They all knew it had been unmanned, and if it was only machinery lost, then they didn’t care for proper procedure.

  Silhouetted by the backdrop of the twisted wreckage, Slater said, ‘I think we’re done here.’

  King shook his head.

  Slater said, ‘How the hell did you survive that?’

  ‘Sand.’

  ‘You landed correctly,’ Slater said, ‘if that’s any consolation.’

  ‘Of course I landed correctly,’ King said, dusting himself off. ‘Otherwise my skull would have split like a watermelon.’

  Slater massaged his temples. ‘Sometimes I think I’m insane for doing this job. Look, we should get out of here. It’s going to be chaos in—’

  ‘Not yet,’ King said.

  ‘Why do you keep saying that? “We’re not done here”, “not yet.”’

  King pointed over Slater’s shoulder, at the mangled base of the crane.

  Slater turned around. ‘No way.’

  61

  Wreckage burned.

  Construction aggregate smoked.

  The crane lay prone across the sand, its frame twisted and broken, a felled titan.

  Vince lay in the lee of his disfigured Crown Vic, surrounded by its parts, bleeding from the mouth.

  And the nose.

  And the forehead.

  And the chest.

  He hacked up a ball of red phlegm, tinged by the blood pouring from his body, and spat it in the sand next to his face, where it coagulated. He saw them approaching. Sat up, wiped his eyes, and pressed a flat palm to the deep cut slashed horizontally across his forehead. It stopped the flow running down into his eyes, allowing him to temporarily see. He shuffled back in the sand and rested back against his broken vehicle.

  King and Slater walked up to him.

  They took a knee simultaneously.

  It put all three of them on the same level so they could talk. Vince didn’t have the energy to shout. He could barely speak. Most of his conscious effort was focused on remaining conscious.

  Slater said, ‘You’re going to die.’

  He didn’t say it threateningly.

  He spoke like a scientist in the lab announcing an indisputable fact.

  Vince cleared his throat, complete with a choked-up gargle of fluids.

  It made King wince.

  Vince said, ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘You going to help us make sense of this mess?’ Slater said. ‘Or are you going to give us the finger as you go into the great beyond?’

  It wasn’t a request. Just a simple question. Slater knew there was nothing he could say to convince the man one way or the other — Vince was going to bleed out from his injuries, so any threat of punishment was now void.

  Vince turned his attention to King with something close to curiosity. He said, ‘You respected me.’

  ‘I still do,’ King said. ‘You batted for the wrong team, but that doesn’t make you any less of a tough son-of-a-bitch.’

  Vince smiled at that. It was about all he could do. He said, ‘Might as well talk. Why not, huh?’

  He looked down at himself, seemed to wallow in the pain.

  More blood ran down his chin.

  Slater said, ‘Our intentions might be more aligned than you realise.’

  ‘I think I understand that now,’ Vince coughed. ‘Isn’t it funny? You always put it together when it’s too late.’

  ‘Talk to us, Vince.’

  ‘What—?’ He trailed off, his face contorting into a wince, something sinister wracking his insides. He recovered and managed, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Who’s behind the coup d’etat?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The tough-guy mobster started crying. Tears mixed with blood and snot. He took his hand away from his forehead to wipe his eyes, and more blood ran down. He was a mess.

  ‘Someone used you,’ King said. ‘You know it. You just don’t want to admit it.’

  Reluctantly, Vince nodded, his face a mask of anguish.

  Slater said, ‘How’d it start?’

  ‘Someone was paying me to whack my coworkers,’ Vince said.

  ‘We know that,’ Slater said. ‘Who?’

  Vince shrugged, which took considerable effort. ‘He was anonymous. He used … a voice scrambler. You’d think it was a scam, right? But he always paid, and he fronted me eighty k … via a dead drop. You know, to prove he wasn’t full of shit. I could have taken the money and stopped answering his calls, but … I appreciated that he trusted me. Made me trust him.’

  Slater said, ‘How many people did you kill for him?’

  Vince closed his eyes. ‘Seven, I think.’

  ‘Your friends?’

  A long pause.

  Then, ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Did it tear Dylan Walcott’s operation apart? What you did.’

  ‘You’re damn right it did. His employees … formed splinter cells. No one knew who to trust. Obviously I wasn’t doing all the work myself … I kicked some of it out to locals to take suspicion off me. A couple of labourers who’ve done good work for me.’

  ‘Did you understand that this anonymous caller wanted Walcott’s empire to fall apart?’

  ‘You know,’ Vince said, ‘somehow that’s only just sunk in. I don’t know how to say it … I thought he was too big to fail.’

  ‘And the vig payments?’ King said. ‘Are they code for something?’’

  Vince looked at him. ‘What are you on about?’

  King said, ‘We have Eric Moretti’s logbook.’

  Vince’s eyes flashed hot. ‘How?’

  ‘This island’s home to good people,’ King said. ‘Only a handful of criminals about, and most of them work for your boss. One of our associates went fishing for leads in West End and chanced an encounter with those two labourers you spoke of. It didn’t go well for them.’

  Vince was dying. He didn’t care. ‘Oh well. They were scumbags anyway.’

