“Jeffery, alert the Pentagon,” she said. “Force that plane to land at a base we control.”

  Declan glanced at his watch. “They touched down five hours ago, and they’ll have the full cooperation of my staff in—” He stopped himself from naming which city. “And as for stealing my company, I’m about to show you what real power is.” He knew who held authority in this country, and it wasn’t this bitch. Real power was reserved for the exclusive club of money people, billionaires who pulled the strings to make her dance. He was not only a platinum-card member, he had cozy relations with the others. Bureaucrats like her came into office and went out again at this club’s whim. The money people would be in authority long after the next electorate replaced these transient officeholders. “A few well-placed calls and you’ll be choking on my shit.”

  Since the bombings in Israel, his most demanding question came from a gut level: Whom can I trust? And he found only one answer: People who have nothing to gain.

  A band of pain encircled his chest. The pressure became severe. The room wavered like a mirage in the desert, whirling around him. He felt a sensation of falling, and he saw the spiked, Jimmy Choo heels under the president’s desk rushing to him.

  Wolfe’s voice said, “I’ll alert the medical team.”

  “Wait,” Harrington said, as she bent over Declan and cradled his head so he was looking up into her eyes. “Declan, listen carefully. You’re having a heart attack. We have medical staff aboard. If you tell me where Kenji is hiding, I’ll send for the doctors.”

  Declan tried to shoot her another “fuck you” with his stare, but he was in too much pain. Then the blessed rise of unconsciousness eased his agony.

  Part Two: Kindred Spirits

  Your most precious desire is on the far side of your deepest fear.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  SAILING A westerly wind, Matt Reece and Kenji lay motionless. They shared no words, for they had no thoughts. They paid no attention to the horizon unless it held clouds that promised rain, for their drinking water was used up. Most of the time, however, the sky was blue and shimmering with infernal heat.

  For the last two weeks, they ate only what they caught and drank whatever fell from the sky. They had bagged three sharks, the largest being six feet long, colored a grayish brown with white-tipped fins. Each one they drew alongside and clubbed its head to kill it before dragging it into the boat by the tail. Even with a sharp knife, sharkskin was as easy to cut as a coat of mail. The flesh was tough and smelled faintly like ammonia. The livers were the easiest to eat.

  Each fish had been caught at sunset. So they feasted through those nights, drying whatever was left the next morning.

  Matt Reece had withered down to little more than burned skin stretched over bones. His lips became hard and cracked. His shrunken muscles ached.

  Thirst had a curious effect on him. He withdrew into a dead-like state, drifting in a febrile fog. He felt no fear, no enthusiasm, no joy, no sadness, no concerns about death, and no hopes of rescue. Time became irrelevant. The life within his flesh retreated further into his core, leaving the extremities, until he no longer felt the heat or the wind on his skin, heard nothing but the pulsing deep in his chest.

  From what seemed far away, he heard a measured tap, tap, tap. Death knocking on the door? He ignored it. Let him wait. But it grew in tempo and volume. It became annoying, like someone flicking the end of a towel in his face. It ripened into a hissing noise, a swarm of furious snakes. He grew angry, so much so that he opened his eyes.

  Rain, pure and cool. The scent of it reached into his chest and pulled him all the way to full consciousness. The Valhalla became engulfed in a squall. Fat, glistening drops drummed on the ship and the sea around them. Kenji was unfolding the tarpaulin sail they used as a rain catcher. If Matt Reece could help him, they were saved, or at least they could prolong the agony for another week or two. His resolve grew strong, and he dragged himself to his feet. He clutched a corner of canvas and stretched it out, he on one side of the cockpit, Kenji on the other, channeling rainwater into a five-gallon plastic bucket.

  They both leaned out over the sea, stretching the tarpaulin wide to gather the most water possible. All he had to do was lean back inside and release his grip, and Kenji would tumble overboard. The ship was moving fast enough that he would be left behind. Matt Reece had suffered so much. You can go only so long without food and water and still maintain your sanity. Revenge lay in his grasp, but as sweet as that idea seemed, he would be left alone to suffer his own death in the weeks to come. Once again, being alone seemed more fearful than the satisfaction of retribution. Of course, he could let go and fall backward himself so they both toppled into the sea. A quick end for them both, and they could cling to each other as death pulled them under.

