He had heard about these sorts of people. Real hackers. He went to Darré’s desk.

  “I need to use your computer.”

  After typing furiously, he came to the central emergency feed for the Miami Police Department.

  MDIA

  GUNFIRE REPORTED

  5 INDIV DEAD

  Nathaniel found a central directory in the system and started searching for access to the airport video feed.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Volkov’s cell phone vibrated. He shook his head, pulling himself from the memory of Black Dolphin. He looked at his phone. There were four calls from the same number.

  “Bruno,” said Volkov.

  “Five people are dead at the airport,” said Darré.

  Volkov was quiet.

  “Let me call you right back.”

  He stepped onto the terrace under a warm wind and looked in the direction of the airport across skyscrapers and lights. He dialed Audra’s number and it rang until her voicemail kicked in. He hung up and tried again. The same. He paused a minute and then called Darré.

  “I tried to call her,” said Volkov. “She isn’t answering. I’ll get in touch with the team at the airport.”

  “Don’t bother. You know what those bodies mean,” said Darré. “He killed the team you sent and now he’s gone. You asked me before if you should kill Audra, and I said no. I think we’re beyond that stage. If that CIA agent gets to her, he gets to you. We need to move now. We need our best arsonist, because there can’t be any evidence. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Either kill her or get her out of the way,” said Darré calmly. “Send her to Odessa for a few years. We’ve paid her enough. But she can’t continue to be in the picture or else they’ll grab her, and then they will learn about you. If that happens, then you and I are looking at the general philosophical idea of fighting the entire goddam Central Intelligence Agency, and I for one don’t feel like having that fight. Trust me, we can’t afford that fight. Find her, imprison her, or, better yet, kill her. Got it?”

  “You started it.”

  Darré was silent.

  “Whoever started it, we need to finish it,” said Darré. “There’s no looking back.”

  “I’ll go over right now. If I have to, I’ll kill her myself.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Allapattah Flats

  Florida

  Tacoma drove north from the airport, staying within the speed limit, driving for more than ten minutes on the highway. He cut off at an exit for Hobe Sound, geographically north of Audra’s house on Jupiter Island.

  He passed twice through Hobe Sound, then went west, along a less-traveled road. He drove for precisely five miles into the Allapattah Flats. He found a farm road that cut through a field, finally finding a pond, which he backed the car into until it bubbled and submerged. Tacoma began to run back toward the town. He took the five miles at a fast pace, eyes locked in a brittle gaze ahead, legs moving in a smooth cadence with his arms. Sweat poured down from his face, his hair was soaked. When he finished his run near the outskirts of Jupiter Beach, Tacoma’s clothing was drenched in sweat and his face was flushed red. His clothing was wet almost completely through.

  Tacoma walked along sidewalks and found a sandy path down to the beach. They knew he had just killed several of their men in an open-air, dynamic situation. They knew he was coming for her.

  He started jogging along the beach as an idea coalesced. In stride, jogging down the sandy beach, Tacoma stuck the bud into his ear, tapping three times. He waited for a few seconds, then Calibrisi came on.

  “Hi, Rob.”

  Igor and Katie clicked in.

  “Where are you?” said Katie.

  “On the beach,” he said, in stride.

  He finally had a few moments to clear the air.

  “They had a whole team waiting for me,” said Tacoma. “What kind of fucked-up thing have you gotten me into?”

  “Calm down,” said Katie. “We warned you. Besides, we needed to understand how sophisticated they are.”

  “Great,” said Tacoma, breathing hard as he ran down the beach at ocean’s edge. “How sophisticated are they?”

  “They had something before you got off the plane,” said Calibrisi. “They’re well resourced. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and focus. They know by now that you’re coming for her. You’re entering a combat zone and she might not be there any longer. But whoever sent the men to the airport is now aware they have a bunch of dead men.”

  “What about the security feed?” said Katie.

  “I wiped it,” said Igor. “As for the house you’re going to, I have thermals on it. Looks like four men are guarding the outside and two individuals are inside the house.”

