

Blinkered

Simon M Gray

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Simon M Gray

http://www.simonmgray.com

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Chapter 1

A window blind quivered. Fly debris trembled on strands of old web as long fingers probed the slats. Hooded, dispassionate eyes surveyed the couple, holding hands as they came up the front path.

"Is this it?" A woman's penetrating voice.

A key scraped into the lock.

"Not sure," the front door opened, "matches the details I suppose," the man's voice echoed in the wide entrance hall, covering the soft click of a door closing. "That agent who gave us the key...very dodgy if you ask me."

"Well it's the right key," she said

"Couldn't write either," he held up a sheet of paper, focusing. "Does that look like our name?"

"Stop moaning."

A lizard raced across the floor and disappeared behind the first riser to the stairway. White marble; the grey swirls like dirty glacial crevices, flowed either side in wide corridors to the rear. Two jardinières stood guard with helmets of angel trumpet flowers cascading over their ornamental edges. The scent of jasmine filled the humid air. They held hands and stopped briefly to smell the flowers.

Their sandals clicked across the expansive living area to the tall glass windows. Beyond was a wooden deck, a kidney shaped swimming pool, a splash of vivid green lawn, palm trees fringing a strip of white sand and then the turquoise sea.

"Oh that's breathtaking," she cried. "How much?"

The man angled the paper to the light, frowned, and patted his shorts.

"They're on your head darling," she said without looking round.

Her husband, for forty-five years, mumbled as he searched the information and just before her patience ran out, announced, "two hundred and fifty thousand dollars but the agent said they would take an offer,' he glanced back at the view, 'at least that's what I thought he said."

"It's the best we've seen," she said.

He smiled and stroked her slightly sunburnt arm.

For a moment, they stood quietly holding hands, their bodies framed by the bright sunlight, leaning towards one another, like two weathered statues. Absently, she took off her hat and started to fan her face. A rhythmic creak of woven straw in the silence. She turned and glanced up at the motionless ceiling fans. "Phew it's hot. Let's make this the last and get back to the hotel pool. Go and look at the cellar. It might be ideal for a workshop."

She heard him groan as he tugged at the door under the stairs. Would she ever get used to the heat? She pulled herself up the last few steps to the first floor, her hands slippery on the handrail. Her heart thudded as she rested on the landing. "Perhaps we should only consider bungalows," she gasped.

The floors were bare wood, which she didn't like but guessed were more practical in the tropics than carpeting. The master bedroom occupied a third of the area and her footsteps echoed as she walked through the sparsely furnished room to the louvered double doors and a balcony. Two fishermen were the only sign of human life. They were standing in their canoes hauling in nets, the image shimmering in the heat. Neighbouring houses were obscured behind lush foliage, sprinkled with crimson flowers.

The swaying palm fronds sounded like rain.

A pair of white tailed tropicbirds edged toward her on the handrail. Their courage faltered and they scuttled back to the far corner. She smiled but an image of the birds they loved to feed in their garden back home filled her with sadness. Could she leave everything? The family? At their age? What about Bill? He so loved his garden and his shed. It would be too hot here. What would he do all day? - rummage around in some gloomy cellar doing his woodwork.

The tropicbirds flew to the deck below. She sighed. House hunting on holiday was becoming an obsession, aggravated by the short grey days of long winters back home. Each time they went home laden with brochures, destined to gather dust in the loft.

Where was that old fool? Two days looking at property was enough, she decided. Tomorrow, they would take the ferry to one of the outlying islands Bill wanted to visit.

"Bill," she called as she made her way down stairs. The front door was open and sunlight highlighted dusty footprints. "Bill," she shrilled, resting at the bottom. "Silly bugger hasn't switched on his hearing aid," she moaned.

The cellar door was open. "Come on," she listened for a second and then stomped down the rough wooden steps. It was not how she imagined. The house rested on concrete pillars, with woven reed screens filling the gap, emitting slithers of daylight. The floor was uneven earth and a low wattage light hung from the centre beam.

Her sight was adjusting to the gloom when the man emerged from under the stairs. He crossed in two flowing strides. She thought it was Bill. The iron bar thudded against her temple. Splitting her skull. She collapsed, dust rising about her floral patterned skirt. Her eyes remained open, a lifetime draining from the green irises like emptying pools; the cracks of sunlight blinked out like a city power cut. For a second of clarity, she realised she had fallen next to her husband, his unseeing eyes stared directly at her; glasses half off his nose, a thin line of blood across his forehead. Her last action on earth - she stretched out her hand and tightly clenched his fingers.

Chapter 2

The DB9 howled in third as Cayden inched up to the rear bumper.

The early morning traffic was light, which heightened his frustration. Finally, the dozing driver saw him. The Aston Martin passed in a turbine-like whine and blast from exhausts.

Fog ahead. Cayden flicked on the lights, thrilled with the sense of flying through the low blanket of cloud. The traditional blend of Connolly leather, Wilton carpet and brushed aluminium cocooned him in invincible luxury. The sleek body appeared in a flash of silver. A pale blue winter sky heightened his sense of well being and the speed crept up to one hundred and twenty. Drivers flashed their lights. Motorway cuttings \- steep grassy banks white with frost - passed like an Olympic Luge run.

His hands rested lightly on the wheel, listening to the financial news on a local radio station. The chevron signs appeared for his exit. Three, two, one - he flicked down through the gears. The engine bellowed with each downshift. He took the roundabout like a slalom mark and plunged into the suburban streets of Havant.

Collection day; black refuse bags formed pyramids against gates and fences, several ripped open by foxes during the night. A debris field of plastic containers and cellophane wrappers, whirled in the vortices and turbulence of passing vehicles.

He tapped his fingers on the leather wheel, stopped behind a bus, absently watching a mum scrape frost from her car, while her two children, bloated in thick jackets, ran circles in their small front garden, their trainers making tracks in the grass. The bus stopped again after a few metres, at a pedestrian crossing.

An elderly man in a grey trench coat crossed with a reluctant Jack Russell. More mums started to emerge from the rows of identical semis. How did they manage? He glanced at his watch. It was seven-thirty and they were already on the school run. No wonder the kids were wrapped up. They were going to have to stand in the playground shivering for an hour, while their mothers desperately rushed on to the office for eight thirty. He wondered how many of these women actually appreciated the twenty-first century lifestyle so proudly engineered for them by the generation before. He bet the majority would still prefer to be in their dressing gowns, waving the little buggers goodbye as they ran down the road to catch a bus \- having already seen their husbands off for the day. A bread van had stopped on double yellow lines outside a newsagent. Posters advertising local charity events and the next car boot sale covered the iron barred windows. The Pakistani owner leant in the doorway, chatting to the driver, both unconcerned with the congestion. The bus squeezed through but the gap was quickly blocked. Rich bastard can bloody well wait, he could see written in their expressions.

"Come on," he drummed his fingers on the wheel. He should not have allowed Rachel to cook breakfast. Cayden adjusted the seatbelt. He knew it wasn't the breakfast making his stomach ache. This was it – the company was facing a critical stage in its history. Everything had to be right and this mornings meeting was the start.

Eventually he picked up the signs for the Hamble and twenty minutes later turned right into an industrial park. Beyond ranks of yachts and powerboats frozen to their winter cradles, he could see gulls whirling above the estuary mud.

The road ended in a roundabout and the sight, as it did every morning, filled him with pride. In the centre of the grass island in black lettering - Tomahawk Powerboats - above the marble plinth, a third scale bronze model of their best selling boat, the Tomahawk Firestorm, ringed with flags representing customers' nationalities.

Litter swirled around the base of the United States flagpole.

He drove slowly to the security gate. A uniformed guard stepped from the hut as the barrier rose.

"Morning Mr.Callejon," he called.

The electric window glided down. "I'm sick of telling you to pick up the rubbish John."

"Certainly Mr.Callejon," the old man said cheerfully, stepping back smartly as the tyres squealed away.

The site began with a modern two-storey building of grey steel and black glass. The building stretched back to the taller assembly sheds that fronted the River Hamble, which were in turn, connected to a complex of supply sheds and storage areas. The whole site covered four acres including the rows of new and used Tomahawks in the sales park and a courtyard of renovated nineteenth century boat sheds selling merchandise.

Cayden Callejon noted the full car park. He knew of several mothers who would have dropped their children off early to make sure they were in by eight.

He parked in his reserved bay, switched off and climbed out, grimacing and stretching his lower back. He leant on the roof and breathed in the crisp, salty air. He heard the gulls before a truck drowned their cries, its flat bed trailer dwarfed by the Tomahawk swathed in white protective plastic, orange lights flashing, the driver leaning from the cab window to manoeuvre the oversized cargo under the barrier. Cayden hated the clean me sign someone had written in the dirt on the door. He was risking everything, trying to keep Tomahawks at the forefront of the industry. Why couldn't the rest of them help by at least making sure the bloody trucks were clean?

He collected his tie, jacket and briefcase from the boot. As he passed through the revolving doors, he glanced back at the Aston Martin. The look of it thrilled him like the lines of his boats.

"Morning Mr.Callejon," the receptionist called brightly, straightening her navy blazer as she stood. The gold badge of the company logo caught the reflection from a ceiling light.

"Morning," Cayden grunted.

Showcases depicting Tomahawk's twenty-five year history ran along one wall. A visitor sat on a sofa wearing a dark, knee length, leather coat. He was athletic looking, with olive coloured skin. He had a pair of black sunglasses pushed up into his slicked back hair. He looked up from a magazine as Cayden walked by. Cayden nodded a greeting. The man stared coldly. Cayden frowned as he swiped his identification card and pushed through the door into a large atrium that dominated the centre of the building. Arab's were big customers but a lot of them were bloody rude. The cafeteria and its seating area were located in the middle under a high glass dome with two levels of offices surrounding the four sides. An open stairway led up to the second level.

As Cayden went up the stairs two at a time, he returned greetings to staff gathered near the coffee stand. At the top, he straightened and eased the muscles in his back again. It seemed to be worse than usual. Annoyance arrowed his eyebrows when he passed the darkened office for one of his key members for the 8:30 meeting. Not today. Please don't let me down today.

He banged open the next door and his assistant lurched back in her chair, trying to prevent coffee spilling down her blouse.

"Bollocks," Cayden growled. "Sorry." He walked past to his own corner office. "Have you heard from my brother?"

She appeared at the door, dabbing a tissue at a few dark spots. "No."

"Bastard, if he does it to me today..."

"Do you want some coffee?"

Something in her tone made him look up from scanning the letters on his desk. Carol knew his moods better, particularly when it came to his brother. "Thanks. And Tylenol. Have I marked your blouse?" he pulled up the collar on his shirt and started to put on his tie as he read a fax from their agent in Florida. He heard the kettle ping next door and moments later Carol appeared with a mug of black coffee. "Tylenol?"

"Yes boss," she said opening the palm of her hand.

Cayden took them without looking up.

Carol brushed a strand of dark hair from her face. "I've typed up the agenda and R and D have put the Blade model in the conference room."

"Thanks. Have you heard from Jac on this?" he held up a fax.

She shook her head. "There's an e-mail too. Randy's not a happy bunny."

Cayden rubbed his cropped hair as he re-read the message. Carol remained at the door. Finally, he threw it down on his desk and sat heavily. "Get Jac on his mobile. This is bollocks. Tell him if he doesn't make the Blade meeting, he's fired."

Cayden pushed up his tie and then loosened the top button. He eased the strain around his belt as he read the rest of the mail on his desk between quick sips of coffee. The financials were in from production on the Blade and the moulding costs looked high. There was also a quote from Volvo on the engines. It was ten percent over budget.

The Blade \- a name for a beautifully designed hull slicing through the world's oceans or because the future of the company rested on the knife-edge of its success?

The final piece of paper was from the bank financing the new project. They had agreed several months ago to the loan at a quarter percent over base, which he had worked hard to get. The letter was asking for signed agreements guarantees concerning their rights in respect to the other banks that Tomahawk dealt with.

Cayden rolled his shoulders. The Blade was beautiful, fast, with innovative technology. The pre-launch publicity had been excited but until they started selling, there was no proof. It was a new departure for them, from high performance racers to fast cruisers. The largest Blade model would be one hundred feet long, nearly twice the length of anything the yard had produced before; it had required new sheds, new tooling, and new work practices. Cayden clenched his stomach. He was putting everything on the line. A year of planning had drained down to a few weeks before the start of production, Cayden drummed his fingers on the desk, making notes.

"I can't get hold of Jac," Carol said

Cayden hit the desk, glanced at his watch. Five minutes before the meeting.

Fuck it, Jac was meant to be director of sales. When was he going to start behaving like it? "That's it. He's fired."

He heard the growing murmur of voices from the conference room next door. He sensed their anticipation in the quickness of their voices, the excitement in their laughs as someone finished a joke. They were proud to be working for the top company in the industry.

His company, Cayden thought with vehemence, throwing aside thoughts of his younger brother, he stood abruptly, hooking his jacket off the back of the chair.

Carol appeared balancing another mug of coffee on two box files. Her black framed glasses had slipped down her nose and the end of her tongue pointed between red lips with concentration. Cayden took two quick strides and retrieved the mug.

"That for me?"

"Yep," Carol said slipping the files back in with the others. She turned and pushed the glasses up her nose and studied him for a moment. "One of Rachel's choices?

Cayden looked down at his black and silver tie. He fingered the silk absently. "Has to be, I haven't been near a shop for two years."

"Well it suits you sir,' Carol winked, "Rachel certainly knows what looks good on her man."

Cayden shrugged, irritated as usual with the implied assumption - just because they happened to be in a relationship. Carol was happily married, with two grown children and efficient at her job. He appreciated her for that but bridled at her intrusiveness. He had been with Rachel for three years and as far as Carol was concerned, Rachel was definitely the one for him.

"Scowl all you like," she said breezily. "All I know, you dressed like a tramp before, now I hear you're quite the office pin-up," She smiled as his scowl deepened. "Well of course your brother is still tops on the George Clooney look-a-like list, but if you lost a bit of weight, stopped scowling the whole time, who...."

"Yes, all right Carol," Cayden said waving her away. He walked towards the door that led to the conference room. "Could you set up a meeting with Volvo this afternoon? I've scribbled some notes on the Lloyds letter; use them as a reply to their concerns?"

He looked back. His hand rested on the handle.

"She's one in a million you know."

"Have that ready to sign when I come out," Cayden bowed sarcastically and went into the conference room.

Chapter 3

Winter trees mirrored in the still water; twisted black fingers against a fragile blue sky. Rows of buoyed yachts, their decks layered with frost, dazzling in the morning sun, nodded from the wake. Their stiff halyards clacked against masts and their bows chaffed at the mooring lines. Like white horses eager to be under way, they waited patiently for summer when their owners would return and take them down river to the sea.

The man adjusted his sunglasses. Last night's girl between his arms; long slim legs squeezed his waist, hands linked behind his neck. She was naked except for a pair of black leather boots and a silk white blouse, open, revealing small breasts, nipples hard with a combination of arousal and cool air in the covered cockpit. He admired the ripple of muscle on her stomach as she moved her hips. Her head flung back, soft strands of hair brushing his hands clenching the wheel.

"Is that good?" she repeated between yelps of pleasure. He was beginning to wonder. His neck hurt, they had been at it all night, and he felt drained.

What was her name? He tried to remember while attempting to stimulate himself by watching his hardness push between the moist folds of her pale, hairless labia. He dropped a hand and squeezed one hard buttock. She groaned, tossing her head, her internal muscles massaging his desultory thrusts. She was faking it. No one could have that many orgasms, could they? Eventually, her wild movements had the desired effect and to his surprise, his body responded. An orgasm of relief, like getting to a toilet after a long queue.

Kylie. Was her name Kylie? She was certainly young enough. Early twenties? Her friends at the bar had said that they were student nurses or doctors from Southampton Hospital. Anyway, he was pleased with his over-thirty performance.

"Amazing," she said sliding off him and running her fingers across his lips. "That was sooo... awesome!" she squeezed his fading erection and pushed it back into his boxer shorts before zipping up his trousers.

Jac Callejon glanced ahead and realised sadly that they had not talked much. He knocked the throttles forward and his Firestorm reared her nose a degree. Another empty coupling. For what? More guilt and his brother's anger.

"That was my first on a boat," Kylie giggled.

It was the first for him too. Usually he commuted by motorbike.

Jac could see the boatyard cranes above the trees and the weak sun haloed by high cirrus. The weather would have changed by lunchtime. On the mud banks, wading birds scuttled between skeletal remains of wooden hulls. Black and white oystercatchers suddenly took flight, their high piping calls reached him above the growl of the engines.

"Get some clothes on, we'll be there in a minute."

She pouted. "Couldn't you take the day off? I don't have any studies today."

Jac picked up his mug from the holder next to his seat and drained the last of the lukewarm coffee. "No. Get dressed otherwise you'll give some of the old fitters a heart attack."

She stood on her toes and kissed him hard. He swallowed his coffee with difficulty. He counted five while her lips twisted over his, her tongue forced its way into his mouth. When their teeth clicked, he pushed her away. "Get dressed," he said, trying to smile.

She stepped back, pouted, and then flounced down the companionway to the cabin. She really did have a toned body, Jac thought, as he watched her bottom disappear down the steps.

"What do you do anyway?" she called up to him after a while. "Do you like... help build these things or something?"

"Something like that," Jac said. They cleared the bend. Their wash, collapsing on the banks, startled ranks of seagulls into the air. Pontoons snaked out to the river, securing the more expensive boats. Others were left on weed-covered buoys that dried out at low tide, revealing green and brown-stained hulls. Smart riverside houses with neat winter lawns and covered swimming pools gave way to quiet boatyards and clusters of small warehouses. The Tomahawk complex appeared the only profitable organisation, monopolising a quarter of a mile of riverbank, fronted with industrial workshops and moulding sheds; the quayside crammed with hulls in various stages of production. Jac manoeuvred alongside the company pontoon. Yard workers recognised his boat. Two of them leapt aboard and secured the lines.

"Thanks lads," Jac shouted switching off the engines and heaters. He went below and found the girl in the bathroom cubicle, applying lipstick.

"I've got to run. Will you be OK finding reception?"

She lowered the lipstick and regarded him in the mirror. "Is that it then?"

"No... of course not. I'm late. I'll call you later." Jac backed out and retrieved his jacket from the bed.

"Perhaps I'll just hang out here for a while and like... wait for you on your lunch break."

Jac glanced at his watch. "Not a good idea. The guys are taking this out to change the props." He looked at her standing in the doorway, her hair needed brushing and he could see that she wasn't a natural blond. She looked crestfallen and very young. When was he going to learn?

He turned and leapt up the companionway to the rear deck. He unzipped the cover and stepped out onto the pontoon.

"Mornin' Mr.Callejon," the elder one called.

Jac punched him lightly on the arm and smiled brightly. "I have a guest on board. Let her get off before you take her out will you."

Steps from the pontoon led up to the oldest area of the boat yard. This was where the business had started; a cobbled square of wooden sheds. His brother had them converted, when he took over the business. Now they were fashionable boutiques, selling designer clothing and jewellery, sunglasses, watches, cameras and the latest electronic equipment and gizmos. All new Tomahawk owners were encouraged to visit to make sure they had the latest accessories to compliment their investment. The owner of the most profitable and largest boutique was getting out of her SLK when Jac appeared.

He ran over and hugged her. "You're looking as sexy as ever."

"I thought you had an eight thirty meeting?"

He pulled back, his eyebrows arched.

"Cayden's not going to be happy Jac. You know how much stress he's under at the moment." "Everything's going to be fine," Jac said grinning widely. "He should stop worrying about Tomahawk and look after what's really important. You."

Rachel looked away.

"When are you going to get married, have kids," he asked holding her hand.

"You better run Jac. He has Tomahawk and you have enough for the family."

Jac's grin faltered. He turned and half waved before disappearing behind the corner of the building.

They looked different and behaved so differently, hard to believe that they could be of the same blood, Rachel thought pulling her briefcase from the boot. As she slammed the lid shut, a timid voice said hello behind her.

She turned and stared coolly at the young woman at the top of the steps. This was another source of Cayden's frustration, Jac's constant pursuit of young women. Cayden had asked her whether he should mention therapy as a solution but she had persuaded him that the suggestion might not be appreciated.

"You lost?" Rachel said.

The girl zipped up a leather jacket and ran a hand through her hair. "I need to find reception."

Rachel beckoned her to follow and they went up to her office above the boutique. It was unwise for her to walk through the yard and disastrous for Jac if she found out his position in the company, so she ordered a taxi and made her a coffee while they waited.

There had been trouble last year when one of his conquests decided that life would be improved if coupled to Jac's chequebook. First she had tried to make out she was pregnant, then she had stood outside the entrance to the offices shouting for him and crying at anyone who would listen, even at one stage laying down in the road. She had only disappeared when Jac, in desperation, bought her a new car.

Rachel was relieved to discover that his latest seemed more pragmatic, already coming to the realisation that her chances of seeing him again were remote. Hopefully, another one was about to quietly slip off the radar.

The taxi arrived and Rachel made sure the driver knew where the student accommodation building was at the hospital. She was twenty-two and more than capable of giving directions but Rachel did not want to risk her being dropped off in some bad part of town looking like a bedraggled Kate Moss.

As she watched the taxi bounce across the cobbles, she wondered if Cayden had the same weakness as his brother. Then she shrugged. He was far to dedicated to Tomahawk to satisfy the average woman's needs. It had taken her a long time to love him, particularly to navigate through his obsession. But as a business owner herself, she could appreciate the struggle and determination it took. It was just a question of waiting for his feelings to surface. Her patience was slowly being rewarded - he now listened to her, asked advise, allowed her to make decisions on his house, said we instead of I, had taken her on several romantic weekends, remembered most of the important dates, had bought her flowers – twice, was relaxed enough to have a pillow fight – once, and make love in the garden – three times. Although she knew she would always have to share him with the business, she definitely felt included. She also loved his lack of self-awareness but then he was handsome enough not to have to try very hard.

Rachel's manager asked her to help go through the order that had arrived for Patel, their biggest customer for the month. He had bought five Firestorms for various members of his family and wanted each of them to have the right clothing. They checked colour and design, ensuring the Tomahawk logo was sewn on correctly. Finished, Rachel suddenly rushed upstairs exclaiming she had forgotten to confirm a reservation at the Thai Restaurant. It was three years since they had met at the London Boat Show. Some things she could certainly not rely on Cayden remembering.

********

They were underpaid, but enthusiastic and very committed. Cayden studied them as he half listened to their pre-launch reports for the Blade. The news from Randy in Florida was worrying. If there was a problem, then that could seriously affect the launch. And if it was as serious as Randy's e-mail indicated, then it could postpone the launch, which would bankrupt him.

Cayden straightened in his chair, trying to concentrate. This was his sales and marketing team and as far as he was concerned, the life blood to the company. Tina was the oldest at thirty-six, the regional sales manager for the Mediterranean. She had until recently, sold more Tomahawks than anyone else in the company's history, but last month she had been over-taken by Randy in Florida. She had beaten Cayden's record long ago, and his brother's, last year. She was vibrant, energetic and highly desirable, the perfect image. She ran their office in Marbella with an efficiency Cayden admired. An admiration that had pushed him towards attempting a closer working relationship three years ago, only to find to his dismay - and embarrassment, that she was a committed lesbian. Cayden felt a shiver of embarrassment at the memory and stretched his shoulders. Tina was discussing her concerns that production was not going to meet the forecasted demand for the Blade. She turned to Cayden. There was a glint in her eyes.

Cayden frowned. "I agree it's tight for the first six months but stick to our strategy of first come first served, provided they pay the twenty percent deposit. The only proviso being multiple orders or any of our regulars. They must take priority. The rest will wait, just keep them posted on delivery dates. Be honest, even if it's two years."

"But Cayden, can't we increase production by taking some men off other lines?"Tina said

The door banged back on its hinges. "Sorry I'm late," Jac smiled around the table. He rested a hand on Tina's shoulder as he walked by. "Looking as beautiful as ever."

She flicked a curl of dark hair off her shoulder and smiled at him sarcastically.

Jac stuck his tongue out.

"Jim that Patel order was fantastic. Sorry I haven't been able to get back to you on it."

"Thanks Jac," the young man looked down at his hands smiling.

"You're late," Cayden put down a folder with exaggerated care. The room was still. Cayden's eyes were narrow slits and the good humour slipped from the young faces around him. "We've been discussing the production figures."

Jac glanced around the table. "I am so excited about this boat. Look at her," he jabbed a finger at the model displayed on the table, avoiding his brother's gaze. "She's magnificent. Juliano your team has come up with a real winner. I don't think we have to worry. People will wait years to get their hands on one."

The Italian stroked the dark hair of his goatee, turning away from Cayden. "You like the re-design on the bathing platform?" he said raising an eyebrow, gesturing towards the stern of the model. "It's on hydraulic rams and can be lowered to fully submerged, when at anchor."

Jac clapped Juliano on the back as he leant forward to study the new design. "It solves the problem." He looked at the others.

"Great for stern-to anchorages, getting on and off jet skis... things like that," Tina said twirling a pen in her fingers, "it'll be a big plus for the advertising as well."

As Jac continued to discuss the Blade everyone got to their feet and crowded the model, talking over each other as they enthused about the keen, aggressive styling, especially the raked side windows, its deep sharp forefoot and transom dead-rise of twenty two degrees which they all new, would provide exhilarating performance for such a large boat. Only Juliano and Cayden remained seated. Juliano because he thought it was the coolest thing to do, and Cayden because he was too angry. "Can we get back to the agenda," he said.

When they did not respond Cayden slapped the table and pushed back his chair. He stood and leant on his fists. "We all know it's a good design," he said. "Now stop jabbering about it and get back to how we're going to sell it."

"Sorry Cayden," a few said quietly as they moved back to their seats. The closest moved their chairs a few inches away. Jac sat and leant back with his hands behind his head, regarding his elder brother. Juliano scowled and Tina rested her chin on two elegant fingers while doodling on a page of the report in front of her. He unclenched his fists.

"Move on to the brochure," he said. "The RSM's [Regional Sales Managers] have raised optional extra issues we need to discuss before it goes to print."

Cayden sat and noticed his team was now looking down at the papers in front of them. His gaze finally made contact with Jac across the top of the model. He glared at the tanned face and blue eyes twinkled in reply.

"Tina, go first?" Cayden said.

Four hours later Cayden left the conference room. He did not feel like sharing the sandwiches he had ordered. He left, listening to Jac tell a joke e-mailed to him by a U.S. customer. As he closed the door to his office, there was a shout of laughter. Cayden leant his head against the wood. He had turned the company from bankruptcy twenty-five years ago, into the most successful powerboat builder in Europe. He employed hundreds of people, provided a happy, fulfilling work environment for every one of them. Yet sometimes, he felt just so... bloody unappreciated.

"Heavy meeting?"

Cayden opened his eyes and rubbed his jaw. Carol was standing in the doorway with a Yachting Monthly magazine held in her crossed arms. She finished chewing her sandwich.

"Anything in that fridge of yours? I'm starving," Cayden managed to smile.

"There's a couple of sausage rolls and a tomato, I think."

Cayden went to the floor to ceiling windows behind his desk. He eased the strain in his shoulders by flexing his hands behind his back. He looked across the various sheds to the cranes down by the waterfront, his vision glazed as the problems churned inside him. A cloud of black smoke suddenly ballooned from the exhaust on one of the cranes. He focused on the boat being lifted from the dockside. He could faintly hear the distant below of the engine. Wisps of steam escaped from heating vents on top of the sheds. Must be getting colder he thought. A forklift trundled by followed by a company parts van. He frowned at the roof of the van, streaked with dirt and salt from the roads, he should have a word with transport. Image was everything. Dark clouds hid the horizon, normally scratched with the tall chimneys of the oil refinery at Fawley and the cranes of Southampton docks.

He heard footsteps across the carpet.

"Cheers," he said turning.

Jac stood in front of his desk holding a plate with two sausage rolls and a tomato.

"What the hell do you want?" Cayden said indicating for him to put the plate down.

"I was only fifteen minutes late. Is that really the end of the world?"

Cayden sat heavily. He pulled the plate towards him and bit the end of a roll. "Yeah, I should fire you. We're on a knife-edge and you wander in without a care in the fucking world. It pisses me off that my own brother is the one with the _shit_ attitude. You're meant to be the Sales and Marketing Director. How do you expect them to treat it seriously if you don't?"

"Come on, you couldn't find a more dedicated team."

"Shut-up Jac. They're only dedicated because it's the best bloody company to work for, but then I wouldn't expect you to give a shit about that."

Jac folded his arms. "Bollocks. I work hard for this company, and until very recently sold more than anyone else put together."

"Exactly! You're fucking slipping just when we need to be on top of everything," Cayden pushed the plate away. "I bought you on board because you desperately needed the job. Remember? At least you could be grateful and turn up at damned meetings on time."

Cayden swiveled his chair to look out the window. He wanted to remain angry but it was difficult when facing his brother. He drummed his fingers on the armrest.

"I am grateful," Jac sighed. "You know I am. I owe you, but I don't have to view everything the same way. I have other things in life that are more important."

"Like your bloody women I suppose?" Cayden clenched the armrests.

"Actually I was thinking of the kids."

Cayden remained silent, the muscles in his jaw working. He turned his chair back to face him. Jac smiled but there was sadness in his eyes. Cayden struggled to hold onto his anger.

Jac picked up the folder. "You worry too much. The Blade's a great design, well priced and the world market is buoyant. Ok the U.S. is down, but China, India, the emerging markets, more than make up for it. Which reminds me, we must get out to Hong Kong and shore up our relationship with the distributor. Mr. Feng is going to take over from Randy very soon."

Cayden moved the mouse and watched the screen on his PC come to life. He clicked on the e-mail icon. "Anyway, how come everyone in this company thinks you're bloody marvelous, yet the women you date think you're a bastard?" There were nineteen messages in his inbox. He clicked on the one that immediately caught his attention.

"Perhaps when we become too intense over something we screw it up," Jac said.

Cayden looked up. "What?"

"Well you know. I probably put as much effort into my relationships as you put into this company."

Cayden frowned.

"I'm not saying the company has ever suffered through your dedication, but your intensity does make it fairly difficult to...." Jac stopped because he could tell Cayden was not listening.

Cayden's frown deepened. "Have you spoken recently to Randy?" the anger was back in his voice. He finished reading from the screen and then looked down at the stack of mail. He flicked through the pile, found the fax and threw it over to Jac. "This could threaten everything."

Jac chewed a thumbnail as he read. He glanced up and Cayden nodded at the screen. "This is what his e-mail says _...Dear Cayden, I've not been able to get hold of Jac - this needs urgent attention. Last shipment gives huge concern. Apart from the usual snagging problems that your factory still seems unable to sort out - when are you going to remember that the socket outlets over here are a different shape –_ _round not square_ _– the interiors were_ _crap-holes_ _. We spent_ _two days_ _cleaning. No point wrapping the darn things in plastic to keep the paintwork pretty if the interiors are a mess. Plastic's not damaged so it must leave the factory like this!_ _Not good enough boys_ _. U.S. manufacturers are chomping my ass to get their product in front of my customers. You know I've been loyal to you because I think you're the best but I'm not tolerating this kind of service. I think my company sells enough Tomahawks to warrant a better deal. I look forward to your reply. Randy Royce, Kompass Marine."_

Jac continued to chew his thumbnail.

"That shipment arrived over a week ago. The letter I received was dated last Monday. Today is Wednesday. Why has nothing been done?" Cayden snapped his fingers at Carol as she walked past the door.

"I've been snowed under with the follow ups on Cannes and Southampton and now the Florida Boat Show. No excuse ..."

"Bloody right. Do you have any idea how crippling it would be if the launch of the Blade was delayed by even one week?"

"It slipped through the net."

"What net?" Cayden shouted. "With holes big enough to let this slip through it's no fucking net. Why didn't your P.A. warn you? I thought Carol fixed you up with...?" he clicked his fingers again looking at Carol.

"Fiona," she said smiling at Jac.

"Yeah Fiona. Did she not let you know about this," he shook the letter at him. "She should be fired."

Jac looked embarrassed. "She had to leave."

"Coffee?" Carol said brightly.

Cayden glared at Jac then Carol. Her gaze flicked around the room before resting pointedly back on his coffee mug. "Thank you," he said distractedly, then lowered his head slowly into his hands, "get Randy on the line please Carol."

Cayden looked up. "Let me guess. She left because of personal problems... intimate personal problems?"

Jac grinned sheepishly. "She was bloody attractive and..."

Cayden held up a hand. "You make me sick. I'm running a bloody boat building company and you're treating it like a dating agency."

Jac started to say something and then thought better of it. He leant back in his chair. "What are we going to do?"

" _We_...," Cayden punched his keyboard. " _You're_ going to use that arse licking charm you use on the tarts at the bars you spend your life in, to smooth his feathers and find out what the hell is going on. Something you should have done a week ago."

"Give it a rest..."

"Rest is something we..."

Carol advised them that Randy was on the line and not in a good mood.

Cayden stabbed the speakerphone button and the two of them sat staring at the desktop while Randy told them what he thought of Tomahawks. His frustration heightened by the lack of communication. Cayden and Jac squeezed in excuses, but they sounded feeble. Cayden imagined walking to the other side of the desk and putting his hands around his brother's throat.

Randy Royce had been one of the most successful insurance sales representatives in Louisiana until he had moved to Florida and converted his considerable talents to selling powerboats. His customer service was peerless, and in turn, he expected the same commitment from his suppliers. Even though Tomahawks sold well in the U.S., and Randy knew he had a good deal with the sole distributorship for the eastern seaboard, he was not averse to pushing the relationship. Either side was finely balanced as to who needed whom more.

However, Jac excelled in this situation. Cayden had set up the deal; Jac had developed and grown the relationship by being patient with Randy's sudden outbursts, responsive to his cloying southern charm. They had gone on fishing trips to the Bahamas together and Jac had been invited to his daughter's wedding. Jac eventually managed to calm Randy as he explained the immediate action they planned to take and when he suggested they fly out the following week, Randy was finally mollified.

As soon as the call finished Carol interrupted saying the Volvo Sales Director was in reception.

"So when do you want to go?" Jac asked.

Cayden flicked a page over on his desk diary. "I can move most of these around and we have just said to Randy we'll get out when the next shipment arrives. Provided there are no delays that should be Wednesday." He looked up.

Jac frowned. "I don't have my Blackberry with me. I think the only thing is a parent teacher evening on Tuesday..."

"Well I'll call Randy back and postpone shall I?"

Jac grinned but it did not reach his eyes. "Probably stay out longer though and go over to San Diego and see if I can't gee-up the sales with Pacific Coast Marine."

Cayden shook his head. "How can you talk about parent teacher evenings in one breath and then banging our _married_ Pacific Marine agent, in the next?"

"She's very cute!"

"I think you have a serious problem."

Jac had walked to the door and now leant against the frame. "Talking of relationships I think you should make sure you're home early tonight."

Cayden looked up from his computer screen. "Why?"

"Because Rachel deserves it."

Jac turned away. "Find me another one of those fabulous P.A.'s of yours," he called as he left.

Cayden glanced down at his diary. He had a function to attend that evening hosted by the British Marine Federation. He was their guest speaker. Still he should be home by nine thirty and Rachel had never complained before. He would call her later to let her know.

Cayden massaged his forehead. Could the Firestorms have been vandalised? An act to sabotage his relationship with Randy just before the launch - a market critical to their success. He could think of a number of boat builders he had upset - but would they go that far?

********

Cayden stepped from reception and quickly zipped up his Tomahawk _Polartec_ fleece lined, marine jacket. The sky was grey, filling gaps between buildings with lifeless colour. He walked briskly down the main driveway, acknowledging greetings from a group of men smoking in the shelter of a hull, remembering the name of the older one with stained overalls from the paint shed. A polystyrene packing mold tumbled by, catching under a parked van.

The transport office was an extended port-a-cabin in the second-hand sales yard, opposite a hanger sized finishing shed. Cayden spotted Jac talking to one of the shift leaders on a gantry. Below, was a Brigand, the smallest boat they produced, a twenty-eight or thirty-five foot speedboat, capable of sixty knots.

Cayden un-wrapped a piece of gum and pushed open the door.

A portable gas heater burned fiercely in a corner. The windows ran with condensation. Two drivers were chatting with a coordinator sitting on a stool behind a desk. To the right sat another woman, her fingers stabbed at a keyboard. Cayden could not remember if he had seen her before. She did not look up as he approached.

"Is Burt about?" he asked noting with annoyance that the woman had a cigarette burning in an upturned coffee lid. The office stank and there was a strict no smoking policy in all the buildings.

"Yeah he's wiv' someone at the moment luv'," the woman said continuing to type. She re-read the screen and looked up. Her eyes widened. Spots of colour appeared on the cheeks of her pale, lined face. "Mr.Callejon", she croaked. "Sorry...Burt needed this out before last post."

"Put _that_ out, and tell him I want a word."

The woman crushed the butt, stood, crashing the chair back against the wall and hugged her cardigan tightly around her. "Yeah, 'course Mr.Callejon." She appeared seconds later. "Burt says he'll be wiv' you in one minute Mr.Callejon. Can I get you a cuppa' tea?"

Cayden shook his head. "Tell him I'm out back. Make sure people pay attention to this," he said tapping the red and white _No Smoking_ sign on the glass panel of the door.

He re-zipped his coat, pulling the collar up around his ears. He took a lungful of cold air. He had smoked everyday until ten years ago. He now hated the smell – the stereotypical ex-smoker. There were two tractor units in the parking area. One with its cab tilted forward, allowing two men in Scania overalls to work over the engine. A row of empty low-loader trailers lined the back fence. Cayden walked around the remaining vehicle. It was a year old. These things were expensive to buy but still cheaper than long haul contractors. He was angry with the dirt that obscured the Tomahawk logo on the nearside door. He walked back in front of the cab and was startled to see a figure suddenly by the driver's door.

"Mr.Callejon," the man said nodding, his gaze darting anxiously between the tractor unit and his face.

"Burt, good of you to make the time."

Burt looked at him like a chastised spaniel. "Busy wiv' paperwork Mr.Callejon."

"Really," Cayden said.

Burt Dick - inherited twenty-five years ago from the bankrupt business - a cheap suit collar turned up to fend off the biting wind, turning his usual grey pallor a light pink. He was nearly the same age as Cayden but lines of bitterness had eroded his youth, making him look twenty years older. He maintained a scowl through every emotion. He crossed his arms, hugging his wiry body and nodded towards the office. "Ruth said you wanted to see me Mr.Callejon."

"Where's your jacket," Cayden said. "I asked Carol to make sure all the senior managers had one?"

"I left it in the car."

"Well don't Burt. They were given to cut back on sick days."

Burt glanced down at his shoes and kicked a pebble. It ricocheted from the truck tyre and splashed into a puddle. His trousers were an inch short and flapped around his skinny ankles and white socks. He glanced over at the two Scania men. "Oil warning light," he said.

Cayden nodded. How had Burt got his job? Cayden could never actually remember giving it to him. "Look," He beckoned Burt over and pointed at the door.

Burt scowled. "Can't see that it's damaged," he said finally.

"Look at the state of it. We sell boats worth hundreds of thousands of pounds and we're delivering them on trucks that look as though they've come out of a fucking quarry," Cayden said.

Burt nodded. "Yeah, well the power wash system froze and then a pipe burst. We're waiting for a spare."

Cayden shook his head. "Bollocks, there was a time when you would have had that fixed no matter what. And what about the commercial wash?"

Burt looked down at his shoes and Cayden shook his head. "Sort it out. Let's get back inside there's something else." They started to walk back towards the gate. A man in a black full-length coat walked briskly in front of them towards the visitor car park. It was the person he had seen in reception. They reached the door and Burt held it open. Cayden watched the man disappear behind a sports boat before stepping into the warm fug of the outer office. The woman was back at her computer. The air smelt of cheap air freshener.

"That tea still on offer?"

She leapt up as if suddenly connected to the mains. "'Course Mr.Callejon. How do you take it?"

"White and a sugar," Cayden said.

Burt's office looked like a building site. Oily boot prints stained the carpet, two calendars hung from drawing pins, the engine parts they were advertising lost behind naked women. The desktop was hidden with paper. Three empty coke cans sat in a metal tray labeled _schedules_.

"That man I just saw," Cayden said brushing crumbs off a chair. "Who was he?"

"Which man?" Burt said attempting to stack some of the papers into order.

"The Arab one with the black coat?" Cayden said accepting a chipped mug from Ruth. He took a tentative sip. It tasted of chlorine and was too sweet.

"Oh...yeah...just someone looking for a driving job."

Cayden studied Burt as he stacked paper onto an already unstable tower. He should visit more often. Burt was slipping into some bad habits. He may not have been the most dynamic manager but he had always been neat and conscientious. The trucks had never been dirty before.

"Bit over dressed wasn't he, looked more like a customer than truck driver?"

"Yeah funny that, I said the same but he reckoned we'd appreciate the fact that he cared about his image."

Cayden brushed a hair off his trousers, deflated that Burt sounded so indifferent. "Sounds like our sort of guy," he said looking hard at the man.

"Maybe. I kept his C.V. but we have no vacancies."

Cayden took another sip of tea and grimaced, setting it next to the leaning column of paper. Burt was getting a written warning he decided.

"The shit has hit the fan with the last shipment," Cayden said deepening the lines in Burt's forehead. "It took them two days to clean each boat and then some of the fabric was stained beyond repair. Apparently this is not the first time the condition has been poor but certainly the worse."

Burt looked down at his hands before rubbing them vigorously. "That's not good Mr.Callejon. You don't think its transport?"

"Well judging by the state of the trucks it could be." He held up a hand to ward off Burt's protest. "Have you noticed anything suspicious?"

Burt shrugged. "Nothing's changed with transport Mr.Callejon."

Cayden glared at the top of Burt's head as the man studied his fingernails. His hair was almost grey. He could see shiny pink skin through the thinning, oiled strands. "Well it bloody needs to Burt. I want you to check all our transport procedures and then arrange a meeting."

"I don't see how it can be transport's problem?'

Cayden frowned. "You're in the chain Burt and a link isn't oiled. I'm finding out which one is the problem. I'm talking to everyone, including Black Tug Shipping."

Burt's head jerked up. He snatched up a pen and started drawing circles around the date on his desk diary. "Don't worry about 'em. I'll go over and have a chat."

"No. A chat isn't good enough. A visit by me will shake them up."

"But that's what you pay me for," Burt said, the pen frozen in mid circle.

"There're a lot of things I pay you for. Right now I have reports of Tomahawks arriving in poor condition and I see my trucks covered in crap," Cayden said his jaw clenched.

Burt's mouth snapped shut. He reached across his desk and collected the Coke cans before throwing them into the metal basket beside his desk.

"There's three more on route to the U.S., should be with them by Tuesday. We'll know then if the problem is on-going," Cayden said reaching the door. "Everyone better hope that it's not. If someone is deliberately messing up my boats, they will get more than a firing. I want your report by tomorrow morning."

Cayden's anger had increased. The business was hard enough without someone deliberately trying to sabotage his efforts. He needed a walk to clear his head. It was ten past four and would be dark in half an hour. He was drawn to the bright light spilling across the courtyard from the boutiques. A familiar figure was walking from her car, saw him, and came running across the uneven surface, giving him a fierce hug. "Hey stranger, fancy seeing you here."

Cayden could feel the tip of her cold nose pressed into his neck, smell her perfume.

"How's your day going?" Rachel said.

Cayden rested his chin on her head and looked out over the black water. "I've had better."

Rachel pulled back, her eyes sparkled. "Jac?"

Cayden bent and kissed her forehead. "He didn't help."

She kissed him. "Why don't you call it a day? I've finished here. We could go home together and Monsieur, _I could massage all those troubles away, non_."

Cayden groaned at her terrible accent. "I would love to, but something serious has come up and I need to stay at the yard," he pulled out of her arms.

"Oh come on, a few hours won't make a difference."

"Then I've got that BMF meeting later which I'm speaking at, but I'll be back by nine thirty. _Then Madam, you can massage away_."

He noticed the excitement leave her eyes. The smile faded from the corners of her mouth. Cayden frowned. "What?"

Rachel looked at him for a long moment and then reached forward taking his hand. "Nothing," she said squeezing. "I'll see you later," she turned and walked quickly across the courtyard. Her heals caught in the cracks bending her ankles awkwardly. The light from the boutique outlined her figure, tightly held within a black business suit. She hadn't modeled for seventeen years but retained a _catwalk_ sway.

"Rachel I'll see you later," he called.

She waved over her shoulder.

Her manager came over. "He's forgotten hasn't he?"

Rachel blinked back the tears. She nodded once before looking in her handbag for a tissue.

"He doesn't deserve you."

Rachel dabbed at her eyes. "He's very busy. And anyway it's not as if we're married or anything."

Her manager started to fold some sweaters into a drawer. "Marriage has nothing to do with it. You put a thousand percent into that man. We all think you're crazy, especially when he gives nothing back."

"That's not fair," Rachel said smiling at her friend. "He gives... in his own way. I love him. You know every time I see him I feel like a stupid school girl with her first crush."

"Well I don't think he deserves you."

Rachel sighed. "Ah well. Let's finish up. If I can't lead him to a Thai restaurant then I shall lead the Thai restaurant to him. I'll grab a takeaway and have it ready for him when he gets in.

"You're mad," she said, giving Rachel a hug.

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

********

"And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, I would conclude with a few statistics that support my bullish enthusiasm. Firstly, the export market has grown by ten percent in 2007, despite an economic slowdown in both the crucial Euro zone and the United States, to five hundred and sixty nine million. Since '98, our industry has increased forty five percent, providing nearly three billion pounds of revenue in domestic sales and exports and employing over thirty thousand people. I repeat what I said at the London Boat Show, our industry is moving from strength to strength because we provide the highest quality, innovative design with the best craftsmanship in the world. I'm very proud to be part of it and I can assure you, Tomahawk Powerboats will continue to strive to be at the forefront of our combined, continued success"

Cayden smiled as he made his way back to his table, shaking a few hands before he sat down to the fading applause. He noted a few of the inherited yacht manufacturers, sitting with crossed arms. They had not experienced the growth of the powerboat producers. They were still stuck in the old ways, overtaken by the aggressive French and American manufacturers. Serves them right he thought as he raised his glass in their direction. Some had come to him for help, but his advice had been ignored, calling him arrogant and ignorant of the more complicated art of sailboat manufacture. He wondered which of them might be behind the vandalism. He knew they would love to see him fail.

Hotel staff appeared and started to clear away the desert plates and re-fill coffee cups. He had no idea the function had included a sit down meal.

A curtain behind the lectern swept back to reveal a band, with a lead guitarist who looked like an overweight sales rep complete with goatee, tight leather trousers and opened shirt. Cayden groaned. He knew what was coming and started to make his farewells to the group of people at his table. Why did they always insist on ending the evening with an act that would struggle to make it on the wedding reception circuit? He shook hands with the woman to his left, the marketing director for the Marine Federation.

"Not staying for a boogie?" she shouted over the opening chords of 'We Are Sailing'.

Cayden shook his head, noticing the sweat glisten on her lip, her napkin lying on the table stained from her makeup.

"Thanks for your support," the Chairman shook his hand vigorously before weaving away towards the dance floor. The blonde wig had slipped forward on the guitarist but he was making a good attempt at the Rod Stewart voice. Cayden slalomed through the tables, shaking the occasional hand. He spotted Janet Hart walking briskly on a converging course. Damn, he really did not want a lecture from her right now.

"Cayden, a word," she called as he reached the door.

Cayden hunched his shoulders and began to pull open the door. He felt her hand tentatively touch his elbow. Cayden let the door close. "Janet?" He smiled thinly.

Her freckles disappeared as she blushed. Janet Hart was attractive in a non-alluring way, with long blond hair and large green eyes. Most men thought she was a lesbian but Cayden believed she had just been too long at sea. Her sexiness, worn away by her constant companions of wind and sea, like a delicate Caribbean Island suddenly transplanted to the grey fierceness of the North Atlantic. She had been famous in her teens as the youngest woman ever to circumnavigate the globe single-handed. She had come third or fourth in several solo ocean races and had skippered one of the all women teams in a round the world race.

He asked her how her company (Hart Catamaran) was doing. He knew it was struggling. He had visited the factory once on an industrial estate near the Thames Estuary and was appalled at the antiquated methods of manufacture. There were far too many models and the handcraftsmanship that went into each boat was killing them. They looked magnificent inside but people were not prepared to pay the price for what was after all, an ugly, heavy and therefore slow, sailboat. However, like the rest of the sailing fraternity it seemed, his advice had been completely ignored.

Cayden listened patiently for five minutes before pointedly looking at his watch and then the door.

"....so the U.S. market seems to like the new Three Forty," she finished quickly.

"That's great Janet; I hope it continues to go well for you."

Cayden reached for the door again and pushed it open. "There was just one other thing," she said following him outside into the lobby.

He joined the queue waiting to retrieve their coats.

Cayden searched for his ticket. Was she was going to rub his nose about the increased sales despite not taking his advice?

"I had a meeting with Black Tug Shipping this morning."

Cayden stopped looking for his ticket and turned to her. She was fidgeting with the leather strap of her handbag, her eyes darting from him, to the coat attendant, to the door.

Cayden raised an eyebrow.

"I hate the guy who runs it, what's his name..."

Cayden shrugged. "Can't remember... Turkish isn't he?"

Janet nodded. "Nasty piece of work but like you Cayden, we use him because he's the only shipping company with dedicated cradles for our boats."

Cayden reached the front of the desk and absently handed over his ticket. Janet started to search her handbag. She found her ticket and flung it onto the counter top.

"Well?" he asked putting on his Tomahawk jacket. Janet glanced over the expensive material her eyes lingering on the powerboat silhouette on the right breast before hurriedly draping her brown Mac over her arm and moving off towards the main doors.

Cayden caught up with her. She stopped and stood staring out across the glistening tarmac of the car park. Light rain smattered against the glass, yellow streetlights haloed with mist.

"Have you had any problems with Black Tug?" she asked, fidgeting with her handbag, looking quickly from the car park to Cayden.

"Such as?"

Janet shivered. "Oh I don't know. Quality of service...things like that."

Cayden frowned.

She shrugged and pushed the door open. A blast of cold damp air hit them.

"Janet wait," Cayden called turning up his collar as he followed her.

Janet looked at him keenly but said nothing. The Range Rover beeped as she disengaged the alarm. She stepped up into the driver's seat. "Well?"

Cayden shrugged. "Some of our boats appeared to have been...vandalized. But we don't know that it's Black Tug's problem."

Janet turned the ignition and waited for the red coil light to go out. "Binalshibh, that's his name," Janet said thumping the steering wheel.

"Janet what's this about?"

She stared at him for a few seconds, her mouth set in a thin line, the rest of her face hidden in shadow. She sighed, turned the switch for the Range Rover's lights. "You going to see him?"

Cayden nodded.

"Good. Call me afterwards. We need to sort this out." Janet pulled the door shut, crunched into first gear and sped away, the fat tyres bumped through the puddles sending sheets of spray.

Cayden watched her turn right, heading towards town centre.

"Weird woman," he said, over-stepping a puddle, grunting with pain with a muscle spasm.

Cayden slumped into his car, turned the ignition, depressed the clutch and then jabbed the starter button. He sat listening to the rumble from the exhaust. Sailors were definitely a different breed, all of them drama queens.

Janet Hart was having problems with Black Tug?

Maybe his problems were due to poor care during transit. That would be a relief.

The light traffic suited his impatience. Streetlights flicked by, the hiss of tyres barely audible above the doleful sounds of Cold Play on the Becker sound system. The M27, east towards Chichester, accelerating, the Aston Martin leaving a trail of silver spray. He thought of Rachel and his mood lightened. The anticipation of seeing her, the warmth, the tingle of excitement, made him appreciate being loved. He just wished he could maintain his ardour through the practicalities, allowances and sacrifices of actually living with someone. Bottling his resentment, impatience and intolerance and releasing them when away from her. Then her love would only be answered with appreciation; happiness in those beautiful, caring eyes, instead of sorrow. He selected a happier CD from the auto-changer and started humming "It's Not Unusual" along with Tom Jones. She's an angel, Jac had said on many occasions, sent to save you becoming an emotional black hole.

Six tracks later, he was threading the DB9 through the narrow lanes and dark villages, clumped around junctions and arched bridges, in each ineffaceable valley of the South Downs. The temperature dropped as the clouds cleared revealing a full moon. The exhaust echoed off the flint stonewalls of their closest village, Didling. The parked cars sparkled with frost, smoke curled from chimneys where curtains flickered with TV light, but most were black squares in the moon-washed walls. Half a mile further, the headlights picking out the painted sign for Meadow Light Farm.

He had bought the eighteenth century barn two and a half years ago and had converted it into his dream home. The renovation had only been completed six months ago - a modern open living space and kitchen with stairway leading to an exposed walkway connecting the bedrooms and bathrooms like separate pods on a space station. Black cast steel structural beams and stainless steel features complimented the original, century's old oak timber. The courtyard, encircled by converted store sheds, displayed Mediterranean plants bordering gravelled seating areas, and oak clad walkways leading to a _billiard- table_ smooth lawn, surrounding a koi carp pool. The renovation had featured on 'Grand Design', Kevin McLoud surprised at the successful melding of old and new; like a young man's hand in his great, great grandfathers leather glove.

Cayden parked between Rachel's Mercedes and his Land Rover. Each tick of the engine sounded loud enough to crack the frigid silence. He dragged his briefcase over from the passenger seat and stiffly got out. The glassed, heated walkway offered a view of the courtyard, the grass silvery in the moonlight, the pond unfrozen. To his left; a workshop and laundry room. He pushed open the heavy oak door, hearing the bongs from Big Ben, the intervals filled with Trevor McDonald announcing the main news items. A log fire blazed under the great chimney rising through the centre of the barn. Plants organically separated the lounge and dining area with its twelve place oak table below a modern chandelier of elegant flowing metal tubes.

Cayden set his briefcase down beside a cream four-person sofa, walked past a low wall of brushed aluminium, and down a short avenue lined with ficus plants to the granite-topped kitchen. He had heard the bang of saucepans.

"Sorry I'm late," he called noting the kitchen table laid for dinner.

Rachel continued to scrub a pan vigorously.

Cayden put his arms round her waist and squeezed, breathing her favourite Emporio Armani perfume. He kissed the back of her neck.

"I should have called." He glanced at the table. Two white candles flickered in silver holders, a fresh arrangement of spring flowers filled a vase. He noticed there was only one place setting. "I forgot there was a meal included tonight."

"No problem," Rachel said pulling out of his embrace and walking over to her wine glass. She looked at him over the rim. "You're not hungry then?"

"Sorry," he said again twisting his back. "Do we have any Tylenol?"

She took a gulp of red wine and looked off at the table. "Did they like your speech?"

Cayden shrugged. He poured himself a mug of coffee. It was his favourite, a dark roasted Kenyan blend. "I don't think any of the _yachties_ appreciated it, but they never have." He picked up his jacket.

"Have you finished in here then?" she called after him.

He stopped and turned. He could see her eyes sparkling. Her mouth trembled. "Hey I've said I'm sorry hon, but it's important for Tomahawk that I be seen at these industry get-togethers, I..."

"You haven't asked me what I had made for dinner."

Cayden looked guiltily at the table. "Was it something special?"

"I thought so. But then I also thought we were too."

Cayden looked up towards the rafters.

"Just once," Rachel slapped down the wine glass and the stem snapped. "Shit," tears ran down her cheeks. "Just once... I would like to feel that we were special. That I was more important than the bloody company."

"You know you are. I have never given more to a woman in my life."

Rachel stopped collecting up the bits of glass and glared at him. "Oh that makes me feel...just bloody great! You mean, you allow me to stay in your house? You helped me set up my business? You bought my car? You've taken me with you on your holidays? Is that it? Is that what you've given me?"

Cayden frowned.

"You don't get it do you? How long have we been together?"

Cayden's frown deepened.

Rachel threw the glass into the sink. "Exactly you don't know. You don't know because you don't give a shit."

"That's not true. You know I've been busy..."

"Busy," Rachel was yelling now. "Always so damn busy. Three years today! Now I don't expect you to remember the actual day, Christ it's hard enough for you to remember my Birthday, but just once, couldn't you give me some small sign that I mean anything more to you than just another..." Rachel covered her eyes with a hand. "Asset!" she cried.

"Three years?" Cayden said.

"Yes," Rachel snatched a sheet of kitchen roll off the dispenser and dabbed at her eyes.

Rachel's clock was ticking and he had a nasty feeling his had chimed 'time', many years ago.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll make it up to you this weekend. We'll go away. How about Jersey?"

Rachel threw a mascara stained kitchen towel into the sink and strode past him. "I'm busy," she said.

Cayden listened to her heals stamp up the metal stair and then across to their bedroom. The door slammed shut in time with the ending signature beats of the news.

Cayden finished his coffee and cleared the glass from the sink. He hated upsetting her. Cayden stretched and grimaced from the back pain. He had a sudden vision of having to run around the garden playing football - he could barely get out of his car. Why couldn't she just be happy with the way things were? They had both spent most of their adult lives bouncing from one disastrous relationship to another. Stick with the hand they had been dealt. Tomahawk was the only child he wanted.

Chapter 4

The worn wooden floor, the click of polished lawyers' shoes, the squeak of clients' trainers. A row of ceiling fans moved the thick sweat scented air, the creak of their turning lost in the hubbub of quiet, urgent conversation.

Half way down the hallway, opposite the door to the Port of Spain Magistrates Eighth Court and under a painting of the current Magistrate, Urika Skerrit, a queue of people waited patiently to refill their paper cones with water from the gurgling plastic bottle. A young sergeant with the St. James CID turned away from the bottle and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. He eased the tie from his collar and glanced accusingly up at the ineffectual fans.