  And so this moment blossomed until he was more intent on revenge than survival. They held each other’s eyes, and he knew Kenji realized his intentions. Kenji’s superior strength now seemed like weakness because Matt Reece became fearless. They faced off, wide-eyed and defiant, both equal for the first time.

  “Hasta la vista, padre.” His words were raspy. Yet, using his voice for the first time in weeks flipped a switch in his head, and he held fast. That moment of insanity lapsed.

  Rain raged against him. He tilted his head back, gathering a mouthful of water. The beat beat beat of raindrops smacked his face as he swallowed and opened wide for more. Freshness lifted his heart, and he swallowed again.

  They leaned in long enough for Kenji to replace the full bucket with an empty, and they filled that one too. By the time they topped a third bucket, the storm had swept by.

  He fell beside a bucket and submerged his face. He drank, slowly, pulling his face out only long enough to breathe. He knew that even though the weeks ahead might prove agonizing, life was precious, to be savored even while crawling through hell.

  When he staggered to his feet again, he knew he needed to help Kenji pour the rainwater into the freshwater tank and help fold up the tarpaulin. But something caught his eye, near the horizon. He assumed it was another storm, but he saw a line of green against a storm-blown Pacific. The Valhalla was driving right for it.

  As they sailed closer, he saw a low-lying peninsula backed by tremendous cliffs rising from the sea, and a mountain behind rising thousands of feet. After weeks of nothing but flat blue, this sight was shocking.

  He lifted an arm and pointed, making a grunting sound.

  Kenji spoke his first words since the calm, “Molokai.”

  It took Matt Reece time to process the word. Once he did, he didn’t know how to feel about it. Could they have escaped death? He peeked into the future and found he had a life with hope once again. It seemed strange, yet it lifted him up, and he felt himself floating.

  The island grew large with many shades of green interspersed with black cliffs that looked like ancient battlements and a mountain rising up several thousand feet. It looked primitive and sinister, but the organic scent of vegetation became a perfume to get drunk on.

  He didn’t know much about the island. He’d read about the leper colony at Kalaupapa on the northern peninsula, and the mountain was a national preserve. There had once been a massive pineapple farm that had turned into a cattle ranch, and then Monsanto bought up the island to produce seeds for GMO plants. Few tourists traveled there, and the locals liked it that way. He assumed Monsanto wanted that exclusivity because they were afraid to let the public know what the hell they were doing.

  When he no longer needed binoculars, he saw four boats speeding toward them, each carrying armed men and had a heavy-caliber machine gun mounted near the bow.

  He raised the binoculars again. The men in the gunboats all wore the same brown uniform with an insignia at their shoulders.

  The boats formed a barricade across Valhalla’s path. Kenji lowered the sails, and they became dead in the water. A boat approached with all guns trained on them.

  “You’ve entered a restricted area,” a man said using a handheld hailer. Officer bars were pinned on his collar. The amplifier carried his voice with harsh mechanical tones. “Turn back or we will open fire.”

  Kenji waved his arms. “My name is Yukio Toranaga. I’m a guest of Mr. Ogden Moloch. He’s expecting me.”

  That name jarred Matt Reece’s memory. Moloch was a mega billionaire who owned several leading corporations across the globe, a man who had his fingers in everything from GMO foods to hydraulic fracking to military weapons manufacturing. He was public enemy number one with organizations like Sierra Club, National Wildlife Federation, Greenpeace, and Earth First.

  The officer said, “Nice try, Mr. Toranaga, but we have instructions to repel all vessels. Orders is orders. You have two minutes to raise your sails and turn about.”