  Tacoma removed the earbud, placing it back inside his pocket.

  * * *

  Katie looked at Calibrisi.

  “The fact they knew he was coming and sent a team after him says everything,” she said, slightly distraught. “They’re going to try and kill him.”

  “They already tried—and failed,” said Calibrisi. “He’s moving inside. Let him do it. No one ever said it was going to be easy.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Jupiter Island, Florida

  At the beach, Tacoma walked unseen out into the water. He dived beneath a wave and swam to a point offshore. He swam in a line down the beachfront under a dark sky, letting a weak current move him south. The cold water felt nice after the run.

  He remembered the words from training.

  If you are at a place in the ocean, it means you got there somehow. Feel the current and think. All you have to do is retrace your steps.

  It meant nothing, except it brought him back in.

  He emerged along the beach a few houses down from the mansion, stepping from the water with the pistol in hand.

  Tacoma approached the border of the property from the high-tide line, along a man-made line of trees and hedges that separated the large mansions from the public beach. He approached under a dimly lit sky. There was no such thing as pitch black in Miami or anywhere along the moneyed South Florida coast, especially here, on Jupiter Island, where billionaires and oligarchs, and various celebrities, including Tiger Woods, lived or owned property. Most kept their property lit, partially for security reasons, partially to show off. Jupiter Beach was a beachfront display of ubiquitous wealth and privacy that ran for miles on end.

  Yet that ubiquity also created anonymity, and Tacoma came at Audra’s property at the same time a loud party roiled just a couple of mansions away.

  Tacoma studied the house where the party was taking place, spying a line of cars out back, limousines and other vehicles, waiting to pick up attendees. Music was playing. Loud toasts were being made. Tacoma cut through the property next door to the party house—between the party house and Audra’s. He moved away from the beach, inland, along a fancy iron fence, parallel to the line of cars queued up at the party. He cut into the woods bordering the house in between, heading for Audra’s mansion. Tacoma moved quickly, almost at a sprint, blocking branches and swerving. He cut in a diagonal toward the perimeter of Audra’s property, under a thicket of trees that concealed a tall steel fence, a mesh of concertina wire laid out in crosshatches, curved ribbons of diamond-edged steel, there to prevent would-be intruders.

  Tacoma stopped and knelt next to a tree, studying Audra’s security fence. The fence was dimly illuminated by lights from the main gate. He waited and watched. After more than a minute, he saw a gunman, who walked from the beach end of Audra’s mansion along the side of the property, moving just a few yards from Tacoma through the trees and fence. Tacoma remained still, watching the man, who clutched a suppressed MP5. A minute after the gunman moved back toward the beach, Tacoma saw another gunman, this one in front of the house, pacing along the driveway, covering road access to the property. He saw a third guard in the distance, walking along the far side of the property, catching him as he met the guard from the driveway and they spoke for a few seconds.

  A security camera was mounted on top of one of the main gateposts near Tacoma. It was on some sort of concrete stanchion, ten feet in the air, and Tacoma moved closer to it. He came from behind the camera. The camera rotated in a slow 180-degree turn, scanning the yard. Tacoma found a small rock and leapt up the back of the concrete post, holding himself in place with one hand as he studied the slow motion of the camera, which made a low electronic whir as it pivoted. When the camera was trained left, toward the road and away from the house, he reached up and jammed the rock at the base of the unit, between the bottom of the camera unit and the fence post. As the camera began to pivot slowly back toward the house, it caught on the rock and, after a few moments of grinding, stopped moving.