"Sir, how much longer?" he moaned, looking down at his boss. There was no reply from behind the Trinidad Guardian. The edges crumpled from fat fingers. The Detective Inspector occupied the only bench in the corridor normally capable of seating two or three people comfortably.

The young man shrugged. "I'm going out for air."

When there was still no reply, the Sergeant shrugged and walked the length of the corridor, nodding to a face he recognised. He barged through a knot of lawyers talking in the entrance and out onto the top step. White painted fretwork on the houses opposite, contrasted vividly with the black sky of a seasonal thunderstorm. People hurried along Commercial Street clogged with stationary traffic. It was going to be hell getting away. He dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboro. Horns blared and the base boom from car speakers vibrated the still air. Despite the humidity and the impatience of the drivers, inching their Honda's and Nissan's along Commercial Street, there was an atmosphere of excitement, even carnival – which started officially in a month. No, the Sergeant was sure the feeling came from the actions of one man. A Trinidad superstar, Brian Charles Lara, Captain of the West Indian Cricket Team. The Sergeant had read he had become a legend since scoring the highest number of runs in a test game. He could not remember the details, not being a cricket fan, he would have to ask his boss. He would certainly know. His obsession had neatly matched his initials; LBW - Detective Inspector Lancelot "Bumbles" Winston.

Drops of rain, larger than the gulp of liquid he had managed to get from his paper cone fell on the pavement below, the dark stains rapidly blotting out the blobs of chewing gum. A boom of thunder rolled across Port of Spain's small downtown area, like a starter's gun, people began to run; the young men in their polished _Imports_ reluctantly closed their windows. Others in brightly coloured shirts hanging over their trousers took shelter outside Eric's Food Haven opposite. A man maneuvered his cart over the curb, spilling a basket of red tomatoes into the gutter. He scrambled after them as the rain gathered force.

The Sergeant crushed his cigarette and turned in time to see his boss lever himself off the bench. The doors to the court were open and two men were facing him, watching, as LBW gave one final push from the armrest and stood. He glared as his Sergeant skidded to a halt beside him.

"This him?" the Detective Inspector waved the scrunched Guardian.

The suited man nodded. "Jada Gittens, caught with a false passport at the ferry terminal. There's a warrant for him in the United States...."

LBW shrugged.

"Here are his deportation papers. Two U.S. Marshals are at the airport to take him."

Detective Inspector Winston glared at the gangly man standing next to his lawyer. He had long sinewy limbs made even more apparent by a short torso in a red t-shirt hanging over a pair of baggy jeans, although even a straight cut would have appeared baggy on him. He had a long unhappy looking face, of mixed South American and West Indian origins, bags under dopey eyes and a birth mark the shape of strawberry on his left cheek. "Mr. Gittens," LBW grunted. "We have the honour of escorting you to the airport."

Jada Gittens stared at the Detective Inspector, his lower lip hanging slightly open.

"Sergeant, cuff him and take him to the car," LBW said snatching the papers from the lawyer's hand. "This the charges?"

The lawyer nodded. "Assault, possible murder, possession of an illegal firearm..."

LBW shook his head wearily.

"Judge's happy to get him off Trinidad. Hand him over to the Marshals Inspector and that's that," the lawyer grinned at Jada Gittens.

"How long you been his lawyer?" LBW said.

"The law says he needed representation. I was given the short straw."

"An' you're useless, nigga,' Jada Gittens said.

"Shut-up Gittens," LBW said handing the file to his Sergeant.

The lawyer handed him an envelope. "These are his fake passports. The Americans want to try to trace their origin. He's been using dual nationality. Trinidad by birth, adopted by a U.S. Uncle."

LBW's hand clamped around the younger man's elbow. "Gittens, let's scrape you off our piece of Caribbean paradise shall we?" LBW said, his rumbling West Indies accent retaining syntax acquired from four years at Oxford University studying English, and a further five on secondment with the Metropolitan Police.

"Cuffs sir?" the Sergeant said.

LBW waved the newspaper above his head, motioning him to follow.

They were an incongruous sight the Sergeant thought. The huge detective, with legs splayed like buckling oilrig pylons and his prisoner who could snap in a strong wind. The Sergeant suddenly smiled. The two of them looked like a couple of science fiction characters.

They reached the steps and LBW gazed at the thunderous rain with disgust. Their vehicle was in a reserved bay across the street, now a swirling river-way. Holding the paper over his head LBW started down the steps. Instantly it turned to mush and he threw it away. His Sergeant jumped down the steps two at a time, dodged two cars before diving into the sanctuary of the Land Rover. He started the engine and watched LBW painstakingly take a step at a time, his charge almost lost in the rain. He expected him to dissolve like the paper and melt through LBW's grasp.

They finally reached the road and without pausing, LBW held up a large hand and started to cross. Grey hair plastered to his head like a skullcap. An SUV, with blackened windows, pulled out from a space. The Sergeant watched it accelerate towards them. Spray enveloped the feet of people still running for cover. The Sergeant straightened with alarm. LBW reached the middle of the street. He imperiously held up a hand and continued. The SUV screeched to a halt, the wipers whipped across the blackened windscreen. Rain dripped from the chrome bull bars. Jada Gittens had resisted the tugging of LBW and was staring at the driver of the SUV. His t-shirt clung to the ripples of his ribs. The Sergeant's grip tightened on the door handle. Jada's long skeletal finger traced through the droplets clinging to the chrome and flicked them at the hidden driver. The engine revved, the big off-road tyres inched forward. The Sergeant opened the door. LBW yanked Gittens away, almost pulling him off his feet. The SUV raced off with a blast from its horn. LBW threw Gittens in behind the wire grill.

The Land Rover's suspension creaked as LBW levered himself into the passenger seat. With a great deal of effort, he shrugged off his sodden jacket and retrieved a towel from under the seat. They moved out into the slow moving traffic. LBW vigorously rubbed his hair.

"You know them?" the Sergeant asked looking at their prisoner in the rear view mirror.

Doleful eyes stared back.

LBW threw the towel into the foot well. "Shut up Sergeant. Just get this maggot to the airport."

He glanced at his boss, hair sticking up like a Don King impersonation. He had a surprisingly lean face for such a big man. He was glaring ahead absently pulling at the wet cotton of his shirt, and easing the strap of his gun holster cutting into the material around his shoulder. As they entered the St. Clair district, he glanced up to the large imposing houses on the hill overlooking Queens Park Savannah. The largest house was Brian Lara's, a gift from a cricket-obsessed nation.

"What did he do this time sir?"

The Detective Inspector scowled in the direction his Sergeant was looking. Immediately his face softened. "He, Sergeant! He, our greatest sportsman ever, has just broken four records. You call yourself a Trinadian," LBW jabbed a finger into his arm making the Sergeant wince. "The highest number of runs in a test match. The first person to hold the record twice for the highest test score. The first person to score a test four hundred and a Captain with the highest number of runs in a test. That Sergeant, is what he did."

The equipment in the back of the Land Rover rattled as the wheels fell into the potholed surface. They came to a stop behind a town bus and watched the bedraggled line of people slowly board. Water rushed down the gutter. Plastic bags like miniature sail boats swept along the muddy surface. An impatient driver tried to edge between the bus and an oncoming refuse truck. The rain increased in volume with another boom of thunder. The people waiting to board started to push forward.

"Enough of this", LBW reached over and flicked on the Land Rover's blue lights.

The refuse truck mounted the pavement and they followed the impatient driver through. The amount of police radio traffic increased with the usual weather related accidents. His country had the worst accident record in the Caribbean and as he watched the driver speed away oblivious to their flashing lights, LBW shook his head in resignation.

Suddenly, Gittens started braying. LBW turned slightly in his seat and glanced from the corner of his eye at their passenger.

"You laughing Gittens?"

The man continued to make the noise. "Guess it must be. What do you think Sergeant? Is that a pig or a castrated donkey I can hear?"

Gittens stopped, his buck teeth sank into his lower lip, and he regarded the Detective Inspector.

The Sergeant nodded and grinned as he turned the Land Rover onto the duel carriageway leading to the airport. Cars sped by in tunnels of spray.

"What you laughing at Gittens?" LBW said.

The man's expression remained slack. "A fat pig, dat's wat's funny. Yo called L...B...W...right? Dat's going to be Leg-Before-Wicket mon, ain't no-way a bowler goin' to miss them fuckin' pins."

"You want me to show how these pins can kick your butt around the island?"

Gittens glared at LBW in the reflection of the mirror. "Stupid ass name for a stupid ass pig."

"Shut..."

The rear glass suddenly shattered, the vehicle shunted forward, LBW slipped from his seat, jamming in the footwell. The Sergeant struggled with the wheel as another shunt slewed the Land Rover to the left. LBW desperately tried to get a hold on the grab bar.

"Sir, help..." The Sergeant shouted. A tearing of metal, the rear door was gone, buckled around chrome bars, like a Matadors cloak on a bull's horns. LBW strained to look back between the seats, catching occasional, swaying images, of an SUV, with a tinted windscreen. A screech of metal and the two vehicles locked together. The Sergeant stamped on the brake but the tyres lost traction on the slick surface. They mounted the central reservation, pushed by the other vehicle, they tore through the flimsy barrier and into the oncoming lane. A BP fuel truck began to jackknife, its tubular trailer swung out, sweeping a car before it, the air horn deafening as the driver frantically tried to avoid the collision. The Sergeant stabbed at the accelerator and the Land Rover disentangled itself from the SUV and jumped forward. The fuel truck swiped the SUV, it swerved manically up and over the grass bank, the driver expertly wrestling the wheel, using the slide to accelerate and slam, this time, into the side of the Land Rover. They split the boundary wire fence side by side. Both vehicles crashed through a drainage ditch and then raced across a flat stretch of waste ground. The window above LBW exploded.

"They're shooting sir!" the Sergeant screamed the steering wheel spinning out of control. They hit a water worn gulley and leapt into the air, the Sergeant's head cracked against the roof. LBW shot from the footwell like a cork. The top of his head hit the wire grill and for a second he stared at Jada Gittens, sitting calmly behind his seat belt, a glimmer of amusement in his black eyes. The Land Rover's movement became violent. LBW struggled in his seat and reached for the wheel. The Sergeant was slumped back, his bloodied head lolling from side to side.

The waste ground they were racing over, was of sand, dredged from the harbour, piled six meters above the surrounding scrub and swamp. LBW lunged at the steering wheel. The Land Rover's speed started to bleed away with the Sergeant no longer working the pedals. Another blow from behind and LBW slammed against the dashboard. The ball of the gear stick stabbed into his ribs. He gasped for air. His fingers clawed at the plastic, found grip and with all his strength, LBW wrenched the steering wheel downwards. The front wheels sunk into the sand with the sudden turn, flipping the Land Rover just as the bank ended. The engine bellowed during the drop. The Sergeant fell forward and when the roof hit the gravel, it collapsed guillotining his head and flinging it from the tumbling vehicle. Finally, the limbs of mangroves captured the Land Rover, like knarred old man's fingers catching a thrown toy.

LBW lay with his head near the pedals, his chest painfully squeezed between the wheel and the edge of the driver's chair, he could taste blood and one eye was blurred. The engine, shrouded in steam from the ruptured radiator, was pointing towards the brown swamp waters and gravity was pushing LBW further towards the pedals. He was having trouble breathing. Desperately he kicked his legs, trying to wrestle his body out.

He then heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. The tyres crunched loose gravel and as the motor drew near, he could hear Jada call for help from the rear.

"You OK?" a voice called.

"Git me the fuck out," Jada shouted.

There was the splash of men wading through shallow water and then he felt the Land Rover rock as they tugged at the rear door. It finally came free with a squeal of bent metal. "Com'on, police comin' soon boss," one of the rescuers said.

"Muvva fucka's think 'bout getting' me out before yo rammed em into the swamp?" Jada Gittens shouted.

LBW heard a giggle. There was a slap and a yelp. "What about him?" LBW felt someone tug his exposed trouser leg.

"Hey fat pig," Jada said and LBW tensed. "I gotta new name fat police mon, Left Behind Wheel." Jeers accompanied the punches.

LBW listened to them splash back to the SUV, the crunch of a gear selection, then the roar of the engine as it sped away. He kicked out in anger. Lancelot "Bumbles" Winston, he thought as he realized he was not going to be able to free himself. What new connotations were his comrades going to be able to come up with for this he thought grimly; Land-Rover Been Wrecked or would their wit be as sharp as Jada's. He had heard them all before but this one was the worst. This was the first time he had lost a man. Sergeant Loutoo. How was he going to tell his new wife? What the hell had happened to him? A few years ago - an enviable record; Captain of the CID cricket team; a wife who loved him and wanted to have his children. When had it all started to go so wrong? Rain began to fall again on the crumpled bodywork, accompanying the ping of contracting metal from the engine and hot exhaust. It soaked his trousers, mixing with his Sergeant's blood. In the distance, he could hear the faint wail of sirens. It would not be long now he thought, not long before the humiliation began, the disgrace, and the sorrow. He hated who he was and what he had become. It had led to the death of a good officer. Life, if it had any fairness, was not going to let him get away with this.

Chapter 5

"What Carol?" Cayden said not looking up from his laptop.

Carol was late in from seeing the dentist, her mouth numb and swollen from a filling. She had witnessed all his moods and could predict the cause for most. He would be quiet and non-communicative if there was a company problem, loud and expansive if they had hit sales target, short tempered when his brother had upset him and angry, like he was now, when something out of his control had happened – normally something to do with his love life. Therefore, she guessed that he had missed his anniversary.

Eventually Cayden looked up, his expression softening when he saw her swollen face. "Ouch!"

Carol waved dismissively. "It's your own fault," she slurred, dabbing a tissue at the corner of her mouth. "I even reminded you that it was your anniversary." She could see she had guessed right.

"Shouldn't you be lying down?" Cayden said.

Carol shook her head.

"Never to ill to give me a lecture?" Cayden said grimly.

She spread several printed e-mails. "I hear yours went well last night. You've received some very complimentary messages."

Cayden slid them towards him. One was from the Chairman of the Marine Federation, which Cayden found mildly amusing - he had been too drunk to understand a word.

Carol stood. "Oh. I forgot. Mr. Dick is waiting for you in my office."

Cayden's eyes narrowed. Carol's views on Tomahawk's transport manager were well known. "What does he want?"

"Well it appears that Mr. Dick head... I'm sorry...it's the anesthetic...heard, something down in the yard that he thought might be of interest to you."

Cayden typed in a figure on the displayed spreadsheet.

"Shall I bring in a chipped mug of tea for you," Carol asked from the door.

"Thank you Carol," Cayden said still looking at the screen. "That would be lovely."

He re-typed another figure from the revised engine costs Volvo had supplied, and sat back with a satisfied nod. Another five thousand pounds profit. He knew they were being greedy.

"Mornin' Mr.Callejon." Burt ran a finger between the collar of his blue shirt, easing the pressure from the tie. His jacket was a size too large, falling off his rounded shoulders like a landslide.

"New suit?" Carol said carrying two mugs of coffee.

"Pardon," Burt stepped out of her way as she set them down on the table.

"I think the drugs have gone to her head. What's up Burt?" Cayden said. "I haven't received your report." There were flakes of dandruff on his jacket, more in the line of his stark parting where he had oiled and combed down his hair.

"It's on its way Mr.Callejon," he sat on the edge of the chair. "Since our chat yesterday, I...um...naturally got worried...and...um...started asking round," he took a sip of coffee. The furrows deepened to valleys. "Well, as it happens, last month two lads from the commissioning shed had to be sacked 'cause they were caught thieving from some lockers." Cayden sat forward. "They were cousins...um...George who works the crane, said he spotted them messing about in a rowing boat on the river the day those Firestorms were shipped out to the States."

"Proof? Did they break-in?"

Burt shook his head. "Nope, not that I can see anyway, but...ahh...they could have got a key cut."

Cayden stood and walked to the window. The cloud layer was low and a uniform grey, grim enough to subdue any energy it might have to rain. A seagull cried as it glided by. Cayden watched it land on the edge of a building where it joined in the raucous calls of others, lobbying the huddled men below at the lunchtime snack truck. He was suddenly angry that two men sacked for stealing, should feel mistreated enough to vandalize his boats.

There was a light tap on the door and a figure strode in without waiting.

Cayden turned and nodded at Jac. "Burt was just telling me who could have vandalized the last shipment of Firestorms."

"Really," Jac said sitting on the edge of his brother's desk. Burt repeated his story.

"Randy sent a message saying the shipment is four and half days out of Miami which will put them in port late Tuesday, so I guess we wait to see if they got to those as well," Jac said.

Cayden sat down shaking his head. "Burt, were these two seen again, particularly around the time of the last shipment?"

Burt gulped some coffee. "Nuffing definite Mr.Callejon."

"Then I still think we visit Black Tug," Cayden said.

"Why?" Burt slurped coffee on his trousers. "I mean...why upset them with false accusations? Just get the police to investigate these two?"

Cayden frowned. "I'm not accusing anyone yet, I just want all the facts"

"Yeah, but Black Tug ain't going to like us going over there and accusing them of anything, are they?."

Cayden glared at his transport manager. "I don't give a fuck what they think, Burt. Perhaps their standards are slipping. Perhaps they don't have their yard fully secured and local yobs are getting under the covers before shipping. It needs checking out. Anyway, I want to make sure that the new shipping cradles for the Blade are ready. Is that all right with you?"

Burt ran a finger round his collar again while he looked quickly between them. "I've already checked that out Mr.Callejon, and they'll work fine."

Jac held up his hand to stall his brother. He sat in the chair next to Burt. "Do you have a problem with us visiting Black Tug?"

Burt finished his coffee and set the mug carefully back on the coaster. "Just you know... that's what you pay me for and I didn't want you both wasting your time checking on stuff that should already be sorted."

"Well, perhaps if I felt you had been doing your job properly Burt, I wouldn't feel the need to."

Burt's stare hardened. He straightened in his chair. "I don't think there is any call for that Mr.Callejon."

"Excuse me Burt but I think there bloody well is. The fucking trucks are a disgrace, the yard is a tip, with rubbish lying all over the place, and now this shit with the Firestorms."

"Cayden I don't think you can blame..." Jac started to say.

There were bright spots of colour on Burt's cheeks. "I told you the pressure wash broke and the bleedin' council have a strike goin' so the rubbish hasn't been collected. Out of my control. Now if you want to accuse me," he started to get out of his chair, "that's a serious matter Mr.Callejon, one I might have to have a word with the union over."

Cayden leapt out of his chair and leant his fists on the desk. "Don't threaten me Burt? You're management and not in any bloody union. What the fuck's got into you?"

"Cayden!" Jac shouted. "Hold on a minute."

Cayden pointed at his brother and was about to say something and then thought better of it. He looked back at Burt who was now standing behind his chair. His white fingers sunk into the black leather, looking nervously between the two brothers

"Get that bloody report to me," Cayden said between clenched teeth.

Burt flinched, licked his lips, his head jerked with a nod before spinning on his heal and striding from the office, his left shoe squeaking the beat of his exit.

Jac closed the door. Cayden sat hard into his chair. "Bastard! Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"You're transport manager. You have to show some respect," Jac said.

Cayden rubbed the top of his head making the short hair rasp loudly.

"He had every right to feel pissed off," Jac said.

"I don't need a bloody lecture from you as well."

The phone beeped and Cayden stabbed at the button. "Rachel for you," Carol said.

Cayden snatched up the phone and held it firmly to his ear. "Hi," he said and Jac mimed for him to smile.

Cayden listened for a moment and the smile he had forced onto his face, gradually slipped from view. "I see", the smile left like a setting sun, "fair enough, you take care," Cayden cradled the receiver and leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

"Black Tug now," Jac said leaping to his feet, "the fresh air will do you good and a surprise visit might be good for them too."

Cayden studied his brother and eventually nodded.

Jac clicked in the seat belt. "How's this thing going?"

Cayden reversed out of the parking bay and glanced at the red Ducati parked beside him. "You still chasing girls on that _thing_?"

Jac laughed. "Oh, they just want what's in the leather."

Cayden kicked the accelerator and the Aston leapt forward. "You're too bloody old for all that Jac."

Jac waved at John reading a paper between attending his barrier. Cayden raced away under the septic glow of streetlights.

They drove in silence for ten minutes before Jac could contain himself no longer. "How's Rachel?"

Cayden tightened his grip on the wheel. "Rachel has decided to go to a nautical fashion show in Nice."

Jac read the _How am I Driving_ sign on a van that had pulled out without looking.

Cayden flashed his lights. The van slowed. Cayden pushed his head into the rest. "Fucking people make you sick. You lose a wife or daughter because some bastard falls asleep at the wheel, your business is threatened because someone has a grudge - jealousy, envy , hate...fuck it... we're like a mad experiment. Let's see what happens if we trap lumps of energy in a box called earth?" Cayden punched the steering wheel. "Bam, we smash into each other causing mayhem and misery."

Jac glanced at his brother, always mildly surprised, when he talked of anything unrelated to business. "You also get happiness and joy from those contacts."

The van finally pulled over and Cayden overtook with his hand on the horn. The van driver pressed his middle finger against the glass.

"Yeah well I think I would rather give up the occasional joy you get and just have nothing to do with anyone!"

Jac laughed. "That's ridiculous. For a start how could you run a business that way?"

They exited for Southampton town centre. The roundabout arrived with frightening speed. Cayden glanced to his right and raced across the front of a bus. The DB9 swooped around the island making Jac's stomach turn.

"Business is business. I pay them to do what I say."

Jac eased his seat belt and glanced over at the speedometer. "Yeah well that's your problem. They are still people with their own agenda and guess what, they just might not coincide with yours."

"Then, they're fired."

"Ahuh, the big business man with a heart of steel. Except he seems to get upset when his girlfriend is angry with him."

Cayden braked hard for a red light. "Women!" Cayden glared at the stop light. "Isn't there a saying, we need them like a fish needs a bicycle."

"I think you'll find that applies to women about us."

They drove in silence through the damp streets of the town centre. Cayden looked at the brightly lit shop fronts, attempting to entice people, huddled in coats or under umbrellas, off the littered pavements.

"Look at them. Hurrying to get home so they can slump in front of the TV to watch their soaps, forgetting for a while just how shit their days really are.

Jac squeezed the bridge of his nose and kept quiet.

Down by the waterfront, swathes of warehousing and 60's built office buildings, had been torn down for complexes of mock Tudor flats and town houses, which in thirty years' time would appear as depressing and ugly as the grey blocks of '60's inspiration they had replaced. Cayden turned between the elegant Victorian Customs House and a new complex called South Quay. He buzzed down his window to talk to the guard leaning out of his security hut.

"Black Tug Shipping," Cayden said.

The man glanced over the car. "Do you know the way...sir?"

Cayden nodded and the security man raised the barrier.

They drove out onto the peninsular still clinging to the reason Southampton existed; bulk cargo carriers, decks blazing with light while cranes unloaded grain and timber, flat sided car transporters with gaping black holes in their sterns waiting for the acres of new vehicles to be loaded. Off to their right in the far distance a cruise ship. They passed a yard full of new tractors and turned over a raised set of railway lines, the fat tyres spat loose stones into the arches. They parked among containers and wooden frames used as shipping cradles, stacks of pallets and pyramids of oil drums. The office building was a single storey structure with a pitched roof.

"Looks deserted," Jac said.

"Can't be, it's only three forty."

They walked to the front of the building. There was a wide expanse of tarmac before the empty dock. The black silhouette of a crane stood out against the halo of city light. Four of Janet Hart's Catamarans swathed in white plastic waited to cross the Atlantic.

The two brothers looked at each other, shrugged and walked to the main entrance. It opened to a dimly lit reception area. Cayden picked up a telephone at the desk and waited for a reply. He put back the receiver.

"Hello," Jac called.

A corridor went left and right down the centre of the building. Cayden gestured to the left, light shone from under one of the doors. He knocked. Muffled voices, a chair scraped back and a moment later the door cracked opened.

"Mr. Binalshibh?"

The door opened fully as the man recognised Cayden.

"Mr.Callejon," he exclaimed. "A thousand apologies. Why did you not call?"

His short stocky frame filled the doorway. A wrinkled grey suit and tie pulled away from the collar.

"Spur of the moment thing," Cayden said gesturing to his brother. "You've met my brother Jac?"

Binalshibh darted forward to shake Jac's hand before retreating back to the doorway and attempting to straighten his tie.

"What can I do for you?" he said looking down to see whether he had been successful in getting the knot back to the top of his shirt.

"May we come in?" Cayden asked.

Binalshibh looked behind the door for a second and then turned back nodding apologetically.

There was a large desk in one corner under a window with a closed blind, another opposite and a sofa facing two easy chairs. A ship painting dominated the end wall next to another door, and the cheap grey carpet tiles and been hidden in part by a patterned rug. Cayden guessed it was of Turkish origin. A black leather jacket hung over one of the easy chairs.

Cayden frowned as he sat on the sofa. "We thought we heard you talking to someone?"

"Telephone," Binalshibh said hurriedly stacking papers spread on the low table in front of them. He picked up the stack and jammed them into his desk draw, slamming it shut. "There," he said walking back and sweeping a hand through his hair. "Now gentlemen, can I offer you coffee? I'm afraid all I have is Turkish?"

"No... thank you," Cayden said.

"Water if you have it," Jac smiled.

"Seems very quiet round here," Cayden said.

Binalshibh shrugged, his back was to them as he collected a glass from a tray and poured some water from a bottle. "All our ships are away. I sent the staff home early. Keeps them happy for the times I need them to work overtime, you know what I mean."

"Thank you," Jac took the cup of water. "I bet you wished you stilled lived in Turkey don't you Mr. Binalshibh?"

"Why?" he frowned.

Jac finished the water. "The weather... terrible."

Binalshibh smiled. "Yes, yes the weather is terrible..."

"A bit like the state of our boats from the last delivery," Cayden interrupted.

The smile fell from his face and he sat forward. "You had a problem with the last delivery?"

Cayden told him.

"This is not true," Binalshibh said, getting up and walking to his desk. He pulled a box file from a shelf and flicked through a sheaf of papers, muttering in what they assumed, was Turkish.

"Do you check the Firestorms are still properly sealed when they arrive here," Jac asked.

"Yes, yes, I personally check the condition of the boats when they are off-loaded from your trailers."

Binalshibh found the paper he was looking for and waved it in the air as he walked back to where they were sitting. "You see. Look, here is my report on the condition of the boats when they arrived. I detail everything, see, no marks on the hulls, plastic covers secured, look...everything listed...no damaged. See look, each one is fine."

Cayden frowned. "We noticed some Hart Cat's sitting out there, but there's no security around. What would stop someone messing with them now?"

"No, no, no, Mr.Callejon. The conversation you heard me having on the phone was with the man who runs security for me."

Cayden glanced at his brother. "Can we talk to him?"

Binalshibh held out his hands apologetically. "He is in town and might not be back for one hour maybe two."

"I see. Well what about his men?"

Binalshibh nodded. "That is why he is in town. The two men on duty tonight have not reported in, so he has gone to see what the problem is."

"I see," Cayden said tapping his fingers on the leather armrest. "So you are quite satisfied that nothing suspicious has occurred in your yard over the last week or so?"

"Nothing at all Mr.Callejon, your business is very important. My company treats your boats with total care."

"Hmm, well I guess we'll know for sure when the next shipment arrives."

"Quite so Mr.Callejon."

"Are the new Blade cradles ready?" Cayden said.

Binalshibh nodded enthusiastically. "I have sent one to your yard already so that it can be tested. Did not Mr. Dick tell you?"

Cayden shook his head. "I'm not happy Mr. Binalshibh. Something is happening to my boats and if I find it's happening here then you're going to pay," Cayden stood up and glared at the fat man who had spread his arms in submission. "You understand what I mean?"

"I can assure you the problem is not with Black Tug. I am not worried."

"I hope not, for your sake." As they entered the corridor, Cayden thought he saw a door at the far end close quickly. "One last thing Mr. Binalshibh. What's the Captain's name?"

Binalshibh smiled, his hand rubbing his chin. "Min Oo."

"What?"

"Captain Min Oo. From the Philippines."

The two brothers hurried through the rain and the poorly lit yard to the car, Cayden cursed as he stepped in an ankle deep puddle.

"Well that seemed a waste of time," Jac said as the DB9 burbled slowly out of the gates and up the potholed entrance road.

"Maybe."

"You're not convinced?"

"Don't know. I have a weird feeling."

"What?"

"There was definitely someone else in that office." Cayden touched the button for the window and breathed deeply the cool rush of air. A ship's horn sounded distantly in the channel. A forklift clattered by. "Maybe I'm just becoming paranoid."

Jac un-screwed a bottle of water that had been rolling around his feet. He raised an eyebrow questioningly as he drank.

"Forget it. I need a beer."

The Aston Martin burbled past a dark saloon parked beside a Happag Lloyd shipping container. The sole occupant picked up a clipboard from the passenger seat and entered the registration; HA07WKS, and then DB9 - depart 17:07, _two male occupants_. He had already taken a picture of them using a night vision camera when they had driven in.

Chapter 6

"What've you done Inspector?" a bellow that rattled the partition. A white fan balanced precariously on a filing cabinet, blew stagnant air over them. The corners of papers spread across Captain Clay's desk fluttered in the fetid air.

"Make it good Winston, I'm warning you?"

LBW looked up from studying his hands. They were shaking. His shoulders ached, in fact, his whole body felt as though it was moving in atmosphere twice as heavy as normal. Two hours ago, they had cut him out of the Land Rover; trapped with decapitated Sergeant Loutoo for fifty-five minutes; splashed in graffiti of Loutoo's blood, as clear as any gang signature to LBW's guilt.

He had changed into a spare set of clothes he kept in his locker, black polo shirt, grey slacks. He had thrown away his blood stained suit and tie, but he could still smell it, taste it, feel it on his skin. "Why was I not told how dangerous Gittens was?"

Captain Clay threw himself back in his chair, the muscles in his forearms bulging as his hands clenched the armrests, eyes round behind his glasses. "Why were you not told?" he pulled himself back to the desk, his meaty hands slapping the wood. "Yo' dumb shit. Gittens was bein' collected by two yank Marshals. How dangerous that make him?"

LBW looked down at his hands again. "We've done it before, none have whacked us."

The Captain jabbed a finger at him. "Winston, you fuckin' disgust me," he shook his head, "what's happened to you," he said more quietly, "we were partners once, now yo lazy fat ass has cost me a damn fine Sergeant..."

LBW looked up sharply and the Captain jabbed a finger again. "Yeah Winston, I'm holding you responsible, suspended immediately until this's been investigated..." he shook his fist at the door, anger restored, "get out," he boomed, "see the two Marshals, then get the hell outta' my sight. Leave your gun and badge. With any luck, you'll never need 'em again."

LBW held the glare from his old friend for a few seconds and then sighed. "If it helps Captain, I'm deeply sorry."

"Ahuh, that goin' t'help Sergeant Loutoo's family?"

LBW heaved himself to his feet. "Give me a chance to find Gittens?"

Captain Clay pushed himself to his feet, his face rigid. He pointed at the door. "Get out. I've given yo'time, I've given yo'more chances than anyone else in this department."

LBW nodded and pushed the chair to one side so he could squeeze past the filing cabinets to the door. He stepped out into the corridor. The two Marshals were waiting for him.

"You Winston?" the shorter one asked, looking out from under the peak of a baseball cap. His taller colleague was the same height as LBW, also a shaved head, but his skin was darker, his body well worked out. He was chewing gum.

LBW nodded.

"You got a minute?" the shorter one said

LBW pointed to an interview room off to their left. He followed them in.

"Gittens say anything to you when you were riding him to the airport?"

LBW sat heavily, the wooden chair creaked ominously. He gestured to the chairs opposite. They remained standing, looking down at him impatiently.

"No," LBW said. "Nothing except jibe me over cricket."

"Cricket?"

"The game," LBW said. "He thought my name was funny."

The Marshals looked at each other blankly.

"What about the vehicle that hit you, the other guys? Anything?"

LBW described the blacked out Toyota. He had not seen the driver. He said he was almost sure the same truck had nearly run them over in front of the court building.

"OK, sounds like he hasn't left the country," the shorter Marshall said glancing at his colleague, "so we can't do much, but you be sure to call when you find him again, OK?" he laid a card on the desk.

LBW rotated it with one finger. "Marshal Draper?"

"That's me," he said patting notes into a folder.

"What's he wanted for in the States?"

"We've left a report on your desk, background _intel_ , misdemeanors, subpoenas for carrying an illegal firearm, wanted for questioning over several gang killings...usual bullshit, maybe make you more careful if you ever catch him again," they stared at him, challenging, obviously not aware that he had been suspended. "Good luck Winston, you're gonna need it."

They left and LBW pushed the card round the desk with his finger, "you're gonna need it..." he mimicked Draper's Floridian accent. If they had impressed on him how dangerous Gittens was, would he have taken any more care?

After a while, he pushed his chair back and slowly got to his feet. He walked heavily down the corridor to the CID offices. Thankfully, only two detectives were at their desks; men LBW had worked with for many years; they avoided eye contact, reading from their screens.

A cardboard box stood on his desk with his personal possessions.

He could feel the two casting angry, furtive glances in his direction as he flipped through the black folder lying next to the box. It had a United States Federal Law Enforcement crest on the front. Some pictures taken of Gittens in Miami, the dopey looking face blurred in his vision.

Should he hand it over to one of these 'simmering' detectives? LBW decided he would read it first. He slid it into the box, saddened at how light it felt - over twenty years service.

No one spoke to him as he made his way down through the building and out into the rear parking. He dumped the box onto the back of his black Nissan.

Across the street was a repair garage for damaged police vehicles. One of the young mechanics was his sister's eldest son. He had helped his nephew get the job and away from drugs. LBW crossed the street and ducked under the half closed roller door. He saw the young man leaning in under the bonnet of a police cruiser.

"Eric, what's up?" LBW said coming up behind him.

"Uncle Winston," a muffled reply, "gimme a minute to get this connected. Can you pass that spanner...?" A satisfied grunt and Eric pushed himself out of the engine bay. He pulled off a glove and held out his hand.

"How have you been keeping Eric," LBW smiled. "Out of trouble?"

The young man nodded, grinning. "You want a Coke?"

LBW shook his head, glancing around the garage. A couple of mechanics were working on a tow truck in the corner. A girl and a man were having a conversation behind a dirty office window at the far end.

"I need a favour Eric," he put his arm over his shoulders and guided him out under the roller door. "Something's happened which I need your help with."

"The cop killing on the airport road?" Eric asked his excitement vanishing as LBW looked at him coldly. Embarrassed, he pulled a pair of sunglasses form his dungaree pocket and squared them on his nose.

LBW looked away wearily. The whole island would know by morning, the Guardian would be running it on the front-page. "Keep this quiet, only report to me, OK?"

Eric nodded.

"Ask around for a blacked out Toyota SUV, front end damage. Big chrome bull bars, the whole pimp thing. Can only be a few on the island."

Eric nodded, pushing the glasses up his nose. He was a good-looking lad, took after LBW's sister. A straight Caucasian nose, thinner lips than his father, who had been first generation African, and his skin was lighter, a rich honey colour, clear of any teenage acne. His father had stolen cars for a living, until one day, a prospective victim had wound down his window and emptied a pistol in his head. Eric had been fifteen when he had taken over his father's business, eighteen when LBW had rescued him from going to prison. "You want me to call you at the office?"

LBW studied his nephew. A sharp, streetwise kid, salvaged from a life of gangs and crime, something that gave him great satisfaction. He squeezed the young man's shoulder. "No, call me on the cell or at home." He had to take the risk that the boy wouldn't get into trouble.

"I don't believe what they're saying," Eric called after him.

LBW waved an acknowledgement, "Be careful," his hand diverted to halting a car while he crossed.

Someone had stuck a note under his windscreen wiper. 'Loutou's Been Winstoned', in scrawled, black letters. He looked up at the station building. No faces peered down at him. But he knew they were there, behind the blinds and the glare of reflection. He balled the note into his fist and lowered himself carefully into the Nissan. Eric was still standing on the pavement and LBW held up his fist with the paper clenched inside. He lowered the visor against the setting sun, casting blocks of horizontal golden light between the buildings on Duke Street. The earlier rain had evaporated; the pavements once more crowded with groups of excited people. National flags and coloured bunting arched over bar entrances, their jukeboxes competing with the stereo systems in the polished Imports. The humid air pulsed with excitement from the cricket victories and the anticipation of Carnival. To LBW, not even his hero, Brian Lara, could erase his irritation. He wanted to get home, get away from the noise, be somewhere quiet where he could think. It took him a frustrating hour to get into the St. James area and then another twenty minutes to get off the Western Main Road and make it up into the suburbs behind St James where many of his fellow officers had their homes. It was a protected community. Their wives and children were often targets for reprisals and even kidnapping. Everyone looked out for each other.

LBW pulled onto the paved driveway. He had a square, three-bedroom bungalow with white brick walls and a red tin pitched roof, a wide veranda at the front and a garden full of abandoned toys. Lights were on in the living room and the dark shadow of a figure was sitting in the swing chair on the veranda. He used his door, to push a tricycle with strips of plastic hanging from the handle grips, away from the side of the car.

"Evening Lancelot," the figure called from the swing chair. Only his brother in law used his first name - an arrogant accountant working for a U.S. Bank in Port of Spain. They didn't like each other, but his sister and wife were good friends; his sister had four children and his wife had become a surrogate mother - their garden a surrogate playpen – or a malicious reminder that he had not been able to sire his own.

"Harold," LBW said as he climbed the steps to the veranda, "You collecting your kids?"

"They're just getting cleaned up."

LBW started to open the screen door.

"Lancelot, a quick word?"

"It's been a hell of a day," LBW said opening the screen fully. "I just want a beer and a quiet evening."

The front door opened. His wife stood with a small case in one hand. An instant look of annoyance on her face. LBW looked down at the case. "Going somewhere Beth?"

She glared at Harold and then back at her husband. "You have a family...all this..." her eyes glistened. Beth sniffed loudly. "Harold thought I should go to their place for a few days, until things... weren't so dangerous," tears rolled down her cheeks. "How could you Winston!"

LBW stood blocking the doorway, looking down at her case. "We should talk about this," he said quietly.

She took a step closer and now there was anger. She stood on her toes and put her mouth close to his ear. "No-more-talking. I warned you, ahuh, I said get your black-ass in gear or no good would come. I told you, ahuh I did, so God help me, now Winston, thanks to your fat lazy ass, we are the disgrace of the whole fucking hood."

LBW pulled back and stepped aside. He watched Beth shamble down the driveway, (like him, Beth had lost control of her weight). She kicked the tricycle further onto the patchy lawn. But unlike him, she had maintained a fierce desire for success. LBW's slow sink into apathy had been a disaster for her ambitions. His sad looking sister Tania, gave him a kiss on the cheek, her latest child on her hip, the two younger brothers to Eric followed in a disciplined line.

"I'm sorry," Harold said. "It'll give you time to think."

LBW took a step forward and let the screen door slam shut behind him. He settled his box on the kitchen table and went to the American size fridge freezer. He frowned at the rows of bottled Carlsberg. Then he remembered that his usual beer (Stag) was in short supply - industrial action over pay and pension rights.

He carried three bottles and the box back into the living room. He slumped into the wide leather sofa, groaned when he heard a muffled squeak, rummaged behind him until he found the rubber dinosaur and threw it across the room. He took the cap off the first bottle, drowned the contents, and tossed it next to the dinosaur. The second he opened, along with the file from the U.S. Marshals.

His hands shook as he stared again at the photograph pinned to the papers. He read the neatly typed profile. Jada Gittens, born 22 May 1975, Trinidad, parents not known, adopted in 1980 from orphanage by uncle. No formal education. Pictures of him on streets, a gangly, lethargic looking bastard. LBW was surprised their paths had never crossed before. Gittens had started getting into trouble at fourteen, imprisoned at eighteen for armed burglary. He served three years, which succeeded it seemed, in only filling him with deadlier intent. He became involved in a local enforcement gang, terrorising the neighbourhood for protection money. Then, he had started traveling to Miami. The last two reports were details of the shootings in Florida involving rival gangs. Two dead Puerto Ricans; Jada Gittens the principal suspect. Photographs of two young men almost cut in half by a semi automatic weapon.

Charming he thought laying the report aside. And now, thanks to him, Gittens was roaming free on his island. LBW closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and finger into the sockets, "You're one fool of a nigga,' he whispered.

He was suspended. Perhaps it was a sign, a hard one, but a sign none-the-less that he went and looked for something else. Maybe he could help run his brother's fishing boat out of Chaguaramas. Leave all this. What about Beth? Yes, leave her as well. He hated her neighborhood scheming. Jada Gittens had made a fool of him but he had been making a bigger fool of himself for years. LBW threw the report aside and opened the final bottle. His hand shook as he bought it to his lips. The smell of blood filled his senses, he spewed the contents from his mouth, launching the bottle across the room, it collected a wooden framed wedding photograph from the top of the TV and exploded against the wall behind. Sickened, he put his head in his hands, felt the tears, his shoulders heaved, his anguished, guilt sodden cries filled the quiet house.

Chapter 7

The RB211s' roar, a subdued thunder to the passengers in Premium Business Class. Cayden felt the pressure in his back from the accelerating British Airways 747. The terminal and hangars still appeared to be passing too slowly, but then the nose lifted and with a slight swoop in his stomach, they left Heathrow.

The bright new Terminal 5 flashed by, already surprisingly far below, then the M25, a river of vehicle lights, meandering back into a wet dawn. Acres of yellow streetlights, like poisoned tributaries collecting from pools of monotonous estates, spewing tens of thousands of people into another damp and cold workday. The thousand-foot cloud base quickly blotted the scene. Cayden waited impatiently as the 747 climbed, almost feeling relief as it finally broke out into clear sky, tinged orange in the east. After so many weeks of grey, it was sometimes hard to believe the sun was still where it should be.

"Perhaps we should move the whole company to the Med?" he looked back from the window to his brother concentrating on the crossed legs of the flight attendant sitting opposite. Cayden followed his gaze just as the attendant looked up. Jac smiled, Cayden looked away, embarrassed.

"Hi Linda," Jac said. "You going to be looking after us?"

"Well, I'll be serving you, if that's what you mean sir."

Cayden glanced back from the window. The flight attendants pretty face was serious, a young blonde woman of the new century, a strong independent attitude without any thought of having to comply with her predecessor's behaviour of dumb, flirtatious subservience to the egotistical, first class male passenger.

"Good," Jac said the fixed grin beginning to quiver at the edges.

The 747 leveled from its initial climb and Linda unclipped her seat belt and uncrossed her legs. She stood and smoothed her skirt down her flawless thighs. They could afford the Business class flight to Miami, but she was aware of her _higher value_ assets.

"Now we know where we all stand, I'll have a coffee, black, one sugar, a bottle of mineral water and the _Times,_ which wasn't handed out when we boarded," Cayden said.

Linda smiled.

"Why so rude?"

"I pay for service not attitude from a twenty year old. You might be used to it, but nowadays, people feel it's beneath them to provide any decent kind of service, like it automatically make's them inferior and _un-cool_."

"You're a dinosaur," Jac said.

Cayden snorted, reclined his seat slightly. "How was the parent teacher evening?"

Jac massaged his forehead. "I was late which didn't go down well, but they are both doing well...surprisingly. Michael even seems to be quite intelligent, which is amazing considering his parents."

"Oh I thought Karen was quite bright," Cayden said.

Jac did not smile. "Yeah she was for leaving me."

"Wow, is the man who has just attempted to chat up a flight attendant at 7 o'clock in the morning...feeling sorry for himself?"

Jac's reply waited, while the Captain announced flight information to Miami.

"No Karen and I were never going to make it," Jac said accepting a newspaper from the attendant without looking up. "But the kids suffer and I really regret that."

Cayden scanned the headline. _Risk of CJD ends blood donations_. "They have access to you. They see you regularly. I don't see how they really suffer."

"Michael is a sensitive kid and a lot upsets him. I think if both of us were still around the support would bolster his confidence. It's a common thing, kids blame themselves. We forget, how different would we be if our parents had divorced?"

Linda returned with Cayden's coffee.

Jac smiled, "Linda, I'll have one too, black, no sugar?"

"Anything else?"

"Well I do suffer from cramp which I find a really good massage helps...

"I'll be back with your coffee."

Jac winked at Cayden's scowl. "She's interested, trust me, by the time we land in Miami I'll have her phone number."

"For Christ sake Jac, you're a company fucking director," Cayden hissed, "in your thirties with kids. She could be one of them! Our parents didn't have to get divorced to screw you up."

Jac folded his arms. "You've never lived. You leapt from teenager to middle age without anything in between. Just think of the experiences I've had."

"Divorce?" Cayden said crumpling the paper in his lap.

"No, don't be a twat," Jac shook his head irritably. "OK, even divorce. I'll grant you, the actual process was shit but the love, the excitement before it all turned sour, the children, building a life together. OK it went wrong, but damn it was fantastic while it lasted."

"The kids, the pain you put everyone through, especially our parents, grandparents now, who never have a chance of seeing their grandchildren..."

"They see them more then they see you. Which do you think hurts more?" Jac said.

Cayden picked up his coffee and stared at the tanned, handsome face next to him. "What does that mean?" he said quietly.

"When was the last time you saw them? No, I tell you what, when was the last time you even spoke to them?"

Cayden sipped his coffee. "Last week," he took another sip, "last month maybe."

"It was two and a half months ago. That hurts."

Cayden frowned. "Fuck it Jac, I'm sorry if I don't have the luxury of having time to socialise like you. I'm running a company, which if you hadn't noticed is something which keeps you in a fairly good life style."

"Let's not go there," Jac said accepting his coffee from Linda. She handed them breakfast menus before walking up to the cockpit door and pressing an intercom, asking if the pilots wanted anything. "Don't tell me your schedule is so full that you couldn't just call them once a week?"

"Yeah, I could tell you."

"And you'll look up one day from those reports and bam, they will be gone forever," Jac said.

Cayden's mouth opened to reply but he thought better of it and snatched up the menu. "How are they anyway?"

Jac was rolling his shoulders. "Do you care?"

"Of course I care," Cayden hissed. "Who the hell are you to ask me that?"

"I may be divorced, but I still love my ex, as I do my children, my parents and a lot of my closest friends. And you," Jac nodded, "Oh yeah, you have Tomahawks - no time for anything but the bloody company. You have a girlfriend who loves you far more than you deserve, who you seem hell bent on pushing as far away as possible."

Cayden's response stalled, as it always did, when the good-humoured wrinkles of his brother's face faded to lines of anger. He turned away, allowing his mind to settle on the orange cloud tops far below. Rachel knew what she was getting into, why should he have to change? He frowned as he realised he had hardly spoken to her since the anniversary evening. She wanted commitment, and he was unable to deliver. He suddenly had a desperate urge to talk to her. He thought about picking the phone out of the armrest but realised the sort of conversation she wanted, could not be at thirty five thousand feet with his brother sitting next to him.

They ordered breakfast, ate in silence and then Cayden read the Times while Jac went to stretch his legs. An hour later Jac had not returned. He got up and looked down the aisle. Jac was leaning against the pulled back curtain at the flight attendants station, laughing with Linda.

Jac grinned and gave a half wave. Cayden shook his head ruefully and went forward to use the toilet. When he returned Jac was back in his seat and fluttered a napkin with a telephone number at him as he sat down. "She lives in London, which is a bit of a commute."

"My heart bleeds," Cayden said glancing at the napkin. "How do you know it's hers?"

"I asked her to repeat it."

They were both silent as they watched her walk forward to the cockpit, press the intercom and after a few moments enter with a tray of food.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Jac said. "I had no right to say that."

"I'll make a deal."

Jac glanced at his elder brother, a wary look on his face.

"I'll ask you a question about the family and then you ask me a question about Tomahawks."

Jac nodded.

"So, how are the folks?"

"Well enough, off on a month's holiday..."

"What holiday?" Cayden asked.

"You remember the Kestrels...you fancied their daughter."

Cayden frowned.

"They've a place in the Bahamas."

"A month, I thought they hated being away that long?"

"They complain about their friends all moving to Spain, family too busy, so they might as well just stay away."

Cayden's frown deepened.

"Sorry, but you did ask."

"I'll fly over from Miami for a surprise visit."

Linda walked by giving Jac a wink.

"Jesus you two will be at it in the toilet before this flight is over," Cayden muttered.

"OK my question. What is our plan of action if the Firestorms are in the same mess as the last lot? What are we going to tell Randy?"

Cayden looked out the window briefly. The clouds had disappeared and far below, he could see the spangled reflection of sun on the Atlantic.

"I had a meeting with the Bank yesterday. If we don't get the deposits for orders we've forecast, they'll be looking for more security from the Directors. That's us - I'm mortgaged to the hilt, so are you. We could be facing bankruptcy. Therefore, you are going to have to kiss Randy's arse to make sure he stays with us no matter what."

"Bankruptcy?" Jac said.

Cayden nodded reaching down beside him, retrieving his Blackberry. "Burt's bullshitting me too," Cayden scrolled through some notes, "Look, no request for a replacement jet wash and the council are not on strike. He's just become fucking lazy."

Jac straightened in his chair. "Fire him. You're good at that."

Cayden arched his eyebrows. "Oh I will, as soon as I get back."

Jac thought for a while. "By the way, did Janet Hart get hold of you?"

"Saw her at the BMF meeting."

"No this was yesterday. Wanted to talk to you about Binalshibh. She sounded weird. She just kept repeating she needed to talk to you, urgently," Jac looked keenly at his brother.

"Women. Something comes up they can't cope with, and they put on this, _I'm so helpless act,_ and expect the man to come running."

"But if she's having problems with Black Tug, that has to be where _our_ problems lie," Jac said.

"Maybe. Their security's crap that's for sure."

"What do you think is so urgent?" Jac said.

"Probably got emotional with Binalshibh and he's now refusing to carry her tubs to the States. Which she said was a booming market for her," Cayden said.

"What are you going to do about Binalshibh?" Jac said.

"Oh I'll just sue him, send the fat bastard back to Turkey... something diplomatic like that," Cayden yawned.

They were half way into the flight when Linda appeared beside Jac's seat and knelt down so her skirt slithered up her thighs. Cayden was sure Jac could see the colour of her underwear. She looked into Jac's eyes and asked pleasantly whether there was anything else she could do.

"Don't wait up for me," he whispered and followed Linda to the stairs and disappeared below.

Cayden laid his head back and for a long while wished, he could be more like his brother.

********

Randy Royce had a complex of offices on the marina level of the five stars Gulfstream Plaza Hotel. Above, were thirty floors containing luxury suites, conference centres, meeting rooms, and two international restaurants. The Gulfstream Plaza, dominated the marina north of the Venetian causeway, linking downtown Miami via the Bass Museum of Art to Miami Beach.

"Did y'all have a good flight? You're rooms OK?" Randy's P.A. said to Cayden and Jac as they accepted their cups of coffee.

They nodded, gazing beyond her through the plate glass windows behind Randy's desk to the glittering Intercoastal waterway. They were looking at the southern terminus, north it went as far as Norfolk Virginia. Nearly the entire Eastern seaboard navigated by boat without venturing into open sea. Built to protect coastal shipping from the enemy.

"Anything else I can get for you now?" she said, her smile, a row of perfect white teeth.

"Thank you for organising the rooms Kelly," Jac said.

"Don't you get the most wonderful views from up there," she said, collecting papers from Randy's desk. "I swear on a clear day you can see all the way to Bimini."

"I think we're facing the city."

"Oh," she said. "That's too bad. Randy will be with you in five minutes," she said leaving.

Cayden raised an eyebrow at his brother. "No not tempted, fake tits."

"How do you know?"

Jac winked, stifling a yawn. "I could do with a kip."

"I'm sure. I still can't believe there's space on a 747 you can use for an hour without being discovered," Cayden leant forward and read a printed e-mail left on Randy's desk.

"Did I tell you about this little rest area they have at the back?"

"Yes, more than once," Cayden said irritably, looking at his watch. "Reckon you can refrain from telling Randy until we've sorted out business?"

Jac settled his cup on the edge of the desk and yawned again. "Much longer and I'll be incapable of telling him anything."

"He's just showing who needs who more," Cayden muttered walking to the window, scrutinizing more paperwork on Randy's desk as he went.

A broad walkway, with a median of palm trees in brown terracotta pots led the eye to a white iron fence and a security gate opening to a wooden ramp down to the pontoons. The marina was used by Kompass Marine and Cayden gazed proudly at the bright upper-works of Firestorms and Brigands. "Jeez guys, sorry to keep you waiting," a voice cried.

Cayden watched Randy's reflection hurry across the room towards them, and turned as Randy started to pump Jac's hand vigorously. "So good to see you again Jac, looking incredible," Randy sprung away and grabbed Cayden's hand with both of his. "And Cayden, jeez it's been too long."

Randy's _Kompass Marine_ baseball cap, set high on his tanned forehead, fringed by curly, salt and pepper hair, long sideburns and sunglass tan lines leading to a network of wrinkles around his black eyes, glittering with bon-hommie.

Hopefully, he's seen the shipment and everything's OK Cayden thought.

Randy glanced at his Rolex, "You guys had a good flight? The rooms good? Ah, I see you've got yourselves some coffee."

Jac stifled another yawn.

Randy stood behind his desk, smiling broadly, running his hands down the front of his pressed polo shirt, company logo on the right breast. "OK boys, I've just heard the ship docked. Why don't we take a drive out there and then it should just about be happy hour," Randy threw them each a Kompass Marine baseball cap from a stack balanced on a bookshelf behind him.

Jac pulled his on enthusiastically. "Sounds good Randy," he said looking at Cayden with concern.

Randy's white Lexus, parked in a reserved bay, had gold trim and _1 Kompass_ license plate. The air-conditioning blasted frigid air as Randy made a squealing u-turn and headed up to Biscayne Boulevard. Cayden sat in the back. They headed south, Bicentennial Park on the left, towards the commercial docks. Cayden listened as Randy fired questions concerning their family, parents, house, whether Jac still rode the Ducati. Jac responded with equal enthusiasm.

Randy turned left on Port of Miami Boulevard. Across the roof tops, towered the white slabs of cruise ships. They drove in silence out onto the Port of Miami promontory.

Cayden felt strangely nervous.

Across the low storage sheds the distinct funnel of the Black Tug ship stood like a cautioning finger. They turned a corner and a crane was swinging the first Firestorm from its position between cliffs of steel containers down to a trailer below.

Randy eased the Lexus to a stop between a stack of wooden pallets and a pickup truck. A Peterbilt was backing down the dockside to connect with the trailer. Black exhaust curled from the truck's chrome plated pipes, the beep of the reverse warning echoed off the side of the ship. The three of them stepped over the raised crane rails and walked beside the truck. The humid air trapped the diesel fumes. Two men appeared at the railing and watched the slow progress of the truck. Another figure appeared high up on the wing of the bridge and Cayden shaded his eyes. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could see Captain's epilates on his shoulders.

Randy held up his hand to the truck driver. "Hey, give us a minute," he yelled at the driver hanging out of the window. The driver nodded, chewing.

"Can I help you?" a voice called.

Randy and Jac craned their necks to see the figure on the bridge. "My name's Randy Royce, Kompass Marine," he yelled. "We just wanna' check inside."

Cayden bent closer to examine the tape that held the plastic weatherproof material over the deck of the Firestorm.

"Why?" yelled the figure.

"Who the hell are you," Randy muttered beside them but yelled back. "Are you the Captain?"

Cayden nudged Jac while Randy continued to have his shouted conversation. Jac knelt with Cayden and examined the piece of spilt plastic.

"Dammit!" Cayden breathed. "That's not factory tape, same colour, but look how it peels off leaving some on the paintwork." he started to sweat, scraping at the tape, swearing as bits of decal tore away. Jac helped push back the plastic sheet. It smelt like an un-aired tent. Cayden hurriedly pushed the white plastic further back, so they could step onto the bathing platform at the stern. They rolled it over the expanse of cushioned sundeck to the sweeping radar arch. Their feet crunched on plastic bottles and sandwich containers littering the stained teak deck. The deck fridge panel had a deep scratch.

"Of all the dirty southern bitches," Randy groaned behind them.

Jac turned, a look of disbelief. "Is this how the others were?"

"You see what I mean guys. What the hell is happening here?" Randy said.

Cayden gestured impatiently for Jac to help roll the plastic to the smoked glass doors leading down to the saloon. Cayden clenched a chrome rail. Ripped cushions scattered across the floor, more food containers, bits of wiring, a broken light bulb, a shattered picture frame, and black scuffmarks on the leather sofa.

"Fella's, this isn't something we should have to deal with."

"For fuck's sake Randy, this isn't a quality control problem. This is vandalism," Cayden shouted kicking some of the rubbish out of his way as he went to the companionway that led to the cabins below. "You're fucking telling me that you think we'd send the boats across to you in this condition," he yelled.

"Easy Cayden, I'm not sure what the hell's going on here."

"Jac," Cayden yelled.

Jac found him standing in the master cabin that looked like a room in a bed-sit. "What a mess," Jac whispered.

"Fucking bastards," Cayden said pinching the top of his nose. "I'm going to kill them."

"Aw shit," Randy said, joining them. "What's goin' on boys?"

"There's suspicion back at the yard it's two ex-employees," Jac said.

"Really? Don't you guys have any security?"

Cayden glared at Randy who backed up until his hairy legs encountered furniture. He stuffed his hands into his short pockets. Jac stepped over and placed a hand on Randy's shoulder. "Let's get some fresh air. I'll fill you in."

Randy shook his head glumly. "Explain fast Jac, because I'aint happy."

Jac held up his hand to stall Cayden and guided Randy out of the cabin.

Cayden pummelled the mattress, kicking out at the debris, sweat dripped in his eyes, his shirt stuck to him. Like a drunk, he stumbled through the rest of the Firestorm – a smashed TV screen, a cupboard door off its hinges, stained carpets. Eventually, he sat on the steps of the companionway, head in hands.

