Perelman stared at her, his mind working fast. She was right on many levels. Baugh wasn’t the man for this job, and he himself had definitely begun to smell a rat. If he called in Pickett, well, they would put together an assault—by the book. But taking the boat?
“This is crazy,” he said.
A beat, and then Constance suddenly lashed out. With the speed of a striking snake, she unsnapped the Glock from his belt, pulled the weapon out, and shifted it from her left hand to her right as she stepped back. Perelman had never seen a human being move so fast. He was still blinking in disbelief as she aimed the gun, racking the slide. A bullet clattered to the floor of the cockpit.
Constance raised the Glock toward him. For a moment, nobody spoke.
“You just wasted a bullet,” Perelman said.
Constance held the gun steady. “I didn’t think a village constable favoring a pancake holster would walk the streets with a round already chambered.”
There was a long silence, broken by nothing but the rain and the idling engines. Perelman held out his hand for the gun and, after a hesitation, Constance lowered it and gave it back. “Shooting you won’t get me to Crooked River.”
Perelman holstered the gun. “If Commander Baugh and the cavalry can’t save Pendergast, how can we?”
Constance said nothing for a moment, seeming to withdraw into herself. Then she looked at him again. “To paraphrase Sun Tzu: ‘Know yourself and you shall win every battle.’”
Perelman sighed. “Somehow I don’t think Sun Tzu quite applies.”
“We’re wasting time. Either you help me or you don’t. Because if Pendergast dies, so will I—one way or the other. You and I both know this boat is the fastest way to get to Crooked River.”
The silence that followed this was shorter. “Shit,” Perelman said. “All right, take a seat next to the helm and let’s go.”
Constance took a seat. He checked the bilge pumps and glanced into the cabin to make sure it wasn’t leaking water from the previous manhandling, then uncleated the stern line and took a seat at the wheel.
“Hold on tight,” he told her. “Boats don’t have seat belts. The sea is calm right now, just rain, but a storm is coming and we may be in for a hell of a ride before this is over.” And with that he put the starboard motor in reverse, gave it a shot of gas, maneuvered away from the dock with a little port forward, and then—when they were clear—pushed both throttles ahead, accelerating toward the mouth of the channel and the open water beyond.
52
THE CHOPPER THUDDED low over the dark ocean, the glow of the instrument panel providing the only light. Gladstone was sitting on the flight deck, cuffed back to back with Pendergast, bound with additional leg cuffs and zip ties. The numb horror of what had just happened was beginning to wear off, and her analytical mind was starting to wake up again. The brutality of what had been done to Lam terrified and sickened her, but equally frightening was the organization, the numbers, and the quiet professionalism. These were not a bunch of common criminals. With their insignia-stripped camo uniforms, whitewall haircuts, automatic weapons, and terse communications, they felt like military.
There was only one possibility that made sense: somehow, their investigation had cut too close to the bone—and triggered a massive response.
But the apparent leader of this team, the woman who had greeted Pendergast so sarcastically, was something quite different. She, too, had an air of discipline and precision about her, but it was at odds with her aristocratic face, mane of rich mahogany hair, brown eyes, and civilian dress. The others were kitted out in body armor, helmets, night-vision gear, and assault weaponry: all she had was a string of pearls.
Who in God’s name would wear a string of pearls on a mission like this?
Pendergast was uncommunicative even in normal times, but he hadn’t spoken a word since the capture. She couldn’t see his face and she wondered what the hell he was thinking. She tried to steel herself for the worst. It seemed unlikely they were going to get out of this thing alive. These people were deadly serious, they were ruthless, and they seemed to be involved in secret work that—at the very least—included the mutilation of over a hundred people. She was no closer to understanding that brutal fact than ever.
The chopper banked, and she could see they were just reaching land again, as the scattered lights of a coastal town passed by. They headed inland, away from the lights, into a vast, stormy darkness.
53
AS HE PULLED out of the car rental lot at the Tallahassee airport, Special Agent Coldmoon resisted the urge to stomp on the accelerator. He knew where he wanted to go, but he didn’t know how to get there, and he needed to take a moment to map his route and—just as important—organize his thoughts. He stopped in a sandy turnout just beyond the airport and took out his cell phone, firing up Google Maps again and zeroing in on the location of the old sugarcane processing plant. It stood about a quarter mile from the banks of the Crooked River, in the middle of a large, uninhabited area with the crazy name of Tate’s Hell State Forest.
It was a straight shot to the coastal town of Carrabelle, an hour and fifteen minutes away. From there, he’d have to turn north on Highway 67, skirting the edge of Tate’s Hell, and find a way in. But there didn’t appear to be any marked roads into the forest, beyond what looked like a few old tracks, overgrown and probably closed off. Presumably they had led to moonshine stills or something else he’d rather not know about. He could also see the extensive outline of the sugar plant, with what looked like two perimeter fences and a gate. But it was hard to tell where the road passing through the gate originated. He was just going to have to wing it.
With the jeep still idling, he reached back and unzipped his traveling bag. He pulled out the marine “butt pack” in woodland green camo he’d prepared for the trip to Guatemala, his FBI radio, Ka-Bar knife, and a pair of cuffs. Working fast, he yanked off his jacket, checked his Browning, found it clean, and reholstered it. He slipped two additional magazines into the knapsack, along with the knife, cuffs, water bottle, parachute cord, flashlight, binocs, and a rain shell. On second thought, he removed the cuffs—unnecessary weight.
The place was likely to be fenced and gated. Damn, if only he had wire or bolt cutters. He felt his heart racing as he thought about what might be happening to his partner—assuming he was still alive. But he tried to reassure himself by focusing on Pendergast’s resourcefulness. The man had as many lives as a cat: he’d seen it for himself.
He lowered the windows, breathing deeply of the muggy air, trying to clear his head. A storm was coming for sure, but he hoped to make good time before it hit.
If you go in there without me, you’re going to regret it—regret it severely. Constance’s words, spoken with conviction, still rang in his head. Was that a threat? It sure sounded like one. Coldmoon had heard a million threats in his life…but this one, he sensed in his bones, wasn’t idle at all. That outrageous bitch would carry it out—he knew she would.
Those thoughts were for later; right now, he had to focus on one thing: saving his partner. Leaving the radio on the seat next to him, ready to call off any cops who tried to pull him over, he gunned the engine, spinning the wheels in the gravel as he rejoined the road. He picked up speed, accelerating steadily, the wind roaring in the open window. The map said an hour and fifteen to Carrabelle, but he had to do better. The only problem was that the Jeep, designed for off-road travel, wasn’t nearly as fast as he liked. He was able to push it up to about a hundred, but at least the traffic on Route 319 south was light and he could maintain that speed in the fast lane.