  Tacoma climbed down and took several steps back, then charged at the fence and leapt, diving at an open space between loops of razor wire. His hands grabbed two vertical iron slats that lay beneath the concertina wire. He had momentum, but he kept his arms straight and pushed backward so that his face, chest, torso, hips, and legs wouldn’t hit the long, jagged shards of razor-sharp steel. Before he fell onto the blades, his right foot shot out less than an inch above the curving steel of the concertina wire. Tacoma clung to the fence. He looked at Audra’s house beyond, mere yards away, clinging between foot-long blades just inches from penetrating his body. But he’d been trained. Tacoma long ago learned the path up a wall of prison-strength concertina wire. He had a faded scar on his thigh to prove it, a cut that had cost him forty stitches and a decent amount of blood. But now it was like riding a bike. Slowly, Tacoma moved up to the top of the spiraling concertina wire, gingerly coordinating the placement of his hands and feet—controlling noise flow—as he climbed up between blades sharp enough to sever flesh down to the bone. When he got to the top of the fence, he took out his phone and looked around, seeing the two closest guards in the distance, each man looking in the opposite direction. He triggered an app called ISI, then scanned the land below the fence. The phone displayed a green line. It indicated that there was an additional digital perimeter guarding Audra’s home.

  Tacoma studied the location of the beam. It was below, four feet off the ground, but at least five feet behind the fence. He leapt—grabbing at air and kicking his legs, landing on the ground, pausing, feeling nothing.

  He was inside the perimeter.

  Tacoma immediately charged to a dark wall, then crawled along the foundation, along the back of the house, across weeds, dirt, and pebbles. He waited, catching his breath, then smelled a faint trace of cigarette smoke. He watched as the guard—a tall man in a black polo shirt—moved methodically across the lawn between the house and the perimeter fence, clutching an MP5. Tacoma raised the suppressed P226R and fired, missing on purpose, and as the gunman turned at the noise, he triggered the pistol a second time. The bullet struck the gunman in the side of his head, next to his ear, and he dropped in a silent pile. Tacoma went and grabbed the dead killer by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the shadows next to the house.

  Tacoma picked up the dead man’s MP5 and checked the mag and the suppressor, then set the fire selector to manual. He waited as the gunman along the driveway came to the side of the property, then fired a single blast. A low ringing thwack hit the air. The slug found the guard squarely in the center of his neck. He coughed as he fell.

  Tacoma moved past him, down the driveway, to the gates. He looked along the ground a few feet inside the gates and saw a long steel box, an inch high, hidden by flowers. He used his pick-gun to open the box. He cut several wires, disabling the electric gate.

  Tacoma charged across the driveway, under bright lights, moving left of the mansion’s grandiose entrance. He sprinted to the other side of the property from where he’d entered, rounding the corner and flipping the fire selector on the MP5 to full auto. He came into the side yard just as the third gunman was approaching. The gunman saw Tacoma. He started to swing his firearm toward Tacoma, but Tacoma already held the killer in the crosshairs of the MP5 and pulled the trigger. A brassy staccato of suppressed bullet fire spat furiously from the MP5. A scorch of lead crossed the third gunman across his chest, kicking him down, killing him.

  The man, like Tacoma, had a shaved head, and he looked to be about the same size and build as Tacoma.

  Tacoma set the fire selector back to manual and moved to the back of the property, walking out in the open. He imitated the pace and manner of the guard, stepping confidently, methodically, and not too fast, until he came to the large green landscaped yard between the back of the mansion and the ocean. He saw the fourth guard as the man walked down near the hedges just above the sand. He came toward the gunman as the gunman walked away from his side of the property. He tracked him and, as he got closer, raised the weapon. By the time the killer turned, Tacoma was less than twenty feet away. The man didn’t even attempt to move before Tacoma sent a single bullet into his forehead.

  Tacoma went to the side of the mansion and found a door. He placed the MP5 on the ground. He scanned through vertical windows on one side of the doorjamb. He removed his pick-gun, then placed it against the lock and pressed. A thin alloy needle emerged from the piece, lit by flashing digital lights. Tacoma put it in the lock, which, a second later, clicked open. He stepped inside.

  He was in a large living room. The far wall was a two-story arc of glass. He saw her across the room, on a leather sofa, curled up with a younger man.