  Kenji stood still. “We have no engine, no electronics, no food, little water, and an engraved invitation from Ogden Moloch. I’m not leaving until you radio Moloch and tell him I’ve arrived. If you don’t, he will personally roast your balls when he finds he’s missed the opportunity of a lifetime.” He winked at Matt Reece. “That should give them pause,” he said under his breath.

  The officer barked an order to one of his men and was handed a phone.

  With no forward drive, the Valhalla rocked precariously in the choppy sea. Matt Reece stared at that heavy-caliber machine gun, ready to bolt overboard if it opened fire. At the rear of the boat stood a staff with an unfamiliar flag snapping in the wind. It showed seven islands against a field of blue, and the words, “United Islands of Hawaii” embroidered along the bottom.

  The officer lifted the hailer once more. “What was your point of departure?”

  “San Francisco,” Kenji said.

  “I’m authorized to escort you to the island. Gather your belongings. We will board you, and you will come with us.”

  “Affirmative,” Kenji said. “What did I tell you,” he said under his breath. “Now these peons know who the hell they’re dealing with.”

  Matt Reece was unconvinced, so as a precaution, he fished Kenji’s flash drive from his shorts pocket and slipped it into his mouth, wedging it between teeth and left cheek.

  The boat came alongside. Six soldiers leaped into the cockpit. Two men grabbed Matt Reece and forced him down, mashing his face onto the deck and holding him. He didn’t struggle as his arms were forced behind his back and his hands cuffed. The other four men did the same to Kenji, but he fought them, cursing and spitting. He took a hell of a beating before they dumped them both into the gunboat.

  They waited while two men combed the ship, above and below. The searchers returned to the gunboat, telling the officer they couldn’t find passports or any kind of identification. The officer grabbed Kenji by the jaw and raised his face so they stared eye to eye. “If you aren’t Toranaga, I’ll be the one roasting your balls, wise guy.”

  The helmsman gunned the engine, and they raced away. As soon as they were free of the Valhalla, the other gunboats opened fired with their mounted machine guns.

  The shots were directed at the waterline. Despite its small size, the boat stayed afloat as shot after shot ripped into the hull. An arc of flame leaped up from the stern as a bullet found the gas tank. With a roar, the ship tilted back, and the stern slipped beneath the water. In seconds, the cockpit was awash, the mast fell to one side, and then there was nothing left but pieces of flotsam bobbing on the waves.

  Whoever these men were, they had no sympathy for seafarers. That ancient camaraderie of sailors, and the historical high regard for wind sailors, held no weight with them. This was beginning to feel like the worst sea rescue of all time.

  As much as Matt Reece was glad to be heading for solid ground, there was something sad in the Valhalla’s passing. It had been a hellish prison, yet it carried him thousands of miles and allowed him to meet the vice admiral. He had learned much about himself, and even more about Kenji. It was an undertaking, and not a totally unsatisfactory one.

  THE RIDE into port took over an hour. Kenji was clearly upset, but he kept his mouth shut, no doubt fearing more blows from the crew.

  Despite the hot sun, Matt Reece shivered as the knot that was his empty belly tightened even more. He wedged himself into a corner of the boat and tried to appear as insignificant as possible. He wondered what kind of reception they would receive ashore. Clearly, hospitality was not a priority here.

  To the south, a fleet of cargo ships was anchored in neat rows. The boat slowed as they cruised into the narrow bay. Ahead, a wharf town had two piers jutting into the bay. There were three cargo ships unloading crates and cages. The wharf was busy with activity and crowded with crates.

  The helmsman swung the boat around when it reached the pier. With the bow pointed toward the bay, the officer barked orders, and two crewmen jumped to make fast lines. The other boats were behind them, preparing to dock as well.

  The officer glanced over his shoulder at them. “Welcome to paradise.”

  Two men grabbed Matt Reece’s arms and hoisted him onto the dock like tossing a sack of rice. He stared down the barrel of an automatic weapon. The man holding the rifle was a foot taller but was just as lean as Matt Reece. He wore a ragged, brown camouflage uniform with the same arm patch as the other men and a wide-brimmed hat with the left side of the brim turned up Aussie-style. His face was narrow, with a predominant nose and excessive overbite that pointed his features like a ferret. Matt Reece could smell him, a stink that matched the man’s soiled uniform.

