“Not Belgium.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Trieste, Italy.”
Joe glanced at Libby, who gave him an indulgent shrug. McBride said, “I’ll pack a bag.”
Tanner came back to consciousness, his brain slowly piecing together the sounds and smells and sensations around him. Bits of memory flashed across a screen in his mind: boarding the freighter … Litzman coming aboard … a crate … hiding in his alcove … the glare of a flashlight in his eyes … a rifle butt rushing out of the darkness toward his face.
He could hear the lapping of the waves against the hull, could feel the deck rocking beneath him. His forehead throbbed and his eyelids felt caked in … what? Blood, he decided; his own blood. His wrists were bound by rope.
“Er ist wach,” he heard. He’s awake.
Briggs felt the tip of a boot nudge his shoulder, followed a moment later by a sharp kick to his ribs. He groaned and forced open his eyes.
Standing above him in a semicircle were six men.
“Wer Sie sind?” Litzman said. Who are you?
Tanner squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. No German, Briggs. Don’t give them anything. “What?” he rasped. “I don’t understand.”
“Wer Sie sind?”
Tanner shook his head. “I don’t … Nein... nein Deutsch.”
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
There wasn’t much he could say. At least one of these men was from the group at the Black Boar, so while Litzman probably didn’t know who Briggs was, it would be obvious — at least superficially — why he was here. Briggs decided to gamble. There was little chance his story would hold water, but at the very least he could draw suspicion away from Susanna.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Tanner replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Bakken — Sam Bakken”
Litzman glanced at Cast — Tanner’s name for the one from the Black Boar — who shrugged. “Why are you looking for me?”
“I want to hire you—we want to hire you.”
“Who’s we?”
“We’re a group in Oregon. We heard you did a job for the ETA … drugs. We want you to do the same thing for us.”
Litzman grinned, but there was none of it in his eyes. They were dead, emotionless. “What kind of group?”
“A militia.”
“And you want drugs so you can sell them for guns?”
“That’s right.”
Litzman knelt at Tanner’s feet and studied his face. “Stand up,” he said, then extended his hand. Tanner took it. Litzman jerked him to his feet as though he were a rag doll and pushed him backward onto a nearby stool.
Briggs looked around. He was on the Sorgia’s bridge. Gray moonlight streamed through the windows. In the far corner, above a chart table, glowed a red lamp. Three men — members of the freighter’s crew judging by their clothes — stood near the bridge wing hatch watched nervously. Susanna stood beside the helm console. Her face was neutral, but Briggs could see the glimmer of fear in her eyes.
He forced himself to look away. Not a word, Susanna. Regardless of what happened here, if he could keep her alive, Bear would find her.
Using his index finger Litzman reached out and tipped Tanner’s head to the side, studying the cut on his cheekbone. He turned to Cast and said, “Ist dies das eine?” Is this the one?
Cast nodded. “Ja.” He held up his hand for Tanner to see. “I don’t forget.”
“So, Mr. Bakken,” Litzman said, “you are with a militia group who wants to hire me.”
“That’s right.”
“And you thought the best way to meet me was by stowing away aboard my ship.”
Tanner shrugged, didn’t answer.
Litzman said, “Yes, no?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Too bad for you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Even if I believed you — which I don’t — you’ve picked the wrong time and wrong place.” Litzman turned to Cast. “Gunter, take him on deck, kill him, toss him overboard.”
They dragged him down the udder to the afterdeck. Litzman and Susanna trailed behind. Her eyes, desperate and brimming with tears, were fixed on Tanner’s. His heart pounded in his chest; he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. They’re going to kill you, Briggs. How long to live? He’d been in this position before, but no matter how many times he’d lived it or imagined it, the reality of it was overwhelming. Shot dead and rolled overboard like garbage. Nothing magnificent or spectacular or dignified. Just dead. He felt a ball of nausea surge into his throat He clenched his jaw and swallowed it. She’ll be okay, he told himself. Bear will catch up with her, get her away from Litzman, and take her home to Gill.
When they reached the fantail they shoved him belly-first to the deck. A booted foot pressed his face against the steel. Footsteps scuffed as the others backed away. In his peripheral vision he could see their boots, a circle of faceless witnesses.
It would’ve been better to die among friends … family, Briggs thought idly. Abruptly he felt a wave of calm wash over him. It’s okay … okay. It would happen fast.
Above him came the click-clack of a gun’s slide being drawn back. He rotated his eye upward and saw the barrel descending toward his temple. He took a deep breath, let it out. He closed his eyes.
“Wait!” Susanna shouted.
Tanner opened his eyes. The barrel hovered over his temple.
No, don’t, Susanna, he thought. Let it go. Goddammit, don’t—
“Karl, stop him!” Susanna barked. Now her voice had changed: sharp, commanding.
Back into character, the twisted and grim girlfriend.
“Why?” Litzman said.
“You promised me. You said I could do it someday, that you’d let me. This is the perfect chance.”
“No.”
“We’re out in the middle of nowhere; nobody knows he’s here. It’s perfect. He disappears — the end. You promised me, Karl. Let me do it.”
There were five seconds of silence, then he said, “Gunter, let him up. Give her the gun.”
“Nein! He’s mine! Look at what he did to my arm—”
“I said, let him up!”
“Scheisse!”
Gunter’s boot lifted from Tanner’s neck. Briggs rolled onto his back and saw Gunter handing the gun to Susanna. She turned it over in her hands, staring at it as though hypnotized. “It’s heavy,” she said.
Tanner watched her. Her face, her voice, the way she carried herself — all of it was distinctly not Susanna. To save him she’d let herself slip back into the nightmare.
Litzman said to her, “The safety is by your thumb. Flip it so the red dot shows and you’re ready to shoot.”
“How? Where do I …”
“Put him on his knees. Aim for the back of the head. Careful not to get too close.”
“Why?”
“It won’t be neat, Susanna. This isn’t like one of your Hollywood movies. There will be blood.”
She glanced at him. “Really? His brains and blood and stuff?”
“If you’re having second thoughts—”
“No, no, I want to.” She hefted the gun in her hand, then pointed it at the horizon and squinted down the barrel to the sight. She lowered the gun and asked Litzman, “Shouldn’t I do it at the rail? It’ll be easier to throw him over afterward, right?”