Jac's footsteps crunched up behind him. "I'm sorry Cayden, but we've had a look at the others. They're the same."

Cayden felt his eyes burn, he pretended to wipe away sweat. "We can't afford this Jac."

Jac sat next to him squeezed his arm. "Once the mess is cleared, the damage's not that bad."

"Bollocks. The interior's trashed. Our insurance doesn't cover vandalism." Cayden looked at him bleakly, pulling himself up using the edge of the galley sink. He stood facing the sink for a while and then hit the tap distractedly. From underneath, came a whirring and a dribble of water ran from the end of the chrome fitting. Cayden frowned, turning the tap fully on. The pump whirred strongly and a jet of water splashed into the bowl. Without a word, Cayden checked the instrument console.

He flicked a switch and the engine cover opened on hydraulic pistons. He stood, arms folded, looking down at the two turbo diesels. A rank odour enveloped him. He took a step back and saw the glint of reflected light from water in the bilges.

"Smells like a public toilet," Jac said.

"Since when did we fill the water tanks before shipping?" Cayden asked.

"Never," Jac muttered.

"Since when did we leave the batteries connected?"

"Never."

"We need to talk to Captain Min Oo," Cayden said.

"Randy's gone to get him."

Cayden continued to stare down into the engine bay. Randy arrived with the man they had seen on the bridge.

"What the hell is that smell?" Randy said.

Cayden watched the Captain. He looked fifty, short, cropped greying hair and his hands were suffering from arthritis, knuckles bloated, fingers bent into claws. He held Cayden's gaze for a few seconds before looking into the engine bay.

"That smell is piss," Cayden said still looking at Captain Min Oo.

"We've had that before too," Randy said.

"You're deckhands are pissing in my engine bays," Cayden growled at the Black Tug Captain.

The Captain's head jerked up and his shoulders shrugged. "Not possible," he said.

"Did you check these boats after they were loaded on your ship?" Cayden said.

"Not my job."

"Who has access to them during the crossing?"

"Crew make sure secure, but not go inside."

Cayden shook his head and looked up at the black funnel high above. "So you didn't see anybody messing with these boats?"

The Captain shook his head.

"Well someone's been using them as public fucking toilets?" Cayden shouted.

Captain Min Oo's dark eyes narrowed. He hunched his shoulders, a clawed hand scratched an elbow.

Cayden turned away in disgust and jumped down off the trailer. "I don't believe you Min Oo,' He pointed a finger at him. "Call the police, maybe they can get an answer out of the lying bastard," he said to Randy.

"They're foreigners, the police aren't interested," Randy called after him.

"Get the FBI, CIA, whoever," Cayden shouted and stalked off down the dockside, kicking an empty drink can which clanged against the rust streaked plates of the ship.

Cayden walked to the end of the dock. The sun was setting behind the superstructure of a container ship. Could his competition be doing this? When did anyone have the chance? His tongue felt swollen and he tasted the bitterness of stale coffee. His head ached. He heard the Lexus idle up behind him.

"Randy says we're missing happy hour," Jac said from his lowered window.

Cayden threw a stone he had been turning over in his hand. It broke the film of scum on the water. He watched the ripples, steadying his breathing. He walked back to the car and rested his head on the cool leather, letting the air dry the sweat.

"I'm going to find out who to talk to," Randy said. "Min Oo isn't saying anything, but he can't go anywhere. Maybe customs, immigration, whoever, will have more luck. They can run fingerprints, test for DNA, get an I.D. on someone...maybe."

"Drop me back at the hotel," Cayden said.

They drove out of the dockyard in silence

"Listen, sorry about losing my cool Cayden, let's have a drink, sort this mess out," Randy said.

Cayden punched the leather seat next to him. "No. I'm in a crap mood. You'll accomplish a lot more if it's just the two of you. I want to call the UK and see what can be done that end."

"But it's nearly midnight back home," Jac said.

"I'll get them up."

Ten minutes later Cayden watched them pull away and take the exit for the causeway towards Miami Beach. He turned and strode to the reception desk. "Where can I get a hire car?"

He was lucky, the Avis girl was just finishing for the day and he was even luckier when she told him she had one car left, a compact with air conditioning.

Forty minutes later Cayden nosed the four door Pontiac out of the Avis lot and worked his way through the one-way streets. He missed the turning for Biscayne Boulevard. It looked different in rush hour. Twenty minutes later, he picked up the signs for the cruise ship terminals. He stopped at a _7- Eleven_ and bought two one-litre bottles of water, a ham and cheese roll, a burrito and a monster bag of _Lay's Cheesy Chips_. He had finished a bottle of water and the ham and cheese roll by the time he found Port of Miami Boulevard, following the signs for _Commercial Docks_. Twice he made a u-turn before he found the right road. As he cruised up to the barrier, a black uniformed guard stepped out. Cayden had been trying to think of a legitimate reason why he would be coming to the docks after hours. If he wasn't allowed in, he was sure he could find a hole in the fence somewhere.

The guard bent to look in through his window. "Can I help you sir?"

Cayden produced his business card and pulled the Kompass baseball cap firmly down on his head. "Yeah, I'm the owner of the company that produces these boats," he held up a brochure. "We were down earlier, but I forgot to check on one thing important for tomorrow's meeting."

"What thing, sir?"

"The engines. I need to make sure the right engines were installed."

The guard studied him for a moment and Cayden tapped the wheel impatiently.

"The right engines?"

Cayden nodded.

"OK sir. I'll tell the patrols. Sign here."

Cayden took the clipboard and scribbled his name making it as illegible as possible.

"Thank you," Cayden called out, accelerating under the raised barrier.

He found a place to park behind a battered pickup truck with Miami Freight Services on the tailgate, sandwiched between two Simpson Fresh Fish delivery trucks. He could watch the ship's gangway while the car remained sufficiently hidden from anyone walking down to the dockside.

To his right, he could see the bow of a Firestorm, his resolve strengthened. Min Oo was lying, there was no doubt in his mind, and he could not wait for the authorities to find out why. They were not facing bankruptcy. He reached for the burrito and un-wrapped the cellophane, biting into the soft dough and shredded beef, cheese and bean filling. An anxious hour later, a pink Flamingo Cab pulled up at the gangway. Immediately Captain Min Oo appeared from the shadows of the superstructure. Cayden watched him fumble with the door handle. He felt slightly foolish ducking behind the wheel as the cab made a u-turn, its headlights briefly sweeping over him. He started the Pontiac and backed away from the pick-up truck.

The taillights of the cab disappeared.

Cayden accelerated, tyres spinning on the loose surface. He raced down the industrial roads and reached the guard hut just as the cab was pulling away. The guard waved him to a stop and produced the same clipboard. Cayden hurriedly signed against the departure time, watching the receding cab lights.

"Have a good evening Mr...," the guard said reading from the sheet.

"Callejon," Cayden smiled briefly and accelerated hard. He boosted the air conditioning. The traffic was light and the pink taxi stood out. He had caught up when they exited South Miami Avenue, driving out across the Rickenbacker Causeway. Cayden pulled a Miami street map from the glove box. The causeway headed over to Key Biscayne. He had taken a Firestorm to one of the marinas on the Key once, but had never driven.

The cab slowed as it entered streets lined with expensive, balconied condominiums. Cayden was forced to nose up to the taxi's rear bumper. He tried to slide lower behind the wheel. Unexpectedly the cab squealed off to the left. Cayden accelerated, feeling conspicuous. If Min Oo was suspicious, there would be no doubt now. They finally turned down Cape Florida drive and pulled into a parking lot for the Biscayne Fish Restaurant. A pontoon ran out across the black water from the side of the glass sided, square building. Two sports boats were tied either side of the pontoon, the red glow of the restaurant sign reflected off the water.

Min Oo got out, fumbled with the fare before hurrying inside. Cayden reversed the Pontiac in beside a 90's Cadillac. If he reclined his seat he could look through the smeared windscreen of the Cadillac at the few diners still eating. Min Oo stood uncertainly at the door, surveying the diners. His body stiffened when he saw a man eating alone by the window, under a neon Budweiser sign. He half raised a hand in acknowledgement as the man turned to look at him, then hurried off between the tables towards him.

Cayden pushed on the window button for a clearer view. The lone diner did not get up but gestured for the Captain to sit down as he continued eating. He was wearing an electric blue shirt, black hair, gave an impression of being tall by the way he hunched over the table, his shoulders bowed as he scooped food with a fork. A fat waitress appeared, the Captain looked at the menu pointed at something and then dismissed her. They sat, without talking, while the man finished eating. Eventually he pushed his plate away and the waitress returned with two bottles of Coke. Immediately the Captain lent his crippled hands on the table, began talking urgently.

Stopping suddenly, when the man impatiently wagged his finger, like an admonishing teacher, before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

Cayden sat up to get a clearer view. An envelope had been tossed at Min Oo, his crippled fingers hurriedly scooped up the spilled notes. Distracted, Cayden had not seen the man leave, his gaze surveyed the restaurant thinking he had gone to the restrooms, instead he banged open the door, and was striding towards the Cadillac.

Cayden felt panic. He hit the window button, throwing himself across the front seats, grimacing from the stabbing gear stick. He pressed further under the steering wheel as he heard the double beep of the alarm system deactivating. Cayden smelt the pine fresh fibres of the Pontiac's carpet as the crunch of the man's footsteps came alongside. They stopped. Cayden held his breath, waiting for a tap on the window. The door hinges groaned and the suspension squeaked. The engine roared to life followed by a clunk of transmission. The spinning rear wheels spat a shower of gravel against the Pontiac.

Cayden slowly reached, his left arm twisted behind, for the headrest. The muscles in his back strained as he pulled himself out. When he finally was able to sit upright the Cadillac had disappeared. He looked back towards the restaurant. Min Oo still sat at the table looking inside the envelope. He visibly jumped when the waitress appeared next to him. He tried to hide the envelope with his clawed hands but gave up, instead hurriedly handing over some change from his pocket. He watched the two remaining customers get up and leave the restaurant; his gaze followed them out into the parking lot. And then he looked directly at Cayden. Without the Cadillac, he had a clear line of sight and the light from the restaurant illuminated Cayden's face like a red billiard ball. There was a momentary look of shock on Min Oo's face and then fear. Cayden froze. Min Oo jumped up, his chair fell over. He desperately stuffed the envelope into his jeans pocket.

Cayden jolted to life, shouldering open the car door. He sprinted across the parking lot. The couple walking to their car cried out with alarm. Cayden ran to the front door but realised Min Oo had already gone out through the fire exit. He slalomed through the tables and barged open the closing doors. He scanned the deserted parking area, his heart thumping. Running footsteps on the pontoon to his left. He ran up the concrete steps and took several hesitant steps. Dark shadows, interspersed with low wattage overhead lights. He caught a flash of Min Oo as he ran through one a few yards ahead.

"Wait," Cayden yelled, starting to run again.

Cayden drew level with the first sports fishing boat, surprised at how quickly Min Oo could move. His heart was pounding and he tried to hold his breath so he could listen.

Water lapped against the boats hull.

"I need to talk to you Captain Min Oo. We need to sort out whatever's going on," Cayden shouted.

The other Hatteras sports fisher was a few yards ahead on the other side of the pontoon. Cayden thought he saw it rock slightly as if someone had just climbed over the side. Nervously he looked back towards the bright lights of the restaurant. The only person he could see was the waitress cleaning a table.

Cayden started forward again. "Can we talk?" he called searching the blackness.

He reached the bow of the boat. A figure suddenly loomed on the deck above and Cayden cried out in alarm, taking a few steps back, his arm raised. "You leave Mr.Callejon."

"Why?" Cayden said taking another step back. "I want to know what's happening to my boats. Who is messing them up? Are you being paid by Sunbeam? That man you were talking to, who is he working for?"

Captain Min Oo leathery face looked like an emotionless mask in the neon glow from the restaurant. Eventually he sighed. "You so naive. Release bow line."

Cayden did not move. "No. You tell me what's going on or I will call the police."

"That would be unwise I think Mr.Callejon," the Captain bent and started to untie the mooring line from the boat's cleat.

Cayden took two quick steps forward and cried out again when the Captain suddenly produced a spear gun from behind his back. The Captain thrust the tip towards him, "Leave Mr.Callejon. I borrow this boat to get home. You keep quiet about tonight and everything will be OK."

Cayden hesitated. Why was the Captain not fearful at being discovered? "If you tell me what's going on, I won't go to the police." Cayden silently cursed the quiver in his voice.

The Captain gave a sarcastic laugh and started to walk along the side deck towards the stern, keeping the spear gun aimed at Cayden. He knelt down and started releasing the stern line. "If they arrest me, my friends will find you."

The boat started to drift away from the pontoon. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Captain Min Oo backed towards the screen doors. "Nothing personal Mr.Callejon, just business."

He fumbled above the aluminum frame and grunted with satisfaction when the keys tumbled from their hiding place onto the deck. "People so predictable," he bent down still watching Cayden.

Cayden glanced down the pontoon and caught his breath. The Cadillac was parked across the concrete steps and the man in the electric blue shirt was standing next to the open door, one arm rested casually on the roof, the other held a cigarette to his mouth. He was watching. He raised his hand and half waved.

Their lack of concern frightened Cayden. Min Oo was still fumbling for the keys. In the end, impatience made him look down.

Cayden leapt across the gap and tackled Min Oo. The spear launched, thwacking into the wooden deck. Min Oo grunted as his head cracked against the glass door. Cayden pushed himself away and got shakily to his feet. He stepped back and the keys rattled across the deck. They glinted near a storage box and Cayden bent to retrieve them.

Min Oo recovered, catching Cayden by surprise. His head snapped backwards from the punch, his legs swept from under him. Cayden spun to the deck; his head exploded as it connected with a stanchion, the star-studded sky began to lose focus, an arm wrapped around his neck from behind. It constricted like a doctor's sphygmomanometer. As it squeezed he fought harder to breath. He tried to reach behind him. He was pinned against the railing with Min Oo standing in front, his face twisted with anger. The stars began to revolve, a buzzing filled his head and then specs of light shot across his vision before total blackness enveloped him.

Chapter 8

"Call it a day?"

Rachel stared vacantly at a customer loading two bags of clothes for his Caribbean winter break into the back of a BMW. A fine drizzle filled the cobbled courtyard with a grey, swaying mist, occasionally the wind would blow stronger and spatter the window with fine droplets. Rachel leant over the counter and rested her chin in her hands.

"Rachel?" Kim, her friend and manager said gently.

The BMW reversed away, condensation shrouding its exhaust.

"Can I call it a crap day?" Rachel said waving goodbye.

Kim put her arm around Rachel's shoulders and squeezed. "Go home, feet up, nice cup of tea, good magazine, that's what you need. And you have to pack for Nice anyway."

"That won't take long." Rachel patted her hand and straightened. She threw several clothes hangers into a recycle bin behind her.

"Do something that takes you away from here."

Rachel picked up her coffee mug and blinked back tears. She gulped the last mouthful and went to the kitchenette behind the till. She swilled the mug while looking at her reflection in a mirror. Her eyes were puffy and the neon highlighted the laughter lines making her look older, she thought miserably. She dabbed a cloth at a coffee stain on her white blouse, and picked off a stray piece of cotton from her black trousers. "You're an old frump," she said looking at her reflection again.

Kim was kneeling down re-folding t-shirts. She was wearing similar black trousers but they better suited her longer legs, Rachel thought. A black g-string filled the gap of exposed tanned skin. She was Rachel's age but more comfortable wearing younger, fashionable clothes. Rachel could feel the few extra pounds around her middle, which no amount of exercise seemed to get rid of.

Kim looked over her shoulder and smiled. Her sleeveless pink top inched a little higher.

Rachel's eyes widened. "Kim you naughty girl when did you get that?" She bent down and looked at the small dolphin tattoo.

"About two months ago," Kim said giggling. "We went down to Brighton for a weekend away from the kids. Jesus, John was an animal. I don't think he's been that adventurous since our wedding night. Anyway, we had an hour's breather and decided to go for a walk and I, continuing in the spirit of things, decided to have one of these."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yep, that was the stupid thing. It hurt like hell. I wasn't in the mood to do anything for the rest of the weekend which really pissed me, and him, right off."

Rachel smiled but she was trying to remember the last time she had made love with Cayden. She couldn't. "I think I'll go for a drive."

Kim stood, the smile slipping from her face. "Hey girl, it'll be fine?"

Rachel nodded. "Can you hold the fort for the rest of the day?" she said as she fetched her coat.

"I'll leave the banking in the safe for you to collect on Monday," Kim said.

"That's fine. I'll pop into Barclays on my way to the airport. You sure you'll be all right for the week?"

"Of course," Kim held her arms. "Have fun, and don't forget to come back with plenty of samples." Kim kissed her on each cheek.

Rachel held her raincoat over her head and ran for her car cursing as the puddles soaked her shoes. She waited a minute for the blowers to clear the windscreen before driving away, waving at Kim. A forklift trundled by, its driver hidden in yellow waterproofs. She waited for a truck to reverse into one of the warehouses, a van and another car pulled in behind her. Eventually the driver managed to get the angle right and the truck backed into the opening. She reached the security gate and glanced briefly at the office buildings to her left. He had only left that morning but it felt longer. She drove automatically, her mind sifting the chaos of her relationship, things he had said to her in the past - wondering if he was seeing someone else, Kim's tattoo, the sales at the boutique, her mother's arthritis. She only became aware of her surroundings when the engine surged and she was in the third lane of the motorway. She made a quick decision. She wanted to see Barbara, a friend she had not visited in over six months, someone who had never had a serious relationship, content restoring antiques in her listed cottage near Gatwick. If she were agreeable, she would stay the weekend and then catch a cab to the airport on Monday morning. The banking could wait until she returned. Barbara always managed to give sensible advice. Rachel accelerated a little harder while dialing Barbara's number on her mobile.

Three cars behind, a black Ford, that had followed her out of the gates struggled to keep her in sight.

Barbara, in her brusque manner, said it would be good to catch up.

The congested roads were dangerous with driver's reactions panicky in the thick spray. The man in the black Ford smiled. She was not going to be able to drive fast. When she exited the roundabout onto the A29, he was two cars behind. The traffic thinned and the Mercedes accelerated. He became concerned that she was not heading back to Meadow Light Farm, the place he had followed her to on the last three evenings. He was now very familiar with the layout of the converted barn and the surrounding land and he had hoped that if the call came she would be there; it would make his task a lot easier. Sub-consciously he reached inside his jacket pocket. He laid his mobile phone on the seat next to him. As they approached Horsham, he managed to stay with her as they exited the A24 towards Rusper village.

Rachel pulled into the driveway almost hidden by an overgrown hedge. The driveway had a grass strip between the wheel tracks. She stopped the Mercedes and got out to open a wooden five-bar gate. A black car splashed through surface water in the lane as she walked back to the Mercedes. Barbara's listed cottage had last been extended in the seventeenth century; a classic half-timbered Elizabethan style but retaining the twisted chimneys dating back to earlier Tudor times. The windows were squares of rectangular glass separated by thin mullions. The irregular walls and subsided upstairs bedroom windows, intensified the look of centuries past. An acre of garden surrounded Lynsted Cottage, with avenues of lawns set between towering hedges and dormant flowerbeds. Linde Stede in old English, meant 'The Place.' It was solid and comforting – just what she needed.

Rachel parked the car in front of the old barn that now served as a garage for Barbara's battered Land Rover and storage for a jumble of furniture, awaiting restoration.

Rachel banged the heavy iron knocker and watched a solitary blackbird hop across the lawn. It stopped occasionally to peer at the ground, before its beak jabbed into the wet grass. Afternoon gloom obscured the garden borders.

The door opened with a creak and Barbara stood in a pool of light, hands on hips, her dungarees half-unbuttoned over a checked shirt, a wisp of hair falling over one round, rosy cheek, "Hello stranger," she boomed causing the blackbird to flee into the nearest tree with an alarmed cry, "give me a big hug."

"Long time no see," Rachel said smelling the varnish and sawdust in her hair.

Barbara kicked the door closed and led the way down the low corridor to the kitchen. A kettle whistled on top of a Rayburn cooker. A restored oak table and an assortment of antique chairs dominated the centre of the room. To Rachel it was cozy and smelt familiar, surfacing distant memories of when she was a child, sneaking into her Gran's pantry for a forbidden biscuit.

"Cup of tea or something stronger?"

Rachel had forgotten how loud Barbara spoke and smiled fondly. "Tea would be great."

"Do you want to stay for a bite to eat?"

"If that's all right with you?"

Barbara lifted the kettle off the Rayburn and poured water into two mugs, each containing a tea bag. "Of course. Haven't had a decent chat in ages. How about we crack open a few bottles of wine and you stay the night."

Rachel laughed. "That would be great."

Many hours later, with the skeletal remains of trout on their plates and two empty bottles of wine between them, Rachel finished talking about her relationship with Cayden. Barbara squeezed her hand before putting an arm around her shoulders. Rachel cried a wine fueled release of anguish.

The cold February night, shut out with a curtain of condensation across the small pains of glass, obscured the man, standing just beyond the square of window light on the frosted grass. He had left the black Ford in a lay-by. He wore a dark ski jacket, a balaclava just showing his eyes, weeping slightly from the cold.

He had received a call. He was to proceed immediately.

Chapter 9

LBW gazed at the label on an increasingly rare, Stag beer. The strike was still on and soon the island would have drunk the last of the stock. He adjusted his weight on the bar stool, it was too small for him and he could feel his buttocks sagging either sides. He ran his thumb over the label, thinking of his last call from Beth. She wanted a divorce.

A group of young crew, in matching uniforms, started chanting at one of their colleagues to finish his drink. They were from a super yacht in the Chaguaramas marina behind him. LBW watched the teenager's glazed and red face dripping with perspiration, tip his head back, his throat bobbing as he gulped down the cocktail. They started singing happy birthday.

It was a round bar, set out on a promontory overlooking the marina. A restaurant and club house behind it. One of the girls, her breasts pushing hard against the cotton of her t-shirt smiled at LBW and waved. He raised his bottle but could not manage a smile.

His brother had made an infrequent visit, and persuaded him to take a few days off with him in Chaguaramas.

Clay had called to warn they might press charges for Sergeant Loutoo's death.

The change of routine had been therapeutic.

"Last one on the island," the barman said lifting the cap from a Stag.

LBW grunted.

"Uncle Winston!" a voice, above the roar from the crew as birthday boy finished another cocktail.

LBW watched Eric approach from the restaurant door.

"How's it going Uncle?" Eric said.

"You want a beer?"

He ordered Eric a Carlsberg, while listening to the gossip from his brother-in-laws house. Beth was telling anybody who would listen, how much she hated him. It had got so bad that the family made excuses to be out of the house, even Harold - served the arrogant prick right. LBW wondered why he didn't feel resentful over Eric's enthusiastic recounting of how much she hated him. All he could summon was a flicker of satisfaction that someone else was now experiencing the frustrations of living with his wife \- soon to be ex-wife.

"Your car, y'should'a let me take care of it, now some nigga's thrown acid over it," Eric said. "I should've taken it into the yard when they knifed the tyres."

LBW shrugged. They watched the yacht crew carry the birthday boy down the steps to a waiting taxi. His night was to continue in a Port of Spain club.

"I don't believe what they're saying Uncle Winston," Eric said after a while.

LBW nodded his thanks catching a glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirrors behind the bar optics. He had shaved his head. He hated how grey it had become and was pleased at how much younger it made him. Despite being overweight, his face remained lean; helped by European ancestory, his nose was thin, cheek bones defined. His skin colour was the honey dark of Arab Africa, the Sudan region. Back in his early, fit days, he knew he had been good looking from the amount of attention women gave him. Why he had ended up with Beth he could not imagine. He guessed it just proved what a manipulative bitch she really was.

"Did you hear what I said Uncle?" Eric asked.

LBW shook his head. "Son, call me Lancelot or LBW or anything except Uncle OK?"

Eric grinned. "I said, I got a trace for you on that truck."

LBW raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, out near Maracas at the weekend, man I tell you, if you divorce Aunt Beth, then you go there and check out the women!" Eric whooped, "Damn they're fine. G-string's just blind you. They don't care who's looking, and they strut with their butts..."

"Eric the truck?"

"Oh yeah... this big lot, behind the beach, brothers go weekends showing their wheels to the girls, tryin' to get into bikinis, you know what I mean, stereo's pumping, muscles..." Eric puffed out his chest. "Anyway, I see's your truck - black Toyota SUV, tinted windows, chrome bars, jacked suspension."

LBW frowned. "There was no damage?"

Eric held up his hand. "Nope, the dude hanging on the footplates looked nasty, you know, gang tattoos, shades, combat cap, not interested in the booty either."

LBW sighed.

"Ahuh, well, I walk's up, say's, nice looking wheels, and he just stares like I'm dog-shit..."

"Eric you know at some stage tonight I've got to get some sleep."

"Yeah sorry Unc... I mean, sorry LB, can I call you that?"

LBW nodded impatiently.

"He then opens the door and you know what I see, a paper mat, yeah, the ones mechanics use, you know, to keep the oil and shit off, and I recognise the name, know a dude who works there in Blanchisseuse."

LBW finished his beer and nodded for two more.

"Thinking this is urgent shit right? I take a drive out and they're shutting the doors, but this nigga owes me a favour..." Eric sat forward on his stool. Counting his fingers he continued, "He say's they replaced bull bars, a couple of doors, front wings and re-spray all in a week - cash." Eric sat back with a triumphant look.

LBW's stomach tightened. "You get an address?"

Eric shook his head. "Cash, no questions."

"So, no idea where this truck comes from?"

"The trucks from Port of Spain, that's in the log book, but," Eric sat forward again on his stool. "Truck's been hanging around Blanchisseuse, think's maybe using one of the tourist villas by the beach."

LBW smiled, a strange sensation of un-worked muscles. He leant forward and hugged his nephew, feeling his young body stiffen. "Thanks' Eric." He took some notes from his shirt pocket and started to hand them across.

Eric held up his hands. "No way LB, you just prove them wrong, OK. And I'm going to take your car down to the workshop to fix her up. OK?"

LBW gave him another hug and asked for two more beers.

Chapter 10

Cayden floated in bands of semi-consciousness, gradually his sound, taste, touch - clarified.

He heard the roar of diesel engines, tasted blood, felt vibration like an electric razor against his cheek.

He opened his eyes.

He could not move. Fibrous rope, tight around his neck.

He tried to focus on specs of light. He blinked repeatedly until he discerned an instrument panel. A figure moved in front of it. Cayden stretched his fingers, feeling course strands of rope around cold metal.

Cayden coughed, a spike of pain through his head, he groaned, close to passing out again. A shadow unfolded from a seat just inside the saloon and knelt in front of him. A strong hand squeezed his cheeks, turning Cayden's face.

"Min Oo!" the man shouted.

Immediately the roar of diesels faded, the angle of the deck flattened and Cayden felt the stern wave pass under the boat.

The Captain brightened the cabin lights.

Everything was streaked, like looking through smeared glass. Liquid was suddenly thrown in his face. Cayden gasped, his eyes stinging, through tears, he could see the outline of the man again kneeling in front of him, wearing a baseball cap and the electric blue shirt.

"What do you want?" Cayden croaked, a dribble of blood.

"I'm going to untie you. Behave or you'll feel greater pain," the man said flatly, standing away. Captain Min Oo came forward and clumsily dragged him to the saloon. Cayden glimpsed the spangle of city lights over the black water and hoped they were still somewhere on the inland waterway. The man offered a bottle. Cayden gulped, spattering the front of his shirt.

"Mr.Callejon, listen carefully. Failure to understand would be disastrous for you."

Cayden took another mouthful, swilled, and spat.

The man adjusted his cap lower over his eyes and with exaggerated slowness glanced down between his shoes.

He ground Cayden's blood into the carpet with his shoe. "I understand your resentment with the condition of your boats Mr.Callejon, but it is a... by-product, shall we say, of the business I am in." His English was exaggerated, like someone trying to sound sober.

He kept his cap pulled low. "It's not necessary for you to know what business I am in, but understand completely, we are in business together, and as business partners it is very important that each of our operations continue to prosper." He held up his hand to stall any interruption. "I appreciate this _partnership_ has been... forced on you, and you may not be too... enamored..." a glint of teeth as the man smiled, "with the prospect of it continuing, but alas I cannot help that." The man sat back. "You will co-operate Mr.Callejon. Or you will suffer...very much."

Cayden finished the bottle and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. "What's your name?"

"That is not important."

Cayden tried to focus. "But I only do business with people I know." His voice was slurred.

Another smile. "Very well. I'm Maalik."

"Maalik who?" Cayden felt dizzy, very thirsty.

The Captain appeared with another bottle. He took a gulp, spilling more down his chin.

"Just Maalik, Mr.Callejon, or as we are now partners, can I call you Cayden?"

Cayden launched himself from the chair. "No you can't..."

Maalik pushed him effortlessly away. Cayden sat hard, a knee pressed into his groin and Maalik dug his fingers into his shoulders.

"Listen," he slapped Cayden's face. "I know where your beautiful girlfriend is, Rachel...right? And your family – on holiday aren't they?"

The pressure of Maalik's knee made his good eye water.

"Piss off," Cayden wheezed.

Another slap, flinging his head back. "Show respect," Maalik hissed. "Don't under estimate me infidel, that would be very dangerous."

Cayden tried to pull away from the pressure of the knee. He tried to concentrate on the wavering face opposite. "I will go to the police."

"Then you will lose them. And they will never find me."

"What about him," Cayden said nodding towards Min Oo.

"Rachel will be gone, a fact, which does not seem to have registered with you?"

Images swirled, thoughts cannoned off each other. He took another gulp of water. "Who is paying you? Is it Sunbeam?" he slurred.

Maalik nodded at Min Oo to go back to the wheel.

"Accept are partnership. Clean the boats before you hand them over to Kompass Marine, that way you will have no more problems with Mr. Royce. But do not interfere in their shipment."

Cayden shook his head. "Clean...need more than a clean..."

The diesels bellowed and the bows reared as the twin screws bit deep.

"Do whatever it takes. You have no choice," Maalik said pushing back from him.

The boat settled. "You can't do this to me. I've worked too hard..." Cayden said feeling relief.

The boat started to turn hard to port and Cayden could feel his head dropping to his shoulder. Maalik went to the window. The Captain nodded to the direction Maalik pointed.

"How much," Cayden mumbled. "I'll pay you to stop."

Maalik pushed Cayden's head back, looked into his eyes.

"Anything...I won't go to the police..."

"You are very stupid Mr.Callejon, very, very stupid. The police know nothing of me. Even if you did go, what are you going to tell them?"

"Whatever Sunbeam is paying you I'll double it," Cayden said.

Maalik gave a short, harsh laugh. "You could not pay me enough. Six months. There, I'm being generous with you. You will cooperate for six months otherwise I will hurt the people close to you."

"The Blade," Cayden said trying to focus on the face above him.

"You are a clever man, Mr.Callejon, I am certain you can work something out for six months. But I'm also a sporting man, and I enjoy a challenge. I'm going to test you, to see how good you are at keeping your mouth shut."

Cayden stared at him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fuck you," Cayden slurred.

Maalik dragged him to the driving seat and quickly tied his hands behind the leather back.

"Captain Min Oo, does this man look drunk to you?"

The Captain studied Cayden's face and nodded grimly.

"Vodka and water do not mix," Maalik said absently, looking through the windscreen.

Ahead the ripples reflected the bright neon glow of waterside bars and restaurants. Behind them, towering hotel and apartment blocks, each level illuminated by dolls house squares, of yellow light.

"Very soon I am going to give you the opportunity to talk to the police, Mr.Callejon, and then we shall see just how seriously you have taken our discussion. You see, I need to find out quickly whether I can trust you. Remember if you keep your mouth shut, I will disappear from your life in six months and this will all be a memory. An unpleasant one probably, but still a memory. The alternative will bring something that will plague you for the rest of your life, like an incurable cancer, their deaths will eat away your desire to live."

Maalik looked ahead. "Can you see it?" he asked Min Oo.

The Captain made a minor adjustment on the wheel.

The Hatteras, with a thirty-knot bow wave rumbling from its raked stem, roared out of the darkness. It raced between moored speedboats and two low concrete walls, the wash crashed onto the grass banks like breaking storm waves. The water shelved gently towards the trailer ramp. The propellers tore into the raised edge, ripping from the shafts. The boat bellied onto the concrete, the slime and weed maintained its momentum up the ramp. Cars squealed to a halt as her thirty-eight foot hull slewed across the road, her keel ploughed through neat flowerbeds that decorated the central reservation, her gleaming side bounced off a palm tree, flinging the anchor from its locker. The hook swung wide on escaping chain, spearing and flipping a car, dragging it across the sidewalk in a shower of sparks. Late night drinkers, their brightly coloured shirts a blur, scrambled and screamed from the deck of a bar, moments before the Hatteras tore through the wooden structure, sending chairs, tables, and torn splinters into the air. The concrete foundations finally brought the crippled boat to a halt, its bow littered with exploding coloured lights, and tumbling potted plants.

Cayden's arms felt wrenched from their sockets. The windscreen had shattered and he could feel his face stinging with tiny cuts. For a moment, he listened to the pop of exploding bulbs, the crack of splitting wood and fiberglass, the fizz of shorting electrics. He felt more pressure on his arms and then they were free, hanging limply at his sides.

"The game begins. Remember what I said," Maalik whispered in his ear. "One word and they will die."

Cayden tried to open his eyes. He could hear screams and moans from outside the shattered windscreen and black, oily smoke made him gag.

Cayden could not lift his arms. Blood and smoke smeared his vision. His feet crunched on broken glass. He stumbled to the floor, hacking. He peered aft through the open screen doors. Flames flickered from the engine hatches.

No sign of Maalik or Min Oo.

"Hey you," a voice shouted above.

Cayden squinted through the smoke at a man wearing a bright orange t-shirt looking down through the shattered windscreen. He held up his hand.

"I should let you burn, crazy mother fucker," the man clasped Cayden's hand, pulling him roughly out through the shattered windscreen. "You nearly killed us, asshole, are you nuts?"

Cayden shook his head, hanging limply on to the man's hand. He stepped across from the boat onto the undamaged part of the bar and was suddenly surrounded by angry, yelling faces, fists punched him, fingers prodded accusingly. Cayden could not speak. He collapsed to the floor and felt their kicks, unable to hear the distant wail of sirens.

For the next thirty minutes, fire crews pumped foam into the engine bay and helped free the trapped driver of the car. Ambulance crews tended to the cuts and scratches, taking one girl away to hospital with a broken arm and the man from the car with suspected fractured ribs. The traffic cops had immediately cordoned Cayden, preventing further attacks. He sat guarded by four police officers, listening to the shouts, living a nightmare.

A Sergeant elbowed his way through the crowd. "He responsible?"

The cop nodded looking over his shoulder. "Reckon he's drunk or high. Can't speak."

A medic followed, opened her bag, pulled out a wad of antiseptic soaked cotton and dabbed away the blood.

"What's your name?" the Sergeant asked kneeling in front of him.

Cayden shook his head.

"He's had damage to his neck," the medic said tilting Cayden's head back.

"OK get him to ER and get a blood test, I want to see what's inside the son-of-a-bitch. If he's been drinking, it's a BUI. You two," he pointed at his officers, "make sure you're the first to hear what he's got to say."

Cayden was carried on a stretcher to an ambulance. The crowd followed, shouting abuse. As they pushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, something caught Cayden's attention - an electric blue shirt. Maalik leant nonchalantly against the corner of the vehicle, a cigarette held to his mouth, he let out a long stream of smoke and waved his hand as Cayden disappeared inside.

Chapter 11

The call came. He started to sweat. The money was too good to turn away. Not that they would let him. He knew too much.

His footprints were dark patches on the moonlit frost. His trainers slipped on the frozen brick pathway that led to the front door. They had gone upstairs twenty minutes ago and he had decided to wait another twenty before he moved. He wasn't trained for this. He didn't know the procedure. A fox cried from somewhere behind the garage and there was a faint rumble of jet engines from Gatwick airport.

The balaclava itched, damp with sweat. Tendrils of steam eddied about him. He wanted to tear it off and take a lungful of cold night air. A loose stone clattered across the gravel drive.

He froze, his eyes darted over the upstairs windows.

No lights came on.

With exaggerated steps, he crept up to the front door and rested a hand on the iron doorknob. There was no modern Yale, just an old steel action lock. The large woman had left a set of keys in her vehicle ignition, which he had been very grateful to find. If Rachel had been at Meadow Light Farm, it would not have been a problem. He had copies of the keys.

Gingerly he turned the key and twisted the knob. The door opened with a groan. He stepped over the mat, a floorboard squeaked. He stood still, straining to hear over the thud of his heart. A clock filled the void with a dependable tick in a room to his left. Blackness.

He edged forward, testing with his foot. He reached the stairs, the first step squeaked loudly. He slid his foot to the edge. Slowly up to the half landing, standing for agonising seconds on each step. His head was level with the landing, lit by a night light on a dresser. He had lost his sense of direction. He had seen Rachel go to the bedroom at the far end of the house; she had come to the window briefly to close the curtains. It had been over the kitchen, but unless he went back downstairs, he could not remember which way to turn to get above the kitchen.

He mentally retraced his steps. It had to be off to the left. He started to turn when a light suddenly appeared under the door. He heard the bed springs unload and then footsteps. He backed away, his clothing drenched. He ducked frantically into the shadows praying that she was going to the bathroom. He saw Rachel, pulling on a bathrobe over white underwear. She stopped at the top of the stairs and her hand searched for the light switch. He dived into the hallway and retreated out through the front door. He raced to the gate and scrambled over. Sobbing for breath, he ran down the track to his black Ford. He fell in behind the wheel. "I can't do it," he cried and banged his head on the rim.

He found his mobile and dialed a Southampton number.

"Yes," a voice answered quietly.

"It's me. I can't do it."

"I told you not to call me on the mobile. You know the police are watching," The voice whispered harshly, the accent thicker than normal.

The man said nothing but wiped the condensation from the windscreen. "Why don't you do it? You're more experienced."

"I've told you. The police."

"But I'm not cut out..."

"Shut-up," the voice hissed. "You have no choice. Do as you've been instructed. Do not call me on this number again."

The man looked miserably at the dead phone. He thought of running. He had earned five years salary in as many months. He could disappear up north somewhere.

They would find him.

He got out of the car and trudged back to Lynsted Cottage. Rachel was sitting half into her car, rummaging through the glove box.

Plan B. He snatched off the balaclava. His white face shone in the moon light.

Rachel screamed as she saw him, she drew her legs into the car and slammed the door. He quickly opened the gate and walked as calmly as his shaking body would allow.

Rachel was in the passenger seat. She leant under the steering column and inserted the ignition key, her hand resting on the horn while the other hit the door locks.

Suddenly the whole driveway flooded with light. The man shielded his eyes. The front door flew open and Barbara appeared, a wooden table leg swinging from her hand.

The horn stopped.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Barbara's voice filled the sudden silence. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

Rachel had managed to scramble out of the driver's door and was standing with Barbara, her phone in her hand. "I'm calling the police."

"Bloody good idea," Barbara said.

"No please, don't do that, please. I can explain," the man called dropping his hand.

Rachel gasped, the phone mid way to her ear. "Burt!"

Barbara turned to Rachel. "You know this man?"

Rachel nodded quickly. "Yes it's Burt, he works for Cayden at the factory. You're the transport manager aren't you?"

Burt nodded spreading his arms apologetically. He took a tentative step forward.

"Stay the bloody hell where you are," Barbara frowned, the table leg crossed in her arms. "Well Burt, what the bloody hell _are_ you doing here?"

"I...it's a long story." Burt was thinking furiously, running through his instructions. He had been given two options. A simple kidnap and hold in a safe house in Southampton, the other more complicated. It had been difficult to hear every word above the roar of boat engines.

"You have thirty seconds before the police are called," Barbara said.

"Please, I'm sorry to have frightened you but I didn't know what to do."

"You have ten seconds"

"Cayden sent me," Burt said.

"What!" Rachel and Barbara said together.

Burt looked about him as if he was concerned about being overheard. "Could I come in...and explain?"

"Not on your bloody life," Barbara boomed.

Burt wiped his brow with a gloved hand. "All right. Things have been happening at the yard you see, over the last few months and... well he was worried 'bout you and before he left, asked me to keep an eye out.

Rachel was holding her robe tightly in front of her. "What are you talking about? He hasn't said anything to me," she said.

"Mr. Callejon didn't want to alarm you, but he thought you might be in some danger."

Rachel glanced at Barbara. "That's absurd, you're frightening me Burt, I'm calling the police," she said stepping into the house.

"I agree," Barbara said.

"No wait please...honest it's the truth." Burt's smile did nothing to reassure them. "I had a call from Cayden...he trusts me you see, what with being with the company since the beginning...he told me to escort you over to Florida, he thinks it's best if you're with him...just for now."

"What?" Rachel said, taking a step forward. "You're not making any sense. What has happened?"

"Nothing...nothing yet anyway. He's fine but as I said, he's a lot worried about you and thinks it's best you were with him," the glare of the security light haloed the steam from his clothing.

Rachel frowned. "Why didn't he call me on my phone then?"

Burt shrugged. "He tried, but couldn't get through."

Barbara tapped the table leg against her thigh. "Look at the missed calls on your phone," she said.

"That's why I got up. I forgot I'd left it in the car." Her fingers trembled as she went through to her call list. She had five missed calls.

She pressed the number one button for the answer phone service, and listened. She deleted the first one impatiently; it was Carol hoping she was OK. The second and the third were garbled, a voice indistinct with static. The fourth was her mother asking when she was going to visit and the fifth was another static filled message but she thought she could hear Cayden's voice - indistinctly. She pressed two, and listened again, holding the phone hard against her ear and was about to listen a third time when Barbara snapped her fingers impatiently. Rachel gave her the phone. "Could be anyone."

"Yes but look, it's his number," Rachel said.

"How did you know where to find me?" Rachel asked.

"Followed you...," Burt said thumping his hands about his chest.

"Why? Why didn't you talk to me at the yard?"

Burt licked his lips. "I was goin' to but you jumped in your car and left. I followed but you drove too fast, I lost you..."

"Why didn't you just call me?"

"No mobile number," Burt said thumping his arms around his chest again.

Rachel nodded distractedly, she had the phone to her ear again, waiting for the call to connect. " _The Vodaphone number you have dialed is not available at the moment, please call later_." She dialed Jac's phone but got a recorded message. She then dialed the hotel.

"Gulfstream Plaza good evening."

"Cayden Callejon's room please, I think its two zero, two zero," Rachel shivered, "Why didn't you knock on the door earlier Burt?"

"I'm sorry Ma'am, there's no answer from that room number."

"Are there any messages. My name is Rachel Clarke."

"One moment Ma'am." Rachel waited her breath condensing in the air. "There are no messages." Rachel hung up impatiently. "I don't understand. He would have told me if something was wrong."

"I've messed up," Burt said. "I should've waited 'til mornin' but I thought, if I told you now like, we could be on a plane and over in Miami. That's why I didn't knock earlier, I've been thinking what's best."

"This is completely bizarre," Barbara said. "I need some coffee." She jabbed the table leg towards Burt. "You're not off the hook sonny, scaring the living b-Jesus out of us. Stay there."

"Do you mind if I get my car? I missed the driveway and parked in a lay-by down the road, I could sit in it with the heating on."

Barbara looked out into the dark for a moment. "If you lost Rachel following her, how did you find us?"

Burt blew into his hands. "I...ahh...phoned the shop at the yard, manager looked in her desk, found her address book, looked for any people in this area. I got lucky I suppose."

Barbara scowled. "That right? She asked Rachel

"I can't remember," Rachel said shivering, "he has worked for Cayden for over twenty-five years Barbara."

Barbara blew out her cheeks. "All right! Bloody well come in, but one false move and I won't think twice about whacking you round the head with this."

Burt sat on the edge of his chair, his elbows crossed on the table. "Any chance of a coffee?"

"Not on your bloody life," Barbara said setting a mug down in front of Rachel at the other end of the table. "Get on with it."

"Well as I was saying, there's been a lot of trouble at the yard, boats messed up, sacked fitters sending threaten' letters, that sort of thing, and what wiv the new Blade coming, Mr. Callejon's worried that someone's got it in for 'im, may take it out on those nearest and dearest."

"Why wouldn't Cayden have said something to me?" Rachel said miserably.

"Too busy I suppose, didn't want to scare you," Burt said.

"Well he's failed," Rachel said, her mobile beeped and she spilled coffee down her chin, "it's a message from Cayden! - _Sorry missed call. Picked up bug lost voice. Not in danger wld b happier 2 hve u with me. Burt is gd man will escort you 2 airport and Miami. Miss u & sorry but want u with me if OK. Love Cayden xx"_ Rachel looked up and smiled at Barbara. "He's never ended his messages with _love_ before."

"I've booked the first flight from Heathrow. It's..." Burt pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch, "three a.m., they only need hour half for check in, so we could make it."

"That's settled," Rachel cried. Barbara raised an eyebrow as she read the message.

"Are you sure this is from Cayden?"

"Of course, it's his phone number. He says he's lost his voice."

"Call him and make sure. I would be happier if you actually spoke to someone."

"Why do you have to go to Miami?" Barbara said looking back at Burt.

Burt's eyes darted between the two women. "Part of the problem is transport. I need to be there to help sort it."

"Hello...Cayden...is that you?" Rachel cried.

Barbara leant close to the phone.

"Cayden I'm very worried. What's happening?" Rachel said shaking her head. She covered the mouthpiece. "His voice sounds terrible, I can't hear a word."

"Darling can you get Jac to call me, I need to know what's going on. I'm very worried?" Rachel pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the display. "It's definitely his number but his voice sounds awful," she whispered to Barbara. "I'm flying out with Burt. We should be in Miami mid morning."

"...happier to have...with me...love you," a rasping, metallic reply.

"Take care darling, I'll see you soon." She was about to press the red button when she suddenly put the phone to her ear again. "Oh, buy some Strepsils..." she looked at the screen. "He's gone," she said to Barbara.

Barbara looked at Burt. "How come he was able to talk to you clearly?"

Burt shrugged and looked at his hands. "His voice was very bad when I spoke to him. It must have just got worse."

"Try the hotel again," Barbara said. "If he's that ill he should be in bed."

There were still no messages.

Her mobile beeped. _Sorry about voice. Jack out wth Randy. I'm @ dock cleaning! Wll b bck @ hotel mch later. Miss u v much. C U am. Love Cayden xxx_

"Must be ill, he's spelt Jac's name wrong," Rachel said, "Barbara I'm sorry to mess you around like this, but he needs me." She raced upstairs, quickly dressed and collected her handbag. She would buy any clothes and make-up she needed when she got to Miami.

"What about your passport?"

"It's in my handbag ready for Nice."

"Well that's fortunate then," Barbara said with a hint of sarcasm. "I think you actually need to talk to Jac before you go."

"No I need to be with Cayden. Burt will look after me until I get there, won't you?" she asked.

"Of course. Mr.Callejon was very anxious that you should join him as soon as possible."

Barbara shook her head. "I think you're crazy. Surely you have time to go home and pack."

Burt stood abruptly." British Airways just said they have another seat available."

"You don't have to be on that plane. There are other airlines," Barbara said impatiently.

"We'll have to wait till nine," Burt said looking between the two of them. "British Airways is the only one with a twenty four hour reservation service."

"Bollocks, give me...."

"That's all right Barbara," Rachel said going to the door. "I can buy clothes at the airport and I would prefer to go now."

Barbara shook her head and sighed. "Call me when you get to the airport, and when you get to Miami." She hurried after them. "If I don't hear from you I'll be calling the police," she said looking pointedly at Burt who avoided Barbara's gaze as he hurried around to the passenger door of the Ford, opening it for Rachel.

"I will," Rachel called. "Don't worry, I'm sure everything will be fine. We'll have a drink and I'll fill you in on the story when I get back." Burt started the car. "Oh, is it all right to leave the Mercedes here. I'll collect it as soon as I return."

"Am I insured for it?"

Rachel smiled. "Sure," she said leaning out of the car window. "I left the keys on the kitchen table."

Barbara watched the red lights disappear down the drive. Her concern eased when Rachel called an hour later, saying they were going through passport control. She went back to sleep, bemused over how complicated other peoples' lives were.

Chapter 12

"He has a severely bruised larynx, blood has coagulated on the throat lining," the doctor said turning off his torch and looking over at the woman sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"You been in a fight?" the doctor asked.

Cayden squinted at the black face with the grey-flecked stubble. Tired eyes regarded him patiently. He shook his head.

The doctor held a plastic mug to his mouth and Cayden could feel the cool liquid pass between the jagged spikes in his throat. It felt like he had eaten something too hot. Swallowing felt like eating razor blades. "This is just water," the doctor was saying. "It is very important that you continue to drink, otherwise you are going to suffer from dehydration. Do you understand?"

Cayden nodded.

"Have you got a headache, do you feel sick?"

Cayden reached up and pointed to his head.

"I'll get the nurse to give you some pills for the headache and lozenges that you need to dissolve in your mouth. They will ease some of the pain."

Cayden wished he would leave. He needed to think. The police would wait for his throat to get better. Maalik's sanity was what really worried him. Why test him? The threat to Rachel and his family was enough to make him consider co-operating for six months.

The doctor left. Cayden glanced at the women sitting beside him. She had replaced the two uniformed men shortly after admission. She had not said a word while the doctor examined him, including taking a blood sample.

She had brown oval eyes. Blonde, platted hair hung over her shoulder down to her breasts, her nipples pushed at the white cotton of her t-shirt in the cool of the air-conditioning. Prominent cheekbones, light brown skin. She wore no make-up. He guessed her origins were Latin American. She did not smile. Her mouth was perhaps her one failing feature. The lips were thin and seemed permanently glued together in a hard, determined line. They moved economically as she chewed gum.

"I need to ask you some questions?" her voice was lower than he expected.

Cayden pointed at his throat.

"Yeah but these are questions you just have to nod at." Her voice was neutral, accent South Beach.

Cayden closed his eyes. On top of the physical damage, he was suffering a hang over. Images started to spin. He felt nauseous.

When he opened them the woman was holding a badge in front of his face, he noticed her clipped nails, without polish. "I'm Sly Williams, an officer for the INS," Cayden raised his eyebrows. "Immigration and Naturalization Service. Part of Homeland Security. You're Cayden Callejon?"

Cayden nodded to the rest of her questions establishing his identity. They had obtained his passport from the Gulfstream Plaza hotel. His wallet and mobile phone were missing.

After ten minutes, she leant back in her chair and studied him while he attempted to have a few more sips of water.

"You're in a lot of trouble," she said after he had rested his head back on the pillow.

Cayden squeezed his eyes shut. If he could just start to think clearly. They had taken his blood-spattered shirt and he was beginning to feel cold.

"Aren't you curious as to why I might be here instead of the regular cops?"

Cayden studied the covered strip lights in the suspended ceiling. _Just leave me alone_. He needed Jac and perhaps Randy to recommend a good lawyer. Six months, that's all he needed.

"Mr.Callejon, did you hear me?"

Cayden turned his head on the pillow and pulled the sheet up to his chest. He pointed to his throat.

An arrowed crease appeared on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes widened, inviting him to answer.

Cayden shrugged.

Sly Williams stood impatiently. She wore tight jeans emphasizing her toned legs. She pulled a business card from her bag and laid it on the pillow next to his head. "I could help you Mr.Callejon, and I think after the boys in traffic have finished with you, you're going to need some. So give me a call. I reckon your throat will be better real soon."

Sly turned and pushed back the curtain. Cayden watched the hard roundness of her buttocks stride away. She said something to the two uniformed police officers standing by a vending machine, and left the emergency room without looking back.

Fifteen minutes later, a male nurse pushed his bed into a private room, gave him several Ibuprofen and throat lozenges.

"What the hell happened?" Jac's voice through the drowsiness of the pills.

"You look awful," Jac cried pulling over a chair.

Cayden cracked open his good eye, tested his throat and winced.

"The police were waiting for me when I got back to the hotel. Said you'd been involved in some incredible accident, you were drunk, injured people, and...Christ Cayden what the hell happened?"

Cayden squeezed his brother's arm, motioning him to lower his voice.

"We left you at the hotel. What were you doing on a boat in the middle of the night?"

Cayden was becoming frustrated. He tried to talk without moving his lips, forming the words in his throat but the vibration tickled. He coughed and the pain made his eyes water. He indicated that Jac should find a pen and paper.

Cayden could now see Randy through the glass in the door, talking on his phone.

Jac ran back from reception, handing Cayden a hospital notepad and pen.

_Accident not my fault. Was following Min OO. Met with man called Maalik. Responsible for messing up our boats. Cannot tell police._ Cayden underlined the last three words twice before he handed the pad to Jac.

Jac's eyes widened. "What? It doesn't make sense," he muttered re-reading what Cayden had written. "The police said your blood test was positive for alcohol, way over the limit. You destroyed a boat, vehicles, a bar, and two people are in hospital. You're in huge trouble Cayden, I....."

Cayden snatched back the pad. _I know idiot. BUT NOT DRIVING. Min OO was. They gave me vodka. I've been set-up. Testing me._

Jac read. "Tell the police," he said getting up.

Cayden shook his head vigorously, wincing. He shouldn't have told Jac, that was stupid, he still wasn't thinking clearly. Jac would blurt the whole story and then everything would be lost. The details would be in the press, disastrous for the Blade launch. Cayden needed to see if there was a way that Maalik could be accommodated for six months. That had to be the simplest option. It would also give him time to get his parents and Rachel somewhere safe. His first priority was to show Maalik that he had not talked and could be trusted.

_I need lawyer,_ he wrote.

Jac jerked a thumb towards the door. "Randy has managed to get hold of his. He's talking to the police to see what can be done."

A few minutes later Randy burst in. "Holy cow Cayden! You sure had one hell of an evening. I thought when you said you were in a shit mood, you were going to sleep it off, not wreck half of Miami Beach. Damn, what happened to your face?"

Jac started to say something but Cayden shook his arm.

Randy took off his cap and scratched his head. "Look whatever's going on, I need to know."

"He can't talk, crash hurt his throat," Jac said.

Randy knelt next to the bed. "My Attorney says the cops aren't going to let you go, don't sign anything until he has seen you. They're mad as wasps, want to throw your butt straight in jail Cayden. There's BUI, - Boating Under the Influence \- assault, possibly attempted manslaughter. These aren't run of the mill misdemeanor's Cayden, we're talking major felony's, with judges, courts and then jail time. The press is going to be all over it, not the kind'a publicity I was hoping for." Randy stood up. "Jesus, a few hours ago we were dropping you at the hotel, now..."

Jac interrupted, "Thanks for getting your Attorney onto this, do you think he could stall things for a day or two?"

"Doubt it," Randy looked from Jac to Cayden and back again. "This is bullshit," he strode to the door. "I'll let you know what he can do. I'm not happy, not happy one goddam bit."

Jac reached for the TV remote. They only waited a few minutes before a local news report filled a slot between commercials and a repeat episode of Cheers. The reporter; blond lacquered hair straining to move in the breeze, with the stern of the wrecked Hatteras behind her, breathlessly recounted the destruction. Her shiny make-up flashed red and blue from a remaining police cruiser. "This is the scene a full four hours after this terrifying accident Mike, with police still trying to figure out a way to get this boat from here, to where it belongs.....," the camera panned away from her, across the road, following the trail of debris to the slip and the water beyond, "...way over there." Cayden closed his eyes. It was a bloody accident not a terrorist attack.

"Cayden you must tell the police," Jac said.

Cayden kept his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he had to squint with sun coming through the window. Jac was curled up on a cot that let down from the wall underneath the television. He swung his legs over the side of the bed feeling light headed and nauseous. He tentatively tried to swallow. The lozenges had not eased the pain. When the dizziness faded, Cayden pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom. His reflection was a bruised mask of tiny cuts. One eye was swollen shut and the other bloodshot. His throat on fire, he cupped some water, bringing it to his mouth. He started to choke, dizziness forced him to the toilet. He wretched, something tore free. It clogged his throat, gagging, he wretched, throwing-up slimy slivers of congealed blood; like raw liver. Sweat stung his eyes. The pain of swallowing had already lessened.

Eventually, he stood and pressed his head against the mirror. "Morning," he said to his battered image. His voice was a rasping whisper.

"You OK?"

Cayden waved Jac away and closed the door. He took a shower, wincing from the needle jets of hot water. He put on the fresh change of clothes Jac had bought, and drank a warm cup of coffee with three ibuprofen.

"Morning," Cayden said at last, his cracked lips prevented a smile. "What's the latest?" he asked sounding like an adolescent whose voice was breaking.

"The police, like everyone, are eager to find out what happened" Jac said sarcastically.

Cayden studied his brother. He made a decision, telling him about the threats and the six months he had to keep quiet.

The colour drained from Jac's face. He jumped off the bed and took a few quick strides to the window. His fingers drummed on the glass. "We have to tell the police," Jac said coming back to the bed. "The bastard will be arrested. End of story. I can't believe you're actually thinking of anything else."

Cayden shook his head. "I don't think they'll find him. Plus the bad press would threaten the Blade launch, we need this market."

Jac threw up his hands.

"We have to keep quiet. Prove I can be trusted, after six months, he'll fuck off. We'll get the boats cleaned before Randy inspects them."

"Bollocks," Jac said. "I'm going back to the hotel, finding the details on where the folks are staying, calling them to make sure they're OK, then contacting the police and getting this 'psycho' arrested."

Cayden scowled, shaking his head. "No, we don't go to the police, everything will be fine."

Jac punched the wall. "Fuck it Cayden. I think the smack on your head has made you insane. What about Rachel? For once in your life forget about bloody Tomahawk."

A nurse walked in. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," Cayden said.