  The dock was crawling with militia, all of whom were exhibiting wickedly high levels of testosterone. There were a dozen older men, looking faintly harassed, their dignity threatened by the ferocious younger men who carried that swagger of superiority. Many of the younger soldiers were beautiful and virile, with a sort of ruthless sex drive propelling their own sense of power. Within this community, he detected a constant struggle for status and position, and underpinning it all lay a bedrock of violence where every man was judged by a single standard, and that was his readiness to kill or be killed.

  A man with a shaved head standing behind the ferret wore an immaculate uniform and captain’s bars on his collar. “Uncuff ’em,” he barked. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  A soldier swung a set of keys from his belt as he stepped forward. He unlocked Matt Reece’s handcuffs and stepped back while putting the keys and cuffs back in his belt. Matt Reece stood rubbing his wrists. Before he could think, the same soldier ripped his shorts down. He was left naked. He hugged himself while looking at Kenji, who had also been stripped. They were both as thin as whippets.

  The captain pointed at Kenji and Matt Reece. “Deliver them to the big house.”

  “I’m not going with him,” Matt Reece said. “Anywhere but with him.”

  “You’re coming with me,” Kenji demanded.

  The captain nodded at the ferret, who stepped toward Kenji and rammed his rifle butt into his gut. The smooth motion told Matt Reece the ferret was proficient in combat. Kenji dropped to his knees, gasping.

  The captain smiled. “I don’t care whose dick you sucked to get on this island, you give me any more lip and I’m going to rip your head off and fuck your bloody neck with my ten-inch cock.” Two soldiers dragged Kenji to a nearby pickup truck. They tossed him in the bed and climbed in after him. The truck spewed red dust as it sped away.

  The captain leveled a stare at Matt Reece. “Like the man said, welcome to paradise.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  JESSUP FOLLOWED Landau, Patrick, Vishal, and their Japan contact Randall Aubrey, into a bar at the Shinjuku rail station in the heart of Tokyo, where after a ten-hour flight and a two-hour limo drive from Narita Airport, they planned to enjoy a drink before plunging south on a bullet train. He sat beside Vishal, who looked better every hour. For the first time since sneaking him out of the hospital dressed in Blake’s clothing, Jessup was glad to have him on this expedition. His skin was mending so rapidly that by sunup he could pass unnoticed in a crowd.

  Jessup checked his watch and calculated the time difference in California. Blake should have arrived at the Promesa Rota ranch by now, and he prayed there was enough left of the place for Blake to rebuild the barn, the house, and even the livestock if need be. He had little hope that much remained, but he refused to imagine a life with nothing to return to.

  It was a quarter after midnight, Tokyo time. The flight over had seemed endless, even in the luxurious Golden Eagle corporate jet, a Boeing 787-800 Dreamliner. Everyone else slept in vertical-reclining seats while he stared out a window, seeing nothing until they descended into a land of ceaseless lights.

  While waiting for the waiter, he stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, noting that a hard rain began to fall. He gave a sigh of thanks for being on the ground again, safe and dry in a comfortable chair in a saloon of burnished wood and chased mirrors. Outside, lighted boulevards crisscrossed the rain-drenched landscape.

  A waiter came to take their order. Randall Aubrey spoke a sentence in Japanese, and the waiter walked away. Randall’s voice was a sexy whiskey-and-cigarettes baritone.

  Elegant businessmen sat at the bar, but Jessup assumed that anytime Randall Aubrey occupied this bar—or any saloon—it became his private lair. An African-American fortysomething with a sexy swagger, he gave the impression he believed that little was out of his reach once he put his mind to it. Here they sat in one of the premier cities of the world, the metropolis capital of Japan, waiting for God knew what drinks, and it didn’t matter because Randall defined the glamour of the urban night. Randall personified the nocturnal creatures of an all-night city that believe that the most intense living begins at midnight.