CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The men moved quickly, their age not slowing their soldier reflexes by much. They picked up rifles that were stacked in a corner of the great room. I hadn’t noticed them before because a tapestry was draped over them, giving the appearance of just another piece of furniture. I unzipped the duffel and passed the M4s and Glocks to Jock and Logan.
The men and J.D. moved to prearranged positions. Apparently they’d planned for this before we got to the island.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Doc picked up the TV remote control and pointed at the large flat-screen monitor hanging on the wall at the end of the room. Pictures came up, greenish looking squares covering the screen. “Those are the security cameras operating with night-vision technology,” Doc said. “Each screen covers a quadrant of our little island. They overlap so we don’t have any blind spots. If the intruders get closer, they’ll cross the next line of defense and a siren will go off and floodlights will come up.”
“What do you want us to do?” Jock asked.
“Sit tight for now. We’ve got all the lines of fire covered. If we need to shoot, we’re in good shape.”
Nothing moved on the screen. Maybe it was some kind of animal, an innocent incursion. Then I saw movement, a man crawling up from the beach. He was wearing black and in the eerie glow of the night-vision lenses, it looked like neoprene. A wet suit. He must have swum in and now was moving quietly toward the house. I pointed him out to Doc.
“I see him,” said Doc. “Everybody stay quiet. There’s only one man. Somebody is probing our defenses. Let’s not give anything away.”
We watched for a couple more minutes as the man made his way closer to the house. The old soldiers stood quietly, positions manned, rifles at the ready. It was the infantryman’s lot. Hurry up and wait. The fire discipline ingrained in them so many years before was still there. They watched the man on the beach come onto the lawn slithering through the grass.
“We need to find out who he is,” said Jock.
Doc nodded. “He’s getting close to the point that sets off the lights and siren.”
“I’ll go,” said Jock. “I don’t want the alarms to spook him.”
“Want company?” I asked.
“No. Better if I go alone.” He moved to the door on the opposite side of the house from where the intruder was working his way toward us. He pulled a black windbreaker from a peg at the entrance, put it on over his jeans and white shirt, zipped it to his chin, and let himself quietly out the door.
I turned back to the TV monitor. The intruder was still making his way slowly toward the house. Moments passed. The room was quiet, all attention focused on the man in the wet suit. He was crawling toward a depression in the lawn, a swale, used to direct excess rainwater toward the sea. He had just reached the lip of the swale when an arm reached out and encircled the man’s throat. He was pulled violently into the depression, Jock’s forearm never leaving his throat. Within seconds the intruder went limp. Dead? Knowing Jock, I doubted it. He’d want information.
Jock hoisted the limp body onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and walked toward the house. Doc went to the nearest door and let him in. Jock brought the man to one of the sofas and tossed him like so much linguine onto the cushions. I got a look at the intruders face. He was Caucasian. I was surprised that he wasn’t Asian.
“He’ll wake up in a few minutes,” said Jock.
“He’s not Vietnamese, that’s for sure,” said Fleming. “Any ID on him?”
Jock ran his hands over the wet suit. “Nothing but a cell phone in a waterproof bag.”
“Let me see that,” said J.D. Jock handed it to her. She opened the phone and pushed a couple of buttons, looked closely and said, “This is probably a disposable phone. There’s only one number programmed into it and that’s on speed dial.”
The intruder was stirring on the sofa, his eyes open and trying to focus. Jock slapped him gently in the face, once, twice. The man shook his head and then his eyes focused on the armed men in the room.
“Who are you?” asked Jock.
The man just stared, lips pressed tightly together, and shook his head.
“Do you speak English?” Jock asked.
The man shook his head again.
Jock turned to Doc. “Take this piece of shit out back and shoot him. He can’t help us.”
Doc reached for the intruder’s arm. The man shook him off, sat up. “Wait,” he said. “I speak English.” There was a slight hint of the islands in his voice, the way that many of the white Bahamians speak, more American than Caribbean, but distinctive.
“What are you doing crawling around on my island in the dark?” asked Doc.
“Can’t tell you that,” the man said.
Jock put a nine-millimeter pistol to the guy’s forehead, right in the middle, just inches above the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to ask you some questions, dipshit, and you’re going to answer them or I’m going to kill you where you sit.”
“That wouldn’t be very smart,” said the intruder.
Jock laughed. “Smart or dumb, you’re still dead.”
“I’m an officer in the Bahamian Defense Force,” he said. “My people are waiting for me to call,” he said. “If they don’t hear from me,” he paused, looked at the large chronometer on his wrist, “in ten minutes, they’re going to storm this island with heavy weapons. One of our boats is just offshore.”
“Yeah,” said Jock, “and I’m Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise.”
The man on the sofa stared at Jock. He wasn’t afraid, or if he was, he didn’t show it. “You guys don’t want to get into this. Running drugs is one thing. Killing a Bahamian military officer is a much bigger deal. You won’t leave this island alive.”
Jock removed the pistol from the man’s forehead. “Drugs?” he asked. “You think we’re running drugs?”
J.D. stepped in front of the man, holding her ID case so that he could see. “I’m a detective in Longboat Key, Florida. What makes you think we’re running drugs?”
“A boatload of men comes into our country without clearing customs and ends up on this island. A couple of days later a private jet lands at our airport and clears customs. But they don’t declare a large duffel bag that could hold weapons. An airport worker sees them sneaking the duffel off the plane. They rent a boat and come to the same island where the people on the boat landed. What would you think, Detective?”
“A fair assumption,” J.D. said. “How do we verify your identity?”
“Call Chief Constable Bram Gilmore at the Marsh Harbour police station. He’s aware of our operation.”
Doc went to the phone, looked up a number in the book, dialed it, and asked to speak to Gilmore. The conversation was short. Doc hung up, turned to the intruder. “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Thomas Llewellyn.” He pronounced it “leftenant,” in the British fashion.
“He’s legit,” said Doc. “Can I get you a drink, leftenant?”