Authors: Kenneth G. Bennett
“I promise.”
The Jetta rolled back onto the highway and into a glorious Northwest summer day.
The two-lane road wound through groves of towering cedar and Douglas fir, and picturesque farms growing everything from lavender to llamas. In the distance: the vast, shimmering, living entity that was the Salish Sea. The gray-green gleam of the water lulled him into an almost hypnotic state.
NINE HUNDRED MILES NORTHWEST
of San Juan Island, in the wilderness of Southeast Alaska, Sheldon Beck peered through the scope of his rifle, tracking a wolf as it loped along a rocky, wild beach.
A black wolf.
The wolf trotted briskly along the high-tide line, nose down, looking for lunch.
Beck’s pulse quickened.
The wolf moved closer, and Beck could see now that it was huge. Obviously a male. An alpha if ever there was one.
The head and pelt will look amazing in the gallery.
He steadied his rifle—a custom-built Holland & Holland Nitro Express Double—and focused on his breathing.
Has to be a clean kill.
He aimed for the beast’s heart.
The wolf ambled closer.
Closer.
Beck settled into an almost Zen-like demeanor. Then, gently, ever so gently, he began to squeeze the trigger.
Breathe. Breathe. Steady.
A satellite phone buzzed, causing him to quiver and pull the trigger a millisecond early. The rifle boomed, and the bullet missed its mark and ricocheted off a barnacle-encrusted rock with a
zing
!
Beck lowered the gun and watched the wolf vanish into the alders. He clenched his jaw, sighed, and resisted the impulse to unsheathe his knife, whip around, and disembowel the moron with the phone. Instead, he turned slowly, and—in a soft voice—asked, “Whose phone was that?”
“Yours, sir,” said Collins, the oldest and most senior member of his entourage. He displayed the suspect phone as evidence.
Beck arched an eyebrow. “Mine only buzzes if it’s urgent.”
“Yes, sir.”
Beck glanced at his men: three rifle-toting ex-Special Forces soldiers, wearing camouflaged hunting gear, sunglasses, and impassive expressions.
“So?” said Beck, squatting close to the group and staring hard at Collins.
“There’s been another incident.”
Beck rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. The sterling-silver engraving and gold florets on the stock caught the morning light like polished mirrors. “Where?” He took the phone from Collins. “When?”
“San Juan Island. This morning. Same profile as the others.”
Beck scrolled through the text message on the phone and forgot about the wolf.
“Look at the name, sir,” said Collins. “At the bottom of the message. The name the guy yelled.”
Beck glanced at him, then scanned down. “Lorna Gwin,” he said softly, amazed. “Same name.”
“Should we head back?”
Beck nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah. Definitely.” He checked his Rolex. “And send Dodd and Drucker to the San Juans. Now. Use the Jet Ranger. I want them there. On the ground.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell Ring to pull out all the stops. I want to know everything about this guy in the San Juans. Everything.”
“THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE
our bike day,” said Joe, as they made their way along a winding two-lane road toward Roche Harbor.
Ella glanced at him. Smiled. Shifted gears. “We’ll bike it another day. Anyhow, we get to see more of the island this way.”
Joe looked at her and felt his mood improve. His mood always improved when he looked at Ella Tollefson. The woman was gorgeous. She was also sweet. Gentle. Funny as hell.
He thought,
Why the heck is she hanging out with me?
And
will she stick around now that I’ve behaved like a total nutcase?
But all he said was, “You’re too good to be true.”
When she glanced at him this time, she thought she saw—could it be?—tears.
“Baby, what is it?” she said, easing the car off the road again, into a gravel pullout. She’d never seen him cry before.
Joe said, “Wait. You’re not, are you?”
Ella brought the Jetta to a full stop, turned the engine off, and gently caressed Joe’s cheek with her fingertips.
“Not what?”
“Too good to be true?” He stared through the windshield, embarrassed. “I mean…you’re really here. Right?”
Confident, strong, slightly cocky Joe Stanton—not-afraid-of-anything Joe Stanton—looked suddenly vulnerable. Like a little boy. It made Ella want to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight.