"OK, well we need this room, so when you're ready, reception will settle up the paperwork with you."

As she left with the breakfast tray, Randy Royce barged in, knocking her into the doorframe, followed by a man in a dark suit, bald except for a ring of dark grey hair at ear level. He had eyes close together either side of a large hooked nose. He reminded Cayden instantly of a vulture, swaggering in towards a carcass.

"This is Hal Valentino boys, my Attorney."

Cayden held out his hand.

Valentino gave Cayden a penetrating, unblinking stare.

"OK, first of all the boat," He said and clicked open his briefcase on the bed. "They are looking at the charge of theft, which, as this is your first offense in the state of Florida, would normally be a one hundred dollar fine, sixty days in prison, but as the value of the boat is over three hundred this increases the punishment to five years in prison, and five thousand dollars in fines."

Cayden stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked to the window. He had never felt so humiliated.

"Then we come to the BUI charge. According to the blood test, you so willingly submitted," Valentino said wearily, "your blood alcohol content was well over the point zero eight level. Then, there was considerable property damage. You might have got away with a heavy fine as a foreign national, however," Valentino glanced up from his notes, "causing serious bodily injury while BUI is a third degree felony, carrying a five year prison sentence, regardless of where you're from."

Valentino handed over a piece of paper. "They've checked you out Mr.Callejon. No prior convictions, either here or back in the UK, a successful business man, etcetera, etcetera, which leaves them with some big questions which they're very eager to ask you." Valentino imperiously waved for Jac and Randy to leave. "Now, Mr. Callejon, why don't you tell me what happened?" Valentino watched Cayden closely as he went through his prepared story. A commercial for Dodge Trucks filled the silence afterwards. "I see," Valentino said slowly. "I'll prepare a statement. They'll keep your passport and require you down at police headquarters within the next twelve hours. They're going to look at this very sceptically."

"If I am convicted, what happens?" Cayden asked.

"Let's cross that bridge when we know more," Valentino said stuffing his folder back into his briefcase. "I'll meet you at West Flagler Street at four this afternoon. I've given them my word that you will be there Mr.Callejon, so please don't let me down."

Cayden nodded.

"And this piece of paper, confirms you are employing me as your Attorney, attached you'll see my fees."

Cayden blew out his cheeks, but signed the letter.

The others stepped back in the room. "The best isn't cheap Cayden. See you later boys," Randy said, his expression dark, their business relationship teetering over a deep precipice.

"You're insane, Jac cried, "a criminal record, possibly a prison sentence and God knows how much in fines! For what?"

Cayden waved him away. "I know what I'm doing." He got off the bed and looked around. "Let's get back to the hotel."

Cayden finished signing the forms at the Jackson Memorial Hospital reception, paying the three hundred dollars against Jac's credit card. He made a mental note to cancel his and his mobile number. A figure moved up next to him. Cayden glanced sideways.

"I've read the charges. You're in deep trouble Mr.Callejon."

Cayden sighed. "This is my brother... Jac this is Ms..."

"Williams, Sly Williams..."

"An agent for customs..." Cayden said.

"Homeland Security," Sly said shaking hands quickly while maintaining eye contact with Cayden. "The reports mentioned eye witness accounts of two other men?"

"Interesting, any description?" Jac asked innocently

Cayden started walking. "I'm seeing the police at four."

"Glad you've got your voice back, so tell me, what you were doing on that boat? Sabotaging the competition?" Sly said.

Cayden held open a door for a nurse pushing a wheelchair.

"I wouldn't go out that way," Sly said hurrying up beside him.

Cayden looked at her.

"Media, a businessman, drunk, from England...they can't wait to start ripping the story out ya..." Sly smiled sarcastically.

"Do they know what business?" Cayden said.

She shook her head. "Not yet."

Sly Williams took them through the service entrance at the rear. Her Buick Rainier was parked between two laundry trucks. Jac sat up front.

"You look very worried Jac," she said as she turned the ignition. The V8 growled into life.

Jac smiled briefly. Her jacket opened when she turned in her seat to reverse. "Do all INS officers carry a gun?"

Cayden leant his head on the rest, watching Sly as she concentrated reversing. When she braked, she darted an uncertain glance at him, before facing forward and clipping in her seat belt. Their eyes locked again in the rear view mirror, before disappearing behind sunglasses.

Sly accelerated out of the service yard and onto NW 10th Avenue, heading quickly across town towards the Gulfstream Plaza. The air conditioning cooled the mid-morning heat. The sidewalks were sprinkled with the usual car-less people; an old lady walking her dog; three teenagers on skate boards; two black people sitting under a tree waiting for a bus; another black man watering some plants in a small park and a person (it was impossible to tell its sex) in ragged clothes pushing an empty shopping trolley. The reflected sunlight from plate glass windows, forced Cayden to close his good eye.

"Listen," Sly said turning down the radio. "I haven't been entirely honest with you Cayden."

She pulled the seat belt out of the valley between her breasts. "Since nine eleven, there's been a lot more integration between US government agencies, more communication between the CIA, FBI, INS, that sort of thing. The pressure's on to make sure nothing like that ever, ever happens again." Sly braked sharply behind a delivery truck that suddenly pulled out from an alley. "Are you listening to me?" she said.

"I'm listening," Jac said but Sly ignored him and continued looking at Cayden in the rear view mirror. He did not reply.

She looked at Jac and suddenly smiled. She had straight white teeth but one of the first premolars was missing. "Well it seems you don't only have the looks, but the brains as well Jac."

Sly accelerated after the truck.

"Go ahead Ms. Williams."

"Call me Sly for Christ sake. I'm Homeland Security, which includes the INS, but I do cross-agency stuff, in particular, agencies involved with drugs and organized crime, which is why I'm carrying a gun Jac - I don't just get involved with people whose visa has run out, if you know what I mean."

A train moving along the overhead monorail diverted Jac's attention. "Why would you be interested in us?"

Sly slowed the Buick for a right hand turn. "Well, I think your brother has had a conversation with a certain Maalik Maharaj, who we are very interested in, isn't that right Cayden?"

Cayden did not respond.

Sly made the turn and accelerated hard. "Son-of-a-bitch, why won't he talk to me?"

Jac looked uncertain as his hand clenched the grab handle above the door.

"You could really help your situation by cooperating," Sly thumped the steering wheel and suddenly swerved the Buick across two lanes and onto a gas station forecourt. She stamped on the brake pedal and the SUV skidded to a halt. "I shouldn't tell you this, what the hell. You were followed last night Cayden, we know you weren't driving that boat, we know the Captain off that ship was driving and we know Maalik was with you. What has he said to stop you talking huh? Is he blackmailing you? Threatened you? What?"

Cayden leant forward. "I've signed a statement. I'm not saying anymore until my Attorney is present."

Sly dropped her jaw in mock disbelief. She pushed her glasses onto her forehead, her eyes narrowed with anger. "Listen mister, you think you're some... hot shot business guy... but this is my world you're messed up in and if you want an analogy from your world, you're out of your fucking depth," she clenched her jaw, a vein in her neck throbbed, "I can help you, or drop you in a shit load more trouble," she faced forward, selecting drive, "starting with, letting the press know the name of your company."

Cayden stiffened.

Sly Williams smiled in the rear view mirror. "Got your attention? You're accepting a rap for Maalik. A terrorist. That means you're either involved with him or he's got something on you."

"Cayden don't you think..." the colour had drained from Jac's face.

"Shut up Jac, I've got nothing to say."

Sly looked from one to the other. Jac looked back between the seats. Eventually he slumped forward and sighed. "I don't know what to say."

"Unbelievable," Sly stamped on the accelerator and squealed out of the forecourt. Nothing more was said until they reached the hotel.

They both got out and Sly slid her window down as they walked away. "We'll be talking Cayden. I'll be inviting the media over if we don't have a chat real soon. We're watching you."

Cayden waved over his shoulder, but did not look back.

Chapter 13

"Listen boy, there's no big fish this close to shore?"

LBW listened as his brother tried to calm the man from Texas. The boat rolled beam to the swell, as they slowly traversed the shoreline off Blanchisseuse. He lowered the binoculars and rubbed his elbows where the window frame had left an imprint. The smoked glass hid his surveillance. And, for further cover, the fat Texan in his ridiculous hat, was squeezed into the fishing chair on the stern, his naked wife stretched out like a seal on the foredeck, his petulant daughter sulking on the fly bridge above, listening to Avril Lavigne through the deck speakers. Not that it mattered, LBW thought sourly. Nothing had happened for the past two hours.

"Time's up bro," a voice growled in his ear.

LBW lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. He smiled at his brother. "Fifteen more minutes."

Lee shook his head, pushing stray dreadlocks from his face. The Texan's wife was in line of sight, tanned skin, puckered like dried fruit, dark hair fanned a face of melting makeup and her oiled breasts looked like deflated airships. The only thing that stood proud was the wedge of dark pubic hair.

Lee whistled softly "Damn, if that ain't the scariest looking thing."

LBW grunted as he lifted the binoculars. "You would sure throw it back...," his body stiffened, finger rotating the focus wheel, leg muscles tense against the roll of the boat. Another flash of reflected sunlight. A vehicle had turned from the coast road onto the track. Impatiently he waited for it to reappear. He caught it again moving through a gap in the trees. A black Toyota SUV, identical to the one etched forever in his mind. He felt a twist of anger and adrenalin, something he had not experienced for a long time. "Eric, you've done me proud," he whispered. He moved the binoculars down to the houses. There was only half a dozen of them; ranch style, two storey houses with wide wooden decks and lots of glass. He could see the house at the end of the crescent most clearly. It occupied the prime beach position; the others were set back and screened by palm trees and bushes.

"Yaaa-hoo, I got something!" the Texan yelled from the stern.

"I don't believe it," his brother mumbled.

"Got you," LBW breathed, as he spotted a glimmer of chrome, as the front of the SUV poked out beside the house overlooking the beach. He waited five minutes but no-one appeared. They must have entered from the front.

He panned along the beach, in the distance, the band of white sand was sprinkled with red and yellow umbrellas. A number of fishing boats rode at anchor, belonging to the village of Blanchisseuse. He searched inland, panning across the assortment of weather-beaten board houses, to the church steeple, a brass cross atop, winked dully, he followed the road out of town and back down the track to the villa.

He called for his brother from the shadow of the cabin door. "How close can you get me to shore?"

His brother shaded his eyes. "Chest deep. What about him?"

"Tell him, I'm feeling seasick."

"You're shitting me!" yelled the fat Texan as his brother opened the throttle and headed towards the beach. "I've been roasting my ass off for over two hours out here boy."

His wife had slipped off the sun mat and came down via the narrow side deck, leaving a greasy trail along the windows. She did not attempt to cover herself as she eased herself down into the stern to join her husband. He was desperately trying to reel in the taught line.

"Slow down you son-of-a-bitch," she yelled, "my man's having a heart attack."

The brothers ignored them as they concentrated on their approach. "Any refund's coming out of your pay bro," Lee said easing back on the throttle.

LBW squeezed his shoulder.

Twenty metres from the beach, LBW stripped to his shorts, lowered himself into the water. He held his clothes in a plastic bag above his head. He saluted the Texan who had lost whatever had been on the end of his line.

"I hope the sharks are hungry, you son-of-a-bitch," the Texan shouted, raising his middle finger

LBW emerged like an amphibious tank, a bow wave curling from his great black stomach as he pushed powerfully through the shallow water. A few tourists rolled over on their towels to stare and a fisherman looked up from the net he was repairing. He smiled. LBW stomped up to him, the sugary sand coating his feet. He shook a towel out of the plastic bag and started to pat himself down. He looked out to sea. His brother's boat was already disappearing beyond Chaparu Point.

"Fishing that bad?" the fisherman said

LBW smiled. "No, company was." Then as if he had a sudden thought, "Is there someone who looks after those villas up the beach?" he patted the towel down his legs. The sand was hot and he dried quickly. He leant on an upturned hull, brushing sand off his feet and using the towel to get between his toes.

The fisherman nodded slowly, biting a nylon thread with his teeth. "Ahuh, she sells all the rich folks houses in Blanchisseuse. Real pretty lady."

"Where would I find her?"

The fisherman looked at the sun. "Still working. She has a place next to Maggie's Vegetables."

LBW knew Blanchisseuse. He had spent a week on holiday with Beth two years ago. He remembered the small friendly population, divided between an upper and lower village, the line being the Arima - Blanchisseuse road, the busy Roman Catholic Church, a few local government buildings, and the police station were in the lower half. He even knew the police Sergeant but thought it wise under the circumstances not to involve him, not initially anyway. He took off his shorts under the towel, and with difficulty managed to pull his trouser over his feet without letting it slip, rocking his buttocks, he worked them up his legs with one hand, the other holding the towel. Impatience got the better of him and he stood, dropping the towel, tugging the trousers over his hips. He glanced at the sunbathers. A girl in a white bikini giggled. LBW bowed, hiding his embarrassment, and hurried off to the dusty main street that ended at the top of the beach. He found Maggie's Vegetable store and next to it was a pale blue building with sun-faded pictures of houses in the main window. He climbed the steps and rested in the shade from the porch roof, studying the photographs. A figure moved through the darker interior and moments later the door opened.

A large woman filled the frame in a full-length dress dominated by a pattern of scarlet flowers, contrasting with her lustrous black skin. She had a round friendly face and a big smile, full of white teeth. "Can I help you?"

LBW made an instant decision and searched his pockets for his old Detective badge - a souvenir when he made Inspector. "Yes, I'm..." he found it and hoped she wouldn't look too closely, "a Detective with the Port of Spain police." Had she seen his picture in the paper? Would she recognise him with his shaven head?

Her nails matched the flowers. She held his badge delicately. "Detective Winston...hmm, the same Winston I've been reading about in the papers?"

LBW looked down the quiet street. "You recognised me, even without the hair," he rubbed his head and smiled ruefully.

"Why Detective Winston, your face been front page news for days, a handsome face like that, not one a lonely woman goin' to forget."

LBW snapped his leather badge holder shut and took a step away.

She laughed delightedly. "Come now, you're lucky I don't believe everything printed in the Tribune. Come inside and tell me why you're so interested in my little business."

LBW settled himself into a chair under a slow spinning ceiling fan, grateful for the cool air. He unbuttoned his shirt, dried sea salt made the material scratchy. She returned carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher that clinked with ice.

"My famous rum punch Detective Winston, it's nearly happy hour and as you're not really on duty..."

LBW smiled his thanks. "It's Lancelot."

"Marie."

Marie filled the glasses and handed one to LBW. He took a tentative sip, tasting the Coconut Rum behind the fruit flavours. He reminded himself he had not eaten. Marie walked over to the front door and turned the sign, so the 'closed' faced outwards. She settled herself into the chair opposite. Her scarlet fingernails moved slowly up and down the glass, leaving trails in the condensation. LBW raised his glass, "To happy hour," he felt the rum spread through him.

"You after those wicked boys?" she asked quietly returning his salute with her glass.

LBW nodded. "Unofficially, no local police."

"Well at least something good has come out of it."

LBW frowned.

She laughed - a light, infectious sound, surprising from a large person. "I get to drink rum in the afternoon with a good looking man."

LBW grinned which felt good. They settled comfortably, feeling a connection, old friends, discussing how little the village had changed since he had last visited. LBW finished his glass and an easy silence joined them.

"It's OK Lancelot, go ahead," Marie said eventually, leaning forward and re-filling his glass.

With only the smallest hesitation, he told her. He described Jada Gittens and Loutoo's death. He felt the remaining tension, ebb from his shoulders. He talked about Beth, her wanting a divorce. The chair became a councilor's couch, Marie, a trusted therapist, the rum...helped.

Thick, golden light slanted through the back window when he finished. He became mesmerised by the swirling motes of dust, aware that he hadn't talked so intimately in years, if ever, and certainly never to Beth, now a complete stranger knew more about him then anyone, tendrils of his melancholy returned, reviving feelings on how empty his life was. He could see Marie studying him solemnly from the corner of his eye. He watched the glittery particles bounce and glide through the fading beams. A bird started singing, he sighed. He had drunk too much but he wasn't drunk. A truck rattled down the road, disturbing his reverie.

Marie sensing that he had rejoined her, smiled, teeth bright in the shadow.

She was attractive LBW thought, she was not going to win any beauty pageants but there was a definite sexuality there, an awareness; an understanding of what pleased.

She sat forward. "Are you looking for forgiveness for Loutoo's death, Lancelot?"

LBW thought for a moment. "No, how can I ask for it when I'll never forgive myself," he laughed self-consciously, "maybe, an absolution through confession. You are infinitely more attractive than any priests I know."

Her infectious laugh. "It's always good to talk. But if I was a priest I couldn't pardon you."

LBW set his glass on the table.

"Because there is nothing to pardon you over, Lancelot." She held out her hand. LBW slowly reached for it, their fingers touched, he felt a tingle the length of his spine, her nails traced his fingers, his body shuddered involuntary, their fingers locked.

"Come, I have something I want to show you," Marie said and led him from her office through to the private area of the house. They went through the kitchen and then out the back door into an enclosed courtyard with high walls smothered in red and purple bougainvillea. The floor was swirls of brown, yellow, and beige mosaics leading the eye to a magnolia tree in one corner, its limbs bowed by white flowers filling the air with perfume. The back of the yard was the blank wall of another house. A yellow and blue macaw cackled from a post near the tree. In the opposite corner, several wide wooden steps led to a deck with a round Jacuzzi set into it.

Marie let go of LBW's hand and walked over to the macaw. "Hello pretty boy," she said gently stroking its head. She turned, looking directly at LBW. "I've read, ninety percent of women know they would make love to a man after the first few minutes, so Detective, I don't think I'm rushing things." For a moment she hesitated, then her hands moved to the top of her dress. One by one, she undid the large buttons that ran down the front. She finished the last one that was just above her knees and shook the bright material from her body. Her skin was smooth and dark, contrasting evocatively with her scarlet bra and cami-knickers. Marie smiled confidently. She reached behind and unclasped her bra. Her breasts fell free with exciting elasticity, they were the largest LBW had seen and still managed to retain such a youthful vigour, no sign of stretch marks. Marie giggled, she quickly hooked her thumbs in her knickers and pulled them down to her feet. Daintily she stepped out of them before walking up the steps to the pool, her large buttocks jiggled delightedly. LBW stood rooted to the spot as she slowly bent over to press a button near the edge of the pool. Immediately the water started to bubble from the powerful jets below the surface. She stepped into the pool and rested her head against the rim. "Now your turn," she said, eyes hooded.

Without hesitation, LBW shrugged off his shirt and nearly tripped as he tried to climb the steps with his trousers still about his ankles. She laughed and then growled with anticipation. Despite his girth, LBW got some satisfaction from the fact that he had never lost sight of his erection. Marie's excitement did nothing to discourage him. He lowered himself into the warm water.

They lay opposite for a long while savouring the moment.

"You don't think I'm too forward, do you Lancelot?"

LBW could only smile.

"I wouldn't want you to think I'm some Port of Spain ho?"

"Never," LBW lunged at her. A wave slopped from the pool and cascaded down the steps. They were oblivious to the startled cries from the macaw. Their mouths crushed together, hands exploring, limbs like coiling pythons, slithered and twisted about each other, the tiny bubbles lubricating the contact, gasps and groans with each delicious contact, dormant lust burst from every sense in his body, the bubbles bursting on the surface seemed to intensify the passion, he pushed his hand through her short straight hair, gently pulling her head back, exposing her neck, he licked the scent of her, feeling he might come at any moment, Marie sensing his urgency, clamped her thighs around his waist, guided his impressive hardness into her, LBW groaned as her hips rotated, he felt paralysed, his existence reduced to the sensations flooding from his throbbing erection, her movements like a velvet hand, squeezing and stroking him until all the will-power in the world could not save him, and with a deep bellow of release, holding onto her with aching gratitude, he emptied years of frustration.

The sky was black, littered with stars, the Jacuzzi beginning to feel cold, their love making satisfied, when they finally disengaged. Their wet footprints left a trail upstairs where they collapsed onto Marie's bed, curling together like two exhausted seals, instantly asleep.

********

"So tell me lover, why you actually came to my office?" Marie smiled, late the next morning, handing LBW a mug of coffee.

He propped a couple of pillows behind his back so he could sit up.

"I think Gittens might be hiding here?"

"Oh," Marie picked up some clothes and folded them over the back of a chair.

"Ahuh, those villas up the beach."

"Cane Garden Drive – which Villa?"

"One nearest the ocean."

Marie nodded slowly. Her lower lip pushed over the upper while she thought.

LBW could not concentrate. He set his mug on the bedside table, pretended to stretch but quickly grabbed her arms, pulling her onto the bed. It groaned with their weight. He rolled her over and kissed her, sucking at the fullness of her lips. Her breasts squelched against his chest. "What you thinking about?" he said.

Marie eyes widened. "That property," she said around his kiss, "I did let it to boys from Port of Spain," she rested her fingers on his mouth, preventing him kissing her again, "ahuh, normally Lancelot, I would have refused, but this year's tough, they have a truck but I've no idea if it's the one...oh Lancleot what if it is them...although I'm sure none of them looked like this Gittens you describe...what have I done..." she pushed away from him, her brow creased with concern

"Hey Marie," LBW said massaging her shoulders, "we don't know who they are, and anyway you let to them days before I even met Gittens.

"Ohh Lancelot, I just know their bad, I just feel it. What are you goin' to do?"

LBW fell back with a sigh. "I guess I'm going to have to go and knock on the door, see who answers."

The bed groaned dangerously as Marie maneuvered to sit facing him. "But you're suspended sugar, let the local police go visit?"

LBW looked up at the ceiling, tempted. Then he remembered Loutoo's wife and Marie had awoken more than just passion. "No Marie, I have to go," he said quietly.

Marie let out a little cry. "But they're goin' to recognise you."

LBW nodded. "I'll have a shower and think about it."

When he returned to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, Marie was standing next to the bed, dressed. She pointed to clothes at her feet. "Next door's husband past away last year, was same size nearly as you sugar, try it on."

LBW picked up the white cotton trousers dubiously. "What was a he, a pimp?"

Maria snorted. "More like a colonial spiv."

"He was white!" LBW asked holding up the linen jacket with gold piping on the lapels.

"Put it on, I'll be back in a minute. When I'm finished your own mama wouldn't recognise you."

A tug on the belt and the trousers fitted snugly on his hips. The length was about right and the white 'yacht club' jacket fitted, but was short in the arms. The blue cotton shirt with a yellow and red parrot stitched on the breast pocket, was tight under the arms and only just tucked into his trousers.

LBW looked at himself in the mirror and chuckled. "That's where you've been going wrong."

Marie returned with a paper bag. She pulled out a beard, a wig and a large wide brimmed white hat. "I belong to the church theatre group," she replied, giggling as she held open his jacket to survey the shirt.

The black, straight hair wig, with dread locks stitched in the end, finished around his shoulders, it was darker than the beard and when they stuck it on, they noticed, rats had eaten chunks. Marie pulled it off with disgust, ran to the bathroom washed it thoroughly, and then stuck it back on, trimming it so the bare patches were less obvious. With the wide brimmed white hat, Marie decided he resembled Barry White. She went to fetch his "All Time Greatest Hits" CD from the rack. LBW was not impressed with the picture. Marie quickly told him that he looked like the 'great man' before he had put on the extra weight - when he was really handsome. He nodded gravely and started singing, " _you're the first, the last, my everything_ ," Marie danced and then shook her head. "No baby, I think we'll just stick with you as a look-a-like, he's still _the man_ when it comes to singing, God rest his soul." LBW pretended to look crestfallen.

"If I walk along the beach like this I'm going to be arrested. If I don't first die from heat," LBW said.

Marie held up a finger. "Ahuh, I ain't letting you go alone, no way you coming into my life an' then leavin' that easy, no way" Marie took his hand and led him to the office. She opened a file on her desk. "The contract ends Wednesday, see. So sugar, I've gotta find out when they'll be leavin', and you can be with me, a business man from Barbados looking for next year's vacation."

"I'm not happy with you being there Marie," LBW said.

She knelt down in front of a wooden box. Inside were rows of keys on hooks. After a short time, she looked at him, "The spare set of keys is missing."

LBW helped her look for them. "Did you give them to anyone else?"

"No, these boys were the first to even look at the place for months."

LBW shrugged. "Well we couldn't just let ourselves in anyway. We'll have to knock on the door and take it from there."

They were suddenly ready to go and LBW hesitated. Marie sensed his reluctance and asked when he had last eaten. LBW had trouble remembering.

"My knight can't fight on an empty stomach," she said. "I'm going to take you to Fred's; he does chicken in coconut milk.... hmmm... that might never make you leave. And that's before his coconut ice cream."

Fred's shack; the beach extended inside as a floor, old packing crates were tables and wooden benches, salvaged from the refurbished church. The bar was bleached white driftwood with bank notes from around the world pinned to the wooden wall behind.

They ordered two Stag beers and LBW remarked that it must be one of the few places that still had any. They sat on a bench and gazed out to sea. LBW could smell the cooking. His stomach growled. He wondered if he had lost any weight. The chicken arrived on two blue china plates and they both leaned forward eagerly. They ate with enthusiasm, groaning with pleasure from the spiced chicken and sweet coconut sauce. When the ice cream arrived on two, dented stainless steel bowls, he smiled at Marie, thinking vaguely what it might be like to live in Blanchisseuse. As he took his first mouthful and the flavour exploded on his tongue, the thought became serious consideration. They sat back with a contented sigh. Fresh coffee arrived; Marie talked about her family in San Fernando and then her business. She skirted around how she had ended up in the quiet village of Blanchisseuse and LBW did not probe. Eventually he said they should get going and Marie could not hide her disappointment. They walked hand in hand up the main street and got into Marie's shiny but tired looking sedan. The suspension groaned under their combined weight and clunked into the deep potholes. They were silent as they drove out to the Cane Garden Drive turnoff.

It was steeper than it looked through the binoculars and the surface was heavily corrugated. The tyres thudded into the wheel arches as they wound their way down to the villas. Twice LBW had to get out so Marie could edge the car through gullies cut by storm water. After the arduous decent the crescent of villas was like an oasis, cared for gardens fronting a neat road of compacted stone chippings. A young man with a tattered straw hat waved. "He does all the gardens about here," Marie said. "You should talk to him later."

LBW was not sure whether he was relieved to see the black Toyota truck still in the drive. He felt his stomach tighten. Marie parked behind and made sure that LBW's beard was on securely. He followed her up to the solid wood door, studying the vehicle carefully. They had done a good job. He could see no obvious repair joins. He stood a few feet behind as she banged the iron knocker. A full minute later, it cracked open. "What you want?" a muffled voice. LBW could see a nose and mouth of the man at the door.

"I've come to talk 'bout leaving this Wednesday. And this is....." For an awful moment they both realised they had not discussed what name he should use. "White," LBW said as if reminding her. "Bill White."

"Yes, Mr. White, sorry," she turned back to the man at the door. "He's interested in looking at the property for next year."

"You should have phoned. It's not a good time."

"What fuck's goin on?" a voice yelled from the interior.

LBW would never forget that voice. His heart pounded, sweat built rapidly under his hat. His beard felt loose. The door yanked back.

Jada Gittens stood in pair of black bathing shorts. His arms and legs were not as skinny as he had remembered. There was well-defined muscle on each limb. It was just the length of them that made him look puny.

"Fuck you want?" he asked glaring at Marie before looking suspiciously towards LBW.

"I've come to talk about check-out, where's Mr. Cornelius who signed the agreement."

"Gone away, bitch."

Marie pushed her glasses up on her head and squared her body. She jammed her fists on her hips. "I'll woop yo ass yo talk to me like that again," Marie's accent changed.

Gittens had been looking at LBW but slowly returned his gaze to Marie. He looked at her for a long moment, his lower lip slack, his eyes hooded. "Yo goin to throw me out?"

Marie glared back.

"Who's dat?"

Marie folded her arms. "Told you. He wants to rent next summer."

"Come back another time nigga," he looked at LBW his head slightly back as if he was long sighted and having trouble reading. "I seen you before?"

"Certainly not," LBW put on his best Oxford accent. "Don't worry Marie, I don't want to bother this gentleman any further," he said. But Marie was angry.

"When can I talk to Mr. Cornelius? What time will he be checking out Wednesday?"

"I'll let you know, bitch," he slammed the door shut.

LBW felt Marie shaking as he steered her away. "The skinny, rude little...," they got back into her car. LBW stared at the house. "Murderer," he finished quietly.

Marie immediately calmed. "That him?"

LBW nodded slowly. "Jada Gittens," he breathed. "In case he's watching, take me to look at another villa, then I'll talk to the gardener.

"Who do you think Mr. Cornelius is?" Marie said backing out of the drive.

"One of his gang maybe, but Gittens is going to be _checking out_ on his behalf and earlier than he thinks."

********

A line of clouds, haloed with moonlight, sailed the night sky. The sand, a ghostly strip. He felt like he was walking on the edge of the world. To his right, the black void of the Caribbean occasionally shook little waves onto the beach with a sigh. LBW kept to the harder, wet surface. He was dressed in black shorts and t-shirt, invisible to anyone looking out to sea.

The beach was deserted. The laughter and conversation from Fred's had faded ten minutes ago. Once the lights from Blanchisseuse had disappeared, the darkness was complete and he could discern the jumbled shapes of palm trees against the faint starlight. LBW cursed his conscience for forcing him to continue. He was suspended. Why didn't he just call his boss and they could deal with Gittens. He could be holding Marie's hand, having another meal at Fred's before feeling the soft sand between their toes as they strolled the beach and talked about... anything, before making love in the warm sea.

Crabs scuttled from his heavy footsteps. LBW stepped over the skeletal finger of a bleached tree branch. His foot cracked onto a plastic bottle. He froze. Suddenly a light flickered through the vegetation and LBW dropped to a crouch and then ran from the shoreline. His panic subsided. The light was stationary. His breathing returned to normal. He cautiously moved forward. The night light on the corner of the villa became stronger. LBW rested behind a cluster of palm trees that marked the boundary between garden and beach. He could still feel the warmth of the sun in the sand. It was nearly midnight. Figures gyrated to the thud of music. Two of them were women. A light came on in one of the upstairs rooms and LBW grunted with satisfaction when a gangly silhouette emerged onto the balcony.

LBW crawled away and then crept up through the shadowed borders of the garden until he could cross to the corner of the house without being seen. He could feel the vibration of the music through the frame.

"Whad-ya mean?" Jada Gittens shouted. LBW pressed his back to the wall and edged to the corner. He quickly looked up to the balcony. Gittens was facing away from him, sitting on the balcony rail, a phone to his ear. A frog burped near the lit pool and a bird chattered irritably in one of the palms. "I gotta get back to Miami," Gittens voice faded as he moved away. LBW could feel his heart thudding. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Remember Loutoo. You have no choice, he told himself opening his eyes and wiping the stinging sweat away. You have to bring Gittens in. You want redemption.

"I don't give a shit; this place is driving me crazy," Gittens yelled.

LBW jumped behind the corner as the patio door roared back on its tracks, crashing against the frame. Immediately the air filled with club music. A man stepped onto the terrace followed by two girls, topless, their thong underwear bright strips against their dark skin. The man put an arm around each waist, and ran forward. They tumbled into the pool with shrieks of laughter, the calm surface transformed by their thrashing limbs.

LBW ducked into the room. He moved quickly across the light and into the hallway. The sand in the tread of his trainers acted like miniature ball bearings on the marble surface and he slid to halt behind an ornate jardinière full of brown and lifeless plants. The hall light was bright. Anxiously he looked up the stairway for any sign of Gittens. The landing light was off. He wetted his lips and pushed away from the side of the staircase. His foot slipped and his shoulder caught the vase. Desperately he reached for the rocking pedestal but his hands slipped on the smooth surface. He snatched at a withered vine but it pulled clear with a ball of dusty soil and the jardinière toppled over. Shards of china skidded across the floor. LBW dropped the plant and pulled himself up the stairs. It felt an eternity before he reached the darkened hallway. He knelt in a doorway panting. He could see the debris below.

LBW was undecided, when the far door flung open, Jada Gittens stood looking at the phone in his hand. He muttered something to himself and loped into the hallway. He saw the smashed jardinière below and stopped, his mouth hanging open. LBW started to rise and the movement immediately caught Gittens attention.

LBW came uncertainly to his full height. Recognition widened the hooded eyes and the lower lip, wet with saliva, quivered into a half smile.

"Fat policeman! Wad-a-fuck you doin' here?"

"Come to get you Jada Gittens. You're under arrest for the murder of Sergeant Loutoo."

LBW walked purposefully towards Gittens, he had handcuffs with him - another prop from the Church dramatic society. Marie had given him a wooden club, which she kept propped against the back door. He had been carrying it in a loop on the belt of his shorts. He tugged it out now as he approached Gittens.

Gittens gave a braying laugh, his hand slapping his thigh. "Yo not even an official policeman, how you goin' to arrest me?"

"I'll take you unconscious if I have to Gittens."

LBW swung the bat but Gittens ducked his head, his long limbs sucked away like the tentacles of a squid and disappeared. The bat smashed into the doorframe and LBW staggered backwards. LBW charged, the adrenalin taking over. He shouldered aside the closing door and caught Gittens by surprise with his sudden burst of speed. Gittens tumbled backwards, his head hitting the frame of the sleigh bed. LBW used the bat to help push himself back to his feet. But Gittens was already up and opening a wardrobe door. LBW roared, and charged again. Gittens looked over his shoulder, his hands moved frantically along the top shelf. His fingers clenched the butt of the revolver. LBW tackled him. Gittens threw out his arms to stop himself falling into the open wardrobe. The gun fired. LBW, stunned by the noise, maintained enough control to hold the gun high. They pirouetted away from the wardrobe like two dancers. They crashed through the shuttering onto the balcony. Gittens was again first to his feet but he had lost the gun. He kicked out. LBW's neck snapped back from the contact, he could taste blood in his mouth.

"Crazy mother-fucker," Gittens screamed kicking LBW's stomach, the hanging fat absorbed the force. LBW was on all fours. Gittens aimed for another kick, screaming obscenities, LBW swept his arm out and caught the slender ankle. He pulled. Gittens sat abruptly, choking off his curses.

The gun glinted in the far corner and LBW crawled towards it. Gittens was on him, riding his back, his fists pummeling his head. LBW fell to his stomach stretching for the gun. His fingertips touched the grip and managed to push it under the railing. It clattered on the paving below.

Gittens crunched his fist into the side of LBW's head before leaping from his back to the railing. He leant over and yelled, the others continued splashing in the pool. LBW could hardly move. Gittens gave him another kick. "Stay pig."

LBW spat blood from his mouth and dragged himself forward. He pulled his head through the large gap between the metal railing and the wooden floor. He could see the gun directly below. Suddenly the music stopped and Gittens appeared below. He yelled at the man in the pool while walking towards the gun.

"Get your ass up here, we got a pig to kill."

He reached for the gun, and LBW pushed with all his strength. He thought his ribs might break but he popped out like a resisting cork and fell. Gittens sixth sense made him step away but LBW caught his right shoulder. There was a crack and Gittens screamed. His body prevented LBW hitting the paving headfirst. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs. The man from the pool raced over, slipped and sat heavily, his feet sliding into LBW's face, crushing his nose with a burst of fresh blood.

Jada Gittens was screaming for the gun but LBW's gasping body was laying on it and the man could not roll him away. He manically kicked and punched LBW's body. Another kick to the side of the head and LBW could feel himself losing consciousness. He had failed. But at least he was going to the same place he had sent Loutoo.

********

He was floating on water but did not feel wet, soothed by the gentle motion, two moons became pale hands, he reached out and the hands dissolved, reforming, the silvery outline hardening to white, with black centres \- pupils, the night sky became the round face of Marie, her brow furrowed with concern as she looked down at him, his head on her lap.

She looked off to one side and called for someone. A man appeared and removed the plastic mask from his bandaged nose.

"Easy," LBW heard him say as he tried to sit up. Pulses of pain arrived from every part of his body to a point in the centre of his forehead

He felt Marie's hand on his, her fingers entwined. "It's OK Lancelot, everything's going to be OK."

"Is that son-of-a-bitch awake yet?" a voice yelled from somewhere in the room.

A familiar figure appeared in the corner of his vision. He was in the living room of the villa, on one of the sofas. How had Marie managed to lift him? He squinted at two police officers walking in from the hallway.

His Captain knelt, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses. "What have you been doing Winston?" he growled.

"Citizen's arrest. Where's Gittens?"

His Captain blinked rapidly and the veins bulged on the side of his head, his finger shook as he pointed at him. "You're the only one being arrested around here Winston."

"Gittens was here." LBW said. He tried to sit up.

The Captain massaged his temples.

LBW groaned as he swung his feet to the floor. Marie held his hand.

"All I've got is an injured policeman, not killed this time I grant you, but still in hospital, you nearly had an innocent civilian, Ms. Beauville here killed, you've destroyed property, you have interfered with official police business while under suspension and... you have got me out of bed at two o'clock in the morning."

LBW glanced at Marie. He saw that her left arm was in a sling. "What happened?"

There was a distant shout. "Captain!"

The Captain shook his head and marched off.

"Lancelot, sugar, I'm sorry. I was on my way...ahuh I know, I know you told me to stay put, but no way was I going to sit tight while you...anyway, I followed the police like we arranged, then my stupid car got stuck, the next thing I know that black truck came up the track and hit my car over the edge."

LBW squeezed her hand. "You OK?"

"Yes, this is just a sprain. But I couldn't get out Lancelot, and I was so worried about you." Tears started down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," LBW said, gingerly feeling his nose. "How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Nearly two hours, we couldn't wake you. I was so worried," Marie cried and LBW did not know what to say. He felt someone with steel cap boots was trying to kick their way out of his head. He squinted as the two girls who had been in the pool, came into the room to collect their shoes. Their arms were crossed and they looked accusingly in his direction. Dirty footprints stained a pale rug pushed up against a low table that had a crack across its glass surface. Two Trinidad landscape paintings hung at odd angles. Seat cushions littered the floor, one had split.

"Help me up," he said. He stood holding onto Marie's good arm. The white bandage across his nose kept making him cross-eyed.

The girls glared at him. "Where's Gittens?" he said to one of them.

A detective that LBW used to work with came in. "They're saying you broke in, attacked her boyfriend and they left in a hurry because they thought you were a gangster from Port of Spain."

"Why didn't you go with them?" LBW asked one of the girls.

She started to cry, LBW glared after her as the detective led her away.

He shuffled to the door with Marie's support. They went down the left passageway to the smashed jardinière. The contents were now scattered and trodden across the entrance hall. Through the front door, he could see police lights and on the front lawn, a police vehicle was on its side.

LBW closed his eyes. Why had he tried to do it alone?

They could hear voices. LBW peered down the rough wooden steps. He could see shadows moving in the weak light. The stairs creaked as they descended. LBW eased his way through the local uniformed police and joined the inner circle.

Dirt had been casually kicked over them. They were huddled together as if whispering to each other in bed. Their grey hair was the same colour as their dead, lined skin. Their staring, unseeing eyes had mercifully scared away any animals that might have investigated. A desperate sadness filled him He could feel the sting of tears.

Marie was rigid beside him.

His Captain was kneeling next to the bodies.

"Oh," Marie gasped

Captain Clay looked up sharply. "You know them?"

Marie pulled a crumpled tissue from her skirt pocket.

"I think so," Marie dabbed at her tears. "I'm not sure. But I think they were the old white couple that came in, a day or so ago," she looked at LBW who glanced down at the bodies, his mouth a hard line. "From England. I can't remember their names." Marie went still for a moment. "I didn't give them a key," she said slowly. "I'm sure I didn't."

"Will you have a record of their names at your office," LBW asked.

"I don't know. Usually I do but not always."

LBW held Marie tightly as the medical examiner carefully turned the old man's head so the deep gash was visible. The sand had soaked up the blood. "The blood's dried hard," the examiner said picking up an arm. "Rigor mortis would have set in but as you can see the limbs are relaxed. That usually happens thirty-six hours after clinical death. I would say they've been here for maybe two days. That's as accurate as I can be Captain until I can do a full post mortem."

"Come on," LBW said guiding her towards the stairs.

"Don't you two go anywhere," his Captain called. "I'll want a full statement from you Ms. Beauville and all your records. I haven't finished with you either Winston."

"I injured Gittens Captain. Broke a bone in his shoulder, I think. He won't be going far."

His Captain waved him away. "Neither are you."

"I wouldn't have sent them here with those boys staying," Marie whispered tearfully.

LBW nodded. "It's not your fault Marie. They must have mistaken this for another villa, surprised Gittens, and he murdered them."

"I don't understand," Marie said sobbing as he led her up the creaking stairs. "A dear couple like that..."

LBW looked back to the group of men below. Captain Clay looked worried. LBW was not surprised. Two foreigners murdered on the island were going to be headline news in the Tribune, possibly internationally. LBW climbed the stairs slowly. He had lost twice to Gittens and more people were dead. He reached the top of the stairs and his confidence wavered along with his strength. He stared blankly at an old stained sheet of newspaper that must have been used to pad out the bottom of the jardinière. A yellow picture caught his attention. It was of a man leading his team out on to the field, the greatest cricketer Trinidad had ever seen. LBW smiled thinly at Marie. The island wasn't full of losers. He clenched his fist. He would be a 'Brian Lara' next time he faced Gittens. He would take his bat to that gangly body again, but next time, make sure he was hit a clear six, over the boundary and out of his life and everyone else's, forever.

Chapter 14

Cayden closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the coolness of the hotel window.

The air-conditioning struggled to keep his temperature down. The blue sky was blotched with towering cumulus, their black bellies threatening rain. Below, in the grid of streets between the downtown office blocks, he heard a faint wail of a siren and spotted a red fire truck weaving between the traffic before crossing an intersection and disappearing from view.

The phone rang. Jac leapt from the bed.

"Yes," he shouted. "Yes...put them through." He stabbed the remote to mute the television news.

"Hi...can you hear me?" he said, "mother, is that you?" Confused conversation while they talked across each other - Jac eventually realised it was Mrs. Kestrel.

Jac listened to Mrs. Kestrel's crackling voice.

Cayden thought of Rachel, feeling guilty he hadn't called her, excusing himself, because her mobile number (which he couldn't remember) was on his phone. He had called to have it cancelled but they had told him it would take a couple of days. He remembered she was going to Nice, which he assumed was why the home answer machine had clicked in after five rings.

"They went a week ago...you have no idea ..." Jac tapped a pen on the bedside table, "I see... yes it's extremely important...please call me immediately," Jac said, spending a further minute giving Mrs. Kestrel every number he could remember.

He replaced the receiver and looked at Cayden, his eyes glistening. "Apparently the weather's crap, the folks decided to go and explore the Caribbean. They left last weekend, they were going to catch the first flight out of Nassau going further south. When did they become this adventurous?"

"Second childhood," Cayden muttered. "She had absolutely no idea?"

Jac shook his head glumly. "Back in ten days and not to worry."

"Well at least that means they might be hard to find by anyone looking for them."

"Unless they were already being followed," Jac said.

Cayden opened a bottle of Tylenol and swallowed two pills with mineral water. "They're fine. Stop worrying. As long as we keep quiet they'll be fine."

"Well I'm glad you're having such an easy time believing this Maalik prick."

Cayden drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "What do you think he's doing? Drugs? Guns? Terrorists?"

"Does it fucking matter Cayden," Jac said, coming over to the table and sitting opposite. "You're out of your depth. This isn't a bloody boardroom and you're not James bloody Bond. You're going to have to tell the police, or I'm going to."

Cayden started drumming his fingers more rapidly. "But what if Maalik is not the main person?"

"I don't give a shit," Jac said tightly, "you're selfishness is making me sick," his voice rising, "I can't believe we're fucking related, you are going to tell them what really happened or I will, and to hell with you."

Jac pushed the table into Cayden, whose chair slipped backwards. Cayden hit the air-conditioning unit. By the time he got to his feet Jac was at the door, "Do the right thing for once in your miserable life," he slammed it shut behind him.

Cayden sat on the edge of the bed, arms tightly crossed, staring unseeing at the crumpled front page of the New York Times. Wednesday headlines of more US losses in Iraq. They would be all right; parents on an unscheduled exploration of the Caribbean; Rachel at an exhibition in Nice surrounded by hundreds of people. He had to keep Randy happy; he could not afford any bad publicity, he would send over cleaners and fitters from the factory, it was only six months, then Maalik would disappear. Once the Blade was launched, he would tell the authorities the whole story.

Fists pounded the door. "Who is it?"

"Who the hell do you think?" Jac shouted and strode in after Cayden opened it. "Well are you going to the police?"

Cayden shook his head.

"Fucking cold hearted, miserable bastard. Well I'm sodding telling them right now."

Cayden started to take off his shirt. They would be here soon to take him downtown. He felt lightheaded. He would call Carol at the office first thing. She would have Rachel's mobile number. He needed the time until then to clear his head, get back in control. When he spoke to the office, he couldn't show there was any sign of trouble. He wasn't being cold hearted, just practical. "I'm doing the right thing Jac. You say anything to the police and it will put the folks and Rachel in greater danger. You want that?" Cayden glared at Jac who looked uncertainly down to the floor. "Right! So stop being so bloody emotional. I am thinking of them, of course I am, but also the future. I'm not losing everything because of this bastard."

Cayden walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red veined, the bruising turning yellow. A cut on his face was bleeding. Welts ringed his chest and neck, where the ropes had held him. He winced as he sighed heavily.

"You look like a corpse," Jac said from the doorway. "Soulless, unfeeling, uncaring...dead."

Cayden had never seen his brother so hateful. He looked down at the counter top. "I'm going to take a shower," he said quietly.

When he looked in the mirror again, some of the cuts had started weeping from the towel, he looked like something out of a horror movie. He stuck toilet tissue over the cuts and carefully brushed his teeth.

"I blame us for not catching Osama bin Laden," he said loudly, he had heard Jac in the next room.

"What?"

"It's given criminal minded Arabs, an air of impunity," he rinsed his mouth and went into the bedroom. "They know the West is terrified of appearing prejudiced and upsetting the _politically correct apple_ _cart,_ so they do what they want. Remember the papers were even talking about not calling it Christmas!" Cayden dropped the towel from around his waist and looked for some clean boxer shorts. "The Americans are the only ones prepared to be tough with them and they are ostracised the world over." He stretched to the top shelf and winced. "I promise you Jac, I'm going to take great pleasure when... I'm ready...," he gasped, bending to search the lower shelves, "in handing Maalik over to Agent Williams or whoever, and thinking about him spending the rest of his miserable life in Guantanamo Bay."

Jac glared at him. "You really are an arrogant..."

There was a heavy knock on the door.

"Is that them already?" Cayden asked finding a pair at the back of the lower shelf and hurriedly putting them on.

Jac looked at his watch. "Must be. I'll tell them you'll be a few minutes. We'll wait in the lobby."

Twenty minutes later, they were both sitting in the back of an unmarked police car, heading to West Flagler Street. Two young detectives sat in the front, their dark sunglasses, pressed shirts and blue jeans worn with conscious style.

They passed a United States flag hanging limply in the humid air outside the Dade County Courthouse, before turning down a ramp and into an underground car park beneath a bland building that cornered North Miami Avenue.

"This's it folks," the one driving said.

They led the way to the elevator and they rode up in silence to the fourth floor. The doors opened to a small reception area with a single black sofa and a dying ficus plant in one corner, the obligatory water dispenser next to it. Randy and Hal Valentino were waiting for them in _Interview Room Four_.

Hal motioned Cayden to sit beside him at the metal table. He opened his briefcase. He tilted his head back and looked down the length of his nose at him. "Remember they have your written statement. Any other questions they might ask, you don't have to answer. You will go to court. I need to prepare a case to get you a fine for damages but no prison sentence. Provided of course your story is the one they believe," Hal raised an eyebrow. "The less you say at this stage the better."

The door opened, a slim woman walked in. She had short dark hair, gelled so it stood at odd angles. Late thirties Cayden thought. She was wearing blue jeans and a black short-sleeved blouse. She smiled pleasantly. "I'm Gammon, with the Dade County Police. How's everyone today?"

"What's your position within the Miami Dade County Police Department?" Hal Valentino said.

The smile disappeared instantly. She wore no makeup.

"I guess you're the attorney. Right?"

Valentino's lips quivered in an attempt at a smile.

"OK all those present who do not have the name Cayden Callejon and are not his attorney, please leave the room."

Jac looked uncertainly at Cayden.

"See you later. Could you get me a sandwich, I'm starving," Cayden said.

Jac left without acknowledging him.

"So you must be Cayden Callejon," Gammon said sitting on the corner of the desk, one leg on the floor supporting her, the other, she started to swing gently. She leant across the table and pressed a switch for the tape recorder "Is this how you get people to buy them boats of yours, by smashing your competitor's offerings into bars along Miami Beach?" Her smile returned and Cayden glanced down at the back of his hands.

She watched her foot as it swung out from under the table. She wore flat black shoes, functional but feminine. "Well it's either that or you're just pissed with us "yanks" Mr.Callejon, because I for the life of me can't see why a man such as yourself, would want to destroy half a bar, and admit to it."

"I'm sorry," Cayden said. "Things got a little out of control."

Gammon sat waiting for a further response but when it was obvious Cayden was not going to say anymore, she sighed and pushed herself from the table. "Yeah you can say that again," she sat on the chair opposite and leant back, her hands behind her head.

Valentino coughed gently.

"Christ Hal, you know its Captain, how many times have we met?"

"Just for the record," Valentino said defensively.

"Yeah well just for the record Mr. Valentino, I'm making Major soon and I didn't get there by accepting bullshit stories, got it?"

Cayden glanced between the two of them. "Oh it's just a game we play Mr.Callejon, Hal here finds me irresistible don't you Hal?"

Valentino looked quickly down at his pad. "Let's get on."

"Oh sure," Gammon rocked forward on her chair and thumped her elbows down on the table with enough force to make Cayden jump. "I've read your statement Cayden, and I think it's a crock of shit. How do you like that Mr. Valentino? You want to tell me what really happened?"

"My client has signed a statement clearly stating what happened, Captain Gammon."

Gammon ignored Valentino. Cayden found that she had very dark eyes, in fact, as he gazed into them he realized they had no colour at all, they were just black pupils. "I could throw your butt in goal right now..."

"I don't think so Captain Gammon, my client was given a fifty thousand dollar bail, set this morning in the preliminary hearing by Judge..."

Gammon held up her hand. "You understand you're in serious trouble right?"

Cayden nodded.

"You understand that BUI and causing serious bodily harm could put you away for up to five years and even if your government wanted to get involved in extradition, so you could be put in one of your nice friendly goals, it can still take many years to sort out. Our prisons, Mr.Callejon, are not friendly places. They are very hot and full of very ugly people..."

"Thank you Detective Gammon but my client has not been convicted of anything at this time."

"He's signed a statement saying he was drinking and there was alcohol present from the blood test. That's all we need."

"Yes but there is no proof he was driving, or he had even stolen it, therefore he was not responsible for the damage or injury," Valentino said. "So...unless you have any evidence to the contrary...my client is free to go under the terms set when bail was given?"

"You've been talking to a very attractive lady by the name of Sly Williams?" Gammon asked, thin eyebrows arched.

Cayden dropped his gaze back to his hands.

"What?" Valentino said impatiently.

There was a knock on the door. Gammon stood. "Why don't you tell Hal about all the people you've met since you arrived, Cayden? Let's see, there's Ms. Williams, she's a good guy, then there's a bad guy call Min Chu or Oo I think, then a very bad guy called Maalik, isn't that right Cayden?" she said over her shoulder as she opened the door. One of the young detectives that had collected him from the hotel was standing there. He leant forward and talked quietly to Gammon.

Cayden glanced sideways at Valentino but he wagged his finger quickly, telling him to keep quiet.

The conversation ended and Gammon closed the door. She leant back against it, her spiky hair came to the top of the frame. "Can I get you gentlemen any coffee, water...tea," she said pleasantly looking at Cayden.

"Do you have any more questions," Valentino said.

"Water, please," Cayden said.

Gammon smiled and looked off to the mirror on the sidewall. She nodded slightly as she came back to the desk.

"This Maalik guy Cayden. After he roughed you up... by the way that throat looks really sore, I'm not surprised you couldn't talk with the Judge this morning. What did he say to you?"

Cayden glanced at Valentino and shrugged. "As you've just said, I wasn't there. I had a call from Mr. Valentino saying he would represent me because of my injuries."

Gammon smiled. "Is that the famous Brit sense of humour we're always hearing about?"

Cayden pinched the top of his nose.

"Maalik. What did he say to you after he beat you up?" Gammon said

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"OK, let's see..." she walked behind him, resting her hands on the back of the chair. "Let's suppose, just for argument, Maalik forced you to drink alcohol, or maybe he didn't force you, maybe your throat really was smashed up pretty good, so you couldn't taste it anyway," she moved back to the chair opposite, "whatever Cayden, why?" Gammon smiled, "More importantly Cayden, why would you be telling us all that bullshit in your statement?"

Cayden refused to look up from studying his hands. Valentino started to protest but Gammon waved him quiet.

"You protecting Maalik, Cayden? You in business with this guy?" Gammon searched Cayden's face, "Maalik, has a record as long as my arm which..." Gammon stretched across the table and with one finger, tilted Cayden's chin up to face her, "you can tell is pretty long. Three countries want to talk to him but he's a slippery prick and no shit has stuck yet. Is he paying you?"

Cayden looked angrily at Hal Valentino. "I have no idea what she's talking about."

The door opened and the young detective walked in with a plastic cup of water.

He set it in front of Cayden and left.

"Cayden, you ain't clever enough for this," Gammon said.

Valentino stood up. "Captain, you're fishing, you have no evidence and unless you do my client is free to go."

Gammon smiled and leant back in her chair, linking hands behind her head. "Sure Hal you're client's free to go, but we'll be keeping his passport. That OK with you Cayden?"

Cayden gulped the water, his face hot from embarrassment. They knew so much. Why had they not bothered to intervene? He crushed the plastic cup and threw it into the bin under the desk.

Gammon smiled and stood. "I guess that's it then. Interview over eleven forty two," she said clicking the tape recorder off.

Valentino had stepped out into the passageway when Gammon rested her hand on Cayden's chest. "Cayden, I know you're used to running the show, but if I can offer you some advice. Stick to what you know. You're sinking on this one, you should let us handle it."

Cayden pushed past her. "Thanks, but I'm not even ankle deep."

They walked down the hall towards the reception area where Jac and Randy were waiting. Two men appeared from another door and walked towards them. One was short, wearing a baseball cap, the other wearing a red cotton shirt, his biceps stretching the sleeves. As they passed, the taller of the two stared hard at Cayden. Cayden looked over his shoulder, the smaller one had _U.S. Marshall_ in gold letters on the back of his t-shirt.

"How did it go?" Jac asked.

Cayden shrugged and rode the elevator down in silence. Outside, Hal Valentino motioned them to follow. Sunlight reflected off the surrounding office blocks, illuminating the paving slabs. They walked to a grassy area circled by wooden benches; each one had a plaque with an officer's name and dates of service.

Valentino reached into his jacket pocket and put on a pair of sunglasses, reminding Cayden of the old Concorde. "Do you mind, as your attorney, telling me why Captain Gammon was talking about this Maalik guy?"

Randy sat forward on the bench. He glanced between Hal and Cayden.

Cayden squinted up at the side of the police building. A helicopter clattered across the strip of sky.

"Cayden, I think you owe me an explanation at least," Randy said.

"The problem with the Firestorms is sorted and I promise will not happen again. OK." When Randy simply nodded but continued looking at him with an expectant set to his shoulders, Cayden sighed deeply. "As I told Hal, I was pissed off after you dropped me at the hotel and I decided to go for a walk and well... I met this woman in a bar... we got chatting and then one thing led to another... she said it was her boat... things just got out of control, that's what's in my statement which it seems," Cayden looked pointedly at Valentino, "everyone is having trouble believing."

Sunglasses hid Jac's eyes but nothing could hide his disbelief.

Randy sat back on the bench and blew out his cheeks. "Jesus I have to say that surprises me Cayden."

"Me too," Jac exhaled.

"Was she one of the people eyewitnesses said they saw getting off the boat after the accident?" Randy said.

Cayden chewed his lip.

"I think she spiked my drinks. I blacked out and the next thing I know I'm suffocating in black smoke. Nothing happened...sexually," Cayden glanced at Jac.

"But you can't remember her name?" Valentino said.

"I've given a description," Cayden said.

"Yeah you did, but it sounds like half the hookers in Miami Cayden. Just be sure you're being straight with me, otherwise the Judge is going to have my arse, which would piss me off. Normally, I don't deal with clients at this level until I know them a lot better, but I trust Randy, please don't abuse that Mr.Callejon."

"Thank you," Cayden said struggling to control his temper.

"Remain contactable," Valentino said. "We need to discuss the case and I'll need to advise you when a court date has been set. It should be in the next day or so as you're a foreign national."

He shook hands and left. There was an uncomfortable silence. "Listen boys," Randy said. "I'm not bullshitting you, this whole thing has shaken my confidence. I have a reputation to protect. If the shit hits the fan in the media and the Blade launch is a failure, I'm going to be pissed boys. Don't forget people buy your boats because of the image. The competition will charge in with fixed bayonets if they smell trouble and don't forget, they've always been begging me for agent contracts."

"They don't build boats that sell as well as ours," Cayden growled.

"I know Cayden, I know. They're fine boats with a heck of a demand for them right now, which is why I'm not already running. But you know that can disappear, just like that." Randy clicked his fingers.

"This is an unfortunate blip Randy," Cayden said looking at his battered reflection in his sunglasses. "You've had many years of good product and service from us and the Blade's going to make you a lot of money."

Randy shook his head. "We'll see. You boys need a ride back to the hotel? I suggest you rest up some, then come down to my office so we can start talking some more on just how much those boats are going to make me."

