OFF THE GRID

  She saw him looking in the rearview mirror and before he could ask, she said, “They would have only gotten in the way.” Already she looked relieved.

  And suddenly Tully realized that this was more serious than he thought. She was narrowing down her liabilities to just him. The fewer people who knew, the better.

  What the hell was going on?

  If his family were missing out at sea he would be calling in the cavalry, wanting all available personnel helping. Instead, the senator was counting on two FBI agents and one Coast Guard aircrew.

  “You never answered my question,” Tully said. “What exactly do you suspect has happened?”

  “Agent Tully . . . Tully,” she corrected herself even as she lightened her tone. After all, she was stuck with only him. “If I knew what happened to my family I wouldn’t need the FBI, would I?”

  “You obviously have some idea or you’d simply let the Coast Guard handle it.”

  He glanced over, but her face was turned to the window.

  “I fear there’s nothing simple about this.”

  He noticed her hands. While the rest of her body looked calm and under control, the fingers of right hand twisted and turned her wedding ring, tugging it up over her knuckle only to shove it back down and start again.

  Chapter 6

  MAGGIE RIPPED AT THE FLIGHT SUIT’S zipper. Without being told, she knew the man with the rocket launcher on his shoulder was not the only terrorist on board. She needed to disarm herself before they did it for her. Bailey immediately saw what Maggie was doing and moved her body, but she wasn’t just trying to block Maggie from the view of the man on deck. Bailey was also trying to stand in front of the window.

  So someone else was there, watching. Of course, they were.

  They’d needed to stay out of sight until the helicopter left. And Bailey’s hand signals were supposed to accomplish that. No wonder the woman was so determined to get them to back off. The choice presented to her must have been to make the helicopter disappear or they would do it with a rocket. But they weren’t versed in Coast Guard hand signals. They had no idea that while Bailey had told her aircrew to back off and that all was fine, she had also told them there was an emergency and that she was in trouble.

  Maggie caught Bailey’s eyes. They darted toward the boat and the window behind her. Then she blinked once, twice, three times. So there were three of them.

  Maggie glanced over Bailey’s shoulder to the man with the rocket then back at Bailey. She didn’t know how to ask if he was included in the three. Before she could figure it out, Bailey gave a slight nod. Then her eyes darted down to the deck floor at Maggie’s feet.

  It looked like an oversized tackle box attached to the deck with metal brackets. A bungee cord kept it shut. Maggie tucked her hands inside of her flight suit though she had unzipped it to her waist. Her fingers tugged her shoulder holster free but like her hands, she held it hidden inside the suit.

  When the next set of waves crashed up over the deck, the boat tipped and Maggie went down to her knees, pretending to lose her balance. Bailey teetered in front of her, arms outstretched as she grabbed the railing on one side and the wall with the other. She provided the perfect barricade.

  Maggie grabbed at the bungee cord. She pulled up and slid the holster with the revolver into the tackle box in one quick motion, letting it slam shut. There was no relief watching her only control, her only hope of defense, disappear out of sight. Before she stood back up another wave knocked her back to her knees. She look up at Bailey and saw the young woman’s eyes trying to get her attention as she tapped her chest. When Maggie didn’t understand, Bailey pricked at the emblem on her dive suit and pointed with her chin at Maggie then at the tackle box.

  Her FBI badge. Of course. Bailey wanted her to dump it in the box. Maggie’s fingers fished back into her flight suit, found the wallet and shoved it in under the lid.

  The thunderclouds had been roaring overhead with lightning streaks that seemed to crackle. Waves swished and rain pelted the aluminum sides of the boat making it sound like a tin can being used as target practice for an AK47. But the sound that drew Maggie’s attention and sent her pulse into a panic was the helicopter leaving. The sound of the rotor wash lifted. The engine noise reduced to a hum, fading fast. And then it was swallowed up in the reverberation of the storm.

  Their lifeline. Gone.

