He gathered up the shirt, pants and scarf from the smaller of the two fighters he’d killed and headed back toward the Forrest house, being careful never to stray into the line-of-sight of the tanker. It wouldn’t do for his foe to know that he’d left the area.

  There was no sign of activity around the fallen trees that hid Kimberly. Thank God for that!

  “Kimberly?” Flame found the opening, began to edge inside. “It’s Flame, honey. Don’t be scared.”

  She waited until he was all the way in—then hugged him hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. “I was so scared!” She held his face between her hands. “I was sure they’d killed you!”

  “Nah.” He shrugged and frowned as he felt just how cold her arms and shoulders were. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” She gave him a hard look. “Are you going back out there?”

  “There are still a couple of them left.” He looked into her eyes as he spoke. “I can’t let them get the tanker afloat so they can leave the island.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I’ve been doing.” He showed her the AK-47 he’d taken from the older fighter. “Only now I have a weapon I can do it with.”

  “Are you sure…”

  “Honey, I have to do this.” He pulled the second AK from behind his back. “Here.” He handed the weapon to her. “Take this.”

  “What do I do with it?”

  “I’ll show you.” He pulled out a magazine. “First you load it like this,” he said as the clip clicked into place. “Now, you do this…” He pulled back on the charging lever, showed her the round as it went into the chamber. “And, when you’re ready to fire…” He indicated the safety, which was in the safe position. “You push this around, point this end toward your target, and pull the trigger—just hold the trigger back and keep shooting until you’re out of ammo.” He handed her the weapon. “Do you understand?”

  “Click this around,” she said while touching the safety. “Point it at whoever, and hold the trigger back.” She nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “Hopefully it won’t come to that but at least I feel a little better knowing that you’re armed.”

  “What else?”

  “Put these on.” He passed her the clothing he’d taken from the dead terrorist. “They’re as soaked as you are but they should help you warm up a little.”

  “Okay.” She took the clothing. “How about you?”

  “I’m warm enough.” He kissed her deeply, holding her tight. “And I promise, I’ll come back for you and we can both get really warm together.”

  “Sounds good.” She kissed him again. “I’ll be here, Flame.” She kissed him again. “I promise I’ll be here.”

  He gave her a quick hug and carefully crawled back into the rain. There was less wind now. The storm was almost over.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “What do you see, Eric?” Dana was running her laptop off a hotspot created by her cell. They had just crossed into Georgia and were about an hour from the Florida border.

  “Storm’s starting to break up as it moves north and east,” Bivens reported. “They still have a lot of cloud cover over Kimberly Key but I think it’ll blow out in the next couple of hours.”

  “What about the tanker?”

  “Still aground, but take a look at this.” He sent her an image as he spoke.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Top image is infrared coverage when we first got a look at the ship.” He remotely enlarged the image of the tanker. “Note that there appear to be about twenty people aboard.”

  “Okay, I can see that.”

  “Now, this infrared shot is from a few minutes ago—the cloud cover isn’t thick enough to block IR anymore.”

  “And?”

  “I can only see eleven or twelve hot spots.”

  “Could the other ones be on shore?”

  “If they are, they’re either heavily shielded, underground or at room temperature.”

  “Dead?”

  “What do you think?” Bivens voice was suddenly quite positive. “We do think that Flame is on that island, right?”

  “I suppose this proves it.”

  “How long before you get there?”

  “Five, maybe six hours.”

  “It’ll all be over by the time you get there.”

  ***

  The ladder was still on deck when Flame returned to his hide. I hope they come down soon, he told himself, gauging the weather. It won’t be long before the storm is over—things will be a lot harder for me then!

  He needn’t have worried. Less than ten minutes after he resumed his watch, the ladder was once again tossed over the side.

  Okay. He watched carefully. Game on!

  Six men climbed down—the older leader first—and spread out as soon as they hit the beach.

  He was afraid I’d start shooting while they were on the ladder. Flame shook his head. If I planned to do that, I would have taken out the leader while he was in the open. He watched as the fifth and sixth man climbed down. But if I did that, the rest of them would have stayed on the ship—and I’d never be able to get all of them before the damned thing slipped off the island.

  He watched as they deployed, the leader eyeing the two areas of cover nearest the ship intently. He’ll expect me to have moved. Flame nodded. That means he won’t go to port, he’ll go to starboard. Flame settled his rifle into a little pile of sand he’d made. I can’t let him go that way. Kimberly is over there. So…

  He settled the sights on the man closest to him, a rather short, dark-skinned man who held his rifle as if it would bite him if he relaxed for a second. Let’s get his attention.

  Flame squeezed the trigger.

  ***

  Ghafur cursed as Munsif dropped suddenly to the ground, a neat hole punched in his forehead. The bastard is still to my left; I should have known he would do the unexpected! He yelled at his men to hit the dirt and scan the woods for any sign of the shooter. Where are you? He ran his eyes back and forth across the wooded area and the countryside behind it, ignoring the water that rolled down his face. Where?

  He could see nothing.