Cayden's attention flicked past Randy's shoulder to a black Buick Rainier pulling up at the curbside. The driver's door opened. Sly Williams stepped out.

"Randy you go on back. Jac and I need to talk a few things over. We'll meet first thing tomorrow morning. I'm knackered," Cayden said standing quickly.

"You're what?" Randy asked.

"Knackered," Cayden said.

"Dead tired," Jac said helpfully.

"Oh. OK. Tomorrow at eight."

They waved as he started across the paving towards the parking lot on the far side of the building.

"You were messing around with a woman!" Jac said and held out the bag he had been carrying. "Where the shit did that come from and thanks for telling me."

Cayden pulled out the sandwich. He peered cautiously at the tuna and salad mixture before hunger got the better of him. He had to chew each mouthful well and then swallow in small amounts to help his throat.

"How did it go?" Sly Williams said as she leant her forearms on the back of the bench. Jac looked around startled but Cayden stared ahead across the small circle of grass chewing his sandwich.

"I'm not sure," Jac said after he recognised her. "We haven't had a chat yet."

Cayden fished in the bag and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke. He unscrewed the cap it hissed and spat over the pavement, Cayden leant forward to take a few mouthfuls. The bubbles tickled his throat. "I think you already know what was discussed," Cayden wheezed.

"Maybe," Sly said coming round the bench and sitting next to him. She pushed her glasses onto her head and smiled for the first time and Cayden was taken a-back by the transformation. He liked the partly hidden missing tooth. It made her appear unconcerned with her looks. Her lips did not seem as thin and bloodless as he had first recalled. "Indulge me, tell me how things went from your point of view," she said

Cayden finished the last of his sandwich and then told her, shrugging, saying he had no idea where they got such a story.

"So they know, you all know," Jac cried.

Sly held her hands in the air. "Are you still going to deny it Cayden?"

Cayden drank from the Coke bottle.

"We didn't expect your brother to get involved so..." she looked off towards the grass, then back at Jac, "so aggressively. You see Maalik has been under observation for a while now, but he's very careful."

A couple of pigeons landed and started cautiously towards the crumbs at Cayden's feet. The noise of traffic was making his headache worse. He needed more Tylenol and a lie down.

"You worked out what Maalik might be involved in?" Sly said as if she were announcing a competition.

Cayden kicked a bit of sandwich at one of the pigeons, startling it away.

"Drugs," Jac said.

"Nope, how about you Cayden."

The pigeon began another cautious approach. "I don't know what you're talking about, and neither does he," Cayden scowled at Jac. The pigeons flew into the tree opposite. A cab pulled into the bay in front of the police building and a suited man got out. Cayden stood, indicating to Jac the waiting cab.

"People," Sly called after them. "That son-of-bitch is smuggling people Cayden, he's a fucking people trafficker and he's using your boats to do it."

Cayden hesitated. Jac grabbed his elbow to stop him going towards the cab. That would explain the mess in the boats Cayden thought numbly.

Jac led him back to the bench.

"Yeah Cayden, did that surprise you?"

Cayden's mind felt like cement. How much longer could he pretend Maalik was not involved? Was he watching, waiting to see what he would do? Why did he have to test him like this? He looked up and down the street. There were people everywhere; a UPS delivery man, three businessmen, police coming and going, two women in jeans with shopping bags, a group of Chinese tourists, and they were the obvious ones. If he were being watched, it would be impossible for him to know.

"Your police in the UK have Black Tug under surveillance and as far as we know the owner Bin Sinbad or whatever..."

"Binalshibh," Jac said.

"Yeah that's him, he's involved, he keeps these poor bastards in a container at the docks until they're ready to be shipped on one of your boats. The police in the UK are investigating who and how they're smuggled into the UK from Eastern Europe, but let's face it, your immigration and border control is so frigging useless an army could invade and the first thing you would know, would be them beating on the door to your Buildings of Parliament..."

"Houses," Jac interrupted.

"What?"

"Houses of Parliament."

"Whatever Jac. Your police are investigating a Romanian gang master in Southampton. We got Maalik this end, one or two others, but not enough evidence. The people he smuggles on your boats are somehow taken off the ship before it docks. We need to catch him doing it. We want to get the whole stinking bunch of them."

The pigeon finally got the piece of roll and flew to the middle of the grass.

"Bastards," Jac whispered, "how many have been smuggled?"

Sly shrugged, her gaze never leaving Cayden who was still studying the pigeon. "The Brit police reckon over a hundred. They're not just using your boats. And they are charging these poor bastards their life savings. If we catch them, they get sent back penniless and Maalik goes out and buys himself another Cadillac."

"We should get back to the hotel," Cayden said.

"That's it Cayden, That's all you've got to say?" Sly said.

"No it's not," Jac shouted, "Cayden tell her."

Cayden held Sly's glare. "There's nothing I can do to help you. I have my business to think about and you have your job to do. I suggest you get on with it."

Sly rested her elbows on the back of the chair, stretching her t-shirt across her breasts, her eyes had narrowed. She pointed a finger at Cayden. "You either really don't give a shit about anything or you're scared."

"That's right," Jac blurted. "This is ridiculous. He's threatened Cayden that if he talks our parents and his girlfriend Rachel, could be kidnapped or killed..."

Cayden spun about, facing his brother, fists curled at his side.

"I knew it," Sly said leaping to her feet to stand between the two of them.

Suddenly there was a squeal of tyres and all three turned to watch a Cadillac u-turn and stop with a screech of rubber. For a moment, the occupant was hidden by reflection. The side window slid down and a hand appeared from the shadow of the interior. A finger pointed and a thumb flattened like a hammer going down on a pistol. The engine roared and the car sprang forward, blue smoke coming from its rear tyres. Drivers sounded their horns as the Cadillac cut through a red light at the intersection, the back end swung wide with another squeal of rubber before it disappeared from view.

A traffic cop started to run towards his motorcycle but Sly Williams intercepted him showing her badge.

"Happy now," Cayden said between gritted teeth when she returned. "Maalik is probably on the phone right now." He glared at Sly.

"Crap. How does he know you've said anything to me and anyway, we'll get protection on your parents and your girlfriend straight away," Sly said her, hands on her hips.

Cayden threw up his hands. "You idiot! He's got a head start and my parents are somewhere unknown... in the Caribbean. Just leave us the hell alone." He started walking towards another cab.

"What did Maalik say? Did he tell you anything about his operation?"

Cayden reached the cab and opened the back door, "Gulfstream Plaza". He motioned for Jac to get in. Sly stood on the pavement. He pushed the button for the window. "You better get your arse in gear and find that bastard before he does anything or I'm going to come after you for negligence, incompetence and anything else I can damn well think of. I had it all under control. Now because of your damn impatience and desire to be the crime busting hero, you've threatened everything."

He told the driver to get going.

Sly Williams watched the cab cross the intersection and disappear into traffic. She chewed her gum methodically. Cayden had hit a nerve. Only that morning her boss had warned her to be patient and not push at getting Maalik until all the pieces were in place. But in the same breath he restated the pressure from Washington to prove that Homeland Security was working, in particular that the new inter-agency cooperation initiative was working. Plus, she also had to prove that she was not just an INS inspector. She had been recruited because they thought she was capable of more than just checking passports. Maalik was smuggling people, but her involvement was because of the additional concern that some of them might be terrorists. Because of that, they needed to be sure who was involved up and down the chain. This was why they had not interfered when Cayden got into trouble on the Hatteras. Cayden's cooperation could get her closer to Maalik. She stroked the nerve that started to twitch under her eye. There was no way a pompous Brit was going to destroy her career.

Sly Williams turned towards the police building. She needed to talk to Gammon and persuade her to work closely with her on this. This was the hardest part of her job.

Chapter 15

The Homeland Security officer beckoned Rachel forward.

She was desperate for the toilet and smiled urgently at the intimidating man who studied her intently. The officer processed her I94 and Customs Declaration and then asked for her right forefinger for a scan and then to look in the golf ball sized camera beside him. Rachel brushed a strand of hair self-consciously from her face.

"Welcome to the United States Ms. Clarke," the officer said without smiling, he handed back her passport and then crooked his finger for Burt to come forward.

Rachel found the toilet sign and rushed for the door. A dozen other women had the same idea and Rachel had to stand in line for an agonizing minute before a cubicle became available.

Burt looked relieved when she finally emerged. "Thought you'd done a runner," he said.

Rachel hooked her bag securely over her shoulder and looked for baggage reclaim and arrivals. She hurried forward with Burt beside her. She had had enough of him. He had been sitting next to her on the flight and had insisted on talking about football...mostly. His breath stank of stale cigarettes and coffee. She had finally put on headphones and started watching a film as the only way to shut him up.

She wanted rid of Burt and was desperate to be with Cayden.

They walked quickly through baggage reclaim and out through the green channel into arrivals.

"Hang on a sec, I need to get my bearings," Burt said, perspiration running down his sideburns.

Rachel frowned with annoyance. "Taxi's over there," she pointed and started off again.

"No wait, I organised for a pick up," He said taking hold of her elbow and searching the group of people waiting with name boards held in front of them.

Rachel shook her arm free. "When did you have time to organise that?"

"Ah there," he exclaimed.

Rachel looked where he was pointing. A swarthy man, white shirt, black tie, black chauffeur's hat, stepped forward with a written sign 'Dick'.

"I'm Burt Dick".

The chauffer nodded curtly, eyes in shadow under the hat peak. He had a badge pinned to his shirt pocket - _Airport Limousines_. His cuff rode up slightly revealing the beginning of a tattoo.

"Cayden didn't want you slumming in some taxi," Burt said, smiling.

They followed him out of the airport.

"Wow you're lucky," Burt said when they reached the car. "That's the new Cadillac wiv' the three hundred twenty horsepower, four point six litre Northstar V8."

"Super," Rachel said sarcastically, opened the back door. It smelt of leather and air freshener. She noticed Burt was still standing outside. She pushed the button for the window. "You not coming?" she asked hopefully.

"No ta, got to get down to the docks and start sorting things out. No peace for the wicked." He stepped forward and held out his hand.

Rachel reached through the window and shook it, grimacing as she felt his sweat stick to her hand. "See you soon Burt and thanks for escorting me."

Burt's face broke into a grin, showing crooked yellow teeth. She slid the window up and watched him take a cigarette from his shirt pocket. His hands shook as he cupped the lighter against the wind.

They headed out into the one-way traffic.

"How long will it take to the hotel?" she yawned.

Rachel had not slept on the flight and she felt a wreck. She should have stopped and bought some make-up and fresh clothes at the airport she thought suddenly, close to telling the driver to go back. However, her eagerness to put all the nastiness behind them was too strong. Cayden wasn't the most romantic of men so he probably wouldn't notice anyway. He had sent a limousine though!

"About thirty minutes ma'am," the driver said. "There's some water in the bottle in the arm rest if you want refreshment."

Rachel nodded. She unscrewed the cap and filled a glass. She gulped down the water and immediately could feel it seep through her tired body. She rested her head into the thick leather and closed her eyes. It was very quiet in the Cadillac; hardly any road noise permeated the cabin. She listened for a while to the occasional click of the indicator, the muffled beep of a horn, a siren passing in the other direction and then her chin dipped forward as she fell asleep.

The driver had been watching in his rear view mirror and smiled when he noticed her head rolling unconsciously with the motion of the car. He had been worried that the dose of Temazepam in the water had not been enough, despite his boss's strict instructions on what the amount should be. Maalik would be pleased that he had managed to persuade her to take the water. A sleeping drug was a far easier way to get her where they wanted. The alternative had been a lot more dangerous he thought, reaching between his legs and removing the small pistol he had been sitting on and sliding it into the holster strapped above his ankle.

Chapter 16

Cayden could not concentrate; thoughts cannoned and ricochet off each other.

The air-conditioning hummed quietly. He rolled onto his side and punched up the pillow. It still hurt to swallow and the headache had not left, despite a steady supply of Tylenol.

His good eye focused on the digital clock. _12:30_. Too early to call the UK. He switched on the bedside light, pulled the Miami Herald over from the unused side of the bed and started to read. At the bottom of the centre page was a concluding article on his accident. The boat had been removed from the crash scene and taken to a police compound. The owner was away on a Pacific fishing trip and could not be contacted. The bar owner and the two people who had been taken to hospital were planning to sue for loss of income and traumatic psychological damage. There was also a picture of the speared car and the owner showing off his bandaged chest. The article concluded questioning why the police were protecting the driver of the boat. They had learnt he was a British citizen, asking how a foreign national could come into the country, destroy property, endanger lives of locals, and be protected, when a U.S. citizen would have been fully accessible to the media.

Cayden scrunched the paper into his fists. He could see the headlines now. _Owner of Tomahawk's – Destroys Competition_. Randy would have a heart attack. He threw off the sheet, pulled the cord for the blackout blind. Downtown Miami; concrete and glass stalagmites of indigo, reds and yellows. The blue floodlights on the white cement work of one of the bridges, looked like a captured lightning streak. The navigation warning masts on the tall buildings shimmered like distant red stars.

Was Maalik somewhere down there, strolling through the Disney like scene. Maalik had seen him talking to Sly Williams. Had he been able to record somehow what they had said? He looked over at the mini bar. Maalik could not hope to continue for another six months. He must know the police were close. He should abandon and run, Cayden thought as he unscrewed the top to a small bottle of St-Remy Napoleon Brandy. What if he stopped any further deliveries of the Firestorm until after the Blade launch? Cayden took a mouthful from the bottle and gasped. Tears flooded his eyes and he doubled over coughing uncontrollably. When he had recovered, he poured the rest of the brandy into a glass and added water.

The thing that worried him most was Maalik's arrogance. He seemed indifferent to the police, even courting their involvement. Cayden took a tentative sip and allowed the calming warmth to spread though his body. They had six more shipments - fifteen Tomahawks. This was their busiest time. If he postponed he would lose four and a half million pounds in income and possibly the orders altogether. What would Randy say? His best hope was that Maalik would abandon his operation; the staged accident had been his parting gesture of arrogance and contempt. His threats were empty. He had disappeared and Sly Williams and the police could search for him to the ends of the earth for all he cared. The police would have to drop the charges, as they already knew he was not driving the boat. They could arrest Min Oo and they could certainly arrest that bastard Binalshibh at Black Tug.

Cayden finished the brandy and propped his legs on a footstool. He started to follow the red and white blip of a passing airliner. He was asleep by the time it blinked out behind a cloud.

Cayden jumped awake, disorientated. Something had woken him. He tried to remember. There were three light knocks at the door. The tops of the tallest buildings were tinged with pink, dawn light. The knocks came again and Cayden pushed himself out of the chair, grimacing as the headache started.

"Who is it?" he said.

"Room service," said a muffled voice.

Cayden looked at the bedside clock. 6:00 am. Had he ordered breakfast so early? He opened the door on the chain. A short black woman stood behind a trolley in a crisp hotel uniform, her name badge said Beth. "Beth, could you leave it there? I'll collect it in a moment."

"No sir. I need you to sign and this is my trolley."

He couldn't be bothered to argue. If she was Maalik's assassin so be it. Cayden slipped the chain and waved her into the room. He signed where she indicated and left her arranging the covered plates while he went into the bathroom. When he returned, Jac was sitting on the end of the bed reading the Miami Herald. He was fully dressed in dark tan coloured trousers and a grey and blue check shirt. He looked fashionable but a bit too casual Cayden thought for their meeting with Randy. His grey Hugo Boss trousers and blue jacket were in a plastic cover, pressed by hotel laundry. However, he had made one concession, he had decided against a tie.

"Your door was open. Risky, considering," Jac said looking up and reaching for his cup of coffee.

"Make yourself at home," Cayden said, yawning and then winced from the cuts on his face, he poured some coffee for himself.

Jac had dark rings under his eyes and his tan had faded to a sickly yellow. He tossed the paper over.

There was a photograph of him taken at the crash scene, a red blanket draped over his shoulders. His face was grey and bruised with little black marks of dried blood from the glass. His short hair appeared grey and his eyes hooded. His lips were pale and a wad of cotton wool was sticking from his left nostril. Even Rachel would have trouble recognising him. He looked like he had gone a few rounds with Audley Harrison. The caption underneath read; _British businessman being questioned by police._

"I don't think that's one we'll hang in the boardroom," Jac said looking under the cover and turning his nose up at the plate of scrambled eggs.

Cayden was surprised the photograph had not appeared earlier. It was now only a matter of time before they found out his name. The bloody media would keep sniffing until they found their story. Cayden lifted off the cover and started eating slowly.

"So what's the plan of action for today?" Jac said sarcastically.

Cayden took a sip of coffee. "We need to get Randy back on side. We have to be in control and excited about the Blade, get him enthused again."

Jac shook his head. "So, no more talk of Maalik. You still think you're in control don't you", the corners of his mouth turned down as he leant over and pushed the remote button for the TV. "You had better call Carol."

Cayden glanced at the bedside clock - 7:30, she would certainly be in the office.

He went to the phone. "What time are we meeting Randy?"

"An hour," Jac said watching the news report.

"Morning Carol," Cayden said when the phone answered after two rings. She was angry, her voice clipped as she told him of the calls from the Miami police, frustrated that she couldn't contact him.

"I'm sorry Carol...I know how worried you must have been...yeah... there's been a mix-up here, mistaken identity, mobile and wallet was stolen, I'll explain later. Everything's fine, I need to get hold of Rachel. Do you have a number in Nice?... no...oh, I see, why does she only have a pay-as-you-go tariff? Can you call through to her manager at the store and see if she knows the hotel she's staying at?... I'll hold."

"I knew it," Jac said, "I warned you," he jabbed his finger at him.

"I didn't realise you couldn't make overseas call on a pay-as-you-go tariff," Cayden said covering the mouthpiece. "We're just trying to find out where she's staying in Nice. Calm down." Cayden turned his back to him. "I see," he said after a minute of waiting. "Rachel didn't mention any hotels? She didn't turn up to do the banking before she left... I see. Hang on."

He rested the phone against his chest for a few seconds

Cayden held a finger to his lips to silence Jac. He put the phone back to his ear" How's everything going?... good news, e-mail the Lloyds information to me and get George in production to check the new 'specs' from Volvo." Cayden caught sight of Jac's incredulous expression. "OK Carol, you better get going. Call me as soon as you hear from Rachel. You can reach me at Randy's this morning." He walked straight to the bathroom.

Randy Royce had recovered some of his old form. He shepherded them to a conference table made of teak, polished so they could see their reflections. In the middle was a compass rose; the various quadrants made from individual pieces of polished wood.

His P.A. bought in a plate of Krispy Crème Doughnuts and a thermos of coffee.

"Boys', I suggest we talk business," Randy smiled. "Leave what's been going on for discussion over a beer."

Cayden nodded enthusiastically but he could see that Jac was not keen.

They discussed sales figures and how Randy saw the market developing; Cayden produced the new brochures for the Blade.

"Oh man, I wish I had one earlier, I've just been talking to someone who couldn't believe what I was describing."

"Randy, at fifty five knots, the water jets produce a rooster tail twenty feet above the stern deck!"

Jac retrieved a folder from his briefcase, slapping it on the table, he turned the sheets, tearing one. "You'll get four models of the Blade two weeks prior to launch, so you can familiarise yourself and get the press and your best customers a preview," he flipped the page. "On launch day, we've organised a two hundred and fifty foot yacht to be anchored off Key Biscayne, we'll ferry customers out by launch and helicopter, the Blades will be available for them to test in a cordoned off area. Sales and marketing will be flown out from the UK to help." He slapped the folder shut.

"So there you go Randy... what do you think? Cayden said forcing a smile.

"Sounds good," Randy returned his smile but his eyes flicked uncertainly to Jac.

"It's eleven thirty, I definitely think you should call Carol back," Jac said.

Randy frowned. "OK boys, let's take a break. Use my phone in the office Cayden."

As they started to leave the conference room, Randy's P.A. hustled in, her heals clicking on the floor. "These messages came in for you Mr.Callejon," she said handing Cayden several notes. "And there's a Sly Williams in reception waiting to see you," she said clacking over to the table and collecting the empty mugs.

"These messages are very important, you should've interrupted us?" Jac said looking over Cayden's shoulder.

The P.A. looked up from the table, her eyes large. "Randy told me you were not to be disturbed."

"So much for you staying positive and in control," Cayden growled as Jac banged the door back on its hinges.

Sly Williams came through from reception when she saw them emerge. "What are you doing here," Jac said.

"Easy Jac," Sly said. "I waited patiently like the sweet lady requested although I was only going to give you another two minutes."

Sly Williams looked like an executive rather than a law officer. She was wearing black trousers that fitted like a second skin, a pink blouse and low healed shoes. Her hair pinned on the top of her head accentuated her height. She held a dark jacket over one shoulder. Cayden noticed that she had applied a trace of makeup that emphasizes the almond shape of her eyes. He smiled. He could see the surprise in her eyes. "I need to make a quick call can you wait for a few minutes."

Sly bit her lower lip. "No. This is important. I need both of you to come with me."

"What's happened?" Jac asked pushing Cayden aside.

Sly squared her shoulders. "I would just appreciate it if you two would accompany me down to my office. It shouldn't take long."

"We're in a middle of a meeting," Cayden said.

"Could you guys, just once, do as I ask," Sly said.

"Listen, I cannot stand any of this ridiculous cloak and dagger bullshit," Jac shouted. "Just tell us what's going on."

Sly looked impatiently at Randy and his assistant. "Would you mind giving us some privacy?" she said as Randy appeared. When she had closed the door, Sly folded her arms and said. "There has been no positive I.D. yet... but news is coming in that two bodies have been found in Trinidad. They were an elderly white couple."

Jac went rigid. Cayden quickly stepped over from the desk where he had been in the process of picking up the phone. "What the hell are you saying?"

"I just thought under the circumstances you should know," Sly said.

"Know what?" Cayden said.

Sly shrugged and looked at the floor. "Maalik did threaten your parents didn't he?"

Jac had not moved. Cayden glanced at his younger brother. "Jac for Christ sake there are thousands of white couples in the Caribbean, it could be anyone."

"It's not. I know it's not," He groaned. Cayden steered him to a chair. "Get him some water," he snapped while he gently lowered Jac's head between his knees.

"I hope this isn't some sick way of getting me to co-operate," he said glaring at Sly as she opened the door and asked for some water.

"No of course not," she said snatching the water from the P.A. and hurrying over to Jac. There was a stack of new Kompass Marine t-shirts on Randy's desk. Sly pulled one off the top and dipped a corner in the water and then gently pushed Jac's head back, wiping the cloth across his forehead.

"Two U.S. Marshals went down to Trinidad a few days ago to bring back a guy called Jada Gittens, he's wanted in Florida for a whole range of bad stuff." Jac pushed her hand away and Sly stood back. "He's Maalik's enforcer. Does all his dirty work... he escaped his escort to the airport... killed a cop and then when they found where he had been hiding, there were these two bodies in the cellar."

Cayden felt a rush of blood to his face. He had convinced himself Maalik was bluffing. Jac moaned. His eyes tightly shut, heels drumming the wooden floor.

"But you have no positive I.D.?" Cayden croaked.

Sly shook her head. "This creep escaped again, so things are a little hectic down there at the moment. They're sending some photographs and are searching for their passports. We'll also get fingerprints and anything else sent through."

"Did you hear that Jac?" Cayden said kneeling down in front of his brother. "They don't know who they are."

"I know," Jac yelled and lunged off the chair. His arm locked around Cayden's neck and they tumbled to the floor. Jac had always been a lot stronger than his brother. "I warned you," he shouted. "You bastard, you've killed them..." his fist slammed into Cayden's face, blood spurted from his nose.

Sly wrestled him away but she did not have the strength to hold him. Cayden managed to crawl onto his hands and knees but Jac tackled him and they crashed into a glass showcase containing a Tomahawk model. It skidded across the floor on the avalanche of glass and hit the base of the desk.

Cayden pulled himself to his feet and wiped the blood from his chin. He held out his hands to try to calm Jac, but he rushed him with arms flailing. Cayden tried to defend each blow, he backed away and slipped on his blood.

Jac stood over him, his legs shaking. His shirt was torn and his trouser leg stained with blood. A security guard rushed in but Sly held up her badge and ordered him to stand back. She approached Jac, her hand out. "Come on Jac," she said gently. "We don't know anything for sure."

He flung his arm out to stop her approach. "Keep away. You don't give a shit either."

"That's not true I had..."

Jac whirled and pushed her backwards. Sly stumbled and sat heavily with a gasp. The security guard took a step forward but there was uncertainty on his young face.

"Stay away," Jac shouted. He stumbled over to Cayden who put his arms up to fend off another attack. "If it's them, then know this. I blame you entirely." He fled, scattering Randy and others grouped in the outer offices.

Sly hurried after him.

Cayden felt the sting of his brother's fists but it was nothing to the horror he felt building inside. "Why didn't you wait until you were certain," he said when Sly returned. "Couldn't you see how highly strung he is over this?"

Sly stepped forward with a tissue. "Fuck it Cayden, I just thought I should prepare you both, you know... soften the blow," she dabbed at the blood on his chin.

He pushed her away. "These are my parents you're talking about," Cayden snatched the tissue and padded the blood. "You're one callous bitch. What did you think you would gain?"

Sly crossed her arms. "Time Cayden. We're running out of it."

Cayden was still clutching the notes he had been handed. He uncurled his fist and spread them out on the table. One was from Carol. His hand was shaking as he dialed the number.

"What's happened to your voice I can barely hear you," Carol said.

"Getting a cold," Cayden said.

"She hasn't called in Cayden and I've rung all the hotels I could find in Nice and none of them have a reservation for Rachel Clarke. Are you sure everything is all right?" Carol said. "Why hasn't she called your mobile?"

"Told you, stolen," Cayden said, terrifying thoughts tumbling through his mind. "Call me as soon as you hear anything." He replaced the phone and looked absently at the other two pieces of paper. He dialed the first number just to keep his mind occupied.

It was picked up on the second ring. "Hello, this is Cayden Callejon," he said still lost in thought.

"You weak infidel, six months is all I asked."

Cayden clamped the phone against his ear. "Maalik," he whispered.

"You have failed..."

"I haven't told them anything. Why did you do this? What has happened in...?"

"Silence," his voice shouted through the earpiece. "Do not interrupt me."

Cayden leant on the edge of the desk. Sly was making frantic signals. He ignored her.

"You infidel whore, you have destroyed months of profit for me. I gave you a simple test and you have proved what a coward you are. Now, it is too dangerous to continue but you will compensate me for my loss or I will destroy ...."

"Maalik I swear, I..."

"What did I tell you," Maalik shouted and the line went dead.

Cayden felt numb. He dropped the phone on the desk.

Sly snatched it up and hit re-dial. The number was blocked. "What did he say?" She shook Cayden. "Cayden, what was Maalik saying?"

A red light started flashing on the phone indicating an incoming call. Moments later Randy's secretary nervously looked around the door. "I think it's the guy you were just talking to," she said.

Sly snatched up the phone and held it against Cayden's ear so she could listen

"Maalik..." his voice broke.

"Ah the weak infidel, weep's like a child... two million dollars to cover my losses. I will let you know when and where."

"My parents? Why should I..." Cayden voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Interrupt me again and the whore of yours will die."

Cayden froze.

"She's not in Nice. The great will of Allah has brought her to me this morning. Get the money, or she dies."

The phone buzzed in his ear.

Sly replaced it and they looked at each other.

Shouts from the outer office.

The two Marshals, Cayden had seen at the police building walked in, accompanied by a uniformed police officer and a medic who went immediately to Cayden and started examining his face.

She led him to a chair and forced him to sit and tilt his head back. She started to dab at the blood with a cotton wad. He was becoming used to the position.

"Cayden do you have a photograph of Rachel?" Sly said breaking off from talking with the Marshals.

Cayden searched for his wallet and realised Maalik had taken it. He had a sudden thought. "She's one of the models in the brochure." Sly returned with one from the conference room. Cayden flicked through to the centre picture. Rachel was reclining on a white sun lounger in a red bikini, holding a glass of champagne. The medic finished cleaning the blood from his nose. "That's Rachel."

"Get out to the airport. Immigration will have her I94. See if anyone saw her leave," Sly said to the uniformed Sergeant. "This is U.S. Marshall Taylan Darnel. He was down in Trinidad to pick up Jada Gittens. Remember the guy I told you about? He's been involved with the case from the beginning."

Cayden lifted his head. The tall, black man glared furiously at him, his square jaw twitched with tension. "You co-operated earlier Mr.Callejon, things would be a lot easier now," he growled.

Captain Gammon burst through the door. She strode over and looked down at Cayden. "You just can't keep your face outta trouble."

Cayden felt his world breaking apart, powerless to do anything.

Gammon turned to the others. "Fill me in."

"Look's like Maalik might have his girlfriend, Rachel Clarke, and we're still waiting for confirmation on the Trinidad murders," Sly said.

"Gittens, Maalik, murder, mayhem, kidnapping...it just gets better and better," Gammon said. "And what the hell do you propose to do about all of this now Agent Williams?"

"I'll put a call through to Immigration at the airport, they'll tell me if Rachel Clarke came through, then I'll get CCTV footage to see if we can ID whoever picked her up, then we need to double surveillance on the Black Tug ship and..."

"Woagh, slow down. I have no more Detectives to spare for your surveillance Williams," Gammon said. "You need to get the Fed's in to deal with the kidnapping and send the US Marshals back to Trinidad to collect Gittens before he arrives here undetected and adds to the chaos."

Sly glanced at Cayden, his arms were tightly crossed, and his clothes were disheveled and stained. She looked away, crushing her feelings.

Taylan Darnel stepped forward. "I'll go alone. Draper can handle things this end. Just make sure you keep us in the loop Williams, my boss isn't happy with all this inter-agency cooperation and is just itching to shout 'Told you so.'" He left.

"What can I do?" Cayden asked quietly.

Sly Williams had her phone to her ear. Gammon was talking to Draper.

Sly put a hand over her phone. "You had your chance Cayden." Her call connected. "Boss it's Williams, yeah things have moved on. We're going to have to..." she walked out of the office and Cayden was suddenly alone.

He walked slowly over to the desk, his head back, keeping the cotton pressed to his nose. There was a crunch. He bent down and set the broken model of a Tomahawk on the table. Randy appeared beside him and they both looked at it for a while. "I'll get a new one sent out to you."

Randy rested his hand on his shoulder. "Make it a Blade."

Cayden nodded. "I thought I could do it my way."

Randy squeezed his shoulder. "They've just been telling me. I'll square it with Valentino."

"I appreciate that Randy."

"Anything else?"

Cayden looked down at the model. "Just stay batting for our side."

"You got my word Cayden. What you going to do?"

"No idea."

********

Thanks to the influence of Sly's boss, a team from the Florida FBI field office had been rapidly deployed; kidnapping and ransom of a foreign national was their remit.

Cayden had forgotten their names – too many people getting involved - he wasn't even sure who was in charge. Sly kept assuring him that she was, but her hesitant orders did nothing to convince him.

On returning from Randy's office, he had found an envelope taped to his door. His mobile phone and a picture inside; Rachel, looking terrified, holding up that day's Miami Herald _, $2 million used notes, call 1200 tomorrow with further instructions_.

Cayden had closed the door, slid down to the carpet, head in hands, the picture staring back at him from his feet, self-doubt swirling his already distracted mind, unfamiliar panic coating his thoughts. He didn't have that sort of cash. He had called Sly Williams, his voice subdued, she had arrived within minutes, followed half an hour later by the FBI agents.

Sly confirmed Rachel had arrived through passport control at eleven twenty that morning. Cayden's faint hope that Maalik might be bluffing, vanished. Sly sent the note for analysis to see if there was anything in the paper or ink that could help trace its origin. She was waiting for the CCTV tape from the airport. They discussed the ransom, she suggested he raised as much as he could immediately, and then negotiate with Maalik for time for the rest.

An agent crouched in front of Cayden, he had a round face, dispassionate eyes, short hair, and the fringe gelled up in a cowlick. "OK Mr.Callejon (he pronounced it 'collision') the way we're going to play it is, communication," he sounded like a student asked to read from a textbook. "Contrary to what you might have seen at the movies, it's pretty darn easy to trace a phone call. When this guy contacts you, we're going to be listening, and we're going to have people ready to move. You don't have to keep'm talking long. That was in the days of manual switchboards when police needed time to trace the call through a maze of switches. Today, with digital switches, a caller's number can be identified within a nano-second. The number can then be correlated with an automatic location indicator, to find the phones address. If we're lucky, he might use a cell phone, now a lot of the new ones are equipped with a chip linked into the Global Positioning Satellite system, the chip contains location tracking technology, failing that we can track using triangulation from coordinates of adjacent cell-phone towers." He sat back on his heels. "Within seconds we'll be able to move towards the location of the call."

"What happens if he's not in the city or he gets a kid to call, someone unconnected?"

The agent patted his knee and stood up. "Don't worry Mr.Callejon, we'll get him. When it rings, don't pick up. It'll connect automatically, you talk via the speaker, there," he pointed to where his phone sat in a receiver beside two black boxes connected to a laptop.

Cayden had changed into jeans and a white v-necked t-shirt. His suit was a balled mess in the bottom of the wardrobe. The bruise around his eye throbbed, his nose felt broken and kept spasmodically bleeding. Jac had disappeared.

He was hunched over, head in hands, when he felt someone sit next to him. "I bought you a soda," Sly said smiling.

Cayden nodded his thanks.

"I need you to look at these," she said pulling some black and white photographs from a file. "These were taken from CCTV coverage at Miami airport a few hours ago. Is this Rachel?" Cayden stared at the grainy image and nodded. "Who is that guy?"

Cayden stared at the image. His hand started to shake. His blood pounded, his nose began to bleed, he held a tissue to it, crumpling the photograph into his other fist. "Burt Dick. Works for me...did, Transport Manager."

"Lay back," Sly said, taking the tissue from him and holding it to his nose. "Would Rachel have trusted him?"

Cayden screwed his eyes shut. "Ahuh, I guess she would, but what kind of story must the bastard have told her. How could she be so gullible?"

"Rachel had no reason to be suspicious Cayden."

"That idiot shouldn't be hard to find," Cayden mumbled, pushing her hand away.

Sly hesitated. "We've already located him..."

Cayden sat up.

"Trust me on this, he doesn't have Rachel with him, so we leave him until we get Maalik, he's just a courier and we'll be wasting valuable resources pulling him in now and we may jeopardise Rachel's safety unnecessarily."

"I should have fired the bastard years ago."

"Trust me, we'll get them all."

Cayden rubbed his eyes, not trusting himself to speak.

Sly gave him a few minutes and then gently shook his arm. "We couldn't get a clear picture of the chauffer - his hat - he was aware of the cameras, but we got the Cadillac's license plate. It's registered to _Trinidad and Tobago Import Export_ , they have offices in Miami, which we've got under surveillance but the building's deserted. The Cadillac never showed up, that's for sure."

Cayden sat up, taking a couple of gulps of Sprite. "Any news from Trinidad?"

"Nope, news is the utility workers cut the power to the city, crashing the police mainframe before they could send any data. No passports either."

Cayden took a few more gulps of Sprite. "Have you seen Jac?"

Sly rested her hand on his knee. Her manicured nails reminded him of how ruined his had become. He had gone back to his old habit of biting them. "Don't get mad Cayden, but he insisted on going with Taylan to Trinidad. He was going regardless, so I thought better he went with someone who could keep an eye on him."

Cayden slumped back on the bed, dropping the Sprite, which fizzed over the carpet "Fucking hell, do you have any good news?"

"I decided the two of you being together right now, was not a good idea," Sly said nodding her head, indicating the two FBI agents to leave

"Well that's another bad decision you've made," he said flatly. He punched the pillow by his head.

"Yeah, I guess things haven't gone to plan," Sly said quietly, once the door had closed behind the agents.

Cayden levered himself onto one elbow, she had her back to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at her feet, he could smell her perfume; too sweet. "Hey, don't you start wimping out now, you muscled you're way in, now damn well fight your way out. Fucking hell, if I had managers with your sort of will power, I'd been bankrupt years ago."

She looked over her shoulder, hair falling over her eyes; she tucked it behind her ear. She smiled tightly. "I ain't wimping out Cayden. You got a team helping you. Sometimes, I feel it's just me, OK? Maybe I'm not such a tough guy like you."

"You this honest with all your victims," Cayden said after awhile.

"No you're the first," she said pursing her lips. "And you're not my victim, this is your stubbornness...your fault."

"I had it under control. If you hadn't spoken to us..."

"What, you mean that time outside the police building? The building you'd been inside? The building full of fucking cops?"

"Maalik said..." Cayden said.

"Don't _Maalik said_ me," Sly got off the bed, and looked down at him, hands on hips. "Please don't tell me you're this fucking naive," Sly threw her arms up with disgust when he didn't respond and strode to the window. "Maalik knew we were getting close to hauling his ass in, he knew his operation was going to be busted, then you conveniently fell into his lap, and hey, he's got a fucking two million dollar exit strategy."

"This was all planned?" Cayden said.

Sly's figure was outlined against the sky. She continued looking out. "Must have been an option. He couldn't have organised the kidnapping, or...anything else without planning."

Cayden stood up quickly, groaning with dizziness. "You're telling me, you've allowed him to continue knowing if cornered he might..." Cayden could not bring himself to think it, let alone say what might have happened in Trinidad.

"We had no idea he was capable..."

"He smuggles fucking people," Cayden shouted, "just what the fuck do you think he was not capable of?"

"Don't shout at me," Sly strode back from the window. "If you're fucking head," she prodded his chest with her finger making him wince, "wasn't shoved so far up your own ass, you would have spoken to us earlier..."

"It wouldn't have made any difference," Cayden said swatting her hand away.

"Crap, knowing what he had threatened you with, we would have pulled him in for sure, hours before he had a chance to set the kidnap up."

"Bollocks," Cayden snorted.

"Why do you think mister hot fucking shot, he said, don't talk to the police? He's not stupid, he knew if you thought you had a chance to negotiate your way out, like the fucking business man you are..." Sly said sarcastically, "you would take it, leaving him time to set up the kidnap," Sly shouted, her eyes were slitted, her hair had fallen loose again, her chest was heaving and there was colour on her cheeks. "Don't you dare blame me for what's happened, you son-of-a-bitch."

Cayden opened his mouth, she cocked her head to one side, legs apart, fists at her side. Anger escaped him as quickly as a burst balloon. He sat on the bed holding the tissue to his nose. "Maalik saw me coming..."

"You can bet you're sweet ass he did, with two million fucking dollars in his eyes."

"The boat crash was just a ploy, to give him time..."

"Yeah," Sly's anger vanished too, she slumped on the bed next to him.

"And Trinidad..." there was a tremble in his voice.

"Don't think of Trinidad. We know nothing for sure," Sly said quietly and squeezed his shoulder.

He looked sideways at her. "He wouldn't..."

"No," Sly said quickly. "He has Rachel, there's no reason to do anything else."

"But you're not sure..."

"Of course I'm not," she said irritably. "Here, let me get you another tissue."

She handed him a clean tissue and sat back beside him. "You're not married," Cayden asked dabbing at his nose to check for fresh blood.

Sly looked at the floor. "Used to be."

"Divorced?"

Sly shook her head. "Nothing so ordinary."

"Tell me, it'll keep my mind off things," Cayden said.

"I may not want to Cayden. I'm not one of your damn employees you can just order..."

"Hey, OK," Cayden said getting up, opening the mini bar. "Can I get you something?"

"Coke?"

"You want something to go with it?"

"I'm on duty, remember?"

"You always this hostile on duty?"

"It's why I carry a gun," Sly said accepting the bottle of Coke.

"You don't like me much do you?" Cayden said pouring a Jack Daniels into a glass and adding Coke.

"You're a customer Cayden, liking you has got nothing to do with it."

Cayden drank half the glass, wincing from his throat. "My customer's" he gasped, "are like friends."

"Spending that kind'a money, they would be mine too."

Cayden was silent. "Who am I kidding? I have no fucking friends Sly, just customers, just like you," he gave a lopsided smile, "and I don't even carry a gun."

"Feeling sorry for yourself won't help none," Sly said harshly.

"Give me a break Sly, for Christ sake, OK?"

Sly looked at him through her fringe. She smiled briefly, punched him lightly on the thigh. "Scared is good. You make less stupid mistakes."

"Scared?" Cayden nodded. "That's a new one for me."

"You're lucky," Sly said lying back next to him. "The scariest time of my life, was when my husband worked for the DEA, every night I used to cry myself to sleep thinking of him out there, amongst..." she gestured to the window, "...this." She looked at him, her eyes glistening. "The report said his team was going in on a drug bust. This kid came out of a building, covered in blood. He went out from hiding to help, she was only eleven..." Sly closed her eyes, a tear rolled down her cheek. "When he was half way across the street this other kid stepped out of the shadow, he was fourteen, and emptied an Uzi at him."

Cayden breathed her perfume, it wasn't too sweet anymore. "Sly I'm sorry," he squeezed her hand which was lying next to his.

Sly released his hand and sat up. "Yeah well," she dabbed at her eyes with spare tissue. "Some days it seems we're twenty four hours from anarchy. Our fragile civilization is gossamer thin Cayden, it'll only take another nine eleven or worse and everything will blow apart. There are more Maalik's in this world than good guys to fight them, believe me, we're losing. That's why I'm hostile. We have to play by the rules. They have none."

"I thought I could make a deal," Cayden searched Sly's face for understanding. "That's what I do, I make deals. I thought his threats were just bargaining tools, like I would use the threat of unemployment when I talk to the government for development grants, he used kidnapping in the same way. I never even saw my parents or Rachel," Cayden groaned.

Sly smiled. "You're dedicated to your business. Don't be too hard on yourself. People depend on you, on your dedication, to make sure they keep a house for their family, pay the bills. That's all good stuff, the world needs dedicated people. The trouble is, they can be a little blinkered sometimes."

Cayden stared at the equipment on the table. Green and red LED lights showed the system was hooked up, waiting. "I'm sorry about your husband Sly, and I'm sorry I didn't cooperate with you earlier."

She bit down on her lip. She reached out with a hand and cupped his cheek. "Stay tough Cayden," she smiled, her eyes concerned. "Stay focused, don't get emotional," the corners of her mouth lifted and Cayden leant closer. She put a finger on his lips and her eyes searched his.

Cayden froze and then bowed his head. "Fuck it, what's happening to me? What day is it?" he asked.

"Thursday," Sly said. "Why?"

Cayden shrugged. "I was meant to be flying home today."

Her hand dropped into her lap. "I need you to stay put, contactable."

"Do you think I could get my passport back?" he asked.

Sly was at the mirror making sure her mascara had not run.

"I guess. Gammon will drop the charges, in fact, she hasn't processed anything, she knows what really went on. We were just a little confused for a while at your stubbornness."

What about my bail and the judge?"

"The judge will be told. He won't be happy but we'll throw a line about national security, should keep him quiet."

"I see," Cayden said.

Sly looked at his reflection. Her expression was businesslike. "You can't go anywhere until we've found Rachel."

"I can't sit here..." Cayden got up and looked at his watch. "Another twenty hours. I'll get my bank to transfer five hundred and fifty thousand using my house as collateral, it's already set up in case I needed emergency funding for Tomahawk, and then my accountant can find ways to collect the rest. He'll have the five fifty transferred to First Federal in Miami. Maalik will have to accept that for the time being. It'll be in dollars. In the meantime, I need to go to Trinidad. I don't think Jac should cope with this on his own."

Sly opened the door to the room and beckoned the two agents to come in. "You don't have time Cayden, what happens if Maalik calls and you're not here?"

Cayden had gone to his laptop and clicked the icon for MSN Explorer. He did a search for flights. "Look, American Airlines gets me in this evening at nineteen hundred. I can then catch the first one out at seven and be back by ten thirty, we are on the same time zone and it's only a three and a half hour flight."

"No way! I've told you the trouble they're having in Trinidad. What happens if your flight's delayed? I understand your concern Cayden but no way. Rachel needs you here."

Cayden was silent. She was right. "Well in that case let me come with you after I've set up the money transfer. I need to keep my mind occupied."

Sly regarded him for a moment and then glanced at the two agents. "You guys have my numbers if you need to get hold of me." They nodded. "If the phone goes let the answer service pick up. If it's anyone interesting, you'll be able to get a fix from triangulating the signal. If it's Maalik, transfer it through to my cell and get the units rolling immediately to the traced location."

Cayden called his personal accountant, a trusted friend. To stall any questions he said he was buying property in Key West. He gave Sly's number as a contact, found his sunglasses and joined her in the lobby.

"Don Johnson would be proud of you," Sly said pushing through the revolving main door.

"Who?"

Sly grinned. "Sonny Crockett in the Miami Vice TV series. He was an 80's style icon who did more damage to the DEA's street cred than any government cutbacks. My husband had a harder time dealing with the shit that show produced, than anything the streets could throw at him. Until the end of course," she finished quietly.

Cayden decided it was too hot for the jacket. He threw it on the back seat as he got in. Sly drove to the police building on North Miami Avenue. Gammon was too busy to see them. Sly wanted to check up on the men watching the address the limousine was registered at. They drove for twenty minutes in silence. Cayden wanted to talk but Sly's mind was on other things, their conversation was sporadic. He read the billboards with their confident messages advertising cars and cell phones, makeup and insurance; where was the one on how to deal with kidnappers? He observed the people around him - daily routine - a businessman in a pickup, his fists hitting the steering wheel as he had an argument with someone on the phone.

"What will they do to her?" Cayden said.

Sly glanced over. "Nothing Cayden. She's worth a lot of money to them so they'll make sure she's looked after."

"She must be going out of her mind," Cayden said rubbing his forehead. "What will he do when he finds out I've only got some of the money?"

"We negotiate Cayden, he's expecting it. You should know this better than anyone. You go in with a deal that you know you're going to have to negotiate on, so you build in some extra profit to compensate."

"You've done this before?"

"Yep, I've worked with some of the best and they'll be there tomorrow to help you through it.

"It might take me weeks to raise more," Cayden said.

Sly indicated and started to slow for her exit, pulling in behind a container truck. "You've got to be tough on this Cayden. I'm not saying it's going to go on any longer than tomorrow, but if it does, you've got to hang in there, for Rachel's sake."

They followed the truck down the exit road. Cayden could see the cranes in the distance standing along side the container ships.

"Why can't you tell me where Burt Dick is," Cayden asked.

"You're too unstable."

Sly pulled out from behind the truck and kicked the accelerator. The V8 rumbled under them as the automatic transmission down shifted and they surged past "It's like juggling Cayden. We've got to keep the players unsuspecting until we can catch 'em all. We drop one and we look like assholes."

The Buick swayed and bumped over rail tracks and potholes. They entered a decaying part of the docks, storage sheds with roof panels missing, broken windows or missing doors. One building was a blackened shell; the twisted steel frame testimony to the heat that had raged through it. At the loading dock were two burnt-out trucks. Ahead were several grain silos. The yard was busy with forklifts. It seemed to be the only functioning business in the vicinity. They parked behind a complex of single storey office buildings. Close up things did not appear to be going quite so well for the Knead-It Flour Company. The paint was peeling on the door and window frames, a section of guttering had fallen, and water had created a dark stain over the company's name. They crossed the open parking lot behind trailers. They climbed rusty steel steps up to the cab of a dockside crane. The cab was just big enough for all three of them.

"Anything happening?"

The surveillance man yawned. "Nope," he said eventually, his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, a pair of binoculars hung round his thick neck, covered in acne.

"This is Cayden Callejon. It's his girlfriend Maalik's taken."

The man sat up adjusting his baseball cap so he could see them. He smiled limply but couldn't think of anything suitable to say.

Cayden glanced over his head through the dirty windows of the cab.

Sly looked through his surveillance log and asked a few questions regarding the entries. The man replied in a monotone as he detailed each entry for the refuse truck, a collection of pallets from the far side of the yard, and a delivery from the mail truck.

Cayden could see that Maalik had one of the few remaining brick built buildings in the area. It was a two-storey construction with a series of double steel doors on the lower floor and office accommodation above. The place looked more derelict than anything. Weeds grew up through the gravel in the parking lot, occupied by two abandoned vans on blocks and bits of machinery.

"Schmuk," she said as they climbed down the ladder.

She visited another of Gammon's men, stationed on the conveyor gantry that connected the two silos. He had the best position to see down into the offices through a hole he had made in the side panelling, he confirmed the place had been deserted all day.

Sly called Gammon to ask if there had been any sightings at other known addresses. She could not get through.

They were back in the Buick. "OK I need to go to the office, check e-mails and report to my boss. You want me to drop you at the hotel?"

Cayden could feel the tension in his shoulders and the back of his neck. Every minute that passed, he could feel himself wound tighter. "No I need to know what's going on. There's nothing for me to do at the hotel and I certainly can't talk business with Randy at the moment. Have you heard from Jac?"

"That was my next call."

Sly dialed the number as she put the Buick in gear and drove away from the Knead-It Flour Company. She put the phone on speaker and asked for Marshall Draper. When he eventually came on the line, he told her that he had a call from his partner, Darnel, thirty minutes ago. His flight had been diverted to Tobago because the strike had spread and was now affecting ATC at Trinidad's international airport. He was not sure how long it was going to take to get to Trinidad. All the ferries were over-booked. He had managed to get a call through to the police station in Port of Spain but things were crazy.

"And how is Jac?" Sly asked

"Driving Taylan frigging insane. He's trying to charter a boat to get them across but no one's interested." Draper sounded pissed off and finished the call quickly.

Sly drove, her brow creased with thought.

"Not a lot seems to be going our way," Cayden said.

"Oh that's how it goes most of the time," she sighed giving him a quick smile.

Clouds were piling high in the distance, their cauliflower heads a boiling white mass.

Thirty minutes later Sly parked in a reserved bay outside a smart glass fronted office building on Biscayne Boulevard, opposite the Bicentennial Park. It had been getting darker and suddenly the rain fell with a force that pounded the thin metal roof of the Buick in a deafening roar. Through the sudden greyness, Cayden could see vague human shapes in the park, holding newspapers above their heads or those with foresight; black umbrellas.

"We'll have to make a run for it," Sly said getting out. Cayden snatched his jacket and followed. Sly beeped the alarm and ran for the entrance. Cayden was soaked after the first few yards.

In the lobby, a security officer ordered him to sign in and became irritated with the wet marks. The ink began to run and he quickly blotted the page with a napkin. Sly waited patiently for him to walk through the metal detector, the security officer taking extra care, despite Sly's protestations. He insisted that Cayden take off his sunglasses, whistling softly with sympathy, before continuing his thorough search.

Cayden put his glasses back on.

"I'll get you a white stick," Sly said looking at him as they rode up in the elevator.

Cayden nodded aware his gaze had settled on the wet material of her shirt clinging to her breasts, outlining her nipples. A button had come undone and revealed the laced edge of her bra. It was very feminine - like her perfume.

"Who owns this building?" he said when they left the elevator.

They passed offices with walls of opaque glass and brushed gunmetal frames. Distorted bodies occasionally moved beyond the glass. The ceiling was bare to the black painted concrete floor, revealing pipe-work and ducting for wiring and air-conditioning. Halogens ran on wire tracks spotlighting areas of the floor. Sly lead the way down a corridor walled with glass blocks. There was the constant ring of telephones and the indistinct hum of conversation. The floor was of industrial blue and grey cushioned vinyl and the whole place smelt vaguely of hot circuit boards, although Cayden had trouble smelling anything.

"Welcome to the new world of homeland security," Sly said opening a door and beckoning him through. "Each major city in the U.S. has one of these to coordinate our fight for national security."

Cayden draped his jacket over the back of a tubular framed chair. "Kidnap, is hardly national security, is it?"

"Maalik's an Arab, that's all we needed to get involved," Sly said sitting behind her plain desk and starting her computer. Cayden walked over to a large white board attached to one glass wall. There were pictures of him taken at the docks and he stood for a while working out where the person must have been standing to get the angle. From the crane, he guessed. Min Oo and Maalik had also been photographed. Cayden studied the hated faces. He unpinned a photograph of Rachel taken from the CCTV footage and moved it further away. There were telephone numbers and assignment notes scribbled round the board.

"Why all the glass?" Cayden said returning from the board and waving his hand round the office.

Sly looked up from reading her e-mails. "Reflects the transparent nature of our operation," she grimaced. "Our authority to look into other agencies and select the people and information we need to achieve our objectives." Cayden heard the sarcasm.

The door opened suddenly and a short man came in. He had broad shoulders that made him look square and a young face, with soft black hair with a long fringe. He wore black rimmed glasses with small oval lenses which he took off when he saw Cayden. His eyes were pale blue and piercing. He moved without swinging his arms. "Cayden Callejon I presume," he had a flat, hard voice. He did not smile or offer to shake his hand.

"That's right boss," Sly said.

"You checking out our operation Mr.Callejon?"

"Needed to keep my mind occupied," Cayden said fighting the urge to take off his sunglasses.

"Well I'm sure your satisfied we're doing everything to resolve this matter as quickly as possible. Please make sure you don't get in the way, OK?" he said without expecting a reply as he turned from Cayden and went to stand beside Sly who was still reading her e-mails. "Update," he asked.

Her boss listened as she bullet pointed the latest developments. He stood observing the board while she talked, his head slightly leaning towards her.

"OK this is beginning to go outside what we're here for. I'll allow it for another forty-eight hours. The Brit's will shut down the operation from their end. They don't think it's a terrorist thing, just regular people smuggling. I'm beginning to agree. It's a good test to see how well the Fed's cooperate. If there are any problems, let me know. Put Maalik away by Monday or hand the whole deal over to the local PD to finish off. I need you on bigger things."

He left, giving Cayden a curt nod.

"That's one hard little bastard," Cayden said.

Sly nodded turning back to her monitor. "Has to be. There are a lot of powerful people looking over his shoulder."

"So what happens Monday?"

"We'll have him by Monday Cayden, don't worry."

"And if you don't? The whole thing gets dumped on the local police department along with all their other cases of drink driving and burglary?" Cayden said.

"The Feds and the local police are more than capable of dealing with your average criminal, like Maalik."

Cayden leant his fists on her desk. "Average!"

"My job is finding terrorists Cayden."

Cayden pulled off his glasses and glared at Sly. "He traffics in human beings. He's a slave trader isn't that even worse than terrorism?"

Sly flicked her hair off her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed. "You're going to start this again?" Sly hissed looking at the door. "In case you missed it, my boss isn't happy and I probably have not done my career any good. I'm on a thin line so don't give me any shit, OK?"

Cayden stared at her angry face for a few seconds, annoyed that he found himself admiring how attractive her eyes were. He slumped into the chair whose tubular frame acted like a rocker. "I'm sorry," he said putting his glasses back on.

Sly said nothing but went back to reading her e-mails. "I have an automatic feed from the laptop monitoring your mobile. You've had fifteen calls, none of them from Maalik. If I print this off why don't you call them back. It'll take your mind off things and keep you off my back."

She led him to a small interview room near the elevator. It had a view out over the park. The rain had stopped but the sun had not reappeared. It was evening rush hour and people were walking purposefully along the paths that bisected the grass. It was late back in the UK and the office would have closed hours ago. He didn't feel like talking to anyone.

Sly came back for him an hour later and asked whether he was hungry. He said he needed a beer. As they drove away on Biscayne Boulevard Cayden could see all four glass fronted floors where still lit. "What time do you normally work too?"

"Late," she replied concentrating on the rear view mirror. "Is your seat belt on?"

When he confirmed it was, Sly stamped the accelerator and the automatic dropped a gear and raced forward.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cayden shouted.

Sly braked hard and spun the wheel, turning down an alley beside a Taco Bell. The wheels thumped over the raised curb. Cayden hit his head on the lining as they jumped the drainage gully's that bisected the alley. They charged between rows of low-income houses and Sly controlled the weaving SUV with ease, using the garbage bins and abandoned fridges as markers. The alley's exit was blocked by new construction. Sly drove through the open gate, slewing over dumped mounds of sand. The wheels spat a fusillade of loose stone against the bodywork. The Buick rumbled across the slabs of foundation, missing the trenches and the standing columns of reinforced concrete by inches. She hand-braked the Buick and it slid to a stop behind a mobile office. She pulled her gun from the glove box. "Stay there!" She ran to the corner of the cabin. A twelve-foot high boarding protected the sidewalk from the construction. Cayden could see the flash of headlights through the gaps in the boards. Suddenly their side of the boarding was illuminated. It traversed towards them, Cayden ducked down, Sly shouted a warning, and the lights went out. Cautiously he looked back through the gap in the headrests. Sly had forced the driver to lie on the ground, hands behind his back, legs apart.

After a minute, she helped him up. Cayden opened his door and slowly got out of the Buick.

"What's going on?" he called.

Sly motioned for him to stay where he was.

"What the hell was that all about?" Cayden demanded after their pursuer had calmly left.

"You still want that beer?" Sly said.

Suddenly there was urgent banging on the roof.

"What the...." Sly said looking out her window.

A black man stood by the window hurriedly doing up his trousers. Sly pressed the switch for the window and held up her badge. "You the security round here?" she asked pleasantly.

"Yes I am," the man said straightening his jacket.

"Ahuh," Sly said putting the Buick in drive. "Zip up your pants and lock that gate behind us."

"Who the hell was he?" Cayden asked.

"Security."

"Yeah I figured that one."

Sly grinned. "We were tailed from the docks earlier, same guy pulled out behind us, I thought we should find out who he was, sorry if I scared you."

"Couldn't you have just pulled over?"

"Where's the fun in that," her grin widened. "He's a young punk reporter for the Miami Herald, really keen to follow every move Homeland Security makes. He was trying to link the boat crash story with rumours he's heard about a kidnapping. Someone's been talking because what he said was pretty accurate. He knows all about you."

"Randy's not going to like that."

"You're OK for the moment, Homeland Security has power to silence the media with threats of national security. It shuts them up for a while anyway."