  Chapter 7

  TULLY TRIED TO PAY attention to the street signs – at least the ones he could make out through the downpour – even though he followed Senator Delanor’s directions. They had gone over two long bridges in blinding rain while the water churned below. Traffic had slowed down to twenty miles per hour. Tully tightfisted the SUV’s steering wheel, fighting against the wind gusts. They were on Scenic Highway now, a long winding two lane that ran parallel to one of the bays.

  “This associate,” Tully said, “we couldn’t just call him?” He had to raise his voice over the accelerated squeaks and lash of the windshield wipers. The rain pelted the vehicle’s roof.

  “I tried. It went directly to voice mail.”

  In the streetlights and headlights Tully could see water rushing over the highway. Red taillights winked up ahead and he pumped the brakes slowly to avoid locking them up. It looked like there were broken branches covering one lane of traffic. Huge live oaks grew on the bluffs, the area between the highway and the water. Branches overhung the road in places.

  “Tell me about this business associate,” Tully said. He felt like he was yelling over the pounding of rain.

  “They used to be partners.”

  “Building boats?”

  “Yes. But Ricardo isn’t a builder. Or a designer. I doubt that he could build a doghouse.”

  She was wringing her hands again. Glanced at her wristwatch and checked her cell phone. Just the reminder of Ricardo’s incompetence – or maybe it was only the debris in the road – seemed to make her restless.

  He could tell she was trying to decide how much to tell him.

  “He helped with the financing.” Another pause. “Building boats is expensive – materials, labor. Sometimes clients pay at different stages of completion. Sometimes they pay upon delivery.”

  There was something about the way she talked about her husband’s business, and not just Ricardo, that made Tully realize she didn’t approve.

  “So Ricardo is rich?” he asked.

  The senator burst out laughing. She had to wipe tears from her eyes and shook her head as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had heard.

  “No,” she finally managed. “Ricardo is not rich. He’s a big talker. He missed his calling. Ricardo should have been a politician.”

  “You don’t sound like you approved of their partnership.”

  “No, I didn’t. They grew up together in the slums of Bogota. Ricardo’s not even family but George is constantly looking after him. Bailing him out. Whenever there’s trouble I know where to look because it usually has something to do Ricardo.”

  It was their turn to use the single lane and Tully eased the SUV around the debris. The branch had taken some electrical lines with it. Water was running across the highway, almost to the chassis of the sedan in front of him. He was grateful he’d insisted on an SUV. Still, it was crazy to be out visiting old partners. He wanted to be back at the air station waiting for word on Maggie and her crew. Maybe they had already found the houseboat. How far out could a boat like that go in weather like this?

  “How much farther is it?” he asked her, not bothering to keep his impatience from his voice.

  “Not far. About another mile and then a left on Creighton. It’s just a few blocks up from there.”

  The bungalow set back from the street. The detached garage was obviously added, almost as large as the house. Up and down the street Tully could see house lights on, families staying inside and taking shelter from the storm. The storm drains couldn’t keep up with the rain that still came down in sheets. Water gushed over the cur
bs, flooding lawns and driveways.

  Tully pulled the SUV as close to the house as possible but there was already a Jeep parked in front of the garage. It would still be a jog to the front door. By the time he got under the small awning he’d be drenched. Senator Delanor Ramos must have been thinking the same thing. She was pulling out an umbrella from her tote bag. When she reached for the door handle he realized she expected to go with him.

  “Wait. Why don’t you stay here? I’ll see if he’s even home.”

  She looked back at the house and seemed to consider this. Electrical lines danced above and tree branches creaked. Tully could see a faint light behind the tightly drawn blinds. But that was it.

  He didn’t wait for a response. He wanted to get this over with. He opened the SUV’s door and leaped out, slamming the door as he took off in a sprint. The water ran ankle deep in places, covering the front lawn. If there was a sidewalk, Tully couldn’t see it.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and in the flashes of lightning he thought he saw someone standing in the trees alongside the house. It was enough for him to grab inside his windbreaker for his Glock. But when he finally made it under the front door’s awning he couldn’t see anyone.

