“I think I saw a body over there,” she said, pointing toward the darkest part of the mangrove stand. “A dead body. Go now!”
As the man disappeared back into the marina office, Jessica kicked off her shoes and sprinted down the parking lot after the Hummer.
Onlookers started to emerge from other parts of the marina. Another security guard, driving a golf cart, appeared from around a corner. Jessica hysterically pointed back toward the docks. “They need help! That way!” The golf cart sped off.
A carbon-black and cherry-red Kawasaki Ninja suddenly veered toward her. A crotch rocket, she thought. Perfect. Jessica waved both her arms and the motorcycle came to a violent stop right in front of her.
“There’s been an accident! They need help!” she cried, pointing behind her. The rider yanked off his helmet. His blond buzz cut, muscular build, and thick neck told Jessica immediately that he was an athlete or ex-military. “What, lady?” he squinted at her. “What are you saying? Are you okay?”
“There!” she shrieked. “Give me your helmet. They need you there!” She kept pointing behind her.
The man thrust his helmet into her grasp and ran in the direction of the dock. Jessica took a deep breath, composed herself, then slid the helmet on her own head. She carefully tightened the chin strap, mounted the Ninja, and slipped the old man’s cell phone into her bra. Jessica twisted the throttle grip twice, feeling the vibrations of the racing engine surge through her body. Then she kicked down on the gearshift and zoomed off.
Once she cleared the marina gate, Jessica leaned into a tight turn toward the main road. She righted the bike and assessed her options. Where’d you go in such a hurry, Ricky? Then she saw a sign for the highway, I-595 West. That’s it.
Jessica rocketed up the highway on-ramp. She weaved carefully through traffic, keeping her eyes far ahead. After a few minutes, she spotted the school-bus-yellow Hummer cruising in the far left lane. Jessica eased the Ninja behind a black SUV in the same lane a few vehicles back.
She tailed Ricky at a safe distance for fifteen miles until he followed the highway onto the Everglades Parkway. He was taking Alligator Alley, the flat road that cuts across the vast swamps of southern Florida. Where the hell are you going, Ricky Green?
Jessica dropped farther back as the traffic lightened, just enough to keep Ricky’s taillights in view. Soon, they were deep into the Everglades, an endless horizon of pitch-black nothingness on both sides.
The hypnosis-inducing road left her alone with her thoughts . . . On the orders of the Deputy Director of Operations, Jessica had gone to Marathon in the Florida Keys to figure out what happened to The Big Pig and the four American fishermen. She had traced Ricky Green and the seized fishing boat back to Ruben Sandoval, but then . . . nothing. She hit a dead end. She had Sunday back at Langley still digging. Then, out of the blue, her husband called to ask her to go to the fund-raiser for Brenda Adelman-Zamora to look for any clues linking the congresswoman to Sandoval. And, of all people, Ricky Green turns up at the party! Did that make sense? Was Ricky the connection between Adelman-Zamora and Sandoval?
She should call Judd and tell him what she knew. But Jessica also knew she couldn’t tell her husband what had just happened—that she had almost gotten killed while doing his favor, that she had wrecked a powerboat, that she was now on a racing motorcycle, chasing a man who’d shot at her, into the deepest swamps of South Florida while a total stranger was watching their children. No, she couldn’t tell Judd anything until she knew more. Until she knew where this was all headed. What was she really dealing with? Who was Ricky Green? And what the hell was 2506?
37.
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, 8:46 P.M.
Sunday set down his phone and checked the clock on his classified computer screen. His assessment of potential links between Iran and underground Somali banking networks was due by midnight if a summary was going to make it to the Director of National Intelligence’s morning briefing. He had promised his boss that he’d have something for the DNI on time. He had never missed a deadline.
Sunday had been nearly finished and starting to dream about finally climbing into bed when his phone had rung. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but the 305 South Florida area code was enough of a coincidence that he answered. It was Jessica Ryker with an urgent request.
Sunday had listened carefully to the Purple Cell leader. When she was done speaking, he set aside his DNI project, forgot about sleep, and opened a new window on his computer. Figuring out if “2506” meant anything relevant should have been easy. A search of the CIA databases should have turned up the answer in a few minutes. But today . . . nothing. He rubbed his eyes. It was almost as if he were being deliberately blocked from the Agency’s archives. Or were the records stripped?