  Tacoma entered the living room in silence, still damp from the ocean. At all times, he kept the SIG trained on Audra. Even as he stepped near to the couple, who were naked and sharing a glass of champagne, neither one noticed until it was too late. The man saw Tacoma first, and his reaction caused Audra to turn. Audra recognized him. Both her and her lover looked at Tacoma in silence. They stared for a few seconds in wariness and disbelief, then Tacoma fired. A suppressed bullet spat from the 226—thwap ching—and smashed into the young goon’s forehead.

  He found Audra in the crosshairs, her face sprinkled in blood from the man’s head.

  “Privet, Audra,” said Tacoma.

  Audra’s face was littered with small cuts from the window at Cosgrove’s, though she was still beautiful. She met Tacoma’s gaze with a knowing look of recognition and fear. He stepped closer, holding the female assassin in a tight range. Her eyes flashed to a window just beyond Tacoma. He pivoted, looking out the window, seeing nothing, and when he swiveled back to Audra she was pulling a gun out from beneath the cushion, her left hand swinging at Tacoma. Tacoma fired, a precise shot from waist high, catching Audra’s forearm. The bullet struck just behind the wrist. Her entire arm shot sideways as the gun fell. She screamed as her arm contorted back and blood suddenly spilled from the wound.

  Tacoma stepped closer now, even as he looked back to scan the windows. He aimed the muzzle at her naked chest.

  “Who ordered you to kill Cosgrove?”

  Audra’s bloody arm lay quivering. Her other arm was incapacitated. Blood coursed from the bullet wound, spilling out on the leather couch, next to the dead man. She panted, looking up at Tacoma.

  “What’s in it for me?” Audra asked.

  “I’m not negotiating,” said Tacoma. “You help me and I’ll help you. Who sent you? Who designed it? Who’s in charge?”

  “I’m a prisoner,” she said. “It was all manufactured. They entrapped me.”

  “Right,” said Tacoma. “You were recruited out of GRU. Obviously for a lot of money. Who sent you to kill Cosgrove?”

  He stepped closer and grabbed her incapacitated arm at the wrist, twisting. Audra let out a horrible scream.

  “Did you poison Senator O’Flaherty?”

  From within her agony, she nodded, yes.

  “Who ordered it?”

  “Who do you think?” She sobbed as she wiped blood and tears from her face.

  “This is the last time I’m going to ask.”

  Audra’s bloody hand reached out and grabbed the end of the suppressor, but Tacoma pulled it back. He fired a bullet into her foot, shattering it.

  “Fuck you!” she cried, tears streaming from her eyes.

  “Answer me,” said Tacoma calmly.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Then give me a name.”

  He waited until she looked up again.

  “Do you promise?”

  Tacoma nodded.

  “Volkov. Andrei Volkov.”

  Tacoma raised the tip of the suppressor to Audra’s forehead.

  “But you promised!”

  “I promised to kill everyone involved,” said Tacoma. He fired. The bullet hit the center of her forehead and sent her head jerking backward, and blood and brains spewed in a gale of red across the leather sofa.

  * * *

  Tacoma wandered the downstairs of the large house until he found a bathroom. He flipped on the lights and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked very different without hair. His scalp was pale. He looked calm, and yet his eyes stared back in a way he couldn’t exactly understand. He felt helpless—yet he also felt alive. He stared for a few extra seconds, then reached for the light switch as his other hand pulled the 226 from the holster. He moved into the corridor, stealing silently against glass, gun raised, silencer jutting forward.

  He went back out through the same door and snaked his way through gardens along the border of the property to the beach. He came to the sand, glanced left and right, then started a hard sprint up the beach, back toward where he’d cut in.

  Suddenly, he heard the baritone explosion of shotgun fire—three loud blasts. Tacoma turned back. It came from Audra’s house. He paused a moment and then ran faster, retracing his route away from the ocean into suburbs and finally countryside.

  At some point along the five-mile run, he popped the earbud in.

  “Igor,” he said, breathing heavily.

  “Yes, Rob.”

  “I have a name: Andrei Volkov.”