  “We’ve got to move!” He looked back at the frightened faces of his last four men. “We’re sitting ducks if we stay here!”

  “Shouldn’t we climb back onto the ship?” Hanif kept looking back at the ladder. “We’ll be safer there!”

  “How safe will you be on that ladder?” Ghafur let the contempt he felt fill his voice. “How safe will you be from me if you run away?” He glared at the young man. “Now move forward—or I will shoot you myself!”

  Frightened, Hanif began to crawl away from the ship, his rifle half-forgotten on his back.

  “The rest of you…” Ghafur swept them with a glare. “Get moving!” He pointed to the edge of the wood. “If you do not get under cover, you will die!”

  A shot rang out, putting an exclamation point on the old fighter’s sentence—a mark embodied in the black hole that suddenly pushed Muzaffar, who had been crawling on all fours, upward before dropping him, dead, to the ground.

  “Move it!” Ghafur frantically searched for the sniper’s position. “Move or die!”

  ***

  Two more down. Flame nodded as he watched the others scramble to safety. Four left. He pushed himself down below the little rise he’d been using as a firing point. Time to change positions, he smiled. They’ll figure where the shots came from quickly enough. He looked at the slowly lightening sky. Storm’s almost over. When he was sure he was low enough to be completely out of sight, he got to his feet and began a quick trot to the position he’d picked for the next action. I’ve got to hurry.

  ***

  Madani Al-Dhakheel sat in the tanker’s bridge listening to the fading sound of gunshots. This American is resourceful, he thought. Perhaps too much so for my own men. He wondered what he would do if Ghafur failed and the American made his way to the ship. I must be prepared, he vowed. Ready for anything that might happen.

  He stood and turned toward the interior door—then froze as the radio crackled. A signal! He glanced out the big window, and noted that the sky was noticeably lighter. The storm is almost over! He picked up the radio headset and checked the frequency. It is time to prepare for the final act! He pushed down on the send button and began to speak to his followers—and the boats that might be able to pull him off this accursed island…

  ***

  Flame retreated to the Crawford home, carefully avoiding the crumpled bodies on the floor as he crossed the kitchen and headed for the upstairs. He could climb out onto the roof from there. I’ll be able to see everything around me, he thought as he went up the stairs two at a time. Get a clear shot…

  The bedroom window opened with a crank. Flame got a quick glimpse of the sky, noticed how much lighter it was. Storm’s almost over. He climbed onto the sill, and reached up for the long gutter just above. I have to finish this soon or…

  There was a burst of gunfire from somewhere on the ground below and Flame felt a searing pain in his left hand.

  Shit! He dropped back into the house, cradling his hand. It had been pierced by a number of splinters—some nearly six inches long. Bastard didn’t miss me by much! Flame rose up just enough to peer out of the window. That old fighter must have split his forces, and sent some around to this side of the house. He picked up his rifle, ignoring the pain. I’ll have to do something about that…

  Trained men, he knew, would rush the house—one supporting another. But these men aren’t trained, he thought. They’ll watch this window for a while and then start to creep closer…

  He waited a long minute, hoping to give whoever shot at him enough time to begin to believe that he’d been killed—then, with his rifle at the ready, Flame popped up in that same window, his eyes searching the area around the house.

  There were two gunmen there—one about ten feet from the door, the other a few feet further back.

  Flame shot the nearer man first, putting three rounds into the jihadist’s center of mass before shifting his aim to the second man who was looking at him in dumb terror, his rifle forgotten.

  This Arab was very young—under eighteen years old, with smooth cheeks and wide eyes that, unless Flame was mistaken, were misty with tears. This one is even too young to shave! Flame shook his head. It’s such a waste to send untrained boys on this kind of mission. He watched the young man over his sights, waiting for him to move, giving him at least a chance to defend himself—but the jihadist just stood there, eyes wide with shock and fear.

  He invaded my country. Flame’s eyes went hard. He and his friends were quick enough to kill the helpless people in this house—and they’d kill Kimberly just as quickly if I gave them the opportunity, so… He stroked the trigger, firing a three-round burst into the man’s chest. I will not give them that opportunity!

  Flame was on the move before the young Arab hit the ground. He hurried down the stairs and out the back door, stepping over the closest body as he made a dash for the woods and the cover they would provide.

  Two left, he told himself as he slid under an overhanging tree, including the old one, who seems to know what he's doing. Flame began removing splinters from his hand, and planning his next attack.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For the first time in days, Madani felt in control. The ship wasn’t moving beneath him, which, in itself, made things better by leaving his stomach strong and his mind untroubled by illness. His men were chasing down the lone American who had given them so much trouble—and he didn’t really care whether they killed him or not. Just keep him away from the ship until we’re off of this accursed island, he told himself.

  He hoped to accomplish that feat quite soon now that he had made contact with the blocking ships that were meant to accompany his tanker from here forward.

  “Faris?” He kept the microphone quite close to his mouth—the storm was still creating vast amounts of static and it was important that his fellows understand what he was telling them. “Hurry, my friend! I need you here as quickly as possible.”