  King said, ‘She lifted Eric’s logbook off them.’

  ‘“She”?’

  King nodded. ‘Yeah, “she.”’

  Vince raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re bigger wimps than I thought, then.’

  Slater said, ‘I’d watch how you speak.’

  Vince tried to laugh but it caught in his throat and came out as a rattle. ‘What difference does it make how I speak? What you gonna do, kill me faster?’

  Slater shrugged.

  Vince had him there.

  King said, ‘So is it code?’

  Vince said, ‘No. What code?’

  ‘Half the addresses lead to dead ends.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Vince said, barely managing to nod. ‘I had—’ He broke into a coughing fit, and hacked up blood. ‘I had that same problem. I dunno why.’

  ‘Chasing payments?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they led you to dead ends?’

  ‘Over and over and over again.’

  ‘Who were the people you were chasing?’

  ‘Names in the book,’ Vince said. ‘I don’t ask. Walcott hooks a lot of the clients himself. Reels them in on his own. He’s … a people magnet. Charismatic. Sometimes I get passed names of people I’ve never met.’

  ‘Is that how it works for everyone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So someone savvy enough could use dummy names to dupe your coworkers into chasing people who don’t exist?’

  ‘W-what?’ Vince said.

  He wasn’t all there. He was pale. Sweating and shaking and bleeding. He didn’t have much time left. Or much processing power.

  It wouldn’t compute.

  But Slater got it. ‘Oh.’

  And a dark look came over Slater’s face, like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle had just slotted into place.

  He said, ‘Did you check whether any of these people you were chasing actually existed?’

  ‘H-how?’

  ‘Official records. The goddamn census. Anything.’

  ‘No,’ Vince said, his voice weakening.

  Slater said, ‘Someone took your loans and used them to pay you to kill your friends.’

  Vince shrugged. ‘It’s a dog eat dog world, ain’t it?’

  Slater said nothing.

  Vince slumped a little further down the chassis. ‘I got ate.’

  He exhaled his last breath.

  Slater looked at the body for a beat, then said, ‘I know what this is.’

  King said, ‘You do?’

  They got to their feet, faced each other.

  Slater said, ‘Teddy.’

  ‘Teddy Barrow?’ King said, incredulous. ‘An old gambling addict?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  62

  Again, the jeep’s off-road capabilities proved themselves crucial.

  They piled in and drove away from the scene before any of the workers hovering on the outskirts could get a good look at them. The crew would have glimpsed a light-skinned guy and a dark-skinned guy, and they’d find a dead Italian, but that was as far as they’d get. The jeep was now hot and easily identifiable, so they’d have to ditch it at the first opportunity, but that wasn’t a big deal. King drove it east through the construction yard until they came to a thick tree line, but there were sizeable gaps between the trunks. He manoeuvred the fat tyres over the dirt until they were through, untouched aside from a smattering of brambles scraping past the open top.

  Then they were out, on a side trail leading back to the road that opened onto Grand Bahama Highway.

  King tried to control his breathing, feed life into his heavy muscles.

  It wasn’t working.

  Then Slater’s phone shrieked in the centre console and he looked over and saw an unknown number.

  Lyla.

  That did the trick.

  It got his adrenaline going again.

  He said, ‘You going to take that, or should I?’

  ‘Pull over,’ Slater said. ‘I’ll put it on speaker.’

  There was something different in his tone.

  A cold focus in every syllable.

  It was crunch time.

  They were deep in the maze of side roads, sufficiently far enough from the construction site to risk stopping. King pulled to the shoulder at the foot of a gentle hill, obscuring them from view of anyone looking across the plains. Slater snatched the phone up and answered it.

  ‘Are you safe?’ he said.

  Lyla’s voice wavered as she said, ‘Y-yes. But Teddy called.’

  Slater looked over at King and mutual recognition passed between them both. The understanding that they might not be the only ones on the call.

  ‘Are you on the house phone?’ Slater said.

  ‘Yes. I’m still at home.’

  King reached over and covered the receiver with his thumb so she couldn’t hear what he said next. ‘Her mobile might be tapped too. Either option is unwise.’

  Slater nodded.

  King took his thumb away.

  Slater said, ‘Stay where you are. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘Is Róisín safe?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Róisín,’ she said again, like that answered everything.

  But it did, because Slater only needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Everything was moving so fast that he hardly had time to juggle it in his head.

  Lyla’s friend, his brain told him as his internal computer finally sorted up from down.

  He said, ‘Yes, she’s safe.’

  ‘Did you talk to Vince Ricci?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Slater said. ‘We talked to him.’

  ‘Was it a productive conversation?’

  Slater said, ‘Not now, Lyla. We’ll speak in person.’

  He hung up before she could say anything that further incriminated her.

  King set off again, keeping an eye out for flashing blue lights. There’d be a considerable police presence at the construction yard before long.

  Slater clutched the phone tight, deep in thought. ‘Where are Walcott’s elite operators?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He had a trained sniper at his disposal at the safe house. Whether the guy was actually ex-SAS or not is up for speculation, but he was definitely trained in some capacity. So far, we’ve only run into amateurs.’