  Was the wind and rain playing tricks on his eyesight? He wiped a hand over his face and his head swiveled around, trying to take in the yard and street and the narrow passage between the house and garage.

  But there was no one. No pedestrians, no cars. Not even further up the street.

  Tully knocked on the door just as the thunder clashed. He waited and knocked again, harder. He tried the doorknob and to his surprise it turned. He eased the door open with one hand and gripped his weapon in the other.

  “Hello? Mr. Ricardo?”

  He noticed the flies first. Swarms of them in the faint light of table lamp. Then he noticed the smell.

  Tully slowly entered. His eyes darted everywhere as he took small steps, his weapon drawn and leading. He didn’t need to go far when he saw the living room’s back wall. Warm sunshine yellow sprayed and splattered with blood.

  “Oh my God.”

  He heard the senator behind him in the doorway. Tully threw out his left hand.

  “Stay back,” he warned as continued farther inside. Right around the wide archway door he found the body slumped against the refrigerator. The man was in his underwear. His right kneecap was blown away as were several of his fingers. But the deathblow was a single shot to the forehead.

  It looked like Ricardo hadn’t been able to talk his way out of this one.

  Chapter 8

  THE MAN WITH THE BIG RPG was named Diego. The one on the other side of the window with the AK47 was Felipe. Not that they formally introduced themselves to Maggie and Liz. They spoke Spanish to each other but surprisingly good English to their hostages. The fact that they were comfortable using each other’s name in front of them, kicked Maggie’s heartbeat up a notch. They didn’t mind Maggie and Liz knowing because they didn’t expect their two intruders to tell anyone . . . ever.

  Now that the helicopter was gone the two men had forced Maggie and Liz inside the boat. Liz’s dive suit left little room for concealing weapons. Immediately the smaller of the two, Felipe, unzipped Maggie’s flight suit and raced his hands over her body. She fought her basic instinct to punch away. Thankfully he was in a hurry so his fingers poked and prodded without little attempt at being salacious.

  It was a relief of sorts just to get out of the storm. Her hair was dripping, her adrenaline still racing. Her nerves left raw from spinning on the cable ride down. She made herself take deep breaths to steady herself, but the air inside smelled stale. Stale with a metallic tang and the hint of cordite. They had obviously interrupted something.

  The dark paneled walls muffled the thunder and rain to a battering but there was nothing to shut off the sway. The boat was large enough that when the waves pushed and shoved, the boat didn’t jerk. It rolled, tipping and tilting one way until it threatened to send everything and everyone sliding. Then slowly it crested over a swell, heaved a sigh and began tipping in the other direction.

  Diego had exchanged his RPG for an automatic handgun. Maggie felt it in the small of her back as he prodded her forward, at times almost pushing her into Liz. Felipe led them through the narrow hallway. Polished cherry wood rose from floor to ceiling broken up only by the living room’s bookcases and bar, and the kitchen’s stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. No cost had been spared. And although glassware rattled and wine bottles clinked against each other, everything appeared to be staying in place despite the motion.

  As they passed closed doors Maggie tried to listen for sounds of life. They were told there were six on board including the senator’s teenaged daughter, her eight year old son and her husband. If this was an abduction, they had to be here somewhere. Hopefully unharmed.

  Perhaps Felipe read her mind. At the next door he stopped. He grinned back at Diego and said something Maggie didn’t understand. Their Spanish was different somehow. Not what she was used to.

  Diego laughed and Felipe pushed the door open, making sure it swung wide enough for them to see inside. He gestured for Liz to take a look but he was showing off, not asking for them to go into the room. Maggie saw Liz’s shoulders drop but she managed to mask her emotions.

  Then it was time for Maggie’s sneak peek. And Felipe was anxious, the grin never leaving his face. Inside the laundry room three bodies were sprawled out on top of each other, purposely stacked to accommodate the small space. At the top of the heap, a woman laid with her back arched, flopped over the other two. Her head and shoulders faced the doorway only she stared wide eyed at them from upside down. The bullet hole in her forehead still oozed.

