“You can stop now,” he said.
Suarez and Angie had barely noticed him moving, but now they dragged themselves away from each other, scratched and bloody and wearing foolish expressions. Then Angie grinned.
“You set it off?” she asked.
Josh nodded, staring at Suarez. “No point in shooting anyone now, Mr. Suarez. The signal is sent. My people will follow the beacon. They’ll be coming.”
Suarez seemed to deflate. He knelt on the floor, looking somehow much older than he had before, and then slumped back to sit, legs sprawled in front of him, as though in surrender.
Then he looked up at Josh and said, “Thank God.”
54
A helicopter, Rachael Voss thought. The ship that the FBI gave Ed Turcotte’s Counter-Terrorism squad had its own helicopter. Voss wasn’t generally the jealous type, but she couldn’t help envying that, thinking about all the cases she’d worked where it would’ve been handy to have her own helicopter.
Turcotte had caught up with her little cluster of Coast Guard, ICE, and FBI boats forty-five minutes ago, and in the time since then he had managed to talk to the commanders of every vessel except for hers. It had been Voss’s case from the beginning, her command, but Turcotte wanted to send her a message, let her know that she wasn’t at the helm anymore. Counter-Terrorism had taken over. It didn’t matter that nobody had a single shred of evidence that Viscaya’s operations had supported or aided terrorism within or outside the United States. They wanted the bust — wanted to make a big splash on the news about a terrorist cell operating out of Miami, and how Homeland Security was keeping America safe — and they would take it.
Voss might have been able to hold them off longer, but with Josh out of contact for so long, Chauncey and DelRosso couldn’t argue anymore. They’d put it down as her fuckup, her op, and if Special Agent Joshua Hart turned up dead, that would be on her as well.
Rachael’s heart felt cracked in half. Maybe they were all right; maybe she had lost perspective, and Ed Turcotte taking over this case was the only way to salvage anything out of it — arrests, smuggled guns, any tiny victory for the FBI, and maybe, if they were lucky, Josh’s life.
He’s not dead, Voss told herself. Insisted to herself.
But so much time had passed, even she had stopped believing it.
Her cell phone trilled. She glanced down at the screen and saw that it was Turcotte himself calling. Out there on his ship — a loan from the goddamned military, with its shiny black helicopter — he had finally deigned to speak with her, just to tell her she could fuck off and go home now if she wanted, that she was relieved of command.
Pavarotti came up from below, hustling, feet pounding the steps. “Rachael!”
She sighed. How many times did she have to tell him?
Her cell phone kept ringing. She punched TALK, raised it to her ear. “This is Voss.”
As she did, Pavarotti grabbed her arm, spun her around. She would have screamed at him, maybe decked him, but then she saw the smile on his face, the light dancing in his eyes. They’d only had sex the one time, but right then she thought maybe seconds were in order.
“Rachael, it’s Ed Turcotte,” the voice said in her ear. Presumptuous with her first name, the asshole. “Your squad has done all you can. We’re going to take it from here. I’ll want you to stick around in a support capacity. Here’s the plan—”
“Actually, Ed, there’s a new plan,” she said, grinning at Pavarotti. “Special Agent Hart just set off his beacon. We’ve got the tracking system set up, and we’re heading out. Feel free to follow along.”
She gestured to Pavarotti, pointed toward the wheelhouse, and he set off running. He’d get them moving, tracing the beacon.
“Hang on a second, Rachael,” Turcotte said, sounding all pissy. “It isn’t for you to say—”
“You can have the bust, Ed. I couldn’t give a shit. You can say they’re Martian jihadists for all I care. I just want my partner back safe. Now, we’re the ones set up to track the beacon, so unless you’re going to order us to stand down while we’ve got an agent in deep cover signaling us to come get his ass out of danger, not to mention a boatload of suspects in a two-year investigation waiting for you to arrest them, I’d like to get going. Maybe you’ll even get to play with your helicopter.”
Turcotte didn’t reply for a second, and Voss feared he had hung up on her. When he did speak, his voice was low and even.
“By all means, lead the way.”
55
Tori twisted her ankle jumping from the freighter’s deck. The drop couldn’t have been more than ten feet, but she had to leap straight out to reach the makeshift bridge created by the haphazardly placed containers. She landed badly, tipping to the right, and let momentum carry her forward, fresh sparks of fear erupting in her mind. How close was the edge? She spread out her hands, slowed her slide, and came to rest facedown on the warm metal roof of a freshly painted container, chest heaving.
Her right hand hung out over the edge, fifteen feet above the water.
With a strangled cry, she brought her hand in and rolled onto her back. A loud clang sounded as Gabe landed a few feet back, stumbling onto all fours. He stood immediately, grimacing as his knees popped. Dark circles had formed under his eyes and his expression had gone slack.
“Tori!” he snapped.
“I know!”
She flipped over, scrambled to her feet, and started moving. The metal rang with every footfall, echoing inside the container. Gabe kept pace just a few steps behind, his heavier tread thunderous. He was breathing hard, and she imagined she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.
Ahead, Pang and Kevonne had already jumped to the next container. A glance at them made Tori gasp. It had taken more than two hours for Miguel to finish laying the containers down for this rudimentary bridge. Some of the metal boxes were tilted, and others were separated by gaps that might well be too wide for them to jump. But they were out of time now, and it would have to do.
Twilight had come.
On the western horizon, the sun shimmered just above the water. To her right, the sides of the containers above the water were still washed with a warm golden light, but the waves — splashing higher now — had gone dark.
Tori wouldn’t even look to her left. She knew better. On the eastern side of that makeshift metal walkway, the creatures had started to crawl up out of the water, clinging to the sides of the containers in the indigo gloom. Their singing had grown louder.
Up on the deck of the Antoinette, silhouettes shouted down at them to hurry, to run, and she wanted to scream back at them and tell them how totally unhelpful they were. With the spray from the sea, the smooth metal of the container was slippery, and she moved as fast as she could. A wrong step now would slide her right off into the water and she wouldn’t let that happen; she had to stay in control. Looking at the sinking sun terrified her almost as much as the thought of glimpsing the sickly things lurking just out of reach of the daylight to her left, but she could not afford to run.
The first gap was only a few feet, and she and Gabe both cleared it with ease, slipping a little, but then hurrying on. When Tori came to the end of the second container, she paused, hands fluttering up to clutch the sides of her head, glancing around as she tried to figure out how to cross. The next container slanted down, away from them. The gap here must have been four or five feet.
“Just jump!” Gabe said.
Tori glanced down to the left. White, translucent fingers clutched at the edge of the next container, down in the shadows just above the water.