"You still could've just pulled over."

Sly rolled her shoulders. "Nah, the adrenaline gets rid of tension."

Cayden was silent as they drove across a causeway to Miami Beach.

"What do you do to relieve tension Cayden?"

Over the black-water, a cruise ship, decks awash with lights like a piece of Miami had broken away from the mainland, was moving out to sea. "I normally shout at somebody," Cayden said.

"I think my way's better," Sly said lightly. "You ever been to Ocean Drive?"

"Nope, unless it's the one Maalik showed me."

Sly laughed.

Cayden enjoyed the sound but was troubled deciding whether it was appropriate. He reasoned, this was just a job to her; Rachel's kidnap another problem to solve, but he would have liked a little more understanding, he felt they were connecting and his sub-conscious wanted a more personal reaction to his problems, rather than being treated like a business colleague, one who had to be entertained until the deal was done.

Cayden studied the art deco buildings that now lined the streets, many of them lit with coloured flood lights, highlighting the distinctive architecture. The restaurants and bars were full of young, vibrant people. Men in Trans Am's, Mustang's and chrome covered pick-up trucks, drove slowly along Ocean Drive, music booming from systems that cost more than the vehicle, whistling and calling at groups of girls, who pretended to ignore them as they cruised the sidewalk, skirts revealing a flash of white underwear with every step. Between them all, dodged bohemian beach bums on roller blades or mountain bikes. On the fringe, the white sand of the beach and the floodlit palm trees with the black ocean beyond speckled with ships lights. The boundary of beach receded behind Lummus Park and Sly turned down 9th Avenue, parking in a lot next to the Art Deco Welcome centre.

"You like Mexican?"

"Don't care, as long as it's dark," Cayden said looking at his face briefly in the visor mirror. He looked like of a disheveled badger. He snapped the visor shut irritably.

The restaurant facia was mock Hacienda, with plastic cacti either side of the door. A dimly lit interior furnished by crescent shaped booths with yellow cacti lamps on the tables.

"The décor's lame, but I've an apartment out back and my neighbour's the chef here. He cooks the best Mexican food," Sly said. She chose a booth by the window, framed by pulsing cactus lights. The owner, a skinny, round-shouldered man, chatted with Sly while a _Barbie-Doll_ blonde waitress bought two bottles of Mexican Beer, a slice of lime in each neck, a bowl of Tortilla's and another of salsa. The chef came through from the kitchen, saw Sly and threw up his hands. He ran forward, knocking the owner aside with a playful sway of his hips, and hugged her dramatically. He was the same height as Sly, wavy black hair that continued in a pencil line along his jaw and around his mouth. Cayden pushed the lime into his bottle and took a few welcome mouthfuls.

"And who _is_ this?" he moved Sly away, folding his arms.

"A friend...colleague," Sly said smiling quickly, "Cayden this is Jose."

Jose held out his hand, palm down. "Welcome Cayden," His eyes narrowed, "she been given you a hard time?"

Cayden shook his limp hand. "Yeah, but she's not responsible for this," Cayden said pointing the bottle at his face.

"I've got some great stuff for bruises. Come round later, she knows where I live."

"Thanks Jose, but right now we're just looking for some food," Sly ordered without the menu, a starter quesadilla and the Chicken with Chorizo Burrito specials.

Jose bowed, winked at Cayden and then left, clicking his fingers at the server and imperiously ordering two more bottles of Corona for their table.

"Hmm, you gotta try this salsa, to die for," Sly said scooping a mouthful on a Tortilla.

Cayden emptied his beer as the server arrived with another.

"How long have you lived here," he asked looking through the frame of cactus lights at the passing people.

"Six years. Since my husband died. I'm a bit old for the scene but I needed a change from the suburban life. Those neighborhoods are fine if you have a family but jeez, do you feel strange if you're on your own."

Cayden still watched the people. "You lived in Florida all your life?"

Sly snapped a chip and plunged it into the salsa. "Ahuh, pretty much, spent some time in New York but it was too damn cold."

"How long were you married?" he said, finally looking at her.

Sly smiled and sat back in the booth, beer in one hand. She took a mouthful and wiped her lips with a tissue. "OK, pocket history of Sly Williams. Born '69 near Orlando, parents divorced, Dad, who I haven't seen in three years, lives in Pittsburg with new wife, still in the banking game. Mum, died four years ago from cancer, went to High school in Dade County, did not have a real idea of what I wanted to do, went to work at the airport, drifted into becoming a customs officer, then went into Immigration and Naturalization Service, met my husband coming through passport control, love at first sight you might say, got married, moved to a house in the suburbs when he transferred down here from South Carolina, became an investigator for the INS then, when he...," Sly took a mouthful from the bottle, "I wanted to start catching the real bad guys, so had a stint with the Coastguard, and finally this."

Cayden finished his second bottle. "Children?"

Sly sat forward, helping herself to another chip. "Nope, no children Cayden. Came close once."

Cayden signaled for another two beers.

"How about you?" Sly rested her elbows on the table.

"A pocket history huh, well let's see... born the same decade as you, just the other end, grandparents on my father's side, were from Spain - Madrid, my grandfather fought the civil war and then was in the RAF during the Second World War, a real hero, an ace apparently," Cayden nodded, "wish I'd met him, anyway, he settled in England and my father became an architect, then a failed developer, then a mediocre estate agent and then an architect again...." Cayden stopped. He looked at the back of his hands. "I think his father was such a larger than life character, my Dad didn't have a chance to blossom you might say, anyway, he's a family man, loves my mother...Jac, his kids..."

"You?" Sly said.

"I hope so, although according to Jac I've been a little remiss in my 'son-ly' duties."

Sly was silent. The server bought the quesadilla and he took a triangle, taking time to chew the soft tortilla and cheese filling. "Never been married and have no children, no time I guess, although Rachel..."he stopped and shrugged helplessly.

"Perhaps this isn't a good idea," Sly said quickly.

Cayden picked up another section of quesadilla. His body told him he was hungry but he had no interest. He finished chewing. "You see, my whole life has been Tomahawks. I never wanted, or cared about anything else. You've met my brother, you know what he thinks," Cayden squashed crumbs on his empty plate. "Coming over, Jac gave me a hard time that I hadn't spoken to my parents for a while and how it upset them. Now... they may be gone forever," he put his finger in his mouth, "Rachel prepared this meal for our anniversary... which I forgot about." Cayden sucked his finger. "We didn't speak to each other before I left and now God knows what hell she is going through..." Cayden looked out the window. "The scary thing is Sly, I'm not sure I care as much as I should. I feel self-pity more then sadness. Have I become so..." he looked back at Sly who was studying him intently. "So ugly," he said quietly.

She reached across the table and held his hand. "We've different ways of dealing with shit. People said I didn't care because I threw myself into work and pretended everything was normal. Inside I was screaming, I still wake up crying."

Cayden squeezed her fingers.

"Don't go there," she said. "We'll get Rachel back, you don't know if it's your parents in Trinidad. Stay positive, be strong...like your grandfather."

"Huh, yeah, he would have rescued Rachel already," Cayden said wistfully. "What if I never feel the way Jac does for other people? What does that make me?"

"Different," Sly said tightly. "Should we be talking about this? I don't know. Just...sometimes it takes bad ass things to happen before we realise how much we love someone and by then it's too late... sometimes," Sly added quickly. "You'll be able to tell Rachel, when we get her back safely."

I don't..."

Sly shook her head quickly. "Don't go there, not with me anyway," she looked up as the server arrived with the Burritos. "Let's eat," she cried. "I guarantee this will be the best you've ever had."

It was nearly midnight when they left the restaurant. Cayden missed his footing on the curb and leant heavily against a parked car for support.

"Hey, what the hell you doin?" the owner shouted from inside.

Sly pulled him back onto the sidewalk. "Easy boy, I don't think your face can take anymore trouble. I'm going to drive you back to the hotel."

They drove silently through the nightlife of Miami Beach and across the causeway to the sober, quieter city.

"You're a beautiful woman," Cayden said in the lift. He was leaning against the side and was having trouble focusing with his good eye.

"Thank you Cayden," Sly said watching the numbers of each floor on the display above the door.

"I can't believe that you haven't got a boyfriend?"

"Maybe I have."

The elevator jolted to a stop and the doors opened. Cayden tripped over the gap between the elevator and the hallway and Sly grabbed his arm to stop him stumbling. He breathed her familiar perfume. "Do you love him?" he said.

"None of your business," Sly said, half dragging him down the corridor.

"Under different _circumstances_ , would I have a chance...?"

Sly frowned. "You're drunk and my boyfriend's need to be local. You don't even have a Green Card."

Sly found his hotel key card and ran it through the door strip. The red light stayed on. "These things," she said leaning Cayden against the wall. He suddenly looped his hands round her neck and bent down, pressing his lips to hers. Sly's eyes widened with shock and her lips stayed pressed against his. She mumbled for him to stop but Cayden mistook the movement as encouragement and his tongue flicked between her lips. Sly pushed hard against him. He stumbled, lost his balance and sat heavily. She put her hands on her hips, glaring down at him. "Cayden, keep things under control," she swiped the card. The green light appeared and she pressed down on the handle. She checked the room, the equipment blinked, on divert to an operator back at HQ. Sly steered Cayden to his bed. She checked there were no messages.

"You going to puke," Sly said dubiously, pushing a hand through her hair and staring down at the battered face. "I'll be back at six-thirty, the agents will be here too."

Cayden rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest. "Make an appointment with my secretary," he said into his pillow.

Chapter 17

The property boom had spread Miami's suburbs, like creeping concrete fungus, into the Everglades. Acres of swamp drained and bulldozed. Shopping malls, gas stations, McDonalds', Burger Kings' and Dunkin Donut outlets filled the strips between the over-crowded building plots. Little imagination had been put into the design. Such was the desire for housing the architects had no concern for aesthetics. Some of the houses had been likened to temporary shelter you might see at refugee camps. The more luxurious were single level, wood framed, ranch style houses. All had a short driveway to a double garage, with the house in an L-shape beside it, painted white although some owners had paid extra for pale yellow or blue. Low-pitched roofs, of terracotta tile or red shingle. Many had been bought by foreign investors for a fast profit. Bought and never seen. One in particular, had been empty since completion, owned by a divorcing couple in Germany, unnoticed and neglected in a neighbourhood of transient families with parents on short-term contracts or renting.

The German's house, at the end of a cul-de-sac, occupied an above average size plot. At the rear, a high bank, protecting the house from the defiant Everglades that dominated the flat landscape to the horizon. The side boundaries were fast growing pampas and bamboo. The rest of the area, a weed-strewn patch of mud with a rectangular pool in the centre. A plastic cover had not stopped rain and debris from collecting in a green stagnant pond, or the sides scarring with muddy water, or the blue mosaics vanishing beneath algae.

The cover cracked and rustled above Rachel, the cooler night breeze, dispensing some of the day's humidity.

But, that was not the noise that kept all her senses alert.

She was listening for the clink of chain, the scratch of claws, the hiss of frustration. She could smell the rotten flesh that filled the gaps between its wicked teeth, she could feel its mean, yellow eyes staring at her through the dark, just as they had done since she awoke in the bottom of the filthy pool.

Her piece of prison consisted of a metal cot on a narrow strip of cement in the deep-end, beside the stagnant puddle under the diving board. A chain, secured to the diving board, led to her handcuffs. She had plenty of slack in the chain to walk the length of the pool but her cellmate prevented it. It too, was tied to a chain, but much thicker and secured by heavy-duty padlocks to the handrail. Two prisoners, one warm blooded, one cold. In the heat of the day, the fifteen-foot alligator had squatted on its stomach, mouth open to ventilate, eyes unblinking.

Rachel hugged her knees to her chest, searching the blackness. She shivered violently, remembering when she had regained consciousness, the feeling like mallets pounding her temples, her vision gradually focusing on the beast. Her screams – her throat still felt raw - the alligator snaking down the slope, its scaly body scratching over the surface. The chain had uncoiled, snapping taught a few feet before the rounded snout reached the green water. Her screams had bought the chauffer. He had clambered down the ladder near the diving board. He had a roll of _duck tape_ in one hand. Rachel had begged. He had just smiled, sticking the tape over her mouth. The alligator all the time had writhed and twisted on its chain, its thick tail thudding like a wet blanket against the sides.

Another figure had appeared at the lip of the pool. Tall, slim, dark stubble, a Semitic nose, eyes black and malevolent. He had watched the chauffer press the duck tape in place. He had warned her to be quiet. His voice was low and patient, like a parent trying to control their temper. He had explained her predicament was a result of Cayden's refusal to obey. If he failed to now do as he asked, he had shown her what would happen. The chauffer had stripped Rachel to her underwear, throwing her clothes to the alligator. One shoe was swallowed, the rest it ripped and thrashed against the pool in fury.

Rachel had felt a warm, embarrassing stream down her thigh. Her legs were shaking so badly that she had collapsed on the bunk and there she stayed as the two men put back the cover, leaving her in the sweltering blue-lit humidity, with the satanic creature.

The chauffer had come back at sunset with a bottle of water and a sandwich. He had to take the tape off to let her drink and Rachel had pleaded with him again. He had just leered at her body while he held the bottle to her lips.

Now, another clink from the other side of the stagnant water. Rachel pressed her knees to her chest, terrified that the alligator might somehow pull its neck through the chain. She could smell her unwashed body and guessed it could as well.

Rachel whispered the Lord's Prayer and promised that if she survived, she would say it every day for the rest of her life.

It was worse when the chain was silent. In the darkness, her mind imagined the creature slipping into the water, silently drifting across to her. She tried to think of something else. Her naivety with Burt Dick. The coincidence of him being at Barbara's at that time of night now seemed laughable. She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had been blinded with thoughts that Cayden was in trouble. She was angry with him but it was tempered with concern at what he must be suffering. What had they done to him?

There was a sudden splash. Rachel screamed. She curled herself tighter, her breathing suspended, her spine tingling with anticipation, tensing for the smell of the rotten flesh and the feeling of those yellow teeth sinking into her. There was a croak, and then another. Rachel began to cry, huge sobs wracked her until she could hardly breathe.

Chapter 18

LBW pressed the ice pack to the side of his face as he studied a road map. Marie was sitting opposite, a tall glass of fresh fruit punch in her hand. She glanced at the wall clock. Four in the afternoon. The day remained overcast and sultry. Storms threatened and she wished they would come and clear the air. Marie had not slept, tortured by images of the old couple.

She had looked through her diary for the day they had visited the office. She had not written down their names or what property details she had given. She remembered being preoccupied with the next day's visit to her brother in Port of Spain. The following day she had scribbled _Cornelius 1pm, move into villa 7_. She felt responsible. She agonised over how the police had found keys on the old man's body.

LBW could say nothing to make her feel better. He was suffering as much. All day he had been nursing the aches inflicted by Gittens. The lack of electricity didn't help. Without air-conditioning, the humidity pressed down on their already dark thoughts. The strike in Port of Spain was getting worse according to the news on the battery-powered radio. LBW loved his Stag beer but not enough to bring the whole island to a standstill. The unrest was being fanned by Taylor, the militant union boss of the UTWU, (Utility and Transport Workers Union). LBW had been on the team investigating allegations about Taylor's intimidation practices. Taylor, according to news reports, was demanding all workers unite for an honest day's pay. His members had been called out in support of the Stag Brewery workers. The electricity had been going off indiscriminately ever since.

LBW again traced the road out of Blanchisseuse. The strike had been fortuitous in closing the airport and making travel around the island arduous. There were more police patrolling the roads for looters. There had been numerous accidents because of failed traffic signals. Gittens only chance of leaving Trinidad was by private boat or the ferry to Tobago or Venezuela, but they were under surveillance. He had no passport. He was suffering a broken collarbone. The hospitals would require ID and form filling. Gittens would either have to suffer until he got to another country, or, use one of the illegal back street doctors. The back alley butchers were a useful resource to the police. A few with better qualifications were tacitly tolerated. LBW called the ones he knew and could be relied on to let him know if anyone came in with a broken shoulder.

The only private boats capable of making a journey to Tobago or Venezuela were based at his brother's marina, Chaguaramas. His brother had grudgingly agreed to keep a lookout. The Texan from the last charter was threatening to sue.

"Why don't you rest?" Marie said passing him his glass of juice.

"I've been resting for too long Marie," LBW said, absently tracing his finger along the road from Blanchisseuse to Port of Spain. The few villages along the route were too small for Gittens to hide unnoticed. The countryside was mountainous with no track big enough for the Toyota. The truck should have been discovered by now. LBW could discount the Eastern Main Road. Captain Clay had traveled out of Port of Spain using that road and would certainly have seen the truck. The North Coast Road terminated in Blanchisseuse. If Gittens had tried to get to Port of Spain using that, he would have gone via Filette, Las Cueva and Maracas Bay Village. That was as far as he could have got before roadblocks had been established. LBW wished he knew how the investigation was going but the local police had been warned not to talk to him. He couldn't even ask to borrow Marie's car he thought, with another pang of guilt

His cell rang.

"He's here."

LBW pressed the phone hard against his ear. Chaguaramas...already? "Tell me," he commanded.

"Bout ten minutes pass, I was carrying me'bait boxes and I sees these two getting on old Buster's boat."

"Gittens?"

"Ahuh," Lee sighed. "Body like octopus, wide hat and Buster had to help him on, reason his arm bandaged an' all."

"The boat left?"

"Ahuh, see it leaving now."

LBW massaged his forehead. "Lee, I need a big favour. Can you follow Buster's boat?"

There was a long silence.

"Just until you know the direction they're heading."

"It's suspicious, no radar, means I'm goin' to be in sight, it'll be dark in two hours and a storm's coming."

"Please," LBW said standing up. "Please do this."

Silence.

"You won't have to go far. You'll be able to tell as soon as they get to Dragon's Mouth whether it's Tobago or Venezuela. If it gets dangerous, turn back immediately," LBW said.

"You owe me," Lee growled. "I lose another charter, you paying for this boat all next month."

LBW clenched his fist. "Thank you Lee."

The line went dead just as the outer door to Marie's office banged open. LBW jumped.

"Wind's getting up," his weary looking Captain said, sitting in one of the chairs uninvited and eyeing the pitcher of punch. "Storm's coming."

"Can I get you a drink?" Marie said.

"Ahuh," he said, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.

"What a pleasant surprise," LBW said neutrally. His mind visualising his brother, starting engines, casting off, moving out through the anchored yachts.

Captain Clay yawned as he accepted the glass from Marie. "Winston, thanks to you, I've been goin' since two this morning, the Paper's are chomping my butt for a story, the Commissioner's kicking it. They're saying the police are out of control, government talking 'bout fucking areas of emergency, pardon my language," he said holding out his glass for a refill. "That lazy Tourist Minister," Captain Clay took several deep gulps, "threatening the police with civil incompetence proceedings, whatever the fuck that is, excuse me...these murders," he waved his glass towards the door, "I'm going to be eaten alive."

He finished, raised his glass to LBW with a sarcastic salute. He smacked it hard on the table. "Excuse me," he smiled briefly at Marie. "Now that trouble maker Taylor's strike, rioting in Port of Spain, the place is going to hell Winston, I have to get back with most of the men. Which means I'm going to need every able bodied man I have. Regrettably, that includes you Winston." He searched his jacket pockets, pulled out an object and tossed it on the table. LBW looked down at his badge.

"We found the truck smashed up in a ravine near Maracas Bay Village about an hour ago. It wasn't an accident."

LBW raised his eyebrows.

"No blood and there sure would have been if anyone had been inside. So, we have to assume Gittens is trying to get back to Port of Spain. We'll tighten surveillance that end but I want you to cover things here. Search Maracas Bay, ask some questions. Someone saw something. Find out. Use the resources here."

LBW exchanged glances with Marie. "OK," he said. "Any idea who the two victims were?"

"No," he said irritably. "Computer keeps crashing, so we haven't been able to get the prints identified. No passports or flight tickets, not even the damn hire car they were using. Nothing! Immigration provided a list of people arriving over the last week. Two thousand five hundred! We will get to the hotels to see whose missing, but it's taking time."

"How were they murdered?" Marie asked quietly.

The Captain stood up shaking his head. "Almost certain a tyre iron found in the back of the Toyota"

The Captain walked to the door, taking off his glasses. He polished the lenses on the end of his silk tie, which he still managed to wear, tight up against his neck and top-buttoned shirt. "I'll let you know if I hear anything Winston, screw this up, believe me, you're finished."

He left banging the door closed and walked down the wooden steps to his car. A uniformed driver was sitting behind the wheel. The car leapt forward spewing dust from its rear tyres. The siren wailed and whooped at anyone who threatened to impede its acceleration up the main street.

They listened to the sound fade. "A small man in big shoes," Marie said.

LBW nodded calculating how far Lee had traveled. His boat could do twenty-five knots. He doubted whether Buster's could. He remembered Buster. A retired Californian with long white hair and a deeply lined, suntanned face. Everyone was 'dude'. His boat was a sea worthy forty-footer, with a large open stern deck designed for dive teams. He guessed it had a top speed of fifteen knots, so he calculated they could still be passing the islands that lay off Chaguaramas, making the Dragons Mouth channel between Venezuela and Trinidad so hazardous to navigate. LBW was surprised Buster was helping Gittens but then reasoned he was probably unaware whom his guest really was.

Marie started massaging his head, her fingers tracing over the bumps and ridges.

LBW jumped up suddenly. "Damn, idiot, I haven't given him a number to call."

Marie stood back, hands on hips. "He obviously has your cell phone sugar."

LBW looked up at the ceiling fan, wishing the blades were turning to cool the sweat on his head. "I don't think they can transfer VHF calls to a cell phone."

"Calm down Lancelot, you'll catch him," she said resuming her massage.

Suddenly there was a gust of wind, which whined through the gaps in the window frame. The door rattled and the first few drops of rain spattered against the glass. LBW got up and went to the front window. Leaves waltzed with plastic bags and newspaper up Main Street, swirling under vehicles and clinging to people's legs, bodies bent forward, hands in front of their eyes. Shutters pulled closed on the houses opposite. He could hear the clatter of palm fronds. He looked at the heavy clouds racing in from the sea. A squall suddenly obscured his vision. Back in the room, Marie was lighting candles. A few minutes later, the rain came with a thunderous roar on the tin roof that forced them to shout. Main Street instantly transformed into a dirty river, a thick soup of rubbish. Marie jumped with a frightened cry, from a sudden crash of thunder. LBW wrapped his arms around her, squeezing and pressing his face into her neck, smelling jasmine perfume. He had a flash image of Beth, her perfume had been overpowering, clogging his nostrils like dust. Another roll of thunder and the image was gone and he knew he would never be with his wife again. Marie put her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers, her tongue eager, her body pressing against him. For long minutes he lost himself in the sensation of her hands massaging and stroking him while her lips kissed his face, her tongue sent shivers of anticipation through him. They attempted to take the first step while still in each other's arms, but as LBW's weight creaked on the wood, he had a stark image of the battered couple.

LBW gently pulled out of her arms. The storm was now in full force. Rain thundered on the roof, the wind howled, making the candle light flicker in demonic, dancing shadows across the walls. He told Marie that he had to get up to the police station. He could not wait for Lee to call. He had to try to get him on the VHF, make sure he was OK.

Marie nodded. "You want me to come?"

LBW kissed her hard. "No, stay here and keep dry. _I'll be back_ ," he said trying to impersonate Schwarzenegger.

LBW borrowed Marie's umbrella, which he battled to keep in his hands. In the end he gave up. The rain soaked his light cotton trousers and shirt and the running water covered his shoes. The temperature had fallen and he arrived at the police building, shivering.

The station had its own generator. The local Sergeant was about to protest until LBW showed his re-acquired badge. The Sergeant still looked doubtful. He had nothing new to tell LBW and with the storm, all his officers had returned to the station. LBW could see them through the glass petition playing cards.

"Have the bodies been moved?" LBW said.

"Ahuh, d'morgue just now, waiting to go to Port of Spain."

LBW nodded. "Sergeant, I'm guessing Captain Clay left orders for you to be out looking for Gittens."

His young, acne scarred face looked over LBW with a hint of contempt in the bloodshot eyes. "He's not going anywhere."

"What if I told you I think he is?"

The Sergeant shrugged. "I guess you'd know, losing him twice..."

LBW moved surprisingly quickly and the Sergeant was shocked when he suddenly found his uniformed shirt twisted in the man's strong hands. His face began to get darker as he struggled to breath.

"Listen boy," LBW twisted the shirt. "I was putting shit like Gittens away before you could wipe your own ass." LBW released him and smiled suddenly. "Third time lucky Sergeant. Do you believe in that?"

The Sergeant nodded vigorously.

LBW grunted with satisfaction and pushed him back into his seat. The Sergeant slumped in his chair, his chest heaving.

"You got a radio here? A VHF?" LBW said.

The Sergeant pointed upstairs "Second door on right...sir" he wheezed.

"You mind if I use it?"

The Sergeant shook his head as vigorously. LBW smiled. He could feel his old self returning. He found the radio room. He knew Lee kept a listening watch on the emergency channel and thought that Buster probably did as well, but he would have to take that risk. He picked up the microphone and pushed the transmit button. Lee's boat, called the _Marlee_ in homage, in Lee's opinion, to the greatest Reggae singer that ever lived. He repeated the call four times over ten minutes before he heard a reply.

"... this is _Marlee_ , what'y'want now brother?"

"I need a ride," LBW said, thinking of Gittens possibly listening.

Come on Lee, LBW held the microphone to his forehead. It was the only way he could stay in the chase. The rain beat against the small window, the wind sang through aerials on the flat roof above. It was dark outside and a fly beat itself against the glass, buzzing against its reflection. LBW drummed his fingers on the table.

"Y'still there", Lee's voice crackled.

" _Marlee_ , I was worried. You get my last transmission?"

" _Marlee_ been beaten to hell, you should be worried brother."

The signal was clear which must mean Lee had rounded Chaparu Point and was closer to Blanchisseuse. Gittens was heading for Tobago.

For five minutes, he tried to cajole his brother into coming to pick him up.

The fly had stopped beating itself senseless against the glass and now walked up and down his reflection. When it reached the tip of his nose LBW pressed the transmit button.

"Lee, remember when you were struggling to save up for the _Marlee_ , you were doing some special charters for those men in Venezuela?"

LBW watched the fly crawl down the glass to the top of his lip. Desperation had made him go back on his word. He had promised Lee never to discuss that time.

A long silence. LBW imagined his younger brother, coaxing his beloved _Marlee_ through the storm, cursing him. Eventually his voice came back, bitter. "Twenty minutes. Be ready."

LBW dropped the handset on the table and stood. He looked at his full reflection, the fly fidgeted in a web strung across the corner of the window frame. His shirt still clung to him, accentuating rolls of stomach hanging over his belt. He nodded with determination. A spider bolted out from behind the VHF, felt its silken lines cautiously with long front legs, and then crept out to the struggling body rushing the final centimeters. The fly never moved again.

The Sergeant had not moved either and LBW could tell by his vacant glaze that he had been napping. He was fully awake within seconds as LBW rested his fists on the edge of the desk.

"Sergeant I've got information on where Gittens is heading. You want to start doing your job, or spend the rest of your life sleeping under a tree?"

The Sergeant scooted forward on his chair, self consciously holding the collar of his shirt.

"Gittens is heading for Tobago. Get a call through to Detective Inspector Diablo in Scarborough, tell him Gittens is on a dive boat called _Dive On Me_ , should be there in about five hours." LBW helped himself to the Sergeant's police belt looped over the back of the chair in front of the desk. It had a riot stick, torch, radio, handcuffs and a spare clip for his service issued, Walther PPK. "Where's your piece?" LBW asked.

The younger man scowled. LBW had seen it many times. They were recruiting young men like the Sergeant from towns and suburbs, where gun crime and drugs was all they knew. Many joined the police, just to carry a gun legally, back on the streets they had been bought up on, promoting the drug trade - in a police uniform.

LBW thumped the desk, the Sergeant jumped and quickly pulled open the top draw. He handed over his pistol, and LBW checked the clip was full and the chamber empty. He pushed it into the holster and slung it over his shoulder. "Make those calls Sergeant, and monitor that radio all night, in case I can think of some other police work for you to do. Also, get going on retrieving Gittens vehicle and put some patrols out on the streets. It's dark, and there could be some people about thinking they might take advantage."

LBW walked quickly down Main Street, covering his head with a coat he had commandeered from a hook by the front door. He had a powerful urge to run, something he hadn't done in years. He wasn't sure his heart would take it and he certainly did not want to feel the fat bouncing and tagging against his frame. He vowed he would start dieting, although Marie did not seem to mind. She was waiting for him when he burst through the door. He told her about developments while he went upstairs to retrieve the waterproof bag, pulling off his wet clothes and putting on a pair of tropical coloured swimming shorts, a long sleeve t-shirt and flip-flops, that Marie had found. He didn't ask who had worn them before. He put the gun and police belt together with a spare set of dry clothes into the bag.

"You be careful Lancelot," Marie had to shout above the noise of the rain when he opened the door to leave. "There's a lot we haven't talked about and I'm not the kind of woman who likes to leave things unfinished." She kissed him. "You know what I mean?"

LBW nodded. "I'll come back Marie. If you're feeling lonely, go up to the police station when the rain's stopped. Get the Sergeant to take you up to the radio room and call me. Also I've told him to send out patrols, if you don't see any, let me know."

"OK Sugar. You just make sure you get this Gittens and come home to me."

LBW smiled and bent to kiss her. She pushed him away. "Get going. You can have plenty of that when you come back."

LBW grinned and walked off the decking and into the rain. It pummeled the hood of his police jacket and his bare legs were covered in mud after a few steps. When he looked back Marie's house had already disappeared, he could not even see the flicker of candle light.

He reached the top of the beach. The sea tumbled out of the night. White surf rolled up the sand, reflected from the hurricane lamp at Fred's restaurant. Above came the frenzied rattle of palm fronds. He kicked off his flip-flops and stuffed them into the jacket pockets. He was surprised to see a number of men at Fred's, faces hidden in the flickering shadows. The rain on the corrugated roof sounded like a frenzied carnival band. The packing case tables and church benches were being pressure washed clean. LBW searched for boat lights. He glanced at his divers watch and saw that his twenty minutes were up. Lee should be off the beach.

He went up to the bar. "I'm a policeman," LBW shouted holding up his badge. "You might have heard about what happened at the villa?" he pointed down the beach and several of the faces nodded. "I need to get out to a boat that's coming to pick me up."

No one nodded.

"Do any of you own a boat," he shouted again. "I'll pay, look," he took out his wallet and held up one hundred dollars.

"Only a fool go out in this weather Mr. Policeman."

LBW turned saw a man sitting against the sidewall. When he went over, he recognised the fisherman he had seen when he had waded out of the water.

"Will you take me out?"

His eyes remained doubtful. "Same boat pickin' you up?"

LBW nodded laying the money on the table in front of him. "It's my brother's boat, The _Marlee_."

The fisherman thought for a while and then scooped up the money. "Brother's good fisherman. Helped me once." He stood slowly, handed the money to the barman and limped out into the rain. LBW snatched up his bag and followed. The fisherman's boat was a Pirogue, an open decked, pointed bow, fiberglass boat. It was on rollers near the palm trees, presenting a twenty metre haul to the water. An outboard was clamped to the transom, protected in blue plastic.

LBW threw his bag into the Pirogue. Rainwater gushed from drainage holes in the rear, plugged with bungs once at sea. LBW looked back towards the bar. They watched, faces obscured by the silvery veil of water falling from the roof.

"Y'like standin' in the rain Mr. Policeman?" the fisherman said from the other side of the Pirogue. The hurricane lamp reflected the water streaming down his black face.

"What's your name," LBW said gripping the gunwale.

"Kester da Silva," he said straining to move the Pirogue. LBW added his strength, the boat started to move on its plastic rollers. Each time one came clear, Kester would retrieve it and run forward to put under the bow. Once moving, helped by the gentle gradient, the Pirogue moved quickly. Soon, the rumble of surf hid the sound of rain. All the way down to where the foam hissed up the hard wet sand, LBW searched the black water for any sign of light.

The Pirogue slapped the first wave and floated free from the clinging sand. The undertow sucked the hull out into the next wave which broke over the bow, soaking them. Kester clambered aboard. Quickly stowed his rollers and pulled the plastic cover off the outboard. LBW continued to pull the Pirogue into deeper water, he was only thigh deep but the waves constantly broke over his head. Kester shouted for him to get aboard and at the same time, LBW heard the growl of the outboard. LBW heaved himself up and over the gunwale, the boat heeled dangerously. He slithered in just as the next wave crashed over them. He lay in the bottom of the Pirogue, breathing heavily, concerned with the amount of water they had taken on. Kester gunned the engine and they plunged through breaking surf. LBW sat up and strained to see through the stinging spray. Sheets of cold seawater rapidly filled the boat. Every time they past over a wave the propeller would break free with a scream.

"Are we sinking?" LBW yelled using his hands to bail out water that was now up to his seat. He could not see Kester in the stern, there was no reply. For a panicky moment he thought he might have fallen overboard but then saw the white of his teeth, grinning. They got through the surf and into deeper water where the waves calmed to just their heads breaking in quick rushes of white water. They plunged and reared over the swell, the high bow of the Pirogue flinging stinging bits of spray back into their faces. The automatic bailers started to suck out the water to a level around his feet. LBW, with more confidence, searched the blackness. He was not a good swimmer and was anxious to get on his brother's Bertram with its warm, dry cabin.

Kester suddenly turned the Pirogue ninety degrees and headed along the coast. The waves were now on the beam and they rolled dangerously. LBW was about to ask what he was doing, when he spotted the light ahead. Kester had seen _Marlee_.

LBW looked towards the shore. He would not have known land was anywhere near if he hadn't just pushed the Pirogue out through the surf. Surrounded by blackness. He was concerned about how Kester was going to get back to shore.

Lee, driving _Marlee_ from the open fly bridge, operated a spotlight while keeping his boat safely away from the breaking surf. He spotted the bow wave from the Pirogue and swiveled the beam onto them.

LBW shielded his eyes. He glanced back. Kester was poised in the stern, his hand rested on the outboard throttle, his unprotected head streaming with water. Kester turned into wind, ferry-gliding in to the lea of the Bertram. As they drew nearer, LBW realised the enormity of what he was facing. He wasn't the most agile of men, yet he was attempting to jump from one vessel to another, while they swooped up and down waves like roller coasters on parallel tracks; _Marlee_ on a crest, the little Pirogue in a trough, darkness exaggerating distances, disorientating as they rushed up to meet one another, passing quickly to find they were now looking down at Lee sitting behind the wheel on the fly bridge.

Kester expertly closed the gap until the boats occupied the same wave, rising and falling in unison. LBW threw his bag onto _Marlee_. Lee had hung fenders and they squeaked and groaned between the two hulls. Even Kester was not going to be able to hold station for long. LBW had one chance, otherwise they would have to fall away and start the whole process again. He reached for _Marlee's_ rail and pulled himself clear of the Pirogue. For a moment he hung by his arms, his feet dragging through the water, the force threatening to snatch him away. LBW felt his fingers slipping. Suddenly a pair of hands clamped around his wrists and with one, tremendous heave in time with the roll of the boat, Lee pulled him inboard.

LBW lay panting on the rough fiberglass deck. "Should gaff yo like a marlin," Lee shouted before disappearing to the helm. The rumble of the diesels accelerating, he lay on his back, staring at the white outriggers, whipping back and forth. When his strength returned, he pulled himself to the side. Kester had disappeared. All was white flecked, stormy blackness. He retrieved his bag and staggered into the dimly lit saloon. Lee was standing behind the wheel. The windscreen wipers were unable to keep the glass clear. LBW slid the door closed and stood shivering, holding on to the back of a chair for support. His brother turned and glared at him, a cigarette clamped between his lips. He was as tall as LBW. Well defined leg muscles, flexed with the roll, he was free of fat except for a slight roll developing round his stomach. He had the same straight Arabic nose as his brother and the same colour skin. Despite the dreadlocks, they looked like brothers.

"Who bought y'out?" he asked.

"Kester da Silva," LBW said taking off his wet clothes with one hand. Naked, he picked up a towel from the floor and started rubbing himself vigorously. "I forgot to thank him. He said you helped him once."

"Saved the nigga's ass from drowning."

LBW put on his clothes. Thankful they had remained dry. He slipped the shoulder holster over his head. He loosened the buckles to let out the maximum amount of leather and adjusted the gun to fit snugly under his left arm. He put the spare clip of ammunition into his jacket pocket and the rest of the items he left in the plastic bag.

Lee gave him a sideways glance when he came up to stand next to him. "Expecting trouble?"

The hull banged into waves with a force that LBW thought no man-made object could withstand. Sheets of spray thundered against the windscreen. "How far we got to go," LBW asked feeling ill.

"Forty miles, eight knots, 'bout five hours."

"How about Buster?"

Lee lit another cigarette. Shrugged. "Don't care, I'm not going faster."

LBW nodded. He reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Sorry what I said. No excuse. I love you. I'll make sure they give you a medal."

Lee scowled, eyes screwed up from the smoke. "Make sure it's gold, pay for dis' boat doing police work."

LBW nodded, groaning as _Marlee_ , pitched and rolled wildly. "I've got to lie down."

Hours later, the storm, a distant pulse of lightning on the horizon, and LBW was surprised at how quickly things subsided. The clouds broke with a full moon as bright as a searchlight after the blackness. The marching swell no longer had a rumbling head of white water. They had another two hours to run before they could hope to see Scarborough, the capital of Tobago. Without radar, it was impossible to know if any other boats were in the vicinity. LBW found the binoculars, lurched, and swayed up to the fly bridge, holding grimly to the tubular frame while scanning the dawn. The restless surface, slopped waves into one another with spouts of foam; its normal blue unhurriedness, a confused and frightened grey. Nothing except the wings of gulls, flying between the chop like spittle. He hoped Buster hadn't turned back or decided to head further up the Caribbean. Lee had assured him that Buster's boat did not have the range, but LBW was not sure that would stop Gittens trying.

There were no ships in Scarborough harbour as Lee piloted _The Marlee_ towards the commercial marina, to the right of the red roofed ferry building. The sky was bright in the east and LBW, who was again on the fly bridge, searched the anchored boats. It was 6 am; they had taken a little longer than Lee had forecast.

A police car waited on the dockside, two men standing beside it. One was Diablo, a good friend when they worked as partners in Port of Spain. He was mixed Irish-African with a European face, which was tanned rather than coloured and tight curly black hair. He had large feet and hands. He had been nicknamed Dublin Diablo or just Dublo. The women had called him _Hunglo_ and in the days when they had used the Police Gym, LBW had seen why.

"Hey Bumbles," Dublo called as he caught the line. LBW glared up at him. Dublo had been the only person he had allowed the regular use of his middle name. He had hated his parents for it, believing they had given it to him because he had been an unwelcome surprise. His ignored, painful and spiteful childhood had subsequently given him no reason to believe otherwise.

"Been a while Dublo," LBW said eventually grinning. "You here in person to tell me you have Gittens in custody?"

Dublo helped LBW up to the dock. He shook his head. "Sent a helicopter first light, we'll hear pretty soon." Dublo had been with LBW in England during training, they had been the two top students. While LBW enjoyed his accent, Dublo had slipped back to the island's slower, relaxed delivery.

"How about the airport?"

"Whole force out there Bumbles, every flight for Piarco is here, people everywhere."

Lee joined them. The few remaining clouds were tinged orange in the east, staining the sea a rusty orange. A squadron of Pelicans glided towards the empty ferry dock, noisy gulls whirled around the stern of a Pirogue heading out to sea. "He had to be coming here," LBW muttered, watching the boat.

"You want some coffee?" Dublo said.

LBW glanced at his brother.

"Nope. I need to refuel and clean her up," Lee said.

"Put it on the police account," LBW grinned and Dublo pointed to a police cutter further along the wall. "Fuel pump open about eight. Help yourself."

"Ahuh," Lee nodded. "You need me?"

LBW nodded. "If the airport doesn't open, I'll have to get back to Trinidad," he lifted his shoulders apologetically.

Lee always looked as though he was about to tease LBW's accent, humour would quiver at the corner of his lips and eyes, before his usual scowl. They said good-bye, touching fists.

They drove past the Customs House and onto Carrington Street. There were no vehicles and only a few people walking towards the terminal building. "Heard 'bout your problems Bumbles, I'm sorry," Dublo said.

LBW flicked a fly through the gap in the window. "How's police life on Tobago."

He listened with half attention, he wanted to hear the pilot reporting in that Buster's boat had been found.

The police station was a two storey white building with a red corrugated metal roof. The upper floor had a balcony on two sides with arched pillars supporting the roof. It looked colonial and LBW could almost see the British Union flag flying from the mast, instead of the red and black diagonal national flag that fluttered weakly in the dying breeze.

They pulled in behind a police minibus and went inside. The corridors were empty and only a few administration staff sat behind their desks. Dublo led the way into his office and he asked his assistant for coffee. "You want a coconut bake?"

LBW nodded. "With cheese," he said remembering how well it tasted with the grated coconut. He wandered about the office looking at the various photographs, mainly of Dublo's fishing successes. He heard Dublo ask where the helicopter was. It was heading towards Pigeon Point, the last stretch of beach before the final run back down to Crown Point and the airport.

LBW listened to the conversation and stretched his shoulders, studying a map of the island. If he had been in charge he would have sent the helicopter clockwise in its search. If Buster had been forced to come in somewhere other than Scarborough, the chances were greater it would have been close to the airport, on the beaches or bays around Pigeon Point.

The coconut bake arrived with the coffee and for a moment, he forgot his problems as he breathed the delicious fresh baked bread. He finished in a few hungry mouthfuls and started on the coffee when an excited voice called on the handheld radio.

Buster's boat was abandoned on a beach at Pigeon Point.

LBW punched the air, narrowly avoiding spilling coffee over Dublo's desk. Gittens was on the island but why had there been no other reports? He must have arrived hours ago. Dublo was shouting instructions into his radio as they ran down the corridor and out into early morning sunlight. The roads had come alive in the past half hour. The constable driving used the blue roof light and the siren wailed as they dodged back down Carrington Street, now clogged with pickups, minibuses, bikes and carts. The police car rocked wildly on its suspension as it roared up Wilson Road and squealed left through the lights and onto the Claude Noel Highway.

The helicopter had been instructed to land at Buster's boat and investigate. Minutes later the pilot reported a body, shot once through the head. The victim's description was of Buster.

Another decent person murdered because of him, LBW thought bitterly. He clenched the grab rail as the police car took to the gravel shoulder to underpass a line of vehicles held up behind a horse and cart. As they climbed through the densely forested hills behind Scarborough, the engine laboured with the weight and a burning smell of rubber filled the interior. LBW wound down his window.

Dublo was talking on the radio with his officers at the airport and LBW wished he had suggested the helicopter pick them up. He was not sure how much longer the car would last. The driver had his foot hard down on the accelerator. They made it to Old Store Bay Road, which ran from the highway down to the airport, in twenty minutes. By the time the police car squealed the final corner and lined up for the terminal building, a trail of grey smoke filled the road behind. The terminal was like a back-to-back football stadium. The drop off area clogged with people and vehicles. The police car skidded to a halt a hundred yards before the entrance. Dublo ran and LBW walked quickly through the packed terminal, dodging islands of people sitting on suitcases, children running between them. Baggage carts formed barriers that LBW could not hurdle like Dublo and had to detour yards off his route to find a way through. All the time he was scanning faces. There were people of all nationalities, all looking bored, disinterested or arguing with their partner or children. No Gittens.

He found several police officers and showed them his badge and asked if they had seen anyone like Gittens, or anyone with their arm in a sling. None had. When he eventually fought his way through to passport control, he had lost Dublo. He waved his badge again and pushed through the people waiting in long queues to the departure area. Out on the apron he could see several large jets from America and Europe and several smaller feeder liners from other islands. Normally the airport would be busy if it had two aircraft parked on the apron. Today it had a dozen, most of them waiting to get into Trinidad. An American Airlines was taxiing out towards the runway, LBW hoped that Gittens had not made it aboard. He checked reservations. The aircraft was full with passengers who had been shipped over on last nights ferry from Trinidad. There was no possibility that anyone could have got on board without being noticed. An announcement went out for all passengers on Carib Air's flight to Grenada and there was a general surge of people towards the gate that LBW was standing at. He walked through with the first of the passengers and stood at the exit before they snaked across the tarmac to the waiting turbo prop. He peered hard at every face that past and then walked out with the last of them to the aircraft. He went up the stairway and into the cabin showing the flight attendant his badge. He slowly walked the isle, searching faces. He checked the toilets, the tiny galley area and then ducked inside the cockpit, in case Gittens was sitting there with a gun to the pilots head.

Nothing. He thanked the flight attendant and walked around the aircraft, stopping the baggage handler from closing the door until he had checked the cargo hold.

Satisfied the door closed and the right propeller whined into life. LBW stood back and surveyed the other aircraft, all had stairs leading down to the apron. There were blue baggage carts, tow trucks, fuel and catering trucks parked among the aircraft and numerous employees strolling between them. Gittens could be anywhere. He spotted the control tower, a hexagonal shaped building off to one side of the terminal. He walked towards it, asking airport employees whether they had seen anyone looking like Gittens. A patrol car raced across the tarmac and skidded to a halt.

The driver said Dublo was waiting for him at the control tower. LBW climbed in and asked if all the parked aircraft had been searched. The young man behind the wheel did not know, LBW borrowed his radio.

Dublo confirmed they had and access to the apron was strictly controlled.

"Then the aircraft should be locked up after they have been searched," LBW said as the car skidded to another halt by the control tower.

"Crews complaining cabins getting too hot."

LBW did not bother to respond. Instead, he panted up the steps and burst into the small, crowded control room. The controllers obviously had never experienced twelve aircraft and the islands police force at the same time, and were clearly struggling to deal with it. The one wearing sunglasses, nearest LBW, shouted for two policemen to move away from the windows so he could see the American Airlines aircraft waiting patiently at the end of the runway. He glanced nervously at his colleague who was manning the radar screen. He nodded, although there was great deal of uncertainty on his face. Licking his lips, pushing the sunglasses more firmly up his nose, he gave clearance for the 767 to takeoff, moments later the glass rattled as the plane thundered down the runway, its nose blazed with morning sunlight as it climbed rapidly into the blue sky, leaving a thin line of black exhaust in the still air. The Carib Air flight asked permission to taxi and the controller replied irritably that he should be patient, he was still watching the 767 ascend. The police helicopter pilot came through asking for permission to land and LBW thought he was about to throw his headphones down and leave.

Dublo scanned the apron with binoculars. LBW spotted the helicopter coming in from the north, its rotors strobing sunlight. Dublo pointed to a circle with a faded H, off to their left. The door behind them opened and a loud American voice demanded, "Who the hell's in charge?"

LBW and Dublo turned with surprise. LBW recognised the Marshal he had talked to after Loutoo's death. Behind him was a worried looking white man.

"You," the Marshall glared at LBW, "what the hell's this clown doing here?"

"Cause this is my circus," Dublo said quietly, a puzzled frown, "who the fuck are you?

"U.S. Marshall ," Darnel held up his badge

"I'm Lieutenant Diablo," Dublo said, "I know why I'm here, but..."

"I need to get to Trinidad. I need to use your helicopter," Marshall Darnel said between gritted teeth. "I've been waiting at this shit-hole for over twelve hours."

"Is that right?" Dublo said.

The noise of the helicopter diverted LBW's attention. He watched the blue and white machine come in across the brown, jet burnt grass and hover to a stop short of the circle, before starting to descend. Blue baggage trucks, parked at the perimeter of the landing circle, rocked from the downdraft. A canvass flap flew open on one of the trucks from the downdraft. LBW froze as two men appeared from one of the trucks, and run towards the settling helicopter. One of the men wore a wide rimmed hat. They both had on the red overalls of airport employees. However, there was no mistaking the gangly frame of the lead man, one arm tucked into his overalls.

"Gittens," LBW yelled. He ran for the door, sweeping Dublo before him and barging the American and gaunt looking white man out of the way. They took the steps two at a time and LBW could feel the stress of his weight coming down on his knees.

"They're going for the helicopter," LBW shouted when they reached the bottom and Dublo shouldered open the double doors, their hearing assaulted with the noise of the helicopter and the reverse thrust of a jet landing. Dublo surged ahead. The door to the helicopter was open and it looked like Gittens had already climbed aboard. Dublo shouted for the other to stop and several policemen were running from different areas of the apron. A car, its light flashing was streaking towards them under the wings of parked aircraft. The man following Gittens, whirled, crouched and fired at the nearest policeman. He fell and writhed on the tarmac in front of the helicopter. The three others scattered behind the baggage trucks. The man aimed for the car and LBW could see his hands jerk twice as he fired. The windscreen shattered and the car hit a BWIA 737 stairway, flipped, the windscreen exploded and sparks flew from the roof as it spun across the tarmac. It ploughed into a tractor, its rear wheels turning with the engine still in gear.

Gittens companion turned, aiming towards Dublo. LBW had pulled his gun. He had practiced daily on the pistol range in the days when he could be bothered. However, he had never shot anyone. He did not hesitate. He squeezed the trigger. The man flew back against the open door and then fell face down on to the tarmac.

Suddenly Marshall Darnel was beside him. "Don't let him take off," he yelled.

Dublo, with his pistol in a double-handed grip, slowly edged down the side of the helicopter. Darnel and LBW caught up with Dublo and inched up on the open door. LBW peeled away and ran crouched over for the line of baggage trucks. He used them as cover and worked his way round so he could see into the front of the helicopter.

"The pilots asking for fuel," a cowering policeman said.

LBW could see the pilot sitting at the controls, a gun pressed against his head. Gittens sat in the back, leaning forward between the seats.

LBW stood in full view, his gun extended in front of him, and advanced towards the helicopter. From the corner of his eye, he saw the fuel truck arrive. It reversed away from the crashed police car, with black smoke billowing from the engine. The refueller jumped from the cab.

A shot shattered the side door and Darnel fell to the tarmac, squirming back under the belly of the helicopter. The re-fueller un-coiled the hose from the fuel truck. LBW looked at the pilot and made a motion across his throat for him to cut the engine. The pilot did not move. The rotors still flashed and buffeted him.

Dublo worked his way to stand behind LBW. Darnell crawled under the helicopter, and was lying roughly where Gittens was sitting. He had a long barreled revolver, a Smith and Wesson, pointing to the belly of the helicopter.

"The pilot's begging for fuel, Bumbles," Dublo shouted listening to the radio.

"Don't give it," LBW yelled walking forward.

Dublo tugged at his sleeve. "He's going to kill the pilot."

"Where's he going to go?"

"The pilot's my brother in law Bumbles, my wife would kill me."

LBW looked sharply at Dublo. "Gittens is not leaving. Once he gets where he's going he'll kill him anyway. We might as well finish it now."

"I'm in charge Bumbles," Dublo motioned for the fuel man to go forward. He struggled with the heavy hose under the downdraft, lifted the fuel cover behind the cabin and plugged the nozzle in. He ran back to his truck and started the fueling.

Black smoke from the burning car shrouded the parked airliners. An airport fire engine arrived, the firemen anxiously looking back towards the helicopter as they ran to the car with portable fire extinguishers.

"Please Dublo," LBW shouted.

"While there's a chance..."

"Dublo, Darnell could shoot Gittens from there."

Dublo spoke on the radio. He shook his head. "There's a fuel tank right between Darnell and Gittens."

"You better tell him," LBW shouted, watching Darnell wriggle more firmly into position.

The re-fueller crouched down and waved frantically not to fire. Gittens saw the motion, leant out the door and fired. Darnell rolled frantically away. The re-fueller disconnected the hose. Immediately the helicopters turbines whined to full power, the tips of the blades arched upwards, the skids started to shiver on the tarmac, and then the helicopter lifted rapidly.

LBW ran forward, his gun trained on the shadowy figure of Gittens sitting inside. The helicopter started to turn to the left, facing toward the runway, the shattered door came into view and LBW fired one...two... three shots. The turbines drowned the noise of his gun and the downdraft tugged his hand, ruining his aim. He saw a hole appear through the side of the helicopter and was it his imagination or did he see Gittens twist back in his seat. He saw muzzle flashes in the gloomy interior. Gittens was shooting back. The nose of the helicopter dipped and gathered speed across the airport. It disappeared over a small white house set in the wall of trees that bordered the far side of the runway.

LBW sank to his knees, Dablo beside him, cursing. But he wasn't listening. He stared numbly as Darnell got up and went over to Gittens lifeless partner. He kicked the body before crouching and rummaging through his pockets. LBW was beginning to think there was no end to his _Gittens_ torture.

Chapter 19

Cayden pushed the cold plate of pancakes, sausage, bacon, fried egg and hash browns away.

His stomach churned. He wanted a cigarette, his first craving since giving up. He looked at his watch for the hundredth time.

Five minutes nearer to negotiating for Rachel's release.

Five minutes nearer to telling Maalik that, he did not have two million dollars.

He picked up a teaspoon and dipped it in the sugar bowel. Grains shook to the tablecloth on the way to the coffee cup – it wasn't just nerves, he was hung-over. He left the spoon in the coffee cup and got up from the table. He passed groups of businessmen, hunched over their coffees', making deals. The big difference was, if they lost, all they might suffer was a cut in bonus. He had over three hours to wait.

He avoided Randy's floor.

Outside, clouds were building on the horizon. The marina glimmered but he found no solace in the rows of Tomahawks, instead, he wandered along the broad sidewalk. There were few people about, most had started their office day and it was too early for shoppers. An elderly man walked briskly with a small dog in tow. It yapped at a pigeon stabbing crumbs under a bench.

Cayden searched for his sunglasses, looking down at the cracks in the pavement then out across the Inter-Coastal. A boat was heading out to sea, the crew preparing fishing lines while charter guests sat in easy chairs drinking coffee, pumping themselves up for the day.

A stab of pain at the thought of losing Rachel. There was so much they still had to do together, so much he hadn't said. A flash of reflection across the water.

A young woman glided by on roller blades, wearing a lime green bikini top and cutoff jeans, her tanned body, oiled with lotion, looked sensual and vital. She paid no attention to Cayden, her mind with the music on her i-pod. He watched her glissade along the sidewalk and wondered why he hadn't cared, always blaming women for his failed relationships, never listening to their concerns, angry at their inability to accept his consuming need to succeed. After a break-up, he would bury himself further in work, draining him of any ability to form a lasting relationship. The company was his only long lasting relationship, his only mistress.

Rachel had loved him selflessly –'had' – he was already thinking the worst he thought miserably. A grey cat padded by nonchalantly, a seagull cried overhead. His mistress, forever jealous had tested his faithfulness, thrown down the gauntlet, and what had he done – drunkenly kissed another woman!

Cayden sat on a bench facing the waterway and took off his sunglasses to rub his good eye. The ripples reflected the sunlight and the warmth felt comforting on his battered face. The bruise around his eye was beginning to ease and the cuts had lost their scabs, leaving a network of red lines on his skin. He had not shaved for fear of opening any of them and he could feel the itch of beard around the collar. Cayden took a deep breath, his chest still hurt. He studied his reflection in the lenses. Last night had just been a stress release. Did he actually feel resentment towards Rachel for putting him in this situation? How could she be so naïve? Cayden groaned aloud and put his head into his hands.

"You're a bastard," he said.

He felt the bench move, he jerked upright. A man sat at the other end, a brown paper bag in one hand, a small black dog under his arm, Hawaiian shirt open to his stomach, cut-off jeans frayed at the knees and flip-flops on his feet, black with dirt. Long brown hair tied in a ponytail - a face that had seen too much misery. He set the dog down and as his body turned, Cayden could see his left arm had been severed below the elbow.

He looked at Cayden with an un-focused gaze. Cayden nodded, mumbled a good morning.

The man raised the brown paper bag and took a long draft from the exposed neck of a bottle. He offered the bag to Cayden.

"No thanks," Cayden said. The black dog eyed him, teeth bared in a soundless growl.

"Don't mind him none, always got that face on," the man slurred. "Y'been in a fight?"

Cayden fingered his bruised eye and then put his glasses on, getting ready to leave. "Could say that," he said.

"It'll heal. More'n it did for me," he said swinging his body so his left arm flapped in the shirtsleeve.

Cayden stood up. "Yeah, I guess it will."

"Don't matter how bad things git boy, you gotta whole body there, remember that," he said tipping the paper bag up to his mouth again.

The dog cocked its head to one side and looked up at Cayden. "Thanks," he said not really knowing why.

"I don't say's it for thanks" the man tried to shout. "I was fifteen boy, loved pickups in them days, beautiful things, chrome, V8's, not the pussy SUV's you git now."

Cayden looked back towards the hotel.

"Dude lived in my road, had a beaut, Red Chevy one ton, said to my pop," he started to slide towards Cayden, " I say's would give anything for one of 'em pop," he fell along the bench, body convulsing and Cayden wasn't sure whether he was choking or trying to laugh.

When he looked up, his head nearly in Cayden's lap, his tired face wore a lopsided grin, two front teeth missing. "See boy, two years after, workin' my uncle's auto shop, ramp collapsed holding that pickup, takin' my left arm." He tipped the bag again and spat at a seagull. The bird gave an indignant cry and drifted off over the water. "Haven't dreamt since," the old man mumbled watching the seagull.

"I'm sorry," Cayden said stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Yep, can't dream with half a body, what's life without dreams, boy?" the old man sighed still watching the seagull.

"There's lot's you can still do," Cayden said.

"Nope. It's all gone...in here," the man tapped his head. "You keep that in mind..." the man started to laugh as he realised the humour. It was a dry hacking sound. "Next time you sit head in hands."

It was ten thirty when Cayden returned to his room. As he opened the door, he was surprised to see a group of suited men and a woman sitting near the tracking equipment, drinking coffee. Sly stood up from among them and walked briskly over. "Where the hell have you been? We got a lot to do," she said.

