“You need to learn more,” Mai said to him. “You need to stay in the craziness. You need… to take risks.”
“Agreed.”
“We’re going nowhere.” Mai indicated the island. “We’ll be around until you’re ready to leave.”
“They will be hunting you, Mai.”
The Japanese agent and the marine turned, smiled and spoke in unison.
“I hope so.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hayden was as pleased as she could be under the circumstances. Recently faxed through, they had received the schedules, movements and itineraries of the previous three victims and now they had what appeared to be a fourth attack, and a survivor.
Lauren Fox appeared in the doorway of the conference room. Hayden saw immediately the woman was in need of more than just a Band-Aid. She offered a hand. “Cops’re busy,” she said, coming around the table. “And don’t like taking orders.”
“Ditto.” The woman said. “Now where the hell am I?”
“We are a…” Hayden experienced a momentary loss of vocabulary. “Different kind of government agency. Has a doctor seen you yet?”
“They sent some guy to my cubicle, who prodded and poked around for a bit. Think he was a doctor.”
“Nothing broken?”
“Nothing physical.” The woman now turned a pair of intelligent eyes onto Hayden. “Look, lady. I’m not stupid. I know my rights and I know when I see a lack of procedure. Now. Where am I?”
At that moment, bless her soul, Alicia Myles walked into the room. “This the hooker?”
Hayden shook her head and walked to the head of the table. “Sit down, Miss Fox.” When the woman hesitated, Hayden repeated her words with more force. “Sit down.”
The woman complied, clearly understanding that even now she walked a fine line with the authorities. Alicia plonked herself down in the chair right next to her, leaving nine other chairs empty.
The woman took a deep breath and then turned to Alicia, meeting her gaze with a mix of conviction, smarts and venom. “Ya got something ya wanna know?”
“Two grand an hour?” Alicia asked. “Really?”
“Ya brought me all the way here — dressed like this — to ask me ’bout my earnings?”
Alicia shuffled her chair back and peered under the table. “Nice legs, but two grand? I’d have to see the rest of you without the mac.”
Hayden felt her control snap. “For God’s sake, Myles. Can it. Look, Miss Fox, I can only apologize for our… lack of attention… as to your attire, but this is an urgent matter.”
“And it’s not like you’re not used to wearing so little,” Alicia added helpfully.
“Jeez. Do you guys wanna hire me or something?”
“Maybe later.” Alicia smiled. “But, for now, we have lots of questions.”
Kinimaka and the rest of the team filed in. Hayden noticed right away that the only person missing was Ben. “Lauren,” she said, grabbing the woman’s attention. “It’s mainly about the man who tried to kill you today. Steve Quinn. Did you know him?”
“Nope. And he wasn’t a regular either before you ask.”
“Ever seen him before?” Kinimaka prodded. “Anywhere. Post Office? Coffee shop? Supermarket?”
Hayden watched closely as Lauren Fox tried to evaluate the situation. The woman wanted to know more, wanted to be put at ease, but Hayden had no intentions of fulfilling either wish. Not yet. She needed answers right now.
“So,” she said quietly, “take your time. Make sure you answer truthfully. I sure don’t want to have to send you back to the cops, Miss Fox.”
The woman’s expression showed she understood. Here was a survivor, hardened by experience and making a tough but shrewd living out of staying alive.
“Let’s start with the obvious.” Dahl spoke for the first time. “The man who tried to kill you committed suicide after falling three stories onto the concrete pavement and breaking most of the bones in his body. Why would he do that?”
“Four stories,” Lauren said softly. “And over here they’re called sidewalks. You English should do your research better. Pity the asshole didn’t break his trigger finger.”
“I’m not English,” Dahl began, then blinked. “Never mind that. Why do you think he tried to kill you?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you guys listening to me? Read my lips. I didn’t know him. I hadn’t seen him before. To my knowledge, I haven’t pissed anyone off lately. Okay?”
“You told the police that he handled himself like he knew what he was doing. What did you mean by that?”
“The cops asked if I noticed anything unusual about the guy. ‘Yeah’, I said. ‘He knew how to fight, knew how to hold a gun, knew how to shoot it.’ Like that.”
“And what makes you the expert?” Hayden asked.
Lauren shrugged. “I’ve seen all kinds. I grew up partly in foster homes and partly on the streets. I know the difference between a bully and a man with skill. You need to learn stuff like that fast to survive.”
Dahl sat back in his chair, clearly impressed with her. Hayden heard his cellphone chirp and saw his eyes wander. The Swede had been spending a lot of time talking to the wife and kids lately — becoming more homesick by the day. It hurt her to think it, but she didn’t see the Swedish warrior sticking with the unit much longer.
Hayden checked her own cell when it began to ring. The caller was Jonathan Gates. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this.”
Outside the room, she answered quickly. “Sir?”
“This woman. What’s she like?”
“Lauren Fox? We’ve only just got going, sir. Off the top of my head, I’d say she’s clever, capable, and knows how to take care of herself. Streetwise, would be the word.”
“Good to know. Well, be sure to keep me up to date.”
Gates ended the call. Hayden frowned at the screen for a second. It was good that Gates wanted to know as much as possible about the only survivor of this weird killing streak. Gates’ wife had been murdered mere months ago. The poor guy still continued to struggle through an ocean of grief and, at times, Hayden wasn’t entirely sure he’d make it.
She walked back into the room in time to hear Dahl ask about the woman’s whereabouts during the last two months. This was it. She quickly crossed to her chair and opened a sheaf of papers.
Somewhere along the line, these four strangers had to have crossed paths.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Matt Drake felt his stomach roll alarmingly as the old warship crested another rolling swell. “This is worse than being cast adrift in a bloody dinghy,” he complained. “With Smyth.”
Romero gave him the stare. “Thought you were tough, SAS man.”
“I used to be,” Drake told him. “But then a diet of daytime TV, rush hour traffic and alcohol turned me soft. Now, I just wing it.”
Romero studied him as if trying to gauge how much of that was actually true, then gave up with a sigh. “You English and your sense of humor. I’ll never understand it.”
“Neither do we.” Drake shifted to relieve a cramp in his leg. Both Romero and he had been sitting in the dark for hours. More though good fortune than skill, they’d located the holding cells where the “passengers” were kept when the ship sailed for the island. The rooms were dingy, dark and strewn with rubbish. Perfect for concealment as long as the voyage didn’t last too long or more “passengers” were picked up. In either case, Drake and Romero were prepared to disembark as soon as the ship docked.