“I’m definitely really here,” she said tenderly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
They stopped for groceries at a market in Roche Harbor. The checkout clerk was friendly and talkative, but while they were paying, Ella noticed two customers and another clerk staring at Joe from three aisles away, pointing and whispering. Joe noticed, too, but pretended not to.
“What’s that saying?” said Ella. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer? I should go tell them that.”
“Small island,” said Joe. “Word travels fast. And it’s not every day you get to see a raving lunatic up close.”
They headed south, to Lime Kiln Point State Park, found a parking space, and walked the short path to the lighthouse.
A few tourists were out, strolling the interpretive trail and admiring the proud century-old structure. Joe and Ella made their way along the rocky shore.
“I read about this place,” said Ella, as they left the path and scrambled among the truck-sized boulders guarding the lighthouse from the surging waters of Haro Strait. “Lime Kiln was the last lighthouse in the U.S. to get electricity—in the forties. Guess they must’ve used lanterns up ’til then.”
Joe gazed back at the tall octagonal tower. Ella took his hand and led the way to a flat-topped boulder with an unobstructed view of the strait. “Sounds kinda romantic,” she said wistfully, “Out here on this lonely point, keeping the light on for the ships.”
Joe studied the lighthouse as they spread a blanket on the rock. “I could do that job alone,” he said. “But not with you. Never.”
“Why not?” Ella asked, feigning offense. She saw the twinkle in Joe’s eyes. “Don’t you think I’m capable?”
“Oh you’re definitely capable.” He pulled her close and kissed her. The scent of her skin and hair, the feel of her body tight against his made him forget his problems. “And you’re also
way
too distracting. I’d never remember to light the stupid lantern.”
Ella giggled.
“There’d be shipwrecks everywhere. Lynch mobs after me.”
They ate lunch, and the sun climbed higher—warming the rocks and making the water sparkle and shimmer like cut glass. Joe fell back onto the thick wool blanket and closed his eyes. Thirty seconds later he was asleep, breathing rhythmically. Ella studied the bruise on his forehead, thought about all that happened, and wondered if they’d made a mistake by lingering on the island. By not getting home as fast as possible. She thought about waking him and asking him to get back in the car, then thought better of it. He looked peaceful. Relaxed.
She took a paperback from her bag and curled up against him, feeling the warmth and strength of his body.
SHELDON BECK GLANCED
at a grainy video feed of the enemy he was about to kill, an enemy sulking in a tiny cell in the bowels of his 416-foot ship,
Arctic Marauder
. The prisoner’s name was Dalton Ellis and he looked frail and defeated on the small black-and-white screen.
Beck removed his camouflage hunting jacket and polished the barrel and stock of the Holland & Holland with a fresh gun cloth.
He’d paid $190,000 for the custom-made English rifle at auction and it was a magnificent piece.
He hefted the gun, admiring its perfect balance—its seeming weightlessness in his hands—and aimed at the monitor.
Time’s up, Ellis. Today’s the day.
He lowered the weapon slowly.
Ellis would have to wait. First, he needed to know more about the guy in the San Juans.
He exited his private suite and beckoned Collins, who was loitering at a workstation nearby. “War Room,” he said, moving into the corridor. “Do we have a name yet?”
Collins grabbed his tablet and hurried after his boss. “Stanton. Joseph Stanton. Guy’s a priest.”
Beck grunted. “That’s different. Was he in the water?”
“We don’t know yet. Details still coming in.”
“What?” said Beck. The look on Collins’s face worried him.
“It’s your sister.”
Beck stopped walking. “Kate? What about her?”
“She’s on her way here.”
Beck’s jaw tightened. “Since when? Why wasn’t I told?”
“We just found out. Her pilot radioed as they were taking off from Juneau.”
“Juneau! Christ. She’ll be here any minute.”
Collins retreated a step and Beck paced the corridor. The word “bitch” made it to Collins’s ears at least a half a dozen times.
“Why the fuck is she here?”
Collins made no reply. And Beck knew the answer anyway. He fumed a minute more, muttering under his breath.
“Fine,” he said at last. “So, we’ll show her.”
“Sir?”
“She’s coming. Nothing I can do about it. Not now. Showing her what we’ve found is the only way to get her off my back.”
