Chapel couldn’t help but smile in the dark. “You really are something.”
“Tell me that again the next time you see me. Right now, you’ve got a rendezvous to make.”
Inside the flight electronics of the MQ-9 Reaper, an electronic clock ticked over to a new second and sent a signal to the command module. A new program loaded into the machine’s memory and began to run.
The screen of the Reaper’s stick jockey, back at Creech Air Force Base, went black. The men in the room around the remote pilot lurched forward, hitting keys and asking questions, but there was nothing to be done. All telemetry was lost, all command channels shut down. The Reaper had gone rogue.
A second signal from the command module armed the single Hellfire missile that nestled against the Reaper’s belly. It was ready to fire as soon as its target had been acquired.
A third signal went to the unmanned aircraft’s rudder, turning it from its previous course. It banked to the left, over the streets of Washington, its single camera eye tracking the lights below.
One MP was down by the river, watching for any boats that might try to pull up alongside the yacht and rescue Hollingshead. He didn’t seem to expect any kind of threat to come from the land. Chapel padded up behind him and got him in a sleeper hold and he went down without so much as a squeak of protest.
Another MP was guarding the entrance to the slips, a natural choke point — nobody could get to the yacht without passing him. He faced the darkened marina buildings and he never turned around, so Chapel was at a loss as to how he would sneak up on the man.
In the end he caught a lucky break. He saw the man’s chin droop. Saw his grip on his rifle go slack. The man was falling asleep on his feet. Chapel waited until he was just about to fall over on his own — then made sure he at least didn’t fall off the dock and into the water. He put the MP down in the cool grass and hog-tied him.
Only two left.
They were going to be a major problem, though. The two of them were up on the deck of the yacht, working together. Maybe Chapel could get to one of them without being seen, but the seconds he needed to take the man down would leave him vulnerable to the other MP, who would surely just open fire and end Chapel’s mission in the most definitive way.
From the shadows, Chapel studied the yacht. It was about thirty feet long, with a high main deck and a broad wheelhouse. The name Themis was stenciled on its stern, and it looked like the cleanest and best-maintained vessel in the marina.
The only way on board, as far as Chapel could see, was a gangplank in full view of the two guards. He might be able to climb onto the boat from the water side, but that didn’t seem practical — he would make so much noise in the water that he would be sure to attract their attention.
The one thing he had going for him was that they had no idea what was going on. They kept fiddling with their walkie-talkies, and he could hear them debating what the white noise and the voice saying “all clear” really meant. They were confused and worried, but they didn’t know who was out there or what was coming for them.
In the end Chapel had to use the oldest trick in the book. Divide and conquer.
He ran back to where he’d left the MP by the entrance to the slips. The man was still fast asleep and his ropes were secure. Chapel wasn’t so much interested in the man, though, as he was in his rifle. He picked up the M4 and set its selector to burst fire. Then he fired three shots into the ground, the noise explosive and deafening in the quiet of the deserted marina.
He looped back to the yacht, avoiding the shortest possible route. Much as he’d expected, when he arrived back at the slip, one of the MPs had already come down the gangplank and was hurrying in the direction of the noise, clearly intending to investigate the gunfire.
Chapel let him get out of sight of the yacht before swooping in and taking the man down. Only one left, then. He headed back to the yacht and waited in the shadows until the last MP started fumbling with his radio, clearly looking for an update from his vanished friend.
Chapel wasn’t going to get a better chance. He rushed forward, pounding across the gangplank, a pistol clutched in both of his hands, the barrel pointed right at the MP. “Don’t move!” he shouted. “Down on the ground!”
Maybe the MP could tell that Chapel wasn’t willing to kill him. Maybe he just didn’t like being told what to do. He chose the one action Chapel wasn’t prepared for, the one that ruined everything. He stood his ground. Lifting his M4 to his eye, he started shouting back, almost echoing Chapel word for word.
“Looks like we have a standoff,” Chapel told him as they aimed their weapons at each other.
“Doesn’t look like that at all to me,” the MP said.
“Oh? How’s that?”
“You’ve got a pistol. I’ve got an assault rifle,” the MP pointed out. “That means I have the advantage. You have to aim.”
It was a fair point. Chapel had no doubt he could kill or incapacitate the man with one shot, and at this range he wasn’t likely to miss. But pistol shots didn’t just knock people down or make them incapable of pulling their own triggers. The MP could cut Chapel in half with automatic fire at any time.
“Maybe we can just talk about this,” Chapel pointed out.
“Maybe you can throw that gun in the water,” the MP replied. “Then maybe you can get down on your knees and lock your fingers behind your head, like—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he looked very confused for a second, and then he lowered his weapon. With one hand he reached behind himself and touched his back and when he brought his hand around to his face, it was covered in blood.
In another second he was facedown on the boards of the deck, collapsed in a spreading pool of darkness. The hilt of a big hunting knife stuck up from his back.
Behind him, Chapel could see Wilkes perched on the far rail, a mischievous grin on his face. “Miss me?” he asked.
“Jesus,” Chapel said. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
“Yeah, I did,” Wilkes insisted. “If I just winged him, he would have opened fire. You’d be a goner.”
Chapel didn’t have time to argue. He went to the rail where Wilkes perched and looked over the side, down into the small powerboat Wilkes had brought up along the yacht’s hull. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I cut the engine about a quarter mile out,” Wilkes said. “Paddled the rest of the way. Figured if there were any police boats out here I didn’t really want to meet ’em.”
Chapel could see why. A body was stuffed into the powerboat, its hands bound and its head covered in a black sack. That would be Charlotte Holman. “Just tell me she’s still alive.”
Wilkes slapped Chapel on the back. “It’s your show, buddy. I just follow orders.”
Then he dropped back down into the powerboat and, with just a touch of its engine, brought it around the side of the yacht. Together Chapel and Wilkes lifted Holman out of the smaller vessel and carried her across the gangplank. She didn’t fight them, though Chapel could tell she was awake.
He pulled the hood off her head and helped her to her feet. Wilkes hadn’t bothered to gag her. Most likely he’d threatened to kill her the instant she made the slightest sound.
“I’m sorry about the rough treatment,” Chapel told her. “Really.”
She snarled at him. “Fucking Boy Scout. If you were more like him,” she said, nodding in Wilkes’s direction, “life would be so much easier.”
Chapel shrugged and grabbed the rope that bound her hands. He marched her down a short stairway to the lower deck of the yacht. A companionway ran the length of the vessel, with doors opening on four sides. “Director Hollingshead?” he called out. “Are you here? It’s Jim Chapel.”