"Needed some fresh air."

'"Let's stay focused huh," she said leading him to the others. "Tom's going to run through what you need to say to Maalik."

Cayden nodded to the Federal Agent, the cowlick more prominent, as though his mother had pulled him out of bed using his fringe.

"And if it's not him?" Cayden said.

"What we've just been talking about. He'll most likely use runners, keep us guessing where the final drop's going to be. He's not expecting you to have all the money Cayden, trust me, he's a pro and has probably done this before. He'll take what you have, then start negotiating for the rest."

Cayden looked doubtful. This was not the Maalik he had met.

"We'll be with you all the way, using different vehicles, so anyone watching will have a hard time spotting you're being followed."

Cayden remained doubtful. Sly took hold of his arm and squeezed gently. "We'll get him Cayden, I promise."

Cayden nodded. "You heard from Jac?"

Sly hesitated, before shaking her head.

Cayden took off his glasses. "You sure?"

"Yeah, they're still stuck at the airport. Let's just concentrate on one thing at a time huh." Sly said

Cayden listened to Tom give instructions on the speed he should drive at, what precautions he should take. They had provided a vehicle for him parked at the front of the hotel. It had a tracking device. Cayden thought Maalik would arrange a pick-up that involved him walking or more likely running to a rendezvous point. Meanwhile the others seemed to be discussing the result of last night's football game. Business as usual, Cayden thought only half listening to the rest of what Tom was saying. Sly was wearing white cotton trousers that were flared at the ankle and tight on the waist. She wore a white and blue striped man's shirt that came down to her thighs. Cayden could see the other men eyeing her as she paced the hotel room, making calls. Once she lifted the tail of her shirt to adjust the gun she wore at the base of her back and the conversation died as they caught a flash of brown smooth skin. She was oblivious to them, her brow creased in concentration as she issued instructions.

When Tom had finished she picked up her bag and motioned Cayden to follow. "Right let's get down to First Federal." She indicated a sports bag on the sofa. "We'll use that to put the money in." She turned it upside down and pointed to the studs. "A transmitter, good for five miles. Don't let go of the bag until you've given it to Maalik."

Cayden nodded, his stomach tightening. "Think he'll be suspecting that?"

"Maybe."

Once in the cool interior of her Buick, Cayden said, "I don't know what happened last night Sly, I was drunk, I'm sorry."

"Forget it Cayden," Sly said looking over her shoulder to check traffic. She executed a u-turn across four lanes and followed a metro bus towards the tall buildings in the financial district.

"No, I behaved like an arsehole," Cayden said.

The bus stopped to pick up passengers and Sly drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The outside lane blocked with traffic. She looked in her side mirror waiting for an opening. "Yeah, well don't beat yourself up about it OK, this business brings out all sorts'a hidden characteristics?"

Cayden looked at her questioningly.

"Shit Cayden, why d'think we do this for so little. It's seat of your pants stuff, no board meetings, no reports, analysis done in split seconds, like, should I pull the trigger or do I have a chance to talk with this guy," Sly was given an opening and accelerated past the bus. She smiled briefly and patted him on the knee. "It's raw, exciting, and I guess pulls out the best and worst in us. You find out who you really are, y'know what I mean?"

First Federal was a modern tower in the heart of the financial district. An interior dominated by a glass atrium filled with tall ficus plants and cascading water features. The tellers had fixed smiles and crisp uniforms. His accountant had managed to raise five hundred thousand. The amount enticed the manager out from behind his solid wood door. He accompanied the money with a security guard from the vault to a claustrophobic counting office. Cayden had never seen so much cash. Bundles of five thousand dollars. One hundred of them and Cayden doubted they would fit in the bag. He angrily watched his hard-earned money being counted for Maalik. His resentment of Rachel bloomed, followed immediately by contriteness. Cayden zipped the bag closed. It was very heavy. The manager smiled and said have a nice day. Sly saw the expression on Cayden's face and hurried him outside.

"Do you want some gum?" Sly asked when they were heading back towards the Gulfstream Plaza.

Cayden took a stick. He could feel the sweat on his body just from the short struggle he had of carrying the money to the Buick. Cayden chewed nervously. They had twenty minutes before the expected call from Maalik.

His room smelt like a locker room. He could feel the agents watching him. They had finished discussing football and were now waiting; bored. Another routine kidnapping, Cayden thought sourly wishing he could open a window and get some fresh air. The air-conditioning on full, its effectiveness sabotaged by the number of the people.

"You want a soda?" Sly asked trying to stop him pace the small area between the table and window.

"No," Cayden snapped, his mouth dry.

Five minutes to go and now everyone stared at his mobile phone mounted on the receiver box, like some prized trophy.

Cayden stopped pacing, and stood beside Sly. The only sound was the whir of the air-conditioning and the drip of a tap that someone hadn't fully closed in the bathroom. Cayden's eyes darted from the phone to the digital display under the TV. He could feel his heart beating, a bead of sweat formed on his lip. _11.59,_ he sat down. The green digits changed to _12.00_ , the phone remained silent.

_12.01_ : the agents looked nervously at each other.

_12.02_ : Sly's frown deepened; an agent started to ask a question but Sly held up her hand to silence him.

_12.03_ : Cayden's mobile started playing and he felt a rush of fear.

After three cheerful renditions of the Groove ring tone the receiver box automatically answered.

"Cayden?" Cayden slapped the table with frustration. "Cayden I need to speak to you about what's going on, I'm losing my mind."

"Carol I'll call back later. This is not a good time," Cayden said and jabbed the cancel button.

Immediately the ring tone started again. "Mr.Callejon?" said a muffled voice.

Cayden lent forward his hands clamping the edge of the table. "Yes."

"Do you have the money?" It wasn't Maalik

"Yes. I want to speak to Rachel."

"Do you have all the money?"

Cayden looked desperately towards Sly and then closed his eyes. "No. It will take me a few days."

"Your woman will be dead in a few days." The line went dead.

"Where?" Sly demanded looking at Tom.

He held up a finger while he typed rapidly on the keyboard of his laptop. "Got it! Pay phone in Key West on the corner of 2nd and Flamingo.

"Get the local PD onto it," Sly said.

"All bases covered," Cayden said standing straight. He felt he was going to be sick. This was impossible, there was no way they could cover every conceivable area of Florida, Maalik might call from. They had known it all along. His resentment at their casualness intensified.

The Groove rang out another three times before being answered again automatically.

"Mr.Callejon?" Another voice, this time female and Hispanic.

"Yes," Cayden said sitting down with a thump.

"Take money to 25.43 and 80.07." The line clicked off.

"Where?" Sly demanded clicking her fingers at Tom.

He frantically tapped on his keyboard and then shrugged. "Best I can do with that is somewhere in Tampa."

"Shit," Sly said. "What the hell is 25.43 and 80.07?"

"105.05," said one of the agents helpfully.

"What is that? A bus number? Is there a 105th street? What?" Sly said pulling a map of Miami across the table.

Ten minutes past before Cayden's Groove ring tone cut through the frantic voices. Everyone fell silent and waited for the third ring to finish.

"Cayden Callejon," the voice said quietly and Cayden stiffened. "I am very disappointed, yet again I should have expected nothing less from an infidel," Maalik voice was conversational, unhurried. "What will lovely Rachel think when she finds out you made so little effort to raise the required amount for her safe release?"

Tom clicked his fingers. "It's a mobile," he whispered. "We're triangulating its position... standby."

"You will deliver what you have and I shall then decide how much pain Rachel will receive before you deliver the rest. Do not underestimate me Cayden. I know you are with the police but if you are followed, you will never see Rachel again. If the money has a tracking device then you will never see Rachel again."

"It's North East Fifty Ninth and North Bayshore Drive," Tom whispered.

"Come alone Cayden. You have one hour. If you love Rachel you will tell that meddling whore... Agent Williams to go to hell..."

Sly was in the bathroom talking urgently on the radio for the nearest car to move towards the location.

"I need to know that she is OK, Maalik," Cayden said. "I need to speak..."

"You should have asked a real cop to help you Cayden," Maalik's voice continued in the same, casual manner.

"Why don't you go to hell," Cayden shouted and one of the agents jumped up from his chair to restrain him from grabbing the phone. "It's a recording you idiot," Cayden shouted. "Listen."

Maalik's voice was continuing in the same quiet tone explaining in graphic detail what he would like to do to Sly Williams. Cayden moved away from the table and watched the agents listen. They appeared hypnotized by his voice or maybe they were just visualizing what Maalik would do to Sly if he had the chance. The police radio crackled in Sly's hand and Maalik's voice cut off. They had found the phone strapped to a tape player in a waste bin.

Sly ordered him to do an immediate sweep of the neighbourhood. "Well," she demanded. "What about those numbers?"

They all looked at the map and started talking.

Cayden picked up the moneybag, retrieved his phone and reached the door by the time anyone realised he was going. Sly looked up. "What are you doing Cayden?"

Cayden opened the door and turned back to look at them. Sly was standing arms folded, an angry expression. Behind her, the Federal Agents looked annoyed, as though someone had interrupted a private meeting.

"I'm going to get Rachel back," he said and walked out into the corridor.

"Wait," Sly shouted from the door.

Cayden reached the lifts. The door pinged open immediately and he stepped in. Sly ran down the corridor. "Cayden, don't be an idiot."

The door closed and Cayden listened to _Dido_ down to the marina level. He felt strangely detached. Randy was sitting behind his desk when he walked in. He looked up from dictating to his assistant and told her to leave.

"Cayden. How're y'doing?"

"I need help Randy."

"OK," he said cautiously.

"I need a chart of the area and a boat."

"No problem Cayden, you gonna tell me what's going on?"

Cayden looked at his watch. "No time. Which is the fastest fueled boat on the dock?"

"I just part ex'd a '96 Brigand, owner had her refitted with petrol out-drives, she's the fastest Tomahawk I've ever seen." Randy went to a wide set of draws and pulled out a chart laminated in clear plastic. "This covers the Straits, will that do?"

Cayden laid it on his desk. Quickly he ran his finger along the latitude and longitude lines that he recognised from Maalik's recording, jabbing a pencil on the spot they intersected. It was a point a half mile off Key Biscayne. "Anything there?" he asked.

Randy shook his head.

"Does the Brigand have GPS?"

"Yeah it's fully loaded Cayden," Randy said selecting a key from a row of hooks by the door. "This about Rachel?" he said as they a hurried out into the sunshine and along the walkway bisected by potted palm trees.

Cayden nodded. They reached the gate leading down to the pontoons. There was a yell, Sly came running out of the shadows followed by several FBI men.

"Do me a favour, shut this gate behind me, and forget the code."

Cayden ran down onto the pontoon and out towards the furthest line of boats. Sly reached the gate and banged on it, shouting at Randy.

The cover was off and one of Randy's cleaners was hosing down the long pointed foredeck. She was thirty-five feet in length, her hull design adapted from the brief sortie Tomahawks had into offshore racing. Her open cockpit was white leather with racing seats at the helm position.

"What the hell is that?" Cayden asked jumping aboard and pointing to a platform on the stern.

"Guy was into paragliding, damn fool knew how to ruin the lines of a beautiful boat," the boat cleaner said, jumping off with his bucket and mop. Cayden twisted the key and the engines burst into life, a keener, smoother sound than regular marine diesels. The water boiled under the platform on the rear and the exhausts echoed off the floats supporting the dock.

The cleaner untied the bow and stern. "Tell Randy to keep a listening watch on six seven." Cayden glanced over his shoulder, Randy was still at the gate, Sly was running back to the hotel.

Cayden ignored the speed restrictions. He opened the throttles. The exhaust bellowed and the bow reared like a frightened horse. The propellers cavitated in the turbulence until the hull accelerated enough for them to slice into undisturbed water. She was fast, and Cayden was reminded of his brutal offshore racing days, his older body thankful for the thick leather seat he was now cocooned in.

He raced through the gap between Fisher Island and Miami Beach at sixty knots, forty minutes since Maalik's call. The waypoint coordinates on the chart plotter corresponded to the coordinates Maalik had given, the linked GPS, was giving his current position and course to steer.

His phone rang. _Sly Williams_ flashed on the screen. He ignored it.

Cayden headed down the shoreline. Off to port was the beginning of Key Biscayne. Out at sea, the Brigand became air borne on the larger swells. A familiar pain returned to his knees. He throttled back. He was going to make the coordinates well within time. The sky was clear. The sun hot. The fine mist from the sheets of spray coated his face with a salty lotion. He could see the white upper works of other boats.

The plotter beeped. Cayden pulled back on the throttles, the Brigand settled, the exhausts burbled and spluttered as the boat rolled on the swell. Cayden reached for the binoculars and surveyed the nearest boats.

Five minutes to the hour.

Cayden anxiously looked at his mobile. No call from Maalik. Cayden was convinced this was not the final place.

Behind his seat was a fridge with a full bottle of water. He gratefully drank half a litre while scanning his neighbours again. A man in the stern of an open sports boat with a blue canvas awning was baiting a line. A Bertram, with a scaffold-type structure for a fly bridge, was trawling slowly towards him. He studied an anchored vessel, _Play 2_ in big black letters across her transom. He adjusted the binoculars and concentrated on the saloon doors. The sun reflecting off the glass, blinded him. The motion nudged his bruised eye. He put them aside irritably and glanced at his watch.

Five minutes past the hour.

Cayden re-checked the coordinates and double-checked that he had entered them into the chart plotter correctly.

"Stand up very slowly Mr.Callejon."

Cayden dropped the bottle. A figure in a black dive suit lay on the bathing platform, a spear gun aimed towards him. Cayden stumbled away from his seat. Behind the diver was a torpedo shaped object, a scooter - helping divers through the water at speeds of 200 feet per minute.

The diver pulled off his mask and pushed the hood back on his wetsuit.

"Where's Maalik?" Cayden said his voice cracking.

"Shut-up," a mouth hidden in a bushy red beard, close set eyes either side of a small slightly flattened nose. "He sends his regards but thought it wise not to come in person."

Cayden stepped forward as the boat rolled and the diver quickly sat up and jerked the spear gun in his direction. "Careful Callejon...the way this thing is rolling..."

"OK," Cayden said nervously leaning back against the rear of the driving seat. "I want Rachel back."

The man shook his head, pulling on a lanyard attached to his waist connected to a large waterproof dive bag. "You see her when you've paid in full," the man said. "Put the money in this." The man tossed the bag to his feet.

"No. Not until I know she's OK," Cayden said.

The man smiled unpleasantly. He reached inside his wetsuit and pulled out a zip-lock baggy. He tossed this to Cayden. A Polaroid of Rachel in underwear, her hair matted and her skin pale. She held her hands crossed in front of her panties. He could see the date and time that had been printed automatically on the film when the picture was taken. It was ten o'clock that morning.

"You can keep it, a souvenir," the diver said.

"Tell Maalik I need time to raise all the money," Cayden said starting to transfer the money. "I need to talk to Rachel, OK," Cayden said.

The diver was silent. He was still sitting on the deck but peering over the edge of the cockpit, scanning the horizon.

Cayden handed over the bag. "Can you guarantee Rachel won't be hurt?"

"No," the diver seemed to relax with the bag attached to the lanyard. He smiled cruelly. "Maalik doesn't give guarantees, even to those that pay all they have, to be delivered here, the _Promised Land_ , the _American Dream_..." The diver snorted, sliding like a seal, back into the water. He attached the bag to the scooter and pumped air into a buoyancy tank, compensating for the weight. "But then," he adjusted the goggles over his eyes. "I guess he does guarantee...the fish won't go hungry," a nasal laugh. He put the regulator into his mouth, the tip of the spear gun the last thing to disappear.

Cayden stared numbly at the ripple of ocean. He counted three, before scrambling to the platform, searching the blue green surface for a line of bubbles. The seabed was weed and rocks, good camouflage for a diver. He thought he saw bubbles to his right. The Bertram was slightly closer. The shore was too far Cayden thought, even with the scooter, it would take too long. He had to be using one of the boats.

Cayden looked at the photograph of Rachel. The bastards had stripped her. He ran back to the helm, hitting the throttles, the Brigand growled away towards the Bertram. He did not know what he could do, but anything was better than sitting around waiting for Maalik to decide the next move.

His phone rang. "You're an asshole Cayden," Sly shouted.

"I was right, I've handed the money over," Cayden said. He slowed the Brigand as he started to pass the sports fishing boat.

"Who was the pick up?" Sly said, her voice moderating.

"A diver, he had a spear gun." There were two young men sitting in fishing chairs and they looked startled as Cayden suddenly appeared. They threw their beer cans to the deck and waved frantically at the lines from the rods.

Cayden drove clear. "You better get police to Key Biscayne, in case he makes it that far."

"Where else could he go?" Sly said. Cayden had to press the phone tight against his ear to hear above the noise.

"There're some boats around, I'm checking them out."

"Stay put Cayden, you can't do this on your own."

"He didn't give me a chance to negotiate Sly," A reflection out of the corner of his eye. Cayden looked up. A helicopter coming in low. "There's a helicopter Sly,"

"I know, the bag has a tracking device, remember."

"They've stripped her Sly, fucking stripped her," Cayden was heading towards the anchored fishing boat. As he pulled up to the stern, the screen doors flew back and a topless woman ran out. She shrieked, her hand covering her breasts when she saw Cayden. A man appeared, naked, he covered himself quickly and pulled her back into the saloon, slamming the doors closed.

"Two down," Cayden said into the phone, the clatter of the helicopter close behind.

"Throttle back Cayden, pilot says he can drop me on that platform at the rear," Sly said.

Cayden could see Sly in the open doorway. The Jet Ranger drifted closer until it was over the paragliding platform. The downdraft pummeled Cayden into his seat, when the skid kissed the platform, Sly casually stepped across.

Cayden turned the Brigand and started towards the open fishing boat with the blue canopy. As he approached, the man suddenly straightened and put his rod down. He went to the helm position, started the engine and sped away.

"Got you," Cayden shouted and threw the phone on the seat next to him. The Brigand flattened her nose as she came up onto the plane. It was no contest. The fishing boat had a single outboard. Suddenly it stopped and Cayden wrenched the wheel hard to starboard. The Brigand lurched to the right, spraying a sheet of white water. The man, warily nodded at Cayden and then went back to the stern, where he retrieved the rod and cast out a line.

"Shit," Cayden breathed.

"You really are a fucking asshole," Sly yelled, examining a gash in her elbow. "And look at your fucking phone," she held up the broken pieces.

"Welcome aboard," Cayden said as she slid in beside him.

"How's Maalik going to get in touch with you now," she said throwing the pieces into a cup holder.

Cayden showed her the photograph of Rachel and her scowl deepened. "She looks unhurt," she said finally. "In an empty pool," she showed him the edge of what appeared to be chrome steps coming halfway down the wall. "I know it looks bad Cayden but she's not hurt, which is more than I can say for my fucking elbow."

"There'll be a first aid box in the heads."

"Gee, thanks," Sly said dabbing the cut with a finger.

"Where's that diver?" Cayden said.

Sly held up her police radio and asked for the Coastguard.

Cayden watched a cigarette boat race across the horizon. It was coming up from the Keys and he could hear the V8 engines above the burbling of their own, the spray flying from her stern, looked like a following cloud.

Sly was asking how close the Coastguard cutter was. They had sonar, which could track the diver. She was advised the closest was coming from Fort Lauderdale and would be in position within thirty minutes.

"Don't you think you should have thought of that earlier," Cayden said.

"We couldn't cover every eventuality and this possibility didn't occur to us... me."

"I should have insisted he take me with him."

"What on? His back? We have to get your phone fixed."

Cayden watched the cigarette boat suddenly stop near a yellow buoy that was out past the two young fishermen he had surprised on the Bertram. There were several yellow buoys around, used as race marks. Cayden's eyes narrowed. He picked up the binoculars and cursed that he could only see properly through one eye.

In the jostled image, he saw a figure lean over the side. He held his arms tight against his body to keep the image as still as possible. The figure was hauling in a rope, then a black, oblong object flashed over the side. Immediately the sleek powerboat started forward again, its engines thundering across the water as it quickly accelerated back up to speed. It headed for the gap between Fisher Island and Miami Beach.

"That's it," Cayden cried. "They've just picked up the money, the diver tied it to the buoy." The engines bellowed and Sly grabbed a seat for support.

The Cigarette was already half a mile ahead and entering the gap.

"Leave it Cayden. I'll get Miami PD onto it," Sly yelled.

"How? The transmitter's here. No! I've had enough."

"Cayden, you're being an idiot," Sly tried to reach for the ignition key but the Brigand was up to full speed and it became impossible to do anymore than hold on. The engines thundered, the hull leapt several waves at a time. Spray stung their faces. The hull crashed through the chop with a sound of heavy artillery, it rattled their teeth and their knees compressed with the jolt.

The Cigarette was already rounding the north of Fisher Island.

Cayden made a decision and turned aggressively to port. Sly screamed as she lost her grip. A wall of white water curled away from the hull, they skipped sideways, the design barely able to hold on to the tremendous pressure of the turn. Finally, he had the bow pointing in the direction he wanted. Immediately the hull flattened, the ride more comfortable as they raced with the swell, the Brigand gained a few more knots.

Sly dragged herself back from the curved seating area. She had another cut, this time above the eye, she looked like she might go for her gun but decided to wedge herself into the chair and grimly hang on. Cayden headed south of Fisher Island and hoped that he could catch the Cigarette before it entered the maze of inland waterways.

The depth proximity warning sounded as he tore through the gap. He would waste valuable seconds if he went out to the marked channel. It was fate whether they ripped the hull out.

They made it through and the water flattened giving them another few knots.

Desperately Cayden searched the crowded water. A Coaster and Cruise Ship were steaming slowly out to the Straits; numerous pleasure boats dotted the area, their wakes criss-crossed the bay.

"There," Sly shouted and Cayden picked out the flash of spray the far side of the Coaster, "it's heading towards the Miami River."

Coming south of Fisher Island had shortened the distance. Cayden had not slackened the Brigand's speed and now he urged every ounce out of her. They ripped down the side of an anchored Freighter, a man on deck waving.

Quickly they entered the narrow confines of the river. Buildings flashed by as if they were suddenly driving a freeway. Bridges blurred overhead, people standing bemused by the boat racing ahead. A few held up broken fishing rods. The exhaust amplified off the concrete banks and bridge supports. Sly was shouting on the radio, repeating her instructions.

"How far does this go?" Cayden yelled

"Okeechobee," Sly said her knuckles white on the grab handle.

Cayden glanced at her for further information but she angrily pointed forward.

They were catching the Cigarette. Her hull design was for open water speed, not so suited for the tight turns and confines of the river. They reached a section where a road ran parallel to the river. Two police cars were accelerating to catch the Cigarette. The driver saw them draw alongside. Cayden had managed to get within a few yards of its stern; arrowing down the white turbulence of the speeding boat, the wash crashing like surf against the concrete walls. Boats tied against jetties hurled against their moorings.

The driver glanced over his shoulder, a double-take of surprise at the sight of the other boat. Cayden could not tell if it was Maalik, the figure wore a black beany hat, sunglasses and a boating jacket with the collar pulled up. A handgun flashed in his right hand, leveled at one of the police cruisers. Bursts of gun smoke and the cruiser braked heavily. He then fired blindly over his shoulder and Sly dragged Cayden down behind the wheel.

They passed under a railway bridge, the sound of the freight wagons rolling overhead drowned by the blast of their exhaust. The road disappeared behind houses and then they flashed under a major intersection of roads and railways.

"That's route one twelve," Sly shouted. "The airport is over there," she pointed off to their left. In the gloom of the bridges their speed became even more frightening. It was difficult to see the edge of the river. The noise was deafening and bits of wood and other refuse banged off the hull with frightening cracks of sound.

They shot from the shadows into a straight canal with roads parallel either side. Police cars again drew up to the Cigarette, a shotgun appeared and fired at the figure hunched over the wheel. Sly was shouting in the radio for them not to return fire. The Cigarette bounced off several moored boats as the driver ducked lower, unable to see ahead. Bits of fiberglass rained over the bow of the Brigand, a section starred the smoked glass screen.

Cayden held grimly to the wheel, edging the bow of the Brigand closer.

Sly yelled into her radio and finally succeeded in stopping the police from shooting. The Cigarette once again picked up speed.

"That's Martin Luther King Boulevard," Sly shouted. "We're heading out towards the Everglades."

Cayden adjusted his sunglasses, the throttles on maximum. The canal; a straight strip of blue through concrete. The police cars kept pace, roof lights flashing, sirens just audible above the engines. A cavalcade of wailing, flashing vehicles moving at seventy miles an hour out through the suburbs of Miami.

A bridge lined with curious, excited faces, flashed by.

Another few minutes and the houses started to thin, patches of wasteland and grasses appeared. Fewer boats moored at jetties. Industrial buildings, mounds of stored sand and gravel, a cement works, some workers sitting on an old jetty jumped and ran up the bank, waving their fists. The police cars disappeared as the road bent away from the canal, it returned, this time on the right.

Suddenly the Cigarette turned sharply, vanishing into the bank.

Cayden wrenched back the throttles, the Brigand settled in the stern. The police cars screeched to a jumbled halt on the road. Cayden cautiously followed the frothing wake to where it made a ninety-degree turn. The Cigarette had left a black smear of paintwork down the sides of a concrete culvert under the road. He could see daylight the far side and Cayden turned the Brigand in the main canal and raced into the culvert, the concrete walls a few inches either side. It widened into a drainage ditch. The Brigand sent a breaking wave into the high reeds that lined the banks. The police could no longer follow and performed badly choreographed K turns, racing back down the highway, looking for an exit.

They entered a long curve. Two canoeists suddenly appeared surfing the wake the Cigarette had left, blocking the center. Cayden slammed into reverse and desperately spun the wheel. The Brigand ploughed through the reeds.

One of the engines coughed and stopped.

Angrily Cayden got himself back in his seat and pushed the two throttle levers still showing green. The hull vibrated and shuddered and the two working propellers sucked them clear. The surprised looking youngsters gave him a sign with circled finger.

He gunned the engines, clipping the back of a canoe, he heard angry shouts but didn't look around. There were new houses to his right and nothing but endless flat grassland to his left.

"The Everglades," Sly said scanning ahead. The canal seemed to go for miles disappearing to a vanishing point on the horizon. There was no sign of the Cigarette boat.

Cayden slowed the Brigand, his body tense as he waited for the Cigarette to spring from the thickening reed bank or charge from a hidden tributary canal. Eventually they found it, abandoned in a dense reed bed, its nose buried into a high grass bank. They could just see the shingles of a roof on the far side.

Sly pulled her gun, jumped cautiously onto the Cigarette, oily smoke escaping from the engine covering.

Cayden leapt from the controls of the Brigand and raced Sly along the deck of the Cigarette, leaping onto the muddy grass. Sly signaled him to stay behind her. She slipped and pulled herself to the top of the bank using clumps of grass. She lay flat. Cayden squirmed up beside her.

The house was new and looked uninhabited, a garden of brown mud. High bamboos and pampas grasses surrounded an empty swimming pool. Its blue plastic cover lay crumpled on the patio.

There eyes met. Sly clamped his arm. "Stay here until I give you an all clear."

In the distance, they could here the wail of sirens. Holding her gun in front, Sly ran down the bank and flattened herself on the ground beside the dive board. There was no shout or movement from the house.

Cayden watched her crawl to the edge of the pool and look over. A strange scraping sound and Sly pulled back. Cayden stood, he could feel every nerve tingling. Sly moved cautiously back to the edge and lay still before rolling off her stomach and sitting up.

"Don't come over here Cayden. Stay where you are!" Her face was pale.

Cayden reached the edge of the pool. An alligator. Cayden stumbled back as the creature craned its neck to look up at him, hissing, mouth open, mashed bits of bloody meat between yellow fangs. The alligator lay in a pool of red blood. There were body parts flung around the pool from its feeding frenzy. Directly beneath Cayden at the bottom of the white slope was a leg. It was a smooth female leg, torn from the waist, and around the bloody tissue and jagged bone - a black strip of lace underwear.

Chapter 20

"Where are they?" LBW demanded as he entered the control room, breathing heavily from the climb

The controller had pushed his sunglasses to his forehead, looking on the verge of tears. His airport in chaos. Black smoke drifted across the apron, shrouding the parked aircraft. Emergency vehicles zigzagged between them. One aircraft was asking permission to push back and somewhere over the Caribbean, a Varig 737 was calling for final approach. Now a fat policeman was leaning over his shoulder, demanding where the helicopter had gone.

"Shoo, go away, go ask him."

LBW scowled at the controller and went to the less frayed looking man watching the radar screen. Behind him was Dublo and Darnel.

The radar man shrugged his shoulders. He pointed to the approaching 737, several light aircraft and a Venezuelan military jet flying high towards Barbados.

"Has it crashed?" LBW asked.

"Maybe, but anything less than five hundred feet and we lose it in clutter."

LBW looked at Dublo.

Dublo scratched his head. "OK its range is about three hundred miles, speed of one thirty," Dublo walked over to a map on the wall. "So Trinidad, only twenty five miles away, Venezuela, Dominica, St Lucia, Barbados, The Grenadines and Grenada."

"Well, that's just fucking great!" Darnel cried. "Haven't you got another chopper or plane that can get up there and have a look?"

Dublo glared at the broad American. "Which direction would I send it, mister United States Marshall? Someone escort the Marshall out of here."

LBW pointed at the map again. "It's been twenty minutes, that's roughly fifty miles. Unless he's gone back to Trinidad, he's still on route. Dublo, call the police on these islands," LBW said jabbing a finger at the ones they had just mentioned, "ask them to keep a look out, and you," he pointed at the harassed controller. "Call the airports on these islands and tell them to monitor their radars for any unidentified aircraft."

The controller looked as though he was about to explode. Exasperated, LBW turned to the radar man who nodded enthusiastically and reached for his list of telephone numbers.

"Dublo my friend, call Captain Clay, ask him to send the police helicopter to search around Galera Point. If he's gone back, he'll put down as quickly as possible, and that's the closest land to Tobago."

Dublo looked affronted.

"Come on, I would do it, but he would spend half an hour bending my ear on how I could lose Gittens again, and I'm not in the mood," LBW said.

"Why would he go back to Trinidad?" Darnel said still studying the map. "That's just where he's escaped from. Right?"

"You still here?" Dublo shouted.

LBW held up his hand. "Because I think I hit him, it's the only place he knows where he can find a doctor that can fix him up without asking questions," LBW glanced over Darnel's shoulder at the drained looking white man he had seen earlier. "Can I help you?" he asked.

The man locked eyes with his, like a rabbit caught in headlights.

"Oh, he's with me," Darnel said not looking round. "Name's Jac Callejon. Might be his parents you found."

LBW scowled at the man standing in front of him. "You bought the son of the victims with you, to pick up their killer!"

Darnel shrugged. "He wanted to come."

"You're all heart Marshal," LBW said pushing past him and holding out his hand. "Hello Mr.Callejon, I'm Detective Inspector Winston."

"Detective, I've been trying to find out what happened," Jac said quietly.

"You want some coffee?"

Jac shook his head. "Was that the man who killed my parents?"

"They haven't been positively identified," LBW said glancing down at the ambulance, loading the man he had shot on a stretcher. He had finally killed a man. Gittens was becoming responsible for many firsts in his life. "I don't think it was a good idea for you to come down here right now," LBW said, looking pointedly at Darnel.

"I had to. Is there any way I can get to Trinidad?"

LBW watched the ambulance drive away. The Varig 737 landed with a roar of reverse thrust and a commuter Turbo Prop turned away from its parking spot, the propellers creating vortices through the thinning smoke. The controller behind him was almost shouting instructions at impatient pilots.

"May I ask why you seem convinced it might be your parents."

Jac stuffed his hands in his pockets. "My brother, Cayden...our company, has become mixed up with a people trafficker...Maalik. He threatened my brother that if he didn't cooperate...my brother...in his infinite wisdom," Jac said glancing at Darnel who was looking scornful, "tried to run things his way... and I think Maalik carried out his threat."

"I don't follow," LBW frowned.

"I understand Maalik uses Gittens as his...enforcer," Jac said quietly.

"Is that so..." LBW said looking hard at Darnel.

"Understand you've been suspended," Darnel said pointedly.

"Was," LBW said pleasantly.

"Anyway, this is a new development. When you let Gittens get away last time, we were here to collect his ass for gang killings in Miami. This," he jabbed a thumb towards Jac, "has only come up in the last week."

"Riots in Port of Spain Bumbles, chopper can't be diverted from there," Dublo said from the phone.

Darnel smirked.

"Gittens is responsible for these murders Marshal, he'll be standing trial here. He's also wanted for his part in my Sergeant's death," LBW said smiling. "By the way Dublo, I want the guy I shot shipped back to Port of Spain. If his fingerprints match those on my Land Rover, at least I found one of the bastards."

"What about if he murdered Buster?" Dublo said. "That's my area."

"And I need to get Gittens back to the States," Darnel said.

"No way Marshall. If Gittens murdered those people, he's staying." LBW looked at Dublo. "Either here or Trinidad."

"He's out of your jurisdiction Bumbles," Darnel said sarcastically. "Any of these islands are more likely to hand him over to me. They need to stay on good terms with the United States. All of you do," he added darkly.

LBW held his glare for a few moments before looking at the radar operator. "You finished making those calls?"

"Yes sir, all but St Lucia, he's helping load bags."

LBW had to admit he was not hopeful. None of them had sophisticated radar systems. If he flew in low and landed in a field, it could be hours before it was reported. Had he finally escaped?

"I've got to go take a look at the boat on Pigeon Point," Dublo said. "You want to come?"

LBW nodded absently. He didn't really want to see Buster.

"You two better get back to Miami. There's a flight leaving soon. I'll call you if I hear anything," LBW said.

"I must go to Trinidad?" Jac said.

"I'm staying right here too," Darnel said. "I'm darned if I'm gonna keep flying up and down the Caribbean for this asshole."

"Good luck," LBW called following Dublo out the door. They reached the bottom of the stairs when they heard someone clattering down behind them.

"Please, Detective, can you help get me to Trinidad?" Jac said.

"The airport's closed Mr.Callejon."

They walked towards Dublo's car.

"Are you not going back?"

"Ahuh, on my brother's boat."

Jac hurried up beside him. "Look, if I came with you I could identify the bodies. If it's not them, then at least that's one set of names you can strike off your list.

LBW thought for a while. "You got your passport with you?" Jac patted his pocket. "Any bags?" Jac shook his head. "You sure came out here in a hurry didn't you?"

"They're my parents Detective, wouldn't you?"

LBW got into the passenger seat. If it had been his parents, he doubted whether he would have turned up for the funeral. "Get in. There's no point you standing around."

"Thanks Detective," Jac said getting in behind him and sitting next to a scowling Dublo.

********

Buster's boat listed in the shallows off a crescent white beach. Two police officers sat guard under the shade of a palm, listening to reggae music on the car radio. As Dublo pulled up, they both hurriedly closed the doors.

A Land Rover had backed a trailer down the beach. They could see people moving in the interior of Buster's Boat and a police RIB tethered alongside.

"Who's on the boat?" Dublo demanded. "I ordered nothing to be disturbed until I got here."

"Medical examiner and forensics are on board sir," the younger of the two replied, standing to attention.

Dublo saw another smaller dinghy pulled up on the beach on the far side of the Land Rover. A few holidaymakers had their towels spread on the sand, an umbrella protecting their cold boxes while they watched.

"Get me out to the boat and clear these people back," Dublo said.

The young man sprang forward and raced to the dinghy while his colleague sauntered towards the nearest group of sunbathers.

Jac got out and stood in the palm shade. He shielded his eyes and watched them row out to the stranded dive boat. He could see the red paint on the bottom. It looked forlorn, mourning the loss of its owner. He glanced towards the sunbathers, reluctantly gathering up their belongings. He suddenly wanted to be one of them, on the other side of the cordon, carefree.

LBW lifted a corner of a towel. Buster's tan had gone, his long silver hair, a tangled black mass of congealed blood. A small hole in the middle of his forehead, a full stop in the deep lifelines.

The medical examiner was writing notes and two other men in shorts, t-shirts and disposable gloves were dusting the windows and surfaces for fingerprints. One of them pointed to a splinter in the wood trim. "That's were we found the bullet Lieutenant, nine millimeter. I think it was an execution killing sir, powder burns on the victim's skin, barrel very close when the trigger was pulled."

Dublo nodded, standing up from the body. "Just this victim?"

"Yes sir. Rest of the boat is all clear."

LBW fingered the tear of wood where the bullet had stopped. The man he had shot at the airport had used a P38 nine millimeter. It didn't surprise him. Just before his suspension, the Police Special Forces had intercepted a container of arms from Chile. The discovered bundles of P38's had been the modern alloy framed version, widely used by the Chilean armed services. "When was he killed," he asked the examiner who was now packing away his equipment.

"Four or five hours, maybe," the Examiner turned to Dublo. "You going to tell next of kin?"

Dublo glanced at LBW. "Don't think he had any relatives on Trinidad but check with Lee. I know he was from California, San Diego I think," LBW said.

The Examiner nodded. "Can we move the body?"

Dublo held up his hand. "Why kill him, Bumbles?"

LBW looked down at Buster. "Trying to escape?"

"At sea? In a storm? No way Bumbles, the only one knows how to drive the boat, and a bullet in d'head is a lucky shot Bumbles, if he was runnin' to escape."

LBW frowned. "Traitors," he said walking slowly over to the navigation station, a cubbyhole sandwiched behind the helm position and the seating area.

Dublo indicated the body could be moved.

"The radio like this when you came on board?" LBW asked one of the men lifting the body.

"Yes boss."

LBW held up his hand and they impatiently put Buster back down. He pulled back the chair and leant into the cramped space to examine the radio. He sifted through the smashed, unrecognisable pieces of plastic. Someone had been angry.

He straightened and looked again at the body. "Have you searched his clothes, everything?" He asked the Examiner.

"No, I just made sure his death was because of that hole in his head."

"How about you two?"

"No boss."

"What you saying Bumbles," Dublo said irritably.

"Traitors get executed. What if Buster overheard something he shouldn't and had been trying to tell somebody about it on the radio?"

LBW started searching Buster's clothes, looking in the pockets of his jeans.

"Say, Gittens had been talking about what had happened back at the villa and was discussing how they planned to get back to Miami. Say... while they were talking, they thought Buster was out on deck, or down in the galley or in the engine room, anywhere but listening to them. He hears what they have done and when he thinks it's safe, tries to radio it through. Only Gittens catches him, smashes the radio and executes him."

Dublo knelt down and searched his side of the body. "You think Buster was part of the set up? Then got scared?"

"Maybe," LBW said, sitting back on his haunches.

"Make's no difference Bumbles, for sure no message got out on the radio, enough people listen to the emergency channel when a storm comes through."

"Agreed," said LBW using the back of a chair to help him stand. "How 'bout if he also wrote it down?"

Dublo pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. "Maybe Bumbles, maybe."

LBW clicked his fingers at the Medic. "You need to examine the body."

The man looked annoyed.

"Look in his mouth and every other orifice."

The examiner's eyes widened. "Now? Here?"

"Get on with it," LBW snapped stepping down into the small galley area.

"Bumbles, this is going to take forever."

"Get a few extra boys from the airport, even those two on the beach."

Dublo slapped his hand against his thigh. "You're lucky Bumbles, you know that, coming off suspension, you're lucky my chief's gone to Barbados on police conference Bumbles, if he was here, your black ass would be on its way back to Trinidad, right now."

LBW smiled.

Dublo suddenly looked contrite, took hold of LBW's elbow, and steered him out onto the slanting deck. "Sorry," he took off his sunglasses, "I'm just shitting you Bumbles," he said quietly looking back towards the cabin. "Thanks for saving my ass back there."

LBW squeezed his hand. "I need to get Gittens."

Dublo nodded. "Y'will."

An hour later, with a dozen police searching, nothing had been found. There was also no news on Gittens.

Midday. The heated cabin had become a sauna.

Buster's body had finally been removed.

Lee had bought _Marlee_ around from Scarborough. He anchored and rowed over.

Dublo, no longer able to contain his irritation, decided enough time had been wasted and ordered his men off _Dive on Me,_ instructing one of them to arrange a tug to take it back to Scarborough.

"What's that damn fool doing?" LBW said as the dinghy bumped alongside. "Mr.Callejon what are you doing?"

"They asked me to bring this back to you," Jac pointed at the inflatable.

He helped Jac over the stern distracted by blue and yellow fish darting excitedly under stones dislodged from the beaching. A ray floated over white sand. A crab scuttled up and over the ridges. He imagined how cool it must be down there, then thought of Buster and how he would never again be taking tourists to look at it.

"Do you think we might be able to get going soon?" Jac asked appearing from the cabin and pulling a baseball cap more firmly on his head. His arms were pink.

LBW scowled at him. "Lee, why don't you take him across to _Marlee_ to cool down, I want to look around some more."

They all got up. "You wearing Busters cap?" Lee asked suddenly. On the front, _Dive or Buster you only live onc_ e.

"It was under the chart," Jac stammered.

Lee snatched it off. "Where's y'respect?" Lee said. A tube of paper fell to the deck and rolled towards the scuppers.

LBW skidded down the cantered deck and stamped on it before it dropped overboard. Carefully, he bent to retrieve it. The end was torn from a notebook.

Scrawled lines; _Been a fool – Gittens going back to Trinidad to pray one more time at the battleground? – tried to send to police at Blanchisseuse - radio destroyed. Sorry dudes_.

Lee read over his shoulder. "Peace, Buster"

Jac was rubbing his head. "I'm sorry," he said.

Lee scowled at him.

LBW patted Jac on the shoulder. "Let's get over to _Marlee,_ so I can think straight," LBW said.

Chapter 21

Cayden stood transfixed.

Sly fired.

It reared on its thick tail, clawing its way out of the pool, its nose inches from Cayden's paralysed feet, mesmerized by the silvery, unblinking eyes.

Sly emptied her gun into its gaping mouth.

The alligator froze, quivered, like a tree after the final axe stroke, toppled, its yellow belly a scar through the blood.

Police ran from the house, handguns drawn, surrounding the pool.

"Homeland Security!" Sly screamed, holding her badge.

Cayden paralysed, the grotesque finale to unimaginable horror, the sickening colours blackening as his mind began to rewind, his imagination the sucking black void beneath, his failing willpower, the fingers clinging to the cliff edge. He dare not say her name. His fingers clutched the letters, they were sharp, insistent, he could not hold on, his vision blurred, his stomach heaved.

Hands maneuvered him away.

Her smiling face.

Her name exploded in his mind.

He collapsed into the mud crying, "Rachel!"

Hands pulled him up, draped a blanket around his shoulders. They rolled him onto a stretcher, carried him through the house, the recessed ceiling lights became silvery eyes. He groaned her name. He did not feel the needle.

Sly was in trouble. She watched the ambulance maneuver out through the parked police cruisers and speed away along the residential road, full of curious neighbours. A news truck swerved out of its way. Overhead helicopters circled. _Kidnapped victim eaten by alligator_. The people in Florida were used to gruesome murders but this would go down as an all time great. This would go national. Her failure was crushing. She had been responsible and had mismanaged it badly. She felt despair for Cayden. The police cordoned off the house with yellow crime scene tape. Others were pushing back the neighbours and the gathering press.

The FBI team who had been at the hotel arrived. Tom found Sly staring down at the pool, watching Crime Scene Investigators, in white disposable suits and elbow length gloves start to photograph the body parts.

"Holy shit Williams, what happened?"

She had let it get out of control. She had not allowed the experts in to run it. She thought she was good enough, a thousand reasons as to what had gone wrong rushed through her mind. All of them had to do with her. Cayden had been right. She was out to prove herself and failed.

The alligator's head lolled over the side of a cargo net, suspended below a police helicopter, sightlessly gazing on the endless flat grasses of home before its autopsy at the Tall Timbers Research Station.

Black plastic bags were carried out of the pool to be sent downtown for analysis. Rachel's passport, a watch, necklace and scraps of clothes were tagged. Her dental records would be e-mailed from the UK, and fingerprints or DNA, if any were on record. They would have a positive identification in hours.

She watched the CSI team meticulously search the house and garden. If Maalik had left any clue then they would find it. They were professionals, she was not.

Numbly she listened to the reports and answered questions, most of the time she sat alone on the dive board. Camera flashes lit the stained pool like a contained electrical storm, while above the light weakened as the real thing approached from the West. She could smell the alligator and the torn body. She bent forward, her head between her knees and vomited. Her eyes streamed with each heave. Eventually she looked up and found her boss standing in front of her, quietly waiting for her to finish. There was a rumble of thunder and a breeze blew in over the swaying grass of the Everglades.

"You OK?" he asked his mouth a tight line.

Sly nodded.

"I've been asking questions Williams and I think we've learnt a few things from this. A few things that should have been done differently. Will be done differently in the future."

Sly looked blankly at him.

"There's a lot of pressure on Homeland Security to get things right. Things like this are just bad news."

Her boss looked down into the pool for a moment. "You're off the case Williams. We should have distanced ourselves once we knew Maalik was not an immediate terrorist threat. Get some rest over the weekend. Report to me Monday, seven thirty."

He walked away, his arms straight at his sides, nodding to a few agents, briefly talking to the CSI leader. That was it. Her career over, but then she deserved nothing less. It started to rain, big fat drops. Another roll of thunder. Sly walked slowly to the house.

"Might it have been an accident?" she asked an investigator quietly, already feeling pushed out of the loop, like a satellite on a degrading orbit.

"Nope," the investigator said, "we found an open padlock on the diving board used to hold the alligator chain to the base. Looks like murder."

"I know you don't have to, but call me on my cell..." Sly gave him her card, "when the results come in."

Sly Williams walked into the glare of camera lights at the front of the house. The rain fell. A few reporters thrust microphones at her as she ducked under the yellow tape. She had no comment. Her shirt was sticking to her and she could feel water running down her back. She suddenly realised that she did not have her car and no means of getting back to town. She started searching for a ride when a reporter came up beside her. "Did you see the alligator eat the woman?"

Sly swayed, unable to focus on the excited young woman, eyes wide with anticipation, make-up perfect under the golfing umbrella. Sly clenched her fists, took a step towards her when Marshal Draper stepped in and guided her away.

"What the hell you doing?" she said shaking his hand off her arm.

"Trying to save your career like mine," rain streamed from Draper's wide brimmed hat.

Sly's head began to hurt with the force of rain. "Why's _your_ s in trouble?"

"Darnel failed to get Gittens. He escaped from a shoot out at the airport."

Sly shivered violently, hugging herself.

"You want to talk in the car?"

They got in. Sly plucked at the clinging material of her blouse. Draper turned on the ignition, set the heaters on full.

"Yeah," he said looking over his shoulder and reversing carefully through the parked vehicles. "My boss isn't happy with our performance either."

Sly could not stop her teeth chattering.

Draper gazed unabashedly at her breasts before selecting drive.

"What happened in Trinidad?" Sly said.

Draper told her, driving quickly out of the crescent of modern houses. The neighbours had disappeared with the storm, the atrocity not enough to keep them from their favourite soaps or chat shows, but then they had half-hourly news reports to keep their interest piqued, Sly thought bitterly.

"So, what're your orders?" she asked.

"Darnel's going to stay in Trinidad and I'm going to use our resources here to locate Maalik."

They drove out of the storm and into sunshine. Sly could smell her wet clothes drying. They passed a recycling centre, a cloud of whirling sea birds.

"You have a plan for finding Maalik?" Sly asked.

"Working on it. How about you?"

Sly rubbed her hair, pulling her fingers through the knotted ends. "I've been taken off the case Draper. I won't know if he surfaces on any of the surveillance team radars."

"That's too bad," Draper said and Sly could tell that her usefulness had suddenly vanished.

They were both silent as they drove towards the distant buildings of downtown Miami. To their right the canal, that a few short hours ago she had been racing along. If she had stopped Cayden, would Rachel be alive? Maybe Maalik hadn't planned to murder her. Maybe the alligator had crawled over the bank during the night from the Everglades and fallen into the pool accidentally. The padlock might have been for the victim.

"Where can I drop you?"" Draper asked.

"City heliport," Sly said.

Ten minutes later. "We'll keep in touch then," Draper called.

Sly nodded and went to fetch her vehicle. She sat for along time with her fingers on the ignition key. Occasionaly a helicopter would clatter down in front of her, the Buick rocked violently, and a government official or businessperson would step out. All of them earning in a month what she took home in a year, and yet none of them had to cope with seeing the result of an alligator victim. She turned the key and the Buick rumbled to life. She had made a decision.

They had taken him to the same hospital - the Jackson Memorial.

Sly hesitated before knocking. A nurse walked by and asked if everything was OK. Sly nodded, knocked again and when there was still no reply, slowly opened the door. She had asked the duty nurse how Cayden was doing. She reported that nothing was wrong physically but the doctor was concerned that he may develop post-traumatic stress. He had been given a mild sedative and kept in overnight for observation. Sly knew that PTSD could take a lot longer than one night to show itself.

Cayden appeared to be sleeping, his head turned towards the window. His face looked battered but relaxed, an occasional twitch under the left eye. Sly sat next to him and immediately his eyes opened, startling her. The peaceful expression dissolved. She tried to smile but her mouth just quivered at the corners. "I had to see how you were doing."

Cayden looked past her and out the window. They were on the ninth floor. "What time is it?" His voice was flat.

Sly looked at her watch. "Five thirty."

He focused on her. "Have you found him?"

Sly shook her head and bit her lower lip. "They've taken me off the case Cayden."

Cayden looked up at the ceiling. "Then there is no point you being here."

Sly bit down harder, his image began to dance with tears. "Your clothes are ruined. Do you want me to go by your hotel?"

She waited while the nerve jumped under his eye and his clenched hands stopped shaking the held bed sheet. "Do what you like, you always have," he said.

Sly stood and placed her hand on his arm. It was like an electric shock, his arm jolted away. "I'll be back in an hour."

********

Sly let herself in. The redundant phone tracking equipment had not been collected. There was nothing in the wardrobe, only a crumpled ball of material, which had been his suit. The drawers were empty. Her failure crushed her. She sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands staring blindly at the floor.

She'd find him something in the Foyer Boutique. "Shouldn't be getting involved," she whispered, "Just did my job, right?" She headed for the door, a mirror stalled her. Her damp hair looked like drying seaweed; the ends still wet enough to leave a dark ring around her collar, a smudge of mascara under one eye. She had always hated the way her mouth tended to drop at the corners, the thinness of her lips. There was a spot forming on her chin she thought miserably, trying to straighten the wrinkles from her blouse.

A man's face loomed in her mind's eye – one so cruelly taken – one she had loved completely. They had made plans; the names they were going to call their children. Tears slid down her cheeks, as they had at the morgue when identifying his cold, grey features. "Hold it together girlfriend," she croaked at her reflection, using toilet tissue from the bathroom to dab at her eyes. Sly zipped up Cayden's toiletry bag and started to leave. Her mobile vibrated. She did not recognise the number. "Sly Williams."

"Agent Williams, this is Dan...CSI...the pool with the alligator?"

"Oh yeah... Hi," she said

"I guessed you might be interested to hear that the guys who ran the autopsy on the alligator found a human head in its stomach."

Sly squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "That ain't helping..."

"A female head..."

"Dan!"

"She'd been shot before the alligator got her, which was good...in a way..."

"Dan, if this is some sick CSI joke..."

"It isn't Rachel Clarke," Dan said hurriedly.

Sly opened her eyes, pressing the phone tighter, feeling it going hot. "Say that again," she whispered.

"Yeah, the head belonged to a hooker reported missing three days ago, a Maria Gonzales. The rest of the body parts in the pool have the same DNA match, so we're sure she was the only victim. Your Rachel is still out there."

Sly could feel her hand shaking. "Dan, thank you, you don't know how good that news is!"

"Yeah, well I don't think the Gonzales family will think so, but hey, whatever."

Sly yanked open the door and ran down the corridor, a new desperation filling her.

Her SUV raced through the intersections, blue lights hidden behind the grill flashing, the siren whooping and rapid firing at pedestrians and obdurate taxi drivers. Jackson Memorial's main entrance was clogged with ambulances; she bumped up onto the grass verge and scrambled out. A security guard started telling her that she could not leave her vehicle there but she pushed past, flashing her I.D. The elevator took forever. Level five, she dodged an old man in a wheel chair. The duty nurse looked up with surprise as she ran past. Sly banged open the door to Cayden's room, sliding to a halt. The blanket lay half off the bed and the sheet rumpled where his body had been. She knocked rapidly on the bathroom door.

"Cayden, Cayden, you in there?" she shouted.

She pushed open the door, deserted.

She slammed the door closed and pushed her forehead against the wood.

"Where is he?" she asked a nurse who had rushed into the room.

"I don't know. Maybe down the hall at the vending machine."

Sly pushed past her and ran down the hall shouting his name. Five minutes later, she was banging on the duty nurse's desk with frustration. "How the hell could you let someone just walk out of here? How could you do that?"

"We're busy Ma'am. We can't watch everyone all the time. If they want to leave...that's up to them."

"Goddamit," Sly shouted. She slapped the top of the desk and then ran for the elevator. There was a queue of people so she punched open the doors to the stairway. The security guard was talking on his radio, standing next to her SUV.

"I've called a tow truck, you're not on official business I've checked...."

"Shut the fuck up," Sly yelled, pushing him aside.

The engine roared and she reversed away from the security guard, who looked as though he might go for his gun. Sly pulled on the handbrake and the Buick turned in its own length. The tyres squealed as she entered 10th Avenue, heading south. She turned left on 17th and switched off her emergency lights. There were a few people on the sidewalk but none of them looked anything like Cayden. She slowed and headed downtown, apprehension, twisting her stomach.

********

The old man's clothes stank of cigar smoke, mothballs and urine. The trousers flapped about his ankles and sagged under the crotch. The brown leather shoes were two sizes too big. The green checked shirt, unbuttoned to the V in the tank top was threatening to rip along the seams. He shuffled along the sidewalk, his head down.

The man in the room next to him was dying, so he had felt little shame in stealing his clothes. Traffic rushed by and the occasional person banged shoulders as the offices emptied and the sidewalks filled. Most gave him a wide berth. He had to keep moving. He focused his mind on keeping his legs sliding forward, left then right, his arms swinging by his side. He concentrated on where he was going, anything to keep her image from entering his mind.

He fought for the control he once had on life. He felt like a survivor from a plane crash. Relieved to be alive yet guilty others, more worthy than him, had not. He had killed her. The alligator had been the weapon, but he had killed her. If he had loved her the way he should have, he would have called, kept in touch, made certain above all else, that she was safe. Cayden pressed down on the box lid containing pictures of her smile, the joy in her eyes when he caught her look across a dinner table, her fierce hugs, making him dance, making him laugh...

"Asshole!"

Cayden looked up. The green man on the signal opposite had changed to a red hand. The seconds were counting down to when it would no longer be safe to cross. The pickup driver, who had been waiting patiently for him, had finally given up. He shook his fist as he drove past.

Cayden pressed the button again. Vehicles sped across in front of him. Workers on their way home, people going for _Happy Hour_ , shoppers returning laden with carrier bags. Hundreds of them past in those few minutes and not one looked his way. Please someone help, his mind screamed. But there was no one, he had seen to that.

Suddenly the green man appeared again and he shuffled forward. Half way, and stark images of his parents. Cayden stopped. Numbly he watched the hand appear and the seconds start to count down from twenty. The drivers at the front of the queue began to use their horns, flashing their lights, urging him to finish crossing. The cars started to move, the ones closest having to move into the other lane to pass. Each lowered their window to swear at him. Wing mirrors brushed by. One driver slapped him around the head. He could step either way, and it would all be over. The lights changed. He shuffled across to the sidewalk and orientated himself with the skyscrapers, letting his mind settle back on the shuffle of his feet and the swing of his arms.

********

Several cars back, behind a metro bus, Sly drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Something was slowing the intersection ahead. The lights had changed red and she had only traveled a few vehicle lengths. They changed again to green, they moved off normally. Sly searched for the problem, nothing.

She made a decision, reached for her phone, and dialed a number in the memory, relieved to hear the female voice answer the other end. "Lieutenant Gammon, this is Sly Williams."

A moment's hesitation. "What Williams? Y'calling to find out how we're doing in cleaning up your mess?"

Sly's hand tightened on the wheel. "Hey, save the lecture until this is over, help me out?"

"Wait," Gammon said.

Sly made a left turn. A gap in the traffic appeared and she accelerated into NE 15th Street.

"What d'you want?" Gammon said.

"I need you to put out an APB on Cayden Callejon. He's AWOL'ed from Hospital."

Sly could hear the murmur of voices in Gammons office. "You've heard it wasn't his girlfriend in the pool. Right?"

"Yeah," Sly said. "But Cayden doesn't know that."

"Oh."

Sly could hear the phone being covered while Gammon talked with whoever else was in her office. "OK Williams we'll put out an APB. You any idea where he might be heading?"

"Out of his mind," Sly said searching the sidewalks as she drove. "I don't know if he's got anything planned. He could be anywhere. I'm heading back to his hotel."

"OK we'll find him if he's walking around."

"Thank you, I appreciate it." Sly had a sudden thought. "Have you moved on the Captain of that freighter?"

Gammon gave a short laugh. "Williams, firstly, this APB's out, not because you asked me, I'm doing it so Callejon is out of the way. Secondly, you're off the damn case, so keep out and leave it to the professionals, people who wouldn't have put an untrained civilian in harms way in the first damn place."

"Cayden got involved on his own," Sly said.

"Tell it to someone who cares Williams! I've got the fuckin' Governor sticking his dick down my throat, demanding why the world's media is descending on his fuckin' city."

Sly ran a red light, horns blared, she flinched. "I'm sorry...if it helps."