  So here was the crew. And Maggie understood clearly what Felipe was telling her and Liz. He wasn’t just showing off their handiwork. He was telling Maggie and Liz that they would soon be joining the pile.

  Chapter 9

  TULLY HAD INSTRUCTED Senator Delanor to go back and stay in the SUV. To his surprise, she had obeyed without argument or discussion. Despite how tough the woman was, he knew the scene inside Ricardo’s house was not something she had ever experienced before. And although she had been withholding information and dealing it out piecemeal to Tully since the minute they met, he also knew, that she had not expected or even suspected this.

  The most frustrating part for Tully? Not fifteen minutes after finding Ricardo, the senator’s political instinct already started kicking into gear. As soon as Tully jumped back into the SUV she was insisting they leave.

  “A patrol unit is on the way,” Tully explained.

  “I can’t be here when they arrive.”

  He looked over at her but she was staring ahead through the blurred windshield. The streetlights cast her face in shadow.

  “Are you suggesting I leave the scene?”

  “You’ve reported it, correct? It’s not like we can tell them anything.”

  Which wasn’t entirely true. He knew there was plenty the senator could tell the local law enforcement about Ricardo that they might never know.

  “I’ve already called Raymond.” And she said this as though she was pulling rank on him. “He understands the situation. He told me he’d take care of things.”

  Tully saw that she had her cell phone clutched tightly in her hand. The faceplate was still lit. For a woman who was careful and deliberate about her every move and concerned about her actions recorded and accounted for, he knew that her call to the FBI assistant director had been an added risk.

  “Where do you suggest we go from here?”

  “Back to the beach.”

  “Another business associate?”

  “No,” she said, but she winced as though his sarcasm had struck a nerve. “A friend.”

  It took them forever to backtrack. More branches were down. The water rushed across streets and in places so high that it looked as if it swallowed the tires of small sedans. Many were stranded along the si
des. But it didn’t seem to stop people from venturing out. There was still a remarkable amount of traffic.

  Once they crossed the bridge and were back on the beach, the senator pointed to a marina on the gulf side.

  “I’m hoping Howard will have something more to tell us.”

  “Howard is the friend?”

  She nodded.

  “Yours or your husband’s?”

  “Both. But he knows George. He’s known him for a very long time.”

  “Like Ricardo?”

  “No, not like Ricardo. Not at all like Ricardo.” She shook her head as if she was trying to forget the image. “Howard is a friend. And we keep our houseboat here.”

  “So Howard may have seen them leave?”

  “Howard would never let George take a boat out in weather like this, especially with the kids.”

  “Would he have stopped George?”

  She seemed to consider this for a beat too long then said, “I doubt it. When George puts his mind to something there usually is no further discussion.”

  Tully pulled up as close as he could to the shop. The rain continued, drumming down and interspersed with wind gusts that sent the rain horizontal in violent blasts. Thunder shook the vehicle. Lightning streaked through the sky tinting the world a neon blue and crackling like electrical sparks.

  The two-story shop had a marlin painted on the side and orange and blue letters that read: Howard Johnson’s Deep-Sea Fishing. Beside it was Bobbye’s Oyster Bar. Both looked closed though there was a faint light on in the shop.

  Bistro tables were shoved against the bar’s south wall. Chairs were turned over and stacked securely on top of the tables then chained down. Still, the wind rattled the cast iron. Across the boardwalk boats of all sizes rocked in their slips and lurched against their tie-down lines.

  Though she still had the umbrella in her hand Senator Delanor made no attempt to open it. They were both soaking wet. Still, she carried it as she ran for cover under the shop’s awning. A graceful run, almost a prance – Ginger Rogers in three-inch heels. Tully followed, his size thirteen’s finding puddles already deep enough to swallow his loafers. Gwen would kill him. She had bought him the Italian leather shoes for one of their anniversaries. How awful was it that he couldn’t remember which anniversary? And then, even through the crashes of thunder, without his mind missing a beat, he immediately thought – how awful was it that your significant other bought you shoes for an anniversary? It was a crazy thing to think about on a night like this one. But it was a crazy night.