BECK AND COLLINS MADE THEIR WAY
down the gleaming steel-and-glass corridor. Shafts of summer sunlight stabbed through large convex windows, filling the hall with light.
From the outside, Beck’s vessel—with its black dead-rise V hull and futuristic design—looked more like a starship than a boat. Inside,
Marauder
was all masculine lines and angles. A weird hybrid of luxury yacht and military vessel. In fact, it had been designed and built by a yacht maker and subsequently “enhanced,” as Beck liked to say, with numerous modifications. Armor. Weapons systems. An extra helipad. And a slot for a six-person submarine, Beck’s latest toy.
Marauder
was also fast. Its aluminum alloy superstructure let it fly through the water, even in rough seas.
Marauder
was Beck’s home and office and command center. He owned other homes, but he was happiest aboard his ship. Running his divisions with freedom and autonomy. Not chained to a desk or office tower like his father and sister.
For the moment,
Marauder
was anchored in a quiet forested cove off Admiralty Island.
Beck and Collins passed the darkened lounge, where a Steinway grand with a custom Chihuly-glass lid glittered in the gloom. They rounded a corner into
Marauder
’s main hall. Kate Lerner was already there, waiting at the foot of the spiral staircase.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” she asked.
“Heartfelt greetings to you, too,” Beck replied.
He hugged Kate lightly and she tolerated the gesture. Barely. Beck stepped back. Forced a smile. “Always great to see my sister.”
“Cut the bullshit, Sheldon.”
Beck’s smile tightened imperceptibly. No one, aside from his sister and father, called him by his first name. No one dared.
“There’s no bullshit, Kate.”
Kate handed her coat and briefcase to her bodyguard—a troll-like man with a neck as thick as a fire hydrant—smoothed her perfect corporate-lawyer suit, and drew herself up as if preparing to admonish a disobedient mailroom clerk. “Why,” she asked again, “have you not returned our calls? Our e-mails?”
Beck smiled, thought about it. “You look good, Kate. Diet’s definitely working for you.”
“Sheldon—”
“Been working out?”
“Can we cut the crap, please?”
“Just trying to be sociable.”
“Don’t. I don’t have time.”
“Fine,” said Beck. “What’s on your mind?”
Kate stared at him. Laughed. Like his question was idiotic. When she spoke again, her voice was low and controlled, but there was a contemptuous edge to it.
“What’s on my mind? The
contract
is what’s on my mind. The four-hundred-million-dollar contract. The deployment that you begged Father to lead. That’s supposed to start, end of next week.”
Beck shrugged. “And? What about it?”
“Why are you holding here? Stonewalling. Playing with yourself. Whatever the hell you’re doing.”
Beck glanced at Collins and the bodyguard. Both men wore opaque, impassive expressions—like butlers for the Old Rich. But Beck knew what they were thinking. He knew:
Kate wears the pants in the family. Kate pulls the strings. Kate holds the power and has the cozy relationship with the board and their father. Kate has come to
Marauder
to put her irresponsible little brother in his place.
He knew. It mattered not at all that he controlled entire thriving divisions of the family empire, that this was his private ship she’d come barging into. In this context, at this moment, he was just Sheldon Beck, impotent asshole. Black sheep. Third-in-command.
He knew. And inside, he was seething. Dad, at least, criticized him in private. But Kate seemed to enjoy berating him in the open, in front of his men. She’d done it before. She was doing it now.
“First of all,” he said softly, “I’m technically still on vacation.”
“Vacation—”
“I told everyone I’d be taking a few days after the Korean sim. Second, I
have
, in fact, returned your calls and e-mails.”
“With half-answers and bullshit.”
“With what I felt was appropriate.” He gestured toward the lounge, determined to keep his cool. “Lunch? Something to drink, at least, while we talk?”
“Sheldon,” said Kate, coming forward, like a teacher outlining last-ditch disciplinary measures to a problem student. “Let me be clear. This is not a pleasure trip for me. This is not a fun visit.” She gestured at the panorama outside the windows. “Bum Fuck, Alaska, is the last place in the world I want to be right now.”
“So—”
“I’m here,” she said, ticking off points on the fingers of her left hand, “because you’ve ignored our meeting requests.”