"No it fuckin' doesn't, but I guess you're the one who's got to live with it." The line went dead and Sly threw the phone onto the seat beside her. She pulled up in front of the Gulfstream Plaza and ran inside. She asked the concierge if Cayden had returned. He had not seen him and neither had anyone at the front desk. She went up to his room to double check. Sly took the elevator to the marina level and hurried into Randy Royce's office. He quickly put down the phone when she entered.

"Hi, the damn police won't tell me anything." Randy looked crumpled. The deep lines on his forehead were dark crevices and his clothes were creased, the tail of his shirt hung over his trousers as he got up from the desk indicating a chair for Sly to sit in. She shook her head and asked if he had seen Cayden.

"No, what's happened?" he said. "You want some coffee?"

"Got any water?"

"Sure," Randy said walking to a fridge in one corner. He selected a bottle and handed it to her. Sly needed to unload; he was as good as anyone.

"An alligator...you're shitting me, the boys at the bar will never believe me."

Sly shook her head vehemently and glared at him. "I told you, Cayden doesn't know it wasn't Rachel."

Randy held up his hands. "I'm just relieved, is all."

Sly's expression did not soften. "For Cayden, or for business?"

"Aw, now come on Ms. Williams, the Callejon boys mean everything to me."

"You breathe a word and I'll have you arrested."

Back in her SUV she listened for a while to the police radio. The APB with Cayden's description was out so she hoped it would only be a matter of time before a patrol spotted him.

********

Less than two miles away Cayden stopped walking.

He stood in the shadow of a container in front of the Black Tug ship. Its deck was empty. The superstructure at the rear was floodlit and tall dockside lights illuminated the rest of the ship. There was no sign of life. He stepped out of the shoes. They were sticky with blood. He searched the shadows. He had approached from behind the storage warehouse, hidden from anyone watching.

He shook himself like a wet dog.

Concentrate.

He leant against a container and pulled a splinter of wood from his foot. Suddenly there was movement behind. Cayden stumbled and fell to the ground. The cat raced by, chasing a rat. He waited for his breathing to return to normal. There was a sound of claws on concrete, a skidding can, then silence. He listened to the background hum of distant vehicles, the occasional horn, a siren, the rumble of a ships engine, an aircraft, nothing close-by, no footsteps. He got up, hunched over, and ran the short distance to the bow.

He crouched behind a bollard.

Nothing moved.

He felt the bowline and lowered himself over the side of the dock. He hooked his legs and arms over the course, thick rope. Upside down, he pulled himself out over the gap. The rope sagged. It got rapidly harder as he started the ascent towards the bow. He blocked out the strain on his unused muscles. He pulled his knees up to his chest, clamped the rope between his legs, pushing himself upwards. The exertion sweated his forehead, stinging his eyes. The back of the shirt ripped as his muscles swelled. His head thudded against steel. Grunting with effort, he rolled himself over on top of the rope. He inched forward until his hands closed over the deck rail and shakily balanced on the rope. He stepped over the side and fell on the steel deck, panting from exertion.

Cayden surveyed the main cargo deck that lay between him and the superstructure. There was nowhere to cross in shadow. To his left he could see a hatch cover. He crawled over and it opened with a low groan. Cayden quickly stepped down to a platform and lowered the hatch. The darkness was complete. He could smell diesel oil. A ship throbbed by on the waterway. He groped for the top of a ladder, his hands sliced by the rusty metal. One rung at a time he dropped down until his feet came to another walkway. His toes stubbed against the holes in the steel. He could hear the occasional slap of a wave against the hull and once the muffled bang from a door closing. The walkway ended in more steps. Blindly he followed them down to a bulkhead. Cayden sat and rested his back against the cold steel. He closed his eyes and with difficulty imagined a schematic of the Black Tug Ship. One hundred and twenty meters in length, two cranes, one fore and one aft, capacity of approximately four hundred containers, forty percent below deck and the remaining sixty percent, including the Tomahawks on the weather deck. There were two holds separated by bulkheads, one of which he was leaning against, then the engine room and then the base to the superstructure connecting to the crew decks and navigation deck. The ship probably had a crew of eight. They would not all be on board. They would leave an engineer to maintain the generator, a watchman and he hoped that was all, apart from Min Oo.

Cayden found the wheel for the bulkhead door. A few feet on, he felt another door. He was in the watertight bulkhead between the two holds. This one opened with the same, greased ease. He stepped over the raised sill. Immediately he could see the forward cargo hold by the strip of light between the hatches above. The walkway went off to his right and around the edge of the hold. The light was insufficient to see the bottom. Quickly he walked to the bulkhead door on the far side. Through two more doors and he found himself in an identical second hold. Now he could hear the faint chugging of a marine engine, the ships generator. Square shadows of un-loaded containers below.

Through the last bulkhead door he found himself in a lit corridor, a floor painted grey, worn in the middle. Generator noise louder and from below. There were several doors off the corridor for storage. He reached the steps and went up. Levels of identical corridors, the higher he went the more alert he became. Another level, he had left the engineering section. He came to a muster point. There was a fire hose, several extinguishers and an axe. He unclipped the straps with shaking fingers and eased out the axe. Cayden passed the galley of stainless steel work units and saucepans hanging from overhead hooks. The crews mess, sickbay, a series of cabins, one labeled Engineer, his body tensed, expecting the door to open, confronting an oil stained heavyweight, holding a spanner. He ducked below windows overlooking the deck, two levels below the navigation bridge.

He heard a noise and pressed his ear against the door. Satisfied and without a moments extra thought, he shouldered it open and leapt over the sill.

He was vaguely aware of the soft carpet after so much hard steel, before concentrating on the two men sitting on a sofa at the far end of the cabin, watching a wide screen TV. They both twisted around, Min Oo was the first out of the sofa. "Who hell you?"

Cayden concentrated on the man next to him, thinning oiled hair, stark white parting, glaring like a white line on a wet highway, the sour expression, his grey pallor. Any thought of interrogation evaporated as Rachel's escort stood before him. He charged.

Burt Dick's eyes widened with terror as he suddenly recognised who it was. Cayden raised the axe as he vaulted the back of the sofa. Burt threw up his arms and screamed. The axe caught an exposed metal beam, the blade sparked. Cayden's body was pulled backwards by the blow but his legs carried on into a sliding kick that connected with Dick's stomach. His scream cut short with an explosion of air and he fell back onto a low table, sending mugs and plates crashing.

Min Oo reacted with speed, as Cayden scrambled to get off the sofa, he locked his arm around his neck. Cayden reversed the axe and chopped it over his shoulder. The blunt wooden handle connected with Min Oo's forehead with a solid thwack, the pressure disappeared. Cayden swung the axe forward towards Burt who had staggered back to his feet. The wooden handle, slippery with blood, flew from his grasp. Burt ducked and the axe buried itself into the TV screen with a blinding flash and explosion of glass.

Burt Dick started to run.

"You're a dead man," Cayden yelled, "murdering bastard," Cayden rolled off the sofa. Splinters of glass sliced his soles, he felt nothing. He leapt over Min Oo but his arm snapped upwards and slapped Cayden's ankles. Cayden tumbled and rolled, his head slamming into a steel wall. He groaned, fighting consciousness. He tried to focus. His fingers took a handful of curtain material and started to pull himself up. A weight slammed into the back of him and he hit the wall, spinning away, ripping the curtain from the pole, which rapped around him like a roll of carpet. He spun along the wall and fell across the threshold.

Rough, crippled hands pulled him out of the tangled material. Cayden felt one of his arms twisted up behind his back before being slamming over the chart table, the edge digging into his stomach. His head banged against the solid wood and Cayden felt blood spurt from his nose.

"You stupid man," Min Oo hissed in his ear.

Cayden coughed and spat blood. He twisted his head so he could see along the table. A figure cautiously stepped back into the room.

Cayden tried to move but his arm was pushed higher, he groaned with pain.

Burt Dick glanced at Min Oo. He ran his hands down the front of his shirt. He took a few short steps and punched Cayden in the side. Cayden groaned. "That's for twenty five years of treating me like shit," Burt Dick said, his eyes narrow slits.

"You are...shit," Cayden slurred.

Another punch and Cayden could feel his knees buckling. "You killed her. The police know," Cayden gasped.

"I did nuffing except sit with her on the plane. It was her decision to come." Burt confidently looked at Min Oo. He pulled a chair next to him and sat down. He twisted his head so he could look Cayden in the eye, then leant back and fumbled a cigarette from a packet. He blew a lungful of smoke into Cayden's face. "Not so high an' fucking mighty now are you. They're never going to find you. Like those stupid chinks, pollacks, and niggers, you're going to end up as shark food. And your gigolo brother, he'll be joining you, too. Then, Maalik says, I might be taking over the company..."

"Shut-up," Min Oo shouted.

Burt Dick looked up. "Fuck-off, I want this bastard to know how all his hard work is just going to be handed to me when he ends up feeding the fishes. Twenty five years of do this, do that, this is not good enough Burt, fix this, no you can't have a bonus..." he reached over and pinched Cayden's cheek. "How's that make you feel Mr. Cayden bloody Callejon."

Cayden coughed. "You did this because Maalik promised you the company... you fucking idiot," Cayden hawked and spat a bloody globule, which hissed on the end of his cigarette and spattered the corner of his mouth. "You're fired, no... liquidated... like I do all useless assets. I'm going to kill you for what you've done.'

Burt Dick sat back and started to laugh, a dry hacking sound while he wiped his mouth.

"How do you think you're going to run the factory? Everyone thinks you're a joke. You know what they call you... Dick Head...they wouldn't give you five seconds in charge..."

Burt Dick rocked forward on his chair and lunged for Cayden, the laugh a sudden scream. Cayden felt Min Oo's grip slacken as he tried to fend off Burt's attack. Cayden straightened and pushed back. Off balance, Min Oo stumbled, and Cayden pressed his advantage, running backwards they hit the wall. The air exploded from Min Oo. Cayden whirled and grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a swivel office chair, he swung it low, the casters punching Min Oo's stomach. He bent double and Cayden bought the seat of the chair down onto his head. Min Oo collapsed.

Burt Dick had disappeared.

Cayden skidded out into the corridor. He reached the lower level in time to see him disappear through the door at the base of the superstructure onto the main cargo deck. A figure appeared at the far end of the corridor. He was a small oriental, carrying a wrench. Cayden let out a manic cry and he quickly retreated down the stairway.

Cayden went out onto the brightly lit deck. Burt Dick had thought the engineer was going to halt Cayden's pursuit, for he had stopped and was looking back towards the door. He let out a startled cry, turned but his foot caught in a cleat and he stumbled. Cayden tackled him, his arms wrapping around his waist. His momentum pushed them back, Burt's arms windmilled as he tried to keep balance. The back of his knees hit the raised side to the cargo hold and Cayden's charge carried them over. They landed in the centre, the hatches had only been rolled into place and not secured, and with their combined weight, one section rolled away and they fell. Two levels of containers had yet to be unloaded reducing the height by eighteen feet. Their bodies crashed onto the top container with a boom that echoed throughout the ship. Cayden had thrust his forearm forward to protect his face and it crunched down on the bobbing apple in Burt's scrawny neck. Winded, Cayden rolled off, desperately trying to get air into his lungs, oblivious to the last gurgling breaths of his transport manager.

Cayden lay on his back, looking dully at the whirling stars. He was scared to move. His whole body felt on fire. Eventually he turned on his side and in the yellow dock light looked into the vacant, staring eyes of Burt Dick, his tongue hung slackly from his mouth, a dribble of blood ran down his cheek.

"Liquidated," he wheezed.

He heard voices and looked up. Outline of heads lined the edge. He tried to sit but a searing pain made him black out.

He came too, carried by his arms and ankles and then thrown into a cargo net and hauled upwards. The crane swung him across the ship, away from the dockside and down to the stern of a sports fishing boat. A pair of highly polished shoes slowly walked towards him.

"Mr.Callejon, nice of you to come in person to pay the rest of what you owe me."

Cayden jerked and strained to look at Maalik's smiling face. He struggled to get up but a strong pair of arms held him. A black face scowled close to his.

"Please save your energy Mr.Callejon, there will be plenty of time for us to have a little chat later."

Cayden tried to wrestle away the hands.

Maalik laughed. "Put him in the fish locker that should calm him down."

The black man lifted Cayden effortlessly, carried him across the deck to the rectangular wooden chest lying along one side of the deck. It was eight feet long and three wide, lined with waterproof plastic. The lid slammed shut, a murmur of voices shortly before the reverberating rumble of engines. For the second time that night, Cayden was in total darkness. Rachel's image immediately came back to haunt him but killing Burt Dick had numbed some of the pain. He felt no remorse.

The seventy foot, Hatteras, _Blue Horizon_ , eased away from the side of the Black Tug ship. Captain Min Oo was sitting behind the boat driver, (a man Rachel would have recognised as the chauffer), an ice pack to his head as he gave directions for the channel. The bright lights of South Beach came close to their port side. The beat of music drifted over them. Under the palms, lit with strings of white lights, people danced at the Marina bar. Above, on one of the tower block balconies, a party echoed laughter and excited screams over the waterway to the distant lights of downtown Miami. The channel flashed a red and green pathway out to The Straits. The deep bass horn from a container ship sounded behind _Blue Horizon_ , warning everyone of her priority in the channel.

Sly heard the horn and turned from studying the people at the South Beach marina. The police radio had reported no sightings. She was becoming desperate. The behemoth vessel emerged from the docks and into the channel, its great bulk blinking out the high-risers of Miami. She scanned ahead of the ship and watched a graceful sports fishing boat pass from view. Briefly, she wanted to be on board, escaping to whatever exotic location it was heading. She sighed, if only it was that easy. Her gaze returned to the people around the marina.

Chapter 22

"All units, all units, code eight, code three response dock two five, PMB."

Sly jerked awake. She turned the face of her watch to the light coming from the Gulfstream Plaza's lobby. _11.05_. She could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Something had happened at the Black Tug Dock and her gut told her it had to do with Cayden. She had given up searching an hour ago, slumped behind the wheel not really knowing what to do next. Port Miami Boulevard had been under surveillance, so she had assumed any sighting of Cayden would have been immediately reported.

Patrol car Adam twelve reported code eleven meaning they had arrived on scene. An ambulance had been dispatched meaning there were casualties.

When Sly arrived, a dozen patrol cars and two ambulances ringed the dock. Their emergency lights were a stroboscope of red and blue on the white superstructure of the Black Tug Ship. A helicopter directed its spotlight onto the deck. A group of officers surrounded an unmarked car, backed into a gap between two containers.

Sly held up her badge to a patrol officer cordoning the area with yellow crime tape. The surveillance team had been hit. One hung over the steering wheel, the contents of his head sprayed on the inside of the windscreen. The other was still alive, the paramedics working on the wound to his face.

Sly ran up the gangway and over to an officer looking down into the cargo hold. The helicopter roared overhead, its downdraft buffeting her.

"What you got?" she yelled.

"Body," the officer shouted pointing down.

Sly looked over the edge and could see a man, his legs twisted at an unnatural angle. Two police officers were already down there, clambering over the tops of the containers. She turned away, relieved it wasn't Cayden.

Two handcuffed Orientals were led down the gangway. It was only a matter of time before she was ordered to leave. Sly slipped through the open door and found Captain Min Oo's cabin, noting the footsteps of blood in the passageway. She moved carefully. There was a burnt electrical smell. She stared at the red axe handle in the middle of the shattered screen. There was more blood on a chart table. She stepped over an office chair, to the desk. It was aluminium with a black leather top, bolted to the wall. There were files stacked on top of the desk and she moved the pile with her finger to see the pad underneath. It was a blotter with various scribbles and doodles over its surface in far eastern characters. She was about to investigate the draw when two letters caught her eye at the edge of the lower folder. She pushed the stack further off the blotter.

FL 845764 MB

Sly pulled her shirt from her trousers, wrapped the material around a pen and wrote the boat registration number on the palm of her hand.

"Fuck you doing Williams?"

Sly dropped the pen and spun around. Gammon was standing, arms folded, in the doorway. A team of investigators squeezed by.

"Still looking for Cayden," Sly said, hurriedly tucking her shirt in.

Gammon's baseball cap perched on her spiked hair, eyes black holes in a white, drained face. Her wrinkled t-shirt hung outside her jeans, a coffee stain over the Miami Dade Police Department logo.

"The body outside on that container," Gammon said walking over to the desk. "The missing Brit...Burt Dick."

Sly shrugged.

Gammon stuffed her hands into her jean pockets, hunched her shoulders forward. "I now have a dead detective and a seriously injured one, things are just going bad to worse on this," she said studying the toes of her trainers, "the shit hit the fan with the alligator, what do you think is going to happen now...Agent Williams?" Gammon said moving over to study the blotter.

"More shit, bigger fan."

Gammon tugged her hands from her pockets making Sly flinch. Gammon picked up the pen she had dropped and shook her head wearily. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She watched the men in white overalls and gloves carefully move round the sofa, photographing the bloodstains, the axe, the television. "What went down here?"

"I think Cayden attacked them," Sly said quietly.

"Them?"

Sly pointed at the two coffee mugs. "I reckon Min Oo and the dead guy, was sitting up here watching some TV when Cayden burst in with that axe."

"Maybe," Gammon said watching one of the team take fingerprints from the axe handle. "We know what happened to this Dick guy, but what about your axe throwing pal and Min Who?"

"Still on the ship?" Sly said off-handedly.

"Yeah right," Gammon said, stretching, her fingertips touched the ceiling. "There's fifty officers running over this tub, there's nowhere to hide?"

Sly frowned. "You make it sound like Cayden's one of them?"

Gammon folded her arms again and stared hard at Sly. "I'm keeping an open mind, I don't see as much sunshine coming from his ass as you."

"That's crazy," Sly said irritably. "Maalik's been using his boats to ship illegals into this country for months. Cayden's found out, been threatened, ordered to pay a ransom to save his girlfriend, who he still thinks has been murdered don't forget, he's out of his mind and I guess the only way he can cope is to go after them himself."

"Where's he at then? Look at it from my side, girlfriend isn't the one in the 'gator but a missing hooker...convenient, the money is missing...convenient, and now Cayden is missing..." Gammon adjusted the strap of her holster and rubbed her shoulder. "I've been told he didn't seem too beat up about his girlfriend when negotiating with Maalik, he lied about the BUI thing, inventing some stupid-ass story 'bout some girl he met at a bar, he quickly got the money together...maybe his fucking business in goin' down the tubes and this is some insurance scam. If you ask me, I think he's in on it, and now I've got an officer murdered, so if his face shows up, I'm shooting and asking fucking questions later."

"Bullshit," Sly said. "He thought he could sort it out himself. He's that type of guy. Maalik threatened him not to talk to us, remember?"

"Convenient," Gammon said pulling a face and searching for a stick of gum from a jean pocket. She un-wrapped it and folded it into her mouth.

"OK, he's in over his head, but a fight happened here and I'm betting those bloody footprints are his," Sly said.

Gammon followed the trail of footprints. An investigator was bent over one print taking a sample of blood on the end of a cotton bud. "You got something going on for this guy or what Williams?"

"No," Sly said loudly. Everyone looked in her direction and she stepped closer to Gammon whose mouth moved rhythmically as she chewed. "Listen Captain. We all know I screwed up. I think the guy is OK and doesn't deserve what's happening to him. I'm just trying to make it right."

Gammon smirked and was about to say something when one of her Detectives interrupted from the doorway. "Captain, you got a moment?"

She got to the door before turning back. "You coming, Agent Williams?"

Sly followed them back down to the cargo deck. They walked to the side of the ship, away from the dock. Burt Dick's body was lying on a black plastic body bag. The medical examiner finished and zipped up the bag.

"What you got?" Gammon asked the medic.

"First of all he didn't die from falling. His windpipe was crushed and several of his ribs punctured his lung."

"Why couldn't the fall have done that?" Gammon asked.

The examiner stood up. "He fell on his back and his injuries were sustained from something, or someone hitting him from the front."

Gammon shrugged irritably. "OK the dick's dead, so?"

The Detective grinned, knowing the victim's name.

"I ain't laughing detective and Minez's wife sure as hell isn't goin' to be," Gammon shouted.

"There's blood on the deck," the Detective said hurriedly directing his torch, illuminating the footprints, "see how they smudge and smear here, I reckon there was a fight, they fell through, one landing on the other," the Detective said watching the covered body of Burt Dick being carried away.

"Then there's this," the Detective shone his torch on the cargo net. "See, traces of blood."

"It's the dead guys," Gammon said.

"He was zipped up during the lift, this belongs to someone else."

"OK, so say two guys fell down. One survived. Where did he go and who the fuck whacked my surveillance team?" Gammon shouted.

"Maybe the Captain was the one who fell down the hole with the dead guy?" the Detective said.

"They were on the same fucking side," Gammon yelled walking to the side of the ship and watching the helicopter's searchlight move back and forth across the harbour.

The Detective looked annoyed. "Maybe they were having an argument over which TV channel to watch, it got down here, they started to fight and fell in."

Gammon turned slowly and glared at the young Detective. "She reckons Callejon was here," Gammon said, walking slowly towards him.

"How...how did he get on board? I've err, I've checked their log..."

Gammon took off her cap and slapped it against the man's chest. "You're the fucking Detective, why don't you go an'find out!"

The Detective scowled "Maybe this Callejon guy..." the Detective said nodding in the direction of surveillance car.

Gammon quickly held up her hand to stop Sly responding.

"Don't strike it out," she glared at Sly. "If you've got nothing else Detective, go away."

"There's this," the Detective held up a wooden pole with a hook on the end like a prize exhibit at a court hearing. "Found it next to the cargo net. It's a boat hook with these registration numbers here on the handle, but all I've got is F and an L."

Sly peered at the lettering near the top of the pole. From the deck lights, she could just make out a slight indentation in the wood, for the numbers eight and four.

"They left by boat," Sly said looking at the numbers she had written on her hand.

The Detective looked annoyed.

"I'll trace these numbers," Sly said.

"You're off the case," Gammon said holding her arm.

Sly shook it free. "I used to work with the Coast Guard. I've got good contacts there."

Gammon hesitated.

"Come on Captain. Give me a chance huh?"

Gammon looked up at the helicopter that was now circling above. "You're unofficial Williams," she shouted, "you come to me with anything, even before your boss, understood?"

Sly was already running from the deck. She was breathing hard when she slammed the door shut on her Buick. She reached between the seats and retrieved her laptop, plugging her modem into the port at the back of her machine, she waited impatiently for the signal to connect using her mobile phone line, she clicked through to her favourites and dialed up the Homeland Security dedicated server. She tapped in her user name and password.

She clicked on the DMV icon that she had pre programmed. The Division of Motor Vehicles website appeared. (Since the beginning of 2001 the DMV had taken over the registration of boats from the U.S. Coast Guard). She clicked through to the section on the website for boat registration. It was restricted access but her pass code got her in. She entered FL 845764 MB and clicked search.

_FL 845764 MB / New / Blue Horizon / Powerboat / Hull ID 2595730—3-3 / 72 feet / Built: May 2003 / Manufacturer: Hatteras / Boat Type: Sports Fishing Cruiser / Propulsion: Inboard / Fuel Type: Diesel / Hull Material:_ Fibreglass _-Plastic / Hull Color: White / Trim Color: Blue / Contact Telephone Number: 305 239 6673 / Physical Location: International Yacht Sales Marina, Tradewinds Blvd, Miami._

"Not any longer," Sly said dialing Gammon's mobile. "You need to send a cruiser to International Yacht Sales Marina, sea if a sports fisher called _Blue Horizon_ is still there."

Sly knew it wouldn't be, hitting speed dial for the Seventh District Headquarters of the U.S. Coast Guard, Miami, she got through to the operations centre. "This is Agent Williams, Homeland Security, restricted access clearance code green, Quebec alpha, I have a security incident and need any asset within a fifty mile radius of the Port of Miami." Sly said.

There was a pause while she checked. "Yes Ma'am, Sword's last reported position would put her in that area."

"Great," Sly said thinking quickly. "Can you send a Sixty-Five to the city heliport?"

"Negative there's flight restrictions downtown between twenty two hundred and six thirty."

Her phone beeped telling her she had an incoming call. Sly switched lines. "No Blue Horizon at the marina," Gammon said.

"OK, I'm on to the Coast Guard I'll get back to you," Sly cut Gammon off and went back to the operations centre.

"Listen, this is now an emergency, have you got anything at Opa Locka that can get me out to the Sword?"

"Moment Agent Williams, you're gonna' need the Duty Commander's authorisation for this."

Sly started the Buick and backed away from the surrounding patrol vehicles. The black Coroner's van, carrying Burt Dick's body, pulled away and Sly turned, following the van away from the dock.

"Sly Williams is that you?" a male voice said in her ear.

"Ahuh, who's this?"

"Pete Killip. Thames River, Connecticut... remember?"

"Pete... jeez hi, how're you doing?"

There was a pause. "You don't remember do you?"

Sly felt sweat on her top lip. Pete Killip? Who the hell was Pete Killip? She accelerated past the Coroner's van. Oh, she suddenly realised, feeling herself become hotter with embarrassment. She had spent several months at the Coast Guard training base and messed around with one of the training officers. He had told her he was single but she discovered he wasn't when his wife had paid him a surprise visit during one of their afternoon breaks. "Ah, Pete wow, it's been a while. How's the wife?" she slapped the wheel.

"Oh, we got divorced a couple of years ago," Pete said his voice sounding a little brittle.

"Jeez sorry to hear that," Sly said biting her lip.

"No biggie," Pete said. "Ops tell me that you need a _helo_ ride out to Sword. I got here your Homeland Security clearance Sly, and I know we are just one big happy family but my resources are stretched pretty thin you know, I got to prioritise an' all, so you're going to have to tell me what this is all about."

Sly turned south when she reached the end of the Port Miami Boulevard. She glanced briefly in her rear view mirror, the Coroner's van headed straight on towards the city morgue, she had a brief image of Burt Dick inside his chipboard coffin, waiting at the airport for someone to claim it.

Pete Killip had been talking. "Sorry Pete, listen I can't give you details, it's national security, you know the rules and you've got my clearance, so have you got anything that can get me out to the Sword."

Sly raced through a red light, Opa Locka airport was ten miles north of the central business district.

Sly gripped the wheel tightly, she needed Pete's cooperation, the Coast Guard was an official military service, operating slightly less formally than the navy, the old boys, very hokey and _what can I do you for you today_ , but that didn't mean Pete couldn't make things official and difficult.

"We've got a small problem with the Sword," Pete said sulkily. "Her on board Dolphin had a technical failure yesterday, won't be serviceable until tomorrow a.m. is what I'm reading."

"What does that mean...exactly?" Sly said braking hard as she exited I95, turning left on NW 135th Street.

"The heli-deck is full. No room for you to land."

Sly shook her head irritably. "I can winch down."

"It's dark," Pete said.

"You can do these things blindfolded and its national security Pete."

There was a long pause. "How far away are you?"

She was approaching the junction with Douglas Road. "Two minutes," she said.

"OK, I'll get the standby Sixty-Five ready to go."

"Thanks, Pete," Sly said, her tyres squealing as she made the turn. He was as good as his word, although she didn't recognise him when they met at the helicopter. He had grown a beard, not the manicured Ocean Drive kind, but bushy and very 'ole sea dog'. There was an air of despondency about him, which Sly found equally unattractive. Either she had been less discriminating during her training days in Connecticut, or Pete Killip was not the man he used to be.

"Thanks for doing this," She said strapping herself in and having to shout above the whine of the engines.

"No problem, perhaps we could go for a brewster after you've caught the bad guys," he backed away from the open door as the rotors started to turn.

Sly stuck her thumb up before settling back and mentally preparing herself to be lowered onto a ship by wire in the middle of the night. At least the sea was calm. There were a few clouds but no moon, which meant that it was going to be very dark.

"What type of boat is the Sword," she asked the crewman when they were out over the water.

"She's a Cutter Ma'am, a WMEC."

Sly looked at him. "A Medium Endurance Cutter?" she asked, noting the look of surprise on his face.

"That's right Ma'am. Two hundred and ten feet long, one thousand ton displacement and two, two thousand five hundred and fifty five horsepower diesel engines."

"Wow," Sly said keeping the sarcasm from her voice and accepting the life jacket he handed her. He helped her into it.

"Should be there in 'bout twenty minutes."

"What's her speed?" she asked.

The crewman screwed up his face as he thought. He also had a beard and Sly began to wonder whether it was a new 'Coastie' dress code. "Most WMEC's cruise about eighteen knots I think."

Sly sat back, calculating distances. If the _Blue Horizon_ had left, she looked at her watch in the red glow of the cabin light, approximately three hours ago, cruising anywhere between twenty-one and twenty four knots, she would now be seventy two miles from the coast. That would put her at Bimini, thirty miles from Freeport, Grand Bahamas, half way down the Keys, or a third of the way to Cuba. A lot of destinations, thousands of square miles of open water.

"Sword's returning from patrol off Cuba, she's 'bout here," the crewman said pointing to the centre of the Florida Straights, on a map he was handed from the co-pilot.

Pretty much equal distance from all the likely destinations for _Blue Horizon_ , Sly thought. Good and bad news Sly decided. Good, because Sword's intercept time would be the same for any of the most likely destinations, bad, because it gave her too many choices and if she made the wrong choice, then there was no way they would catch the _Blue Horizon._ Sly discounted Bimini as too small, with no escape. Key West was U.S. territory and she doubted Maalik would head there. Cuba was unlikely, especially on a U.S. registered boat. That left Freeport, New Providence Channel and from there out of the Bahamas and into the Turks and Caicos Islands.

Sly went forward and tapped the pilot on his shoulder, wedging herself between the two pilot's seats.

"Can you do a quick search of this area," she pointed to a section of the chart southwest of Grand Bahamas, "before we get to the Sword?"

The pilot, a Lieutenant Graves, also had a beard, neatly trimmed Sly was relieved to see, glanced at his co-pilot who scribbled figures on a pad. Lieutenant Graves nodded when he was shown the figure. "We'd have about ten minutes over the area."

Sly nodded. "You got night vision equipment on board?"

Lieutenant Graves nodded.

"We're looking for a seventy foot sports fisher, white hull, _Blue Horizon_. Can't be too many of those around, right?" she grinned.

The pilot's eyes wrinkled in a smile. "We'll have a go. I'll radio the Sword to head north. That'll give us a few more seconds."

With night vision goggles, a green sun shone. The image intensifier tube amplified the light enough to see the _white horses_ on individual waves; a cruise ship was almost blinding; a sailboat, its luminescent sails, angled towards the Bahamas; a commercial fishing boat heading back towards Florida, the crew sorting the catch, looking startled, with the sudden clatter of rotors.

Ten minutes passed, no _Blue Horizon_.

Lieutenant Graves indicated they had to turn for the Sword and Sly nodded. They banked steeply and headed southwest. Sly pushed the goggles off her face and rubbed her eyes. The last ounce of energy drained from her. It was coming up to one in the morning and she had been up since six. It felt like the boat chase with Cayden had been days ago. Wearily, Sly put the goggles back over her eyes and resumed her search as they raced towards the Sword at a few hundred feet.

Then, at the limit of the ocular lense range, she saw the flash of wake. She blinked her eyes and concentrated on the spot. They were three miles south of their previous track and she was looking further south still, so the boat was unlikely to be one they had seen before. The boat was moving quickly.

She asked Lieutenant Graves if they could investigate.

"OK, one pass." The HH-65 Dolphin banked steeply and dipped lower to the surface. The pilot flared off some of their speed as they crabbed in behind the boat. The crewman had joined Sly on her side of the helicopter and they both studied the wide transom of the boat.

"Definitely a Hatteras," the crewman said.

The tumbling wake partly hid her name.

The searchlight leapt down from the darkness.

"Can you see a name?" the pilot asked drifting the helicopter sideways, closer towards the stern.

"Big lettering right across her stern," the crewman said, "two words, and yeah, I reckon the first one is blue."

"There's a man on the stern," Sly said, "he's got a weapon!"

Lieutenant Graves extinguished the light, threw the helicopter onto its side. The crewman lunged for Sly, got his arm around her waist before she slipped through the open door. His harness prevented them both falling out. They leveled off a few feet above the water and roared away into the night.

"Everyone OK?" the pilot asked.

Sly could feel her heart thudding, her mouth was too dry to answer but the crewman confirmed they were.

"Did we get hit?" Lieutenant Graves asked. "I guess we've found the boat," he started transmitting their position and status to the Sword.

Sly recovered quickly and snatched up the map from the floor. "Show me where we are?" she asked the copilot while Lieutenant Graves continued to talk to the Sword.

The copilot pointed twenty miles due south of West End on Grand Bahamas.

"And where's the Sword?"

"About here," he said pointing to a mark in the Straits southwest of Bimini.

Sly calculated the distance to be seventy miles. At eighteen knots, it would take the Sword four hours just to reach the current position of _Blue Horizon_.

"No good. They'll be in the Bahamas before the Sword even gets here," she said.

Lieutenant Graves finished talking. "OK we've got something that might slow 'em up a bit. It's experimental but on the tests we've been doing, works pretty good."

"What?" Sly asked holding onto their seat backs as the pilot banked hard once again.

"You've heard of stingers the police use, right?"

"The strips they throw across road to blow out tyres?" Sly said

"Ahuh. Well we've a similar thing called the Mauler," Lieutenant Graves started to flare the HH 65, "on a canister under the fuselage we have a two hundred foot length of high tensile line attached to a buoy either end, weighted along its length - just enough to dip it under the hull - the line is made of this super strong fibre, as the prop action wraps it around the shafts it tightens and stops them turning. The beauty of the fibre is it cuts like butter when you slice them laterally, so a diver can free the shaft within minutes."

"Great," Sly said smiling for the first time that day. "And it works?"

"In practice," Lieutenant Graves said, bringing the un-lit helicopter to a hover. "We've got one shot."

Sly put on her goggles. They were at wave height. Forward and to her left, she could see the foaming bow of _Blue Horizon_. Lieutenant Graves crabbed sideways, the two courses converging. He adjusted the angle so the helicopter would fly directly across the bow. The Dolphin slowed to a drifting hover. There was a thud from under their feet. "That's the first buoy," Lieutenant Graves said. The bow of _Blue Horizon_ seemed too close. "We have to make sure he isn't going to turn away," the pilot said. The Dolphin gathered speed and the line dropped across the front of the fast approaching boat. There was another thud and the pilot announced the second buoy deployed. They banked steeply.

"The son-of-a-bitch is shooting again," the crewman said.

Sly scrambled back into the cabin, clipped on and looked out the doorway. The downdraft buffeted her head as she strained to look back at the Blue Horizon. She could still see the wake tumbling from the stern of the Hatteras. They must have already past over the line she thought with frustration. She craned out further and felt the hand of the crewman grab her belt and pull her inside.

"Has it worked," she shouted.

"The buoys have GPS transmitters, the Sword will know if it's worked," the crewman said.

They had been in the air two hours when the NAV system on the Dolphin bought the helicopter accurately to a hover over the stern of the Coast Guard Cutter.

Sly was in her harness and the crewman was checking that the lowering line was clipped to it correctly. Her mouth was dry. She began to pray. Without the goggles, everything was very dark. She could see the outline of the ship below and it looked very small with all its lights extinguished except the ones illuminating the small area of deck on the fantail.

"Going hot mike," the crewman said in response to Lieutenant Graves command to conn him in. Sly watched the crewman lean from the door.

"Trail line is out the door, trail line going down. Move forward and right. Trail line holding ten feet above the water."

Sly looked over the shoulder of the crewman, watched the trail line reach the deck of the Sword, and grabbed by a Cutter deck man. "Trail line on deck and being tended. Clear to move left."

The crewman clipped her harness to the trail line and his face creased into a smile in the red glow of the cabin lights. He held his thumb up asking if Sly was ready to go.

Sly nodded. She waved at Lieutenant Graves who turned in his seat to give a brief thumbs up. She swung out the door, immediately assailed by the noise and the two hundred miles an hour buffeting of downdraft. There was black sea directly below her, which she descended rapidly towards. For a second she thought the trail line had been released and she was going to plunge into the water. The sag in the line came taught however and she sailed over the railing to land lightly on her feet. Immediately, the deck man unhooked her and helped her out of the harness. In less than thirty seconds, the crewman on the Dolphin had retrieved the trail line and harness and Lieutenant Graves was heading her back to base.

For a while, Sly stood on the quiet of the deck, thanking the powers that be.

"This way ma'am." The Chief Petty Officer led her to the control centre underneath the main bridge.

"Captain Gementera, ma'am."

Sly shook his hand. He was the same height as her. Wide shouldered, clean-shaven. His broad nose, full lips and jet-black hair left no doubt to his Mexican ancestry.

"Agent Williams, welcome aboard the Coast Guard Cutter Sword," he said in a very Connecticut accent, at odds to his looks.

"Thank you Captain. Did we stop her?"

He led her to the navigation table and pointed to a marked spot. "Our GPS search radar locked onto the Mauler buoys the moment they were deployed. We've been monitoring the position for the last half hour, they haven't moved. I reckon we got ourselves the first positive field test result."

Sly, weak with relief, sat heavily. "At last Captain, something's going my way."

"You want some coffee?"

Sly nodded.

Captain Gementera served her a cup from a thermos. "The pilot was saying shots were fired, how dangerous are these people?"

"One to ten?" Sly asked looking over the rim of her cup.

Captain Gementera nodded.

"Eleven," Sly sipped her coffee, "people traffickers, but these only bring them half way, then let them swim the rest. We then have kidnapping, extortion, and tonight, one dead cop, another seriously injured."

Captain Gementera whistled. "So when we catch up, we'll just blow 'em out of the water.".

"Nothing would make me happier Captain, but there's hostages on board, one for sure, possibly two."

Captain Gementera nodded thoughtfully. "Okay Agent Williams, we'll save the twenty-five mill. We've procedures for this kind of thing, but you look as though you might have trouble concentrating. We've got a few hours I suggest you get some rest."

Sly was taken to a guest cabin. She wanted to shower and desperately needed a change of clothes. She thought of Cayden. Was he on the _Blue Horizon_? She fell back onto the narrow bed and was immediately asleep.

Chapter 23

Anything was better than the swimming pool.

Rachel had wept, shaking with relief when the chauffer had climbed down the steps, unlocked her handcuffs, and pulled her out of the pool, the alligator hissing and wrything in its chain. She had been allowed to shower, given her unwashed clothes but her soiled underwear had been taken away. Hope had flared that they were getting ready to release her, but she had then heard mobile ringtones, muffled, heated conversations and shortly afterwards, had been bundled from the room and into the boot of a car. They had driven for hours, the journey stopping and starting. When the boot opened, it had been nighttime and she had been dying for a pee. Handcuffed, she had been led through a cabin of a motor yacht and down to the forward section. She had used the en-suite toilet and then the mattress had been taken off the bed and the boards levered up, to reveal the coffin like space beneath. They had given her several bottles of water, a tube of Pringles, two sandwich packs, one cheese, the other a BLT and a packet of Oreos. They had tied her to one of the bed beams before burying her under the boarding and mattress. She had eaten, her stomach now willing to accept food.

The somniferous drone of engines and rush of water, and Rachel soon fell into an exhausted sleep, waking briefly when the engine volume increased with the hull beginning to lift and bang through waves with frightening ferocity, terrifying to anyone who was not accustomed to boats. It was when the noise suddenly ceased, that Rachel jumped awake, banging her head. The boat rolled and her shoulders thumped between the wooden struts supporting the bed above. She could hear the occasional stamp of someone moving over the deck, the distant shout of a voice.

The boards were removed. Rachel squinted against the bright cabin lights, like a child carried in from a car after a late night journey. She was untied and pulled from the space by a black man she had not seen before.

"I need the toilet," Rachel stammered.

The man ignored her but Rachel jammed her shoulder against the doorframe.

"Please..."

"You've thirty seconds," he said gruffly.

Three minutes later, she was led to the back of the boat. Maalik was waiting. "You took your time?"

"She used the bathroom."

Rachel looked over Maalik's shoulder, a short man with epaulettes and two others were leaning over the back.

"What happened?" Rachel asked.

"We've been snared by the hunter, Rachel Clarke," Maalik said grinning, a feverish glint in his eyes, "thousands of square miles of empty ocean," Maalik snarled, "and these idiots get snared," Maalik kicked a can of beer that had been set on the deck, sent it skidding across the faded teak, exploding its contents against a long white, wooden box.

There was a thudding sound from that side of the boat.

"What's that?" Sly asked, backing away form the madman, thinking that if she managed to get to the edge, she would jump. It was very dark beyond the brightly lit deck.

Maalik smiled and Rachel shuddered. "Let me show you the trap the hunter set," two quick strides and he clamped her elbow in a vice grip and forced her over the box, his other hand squeezing the back of her neck, forcing her to look over the side. Two white buoys with hard plastic shells, bumped against the side.

"You think they could have missed them, wouldn't you Rachel Clarke," Maalik hissed. "fucking idiots," Maalik screamed, twisting Rachel off the box and throwing her to the deck.

Rachel brought her knees to her chest. Pain flared in her back from his kick. "Get up, fucking bitch," Maalik yelled, wrapping her hair in his fist, he pulled her to her feet, Rachel cried out with pain. Maalik twisted her head so they were eye to eye. "Shhhh," he said spittle wetting Rachel's face. His eyes widened. "You and I are leaving these idiots, we're going on another ride, just the two of us," he clamped her to him and waltzed to the other side of the deck, again forcing her to look over the side.

A RIB; two outboard engines on the stern, a central drive console with a covered awning.

"You and me and Captain Min Oo," Maalik cried. "The owl, the witch and the pussycat," he giggled, "set to sea in a beautiful...silvery boat," Maalik dropped away from her and staggered towards the saloon doors. "Fucking idiots," he shouted disappearing inside.

"He's insane," Rachel said to the four of them, watching from the stern. She hugged herself tightly. "Where're we going?"

Maalik fell over the door slide. "No questions Rachel Clarke," he cried "your adventure continues," he lifted the bottle of Amaretto to his lips, revealing a pistol grip stuck in his waistband, he weaved over, breathing out its sweet fumes, "I don't think your man likes you," he sneered, "because he hasn't delivered what I wanted...to have his very..." Maalik reached down and stroked Rachel's crotch, "fine looking pussy released."

Rachel stumbled backwards.

Maalik smelt his fingers, sighed, reached behind his ear and retrieved a spliff. He clicked his fingers and Min Oo stepped up, lighting the end. Maalik breathed deeply. "You will remain my guest Ms. Clarke, and we'll have some fun, while you're successful, clever man, decides what he wants more..." he pushed Rachel to the side of the boat, "his bit of ass, or his business."

Rachel screamed as two of the men picked her up and threw her over the side. She lay winded in the bottom of the RIB.

Min Oo threw down a heavy dive bag to Maalik, who quickly stored it under a seat and then eased himself down, into the RIB. The outboards roared into life. Rachel glanced up from her foetal position. Maalik had his gun in hand. She strained to look up to the deck. The three others were standing by the gate.

"There's no point being pissed off with me boys..." Maalik pointed the pistol to the man Rachel recognised as the chauffeur from the airport. "Thanks to our very own hit and run man here, we have no diver, so you idiots, better decide whose going over the side to untangle the mess," the RIB edged away from the side, "I want this boat at the rendezvous in four days time," Min Oo opened the throttles and Maalik slipped back on his seat. "Make sure," he shouted waving his gun at them, "that bastard fully understands his instructions when you release him."

Darkness enveloped them. Maalik's eyes glinted from the luminescence emitted by the instrument panel. His hand clamped her wrist.

"Sit next to me, bitch," He pulled Rachel next to him. "Min Oo, how long have we got in this piece of crap?"

"Two hour," Min Oo said without looking back.

"Well," Maalik tipped the bottle to his lips, he offered it, Rachel shook her head vehemently. "I feel we haven't really talked," Maalik grinned, his teeth tombstones in the night.

"You're insane, that's all I have to say to you," Rachel said shaking him free and sitting on her hands.

"Oh! OK then, your choice, talk or suck my dick?"

Rachel locked her elbows, crossed her ankles, screwed her eyes shut

"What about your man, the amazing Callejon," Maalik giggled, "tell me all about him, how much money he has?"

Rachel did not move. She opened her eyes and stared at the back of Min Oo. The stars washed the inflated pods of the RIB with a pale glow. A fine spray coated her skin, she tentatively licked her lips, tasting the salt. _Images of a ferry, crossing a stormy channel, her mother's arm around her twelve year old shoulders, shivering in the cold, the spray raining on them, mother saying it was all going to be OK, a new life in Paris, a life away from 'that horrible man', struggling to understand - he had only ever been strong arms to climb into in times of uncertainty and pain, the giver of presents, the smell of comfort, safe, snuggled in bed while his deep voice read a story. Years of unhappiness, lonely days, the 'roast beef' girl, a hostile playground, cold nights in her aunt's attic, while mother established her modeling career. Rachel looked up at the stars, thinking of her father's death from drinking, a few months after she had been old enough to escape Paris and come back to England on her own._

Maalik thrust her head into his lap, unzipping his fly.

The unwashed smell made her gag. "No, let's talk," Rachel struggled.

"It's rude to talk with your mouthful," Maalik cried, releasing his penis, pushing Rachel's face onto it, "suck it you fucking whore."

"Please..." Rachel gagged.

"Suck it cunt," Maalik screamed slapping the back of her head.

Rachel took him in her mouth and bit down, her teeth slicing into the spongy, swollen flesh.

Maalik howled, clubbing Rachel's head with the bottle.

Rachel fell from the seat, her mouth full of the coppery taste of blood and his sweat.

Min Oo had stopped the RIB, pulling her away from Maalik, writhing and screaming, "the fucking whore bit me...kill her...bitch..." he staggered over to her, blood darkening the front of his trousers, he kicked her in a wild frenzy, holding onto Min Oo for support. Finally, exhausted, he fell back on the seat. "Get me antiseptic before that cunt's bite makes it drop off."

Rachel's body, rolled slackly between the drive console and the rubber side of the RIB.

Chapter 24

Cayden's soup of despair had congealed to despondency.

Then he had heard her voice.

Holding his breath, concentrating, unable to believe it. The lid above had creaked and she had spoken again. It had been Rachel, he was sure of it, yet now, still in his fish stinking coffin, it seemed like a dream. His hands were tied behind his back, lying on his side with his knees and feet tight against the wooden sides. He weakly tapped the sides with his hands, he was desperate to find out, they could leave him in the box for eternity, he didn't care, as long as he knew Rachel was alive.

He tried to concentrate. Maalik's furious words, the Coast Guard mentioned, the whine of an electric motor unloading the tender. Cayden sweated in the box. Rachel's voice, ran like a children's' chant in his head. He was sure it was her...was it?

Her voice and Maalik's had gone with the sound of receding outboards. Whoever had been left were arguing and shouting, the voice levels fluctuating as they came in and out of the cabin.

The lid suddenly opened.

Cayden blinked in the glare of deck lights.

Strong arms pulled him from the space and dropped him on deck. For a moment, he lay panting in the humid air, easing the cramp in his muscles.

Three of them knelt in front of him. The biggest, a black man with a broad flat nose, smoky eyes, scarred upper lip, and neck as thick as his thigh. Two Latino's either side, one had a crooked flat nose and a tattoo on his forearm and the other had studs through his eyebrows, lips and nose. The black man leant forward and ripped the tape from his mouth.

Cayden grimaced.

Metal Studs pulled a set of scuba equipment across the deck. "You know how to use this shit?"

Cayden looked at it blankly. "I heard a woman?" he said.

The three of them glanced at each other.

"Was it Rachel?"

"We're asking the questions," the injury had severed nerves preventing movement, so just the bottom lip moved, like a badly made ventriloquist's dummy.

"Was it Rachel?" Cayden insisted, pushing himself up on his arms.

"Yeah, you want to see her again, put this shit on."

Cayden glanced at the scuba tank, relief flooding him, spikes of euphoria, like a crack of sunlight on a grey day.

They pulled him to his feet, untying his hands. Cayden's muscles were stiff, he staggered with the roll of the boat.

"Move," he thrust the cylinder against his chest, his smokey eyes menacing.

Cayden nodded, straining with the weight. "Who was in the swimming pool?"

"One of Maalik's ho's," he growled.

Cayden nodded, absently setting the cylinder on the deck, checking the gauge. He felt like laughing. She was alive. "I need some water," he said, eventually.

"In the gear mother fucker, y'goin to see plenty of water when y'get in with the fish," he was wearing faded Bermuda shorts, leg muscles flexed and bulged with the deck movement. Cayden guessed he was used to boats, the same could not be said for the other two; _Metal Studs_ stumbled into the saloon, his body crashing into furniture, swearing and lunging for handholds.

Cayden inspected the regulator and BCD (Buoyancy Control Device).

Cursing, _Metal Studs_ made it back to the deck. He handed Cayden a bottle. The ice-cold water flooded his mouth, some spilled over his chin, he wiped his face to clear the stickiness. He pulled off the ripped shirt, while looking over the side. "What happened?" he asked seeing the buoys. His strength was returning, his legs responding to the swell.

"That's what you need to find out," he had pink scars on the back of his hands.

Cayden nodded. "I'll need a wetsuit, an underwater flashlight, a sharp knife."

The scarred hands whipped a pistol from the back waistband of his Bermuda shorts. He stepped forward and jammed the nozzle against Cayden's forehead. "Stop fucking with me?"

Cayden held up his hands, heart hammering. "Wait, something's caught around the props. I'll need to cut it loose," Cayden said managing to hold the smokey glare, "or you could shoot me, feed me to the fish and you go over the side and sort it out," Cayden said glancing at the other two, "or we could stand here all night and wait for the Coast Guard to help."

The swell sucked and banged under the bathing platform. He lowered his gun. "Down there. Get what you need," he said quietly, his face expressionless.

Cayden went to the open hatch off to the side of the deck. Metal steps led down to a small space squeezed in beside the hull and engine bay, racked with diving equipment. The man motioned with his pistol for Cayden hurry up.

Cayden managed to extend the time by ten minutes. "I need the heads," he said back on deck.

"The what?"

"Toilet," Cayden said.

"Piss in the sea," the black man said.

Cayden shook his head. "Number two's."

_Metal Studs_ swore, grabbed him by the arm and clumsily marched him into the interior. "Dick us around anymore, I'm breaking your bones."

Cayden locked the door, sat on the closed toilet seat. They needed to start the generator or they would soon be out of power. He wanted the boat to remain brightly lit. The bruising around his eye had faded to an ugly bluish, yellow. He rasped his hand over the stubble, the grey glinted in the overhead light. He turned away from the old man looking back at him. His body was black and purple with bruises. He stripped. His knees were particularly bad after the fall onto the container. The sight made him think of Burt Dick and his hand curled into a fist. "Rachel is alive. An eye for an eye," he said quietly.

There was an impatient bang on the door.

Cayden splashed water over his body before squeezing into the shortie wetsuit, which finished at his elbows and knees. When he slid the lock back, he was immediately hauled out and dragged on deck. Cayden decided he had managed to waste all the time he could. He picked up the tank and swung it onto his back. "Switch on the generator," he said walking to the gate in the stern that led to the bathing platform. "Otherwise you'll run out of power."

"Shut the fuck up," the black man said stepping forward and clipping a handcuff round his wrist. The other was connected to a length of chain which he held in his hand. "Just in case you get any ideas," he grinned.

"Where the hell do you think I would go," Cayden said.

The sea was cold at first but his body quickly adjusted. He clung onto the dive platform. The waves gurgled around him as he adjusted the regulator in his mouth, then pulled the goggles over his eyes and picked up the flashlight and diving knife from the stern platform. He had a sudden thought and removed the regulator. "Make sure you switch on the generator and not one of the engines," he said.

The black man pulled out his pistol and aimed at Cayden.

Cayden quickly put the regulator back in his mouth and slipped under the surface. After the glare of the deck lights, the darkness reminded him of the box. He switched on the flashlight; its beam disappeared into the black void. Sediment swirled like motes of dust caught in a ray of sunlight.

The hull of _Blue Horizon_ was outlined by the silver burst of bubbles from the swell. A shoal of fish darted through the beam. He looked directly up at the propellers and adjusted his BCD so he floated just below them. Whatever they had run over had done a good job. Cayden tested the caught line. It was as hard as steel, tightly wound around both shafts. The friction had slowed the shaft revolutions, until the sensors automatically cut off the engines, saving any damage to the gearboxes. However, he quickly discovered its strength acted one way, because when he bought his knife to the side of the fibres they started to part, like a wire through cheese. Twenty minutes work he estimated. He checked the stern glands, where the shafts disappeared inside the hull, they appeared undamaged. He heard the rumble of the generator starting. The idiot had pushed the right button.

Cayden first cut the lines attached to the two buoys, tying them off to a strut on the stern that supported the platform. There position would have shifted slightly but would still appear connected. Then he started cutting. Ten minutes longer than had anticipated, judging by his watch, the last piece of binding sank away into the blackness.

Something wrapped itself around his legs.

Cayden let out an explosion of bubbles in alarm.

He kicked his legs now wrapped in the slimy substance. He shone his flashlight and reached down pulling the plastic fertilizer bag from him. It floated away on the current like a white sail. Cayden floated, watching it drift away, letting his heart return to normal.

There were a couple of hard tugs on the chain and he dropped the flashlight. He started to swim after it but the chain pulled him short. The cold had made the handcuff loose. He surfaced and pulled the regulator out of his mouth.

"What the hell was that for? You made me drop the flashlight," he said.

"Why you taking so long," he demanded, waving the pistol at him. His bald head was clearly silhouetted and Cayden looked off to the east, pleased to see the pale grey of dawn.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Bout Five thirty. We need to git."

"I'll need another thirty minutes, there's about fifty feet of line to cut through."

"You got ten."

Cayden shivered. "I'm getting cold. I need a rest and something warm to drink." He was not going to give him the chance to argue and heaved himself out of the water.

They looked on with impatient helplessness. Cayden found the coffee and put a kettle on to boil. In the fridge were cokes, Budweiser's, and several rolls wrapped in Subway paper. He selected one.

"What's this shit," he snatched the roll away.

"It's cold down there, I need energy."

His smokey eyes narrowed. "You have two minutes."

Cayden smiled appreciatively, taking back the meatball sandwiches and putting it into the microwave, setting it for two minutes. He stirred the coffee using a pen, casually walking up a small flight of steps to the helm position. It was the best tasting coffee he could remember. The chart plotter was still on. He glanced behind. All three were out on deck. He pressed a button, and the screen split showing the radar image. He adjusted the range to maximum. Several blips appeared.

"What yo doing?" there was a jab in his back and when he turned the pistol was thrust into his stomach. The coffee spilled.

"What yo fucking wiv?"

"Just drinking coffee," Cayden wheezed.

He looked over the console his smokey gaze rested on the screen. He glared at Cayden, flicked his wrist and the pistol smashed the mug from his hand "Get going. No one's coming to rescue y'ass!"

The microwave pinged. "I need food."

"Yo'could'a been eatin' instead of poking y'nose around here. Now git..." he pushed Cayden back out on deck.

When he returned from the dive room with a new flashlight, he felt a burst of satisfaction that he had wasted twenty minutes. He put the tank back on. He spat in his goggles and smeared it around the glass to stop them misting, while surreptitiously searching the strengthening horizon.

Cayden swilled out his goggles and put them on his head before slipping into the water. It felt colder than before. He tightened the goggles round his eyes and gave a small salute as he sunk below the surface, the chain once again connected to his wrist. He touched the bronze propellers, confident they would not start the engines, he patted reassuringly the ignition keys in his wet suit. There was nothing for him to do except drift under the stern of _Blue Horizon_ , looking down through the depths, watching the columns of natural light slowly gain in intensity, the colour of water begin to transform from black to grey to deep blue. He was cold within the first few minutes but determined not to surface until they pulled him up. He checked the air in his tank. He had another thirty minutes. Cayden hung above the cathedral like columns of light. Where had they taken Rachel? How was he going to get her back? He pulled the keys out of his wet suit and held them in his hand, tempted to delay them indefinitely. The Coast Guard must be on their way, one of the closer blips on the radar screen could be them.

Would they kill him?

No, Maalik was still intent on getting the full ransom...but he was no longer on board... he decided he would rather be under way then stuck on a boat with tempers rising.

There were several tugs on the chain and Cayden snatched at the keys before they fell from his cold hands and hurriedly put them back in his wetsuit. There was another tug and his hand slipped through the handcuff. The cold had done its work. He grabbed the handcuff and slowly rose to the surface.

The man jabbed his pistol at Cayden. "Were the keys? Were the fucking keys?"

"How should I know? It doesn't matter, there's still rope around the shafts."

"You're lying," he looked off to the side of _Blue Horizon_ and now the water was out of his ears Cayden heard a sound that made his heart soar. Beyond the transom, he could see the dawn light illuminate the tumbling bow wave of a fast approaching ship. She was still a mile distant but he could hear the whoop of her siren and black smoke pouring from her stack. There was a sudden puff of white from her bow and seconds later, the scream of a shell passed overhead. A water spurt erupted a hundred yards away.

One of the tricks Cayden had learnt was, with several flicks of his wrist, to loop a mooring line around a cleat from the deck of a boat as he bought it alongside a pontoon. It was flashy, and impressed the customers. As the man still watched the Coast Guard Cutter, he flicked a lasso of chain around the man's neck. Cayden pulled with all his strength but only just managed to get him off balance. Shock exploded in his eyes, both hands went to his neck to release the pressure. The pistol clattered onto the deck. A swell lifted _Blue Horizon_ helping him to fall through the open gate onto the bathing platform. Cayden pushed away from the side. The man pitched forward into the sea. Cayden inserted his regulator and descended, keeping tension on the chain. He blew air into his goggles to clear. The big man thrashed near the surface, alternating between trying to release the pressure of the chain around his neck and swim for _Blue Horizon_. Cayden released air from his BCