plant the virus inside my systems, and I’ll tell you the real identity of the man you seek.”

As far as deals went, it wasn’t too bad.

“The thumb drive isn’t with me,” Dagan told Morrison. He could have lied or prevaricated, but in situations such as this, he’d learned the truth was always the better bet. “But it’s safe. And I could have it here in twenty minutes with one phone call. I’ll give it to you, and you can stop the hack job into your systems, but you have to tell me who Spider is.”

“Even if you know his name”—Morrison shook his head and that ridiculous man bun brushed Dagan’s cheek, making his jaw clench—“you’ll never catch him. He’s too bloody smart. Too sly. He hides himself behind powerful people. Hides his businesses behind shell company after shell company. And if he knows you’re coming after him?” Morrison laughed again and the sound was uncanny, sending a chill up Dagan’s spine. “You’re as good as dead.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Oh yes?” There was a hitch in Morrison’s voice. “But I don’t think I will. You see, if I tell you who Spider is, I’m as good as dead too.”

Red tinged Dagan’s eyesight. “You lying piece of shit. We had a deal!”

Morrison tilted his head, bringing his lips close to Dagan’s ear. When the old man’s hot breath brushed Dagan’s cheek, he grimaced. “And I’ll keep it too.” Morrison whispered so quietly that Dagan had to strain to hear him. “But first, shut off the mobile in my pocket.”

Dagan thought perhaps it was all a giant ruse to get him to loosen his hold. Then Morrison continued, “And you have to promise me protection. You’re American, right? Working for the CIA?” Close enough. “I want in the witness protection program. If I give Spider up, I must be protected.”

That Morrison was willing to give up his fortune to go into hiding spoke volumes about what it must be like to be stuck under Spider’s thumb.

Instead of agreeing—no need to chance Morrison’s backup hearing—Dagan simply nodded. Then, still keeping the fork against Morrison’s neck, he reached into the man’s jacket pocket and pulled out the device. It was warm from having been on for so long, and he was only too happy to turn it off. Once he did, a sense of relief washed through him, knowing they were no longer being overheard.

“Now.” He was careful to keep his voice low. “Who is—”

That’s as far as he got before Morrison’s head flew back and hot, wet blood splattered across Dagan’s face. A single report sounded a split second later.