  King took a hand off the wheel to point at the blood-and-sweat-soaked shirt wrapped tight around Slater’s shoulder. ‘Not exactly amateur.’

  ‘I’m not grouping Vince into that category,’ Slater said. ‘He impressed me.’

  A pause.

  Slater said, ‘We have to assume there’s a tactical team slinking around. Walcott doesn’t seem like that type of guy to cut corners in that regard. I wonder where they are right now.’

  ‘You worried about the bungalow?’

  ‘I’m worried about Lyla and Caleb. I don’t want to ruin their life completely by taking them with us for temporary protection, but it might be the right call.’

  Behind the jeep, far in the distance, a plume of smoke rose.

  King said, ‘I think we’ve already ruined their life.’

  Slater said, ‘Teddy did. Not us.’

  King pondered that. ‘You know something I don’t?’

  The phone buzzed in Slater’s hand.

  It was Alexis.

  He answered immediately, and got his speculation about the tactical team answered.

  He listened to her speak, noted the level-headedness in her tone, which didn’t exactly gel with the picture she painted for him of the previous hour’s events.

  He said, ‘Are either of you hurt?’

  King’s eyes went wide.

  Slater listened to the response, then said, ‘That’s good. Listen, I’m sure you’re both already all over it, but pack up shop. Get out of that place and lay low. It won’t take us long to have an update for you.’

  He heard an affirmation and hung up.

  King said, ‘What was that?’

  Slater said, ‘A five-man unit stormed the bungalow. They’re all dead.’

  King let out an exhale that had been trapped in his throat for the whole phone call.

  Slater said, ‘I’d wager Dylan Walcott’s awfully low on competent soldiers right now.’

  ‘That gives us some wiggle room.’

  ‘Step on it.’

  King did.

  They gunned it back to Sunrise Park.

  63

  Lyla was waiting for them on the front porch.

  Slater sported a fresh shirt he’d fished from the trunk, but the old one hadn’t moved, still wrapped tight over his wound. She noticed the unusual bulge over his shoulder as they jogged across the lawn toward her.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been shot.’

  He said it so calmly that she didn’t seem to register the full meaning immediately. She nodded, then paled, then said, ‘Oh, dear. Let me have a look at that. I have a first aid kit inside.’

  She shuffled into the dim entranceway, and before they went in King said, ‘We might have a bigger fight ahead. What if it’s worse than you think?’

  For demonstration, Slater lifted his bad arm up until it was horizontal. ‘I’ve still got full function. Adrenaline wouldn’t be suppressing that anymore.’

  King said, ‘I don’t know. You’re tougher than you think.’

  ‘If my arm was dead, no amount of toughness is getting through that.’

  King conceded.

  They went inside.

  Slater heard Lyla fussing over something in the living room, close to irate, and when they rounded the corner Caleb was there, his hair scruffy, still half-asleep.

  He looked up at them, and his eyes widened. The fog of sleep receded, replaced by childlike excitement. ‘Hello again!’

  ‘Hello again,’ Slater said.

  ‘You look bad,’ Caleb said. ‘You’re dirty.’

  Lyla shushed him. She lifted her gaze to King and Slater. ‘I was just telling him to get back to his room.’

  King held out a hand, encouraging calm. ‘It’s alright.’

  Caleb shouted, ‘I ate vegetables!’

  King smiled. ‘That’s good stuff. Did they taste yucky?’

  Caleb nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Sure did. I had asparagus.’

  He made a face like he’d caught a whiff of something putrid.

  King said, ‘Want to know a secret?’

  Caleb nodded with vigour. ‘Oh yeah.’

  King said, ‘Things that taste yucky make you feel good.’

  ‘I don’t feel any different.’

  ‘It takes time. I ate my asparagus for a year straight, and look…’

  He held up an arm and flexed. His bicep was a tight ball of corded sinew.

  Caleb’s eyes went wide again. ‘Wow. So that’s how I’ll look in … a year?’

  King said, ‘You’ll be getting close. Now I’m worried. What if you catch up to me? Next time I come back here you might be able to beat me up.’

  ‘Wow,’ Caleb said again. ‘That’d be cool.’

  ‘Now, Caleb, the adults need to talk. If you go to your room like your Grandma’s asking, I’ll tell you another secret later.’

  He practically sprinted for the bedroom.

  Lyla waited for the door to slam, and then shook her head.

  King said, ‘What is it?’

  When she looked up she was smiling, but it was a smile pulled from the depths of misery, which made it infinitely more important.

  She said, ‘You’ll make a great dad one day.’

  For some reason it got to King. Broke through the chaos of the last couple of days, went deep into his core, and resonated there. He didn’t let it show, but it took more effort than he thought to suppress it.

  She said, ‘I don’t know why he listens to you and not Teddy.’

  King said, ‘Kids have an inbuilt bullshit detector. I bet Teddy doesn’t eat his vegetables like he says he does.’

  The ridiculousness of it all made her laugh. Then the laugh petered out, and she slumped to the sofa like the life had been sucked out of her.

  Slater brought them back on track. ‘He called.’