  Faris al Alfarsi, “the Persian,” had come to Al Qaeda from Iran. He had spent time with Bin Laden in Tora Bora and participated in the planning for the Boston Marathon bombing. Madani’s current plan had been vetted and perfected at his hands. Had it not been for the storm, the two men would already have succeeded in their aims and would now be celebrating together in South America or, had things gone poorly, in Paradise.

  “Ma…ni.” A crackle of sound came from the radio. “Al Farsi to M…da…i…” The two men had decided not to use code names or any other device that might complicate matters. If the plan went as expected, there would be no need to hide their identities—the Americans had no idea who they were and would not until it was too late to do anything about it.

  “You are coming in broken, my friend.” Madani adjusted the frequency with a feather-light touch—he’d been specially trained in communications by his uncle years ago. “Please say again!”

  “Madan…” The voice was clearer. “I am less than one hour from your position…” Clearer still. “I will have tow lines prepared.” There was a long pause. “What are the weather conditions?”

  “Clearing rapidly.” Madani glanced out the window. “I hope to float on the storm tide.”

  “That would be good,” Faris’ voice was quite easily understood now. “I am not sure if even the combined strength of all my boats would be enough to drag you off if you were completely aground.”

  “How many boats are with you?”

  “Fifteen at the moment.” The voice wavered. “Several more are to meet us as we move up the coast.”

  “Understood.” Many of the faithful were unwilling to put themselves at risk—especially those who had been poisoned by the Great Satan. “It will be enough.”

  “Yes.” Madani could hear the nod in the other’s voice. “The Americans will be preoccupied with rescue and recovery from the storm.” There was a burst of static. “…no trouble from their Coast Guard.”

  “It is a gift from Allah,” Madani intoned. “Hurry so that we may take full advantage of it.”

  “One hour.” More static crackled from the radio. “…you then.”

  Then there was nothing but static.

  “One hour, my friend.” Madani strode to the bridge window, surveyed the barren little island. “One hour and we will be off to meet our destiny.”

  He smiled and nodded at the thought.

  ***

  “Storm’s getting worse.” Aesop stated the obvious as the Audi’s windshield wipers labored to give Bremby a modicum of vision. “Can Bivens give us any idea of how long we’re going to have to drive through this muck?”

  “I heard that!” Dana had her laptop slaved to Bivens’ own machine—with a Skype window to allow them to speak face-to-face. “Satellite imagery says the worst of the storm is just now passing over Fort Lauderdale and turning even further to the east.” He glanced at his screen. “Where are you now?”

  “Somewhere south of Melbourne,” Bremby put in, eyes never leaving the road. “Maybe two hours from Miami in this weather.”

  “The worst should be over by the time you get there.” Bivens voice showed he was not quite positive about that. “But you may have some trouble getting through—says here that parts of I-95 are closed to traffic…”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Aesop pulled a phone out of his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay.” Bivens shrugged, uncertain how the big ex-SEAL was going to do anything about road closures—but willing to let him handle it if he thought he could. “You’ll still get some rain,” he told Dana, “but…” The face in the Skype panel suddenly disappeared. “Hold on!”

  Dana leaned closer, as did Aesop from the front seat.

  “There’s something…” Eric’s face reappeared. “The NSA sat I’m tapping is picking up some radio traffic in the area around the tanker.” His face showed the intensity of his concentration. “It’s badly broken—lots of static…”

  “Anything that will help us?” Dana asked.

  “Hold on.” There was a long pause, then: “Listen to this…”

  “Clearing rapidly.” None of those in the car knew the voice although both Aesop and Dana recognized the accent as Saudi. “I hope to float on the storm tide.”

  There was a long burst of static, then: “The Americans will be preoccupied with rescue and recovery from the storm.” More static came from the speaker before: “…no trouble from their Coast Guard.”

  “There’s more,” Eric cut in. “But it’s all about pulling a ship off an island.” He looked at Dana’s image. “Think it’s our tanker?”

  “Don’t know what else it could be.” She shook her head. “When was that broadcast?”

  “Recently.” Eric’s face showed his concern. “The NSA bird is right over the area—I figure that transmission is less than ten minutes old and, Dana…”

  “Yeah?”

  “It seems to indicate that the tanker will be afloat within an hour or so.” He bit his lower lip. “Any chance of you reaching the area by then?”

  “Not a chance in the world.” Dana looked at the rain crashing down on the windshield. “Any chance of the Coast Guard getting a bird up if we warn them?”

  “I doubt it.” Bivens shook his head. “I’ve been monitoring their frequencies and most of their ships seem to be tied up doing rescue work around the Gulf coast and in the Keys.” He glanced at his screen. “It appears that a chunks have broken off both the causeway and the Seven Mile Bridge.”

  “What’s that?” Bremby’s cut in.

  “It’s a bridge right in the middle of the Florida Keys—connects Knight's Key in the Middle Keys to Little Duck Key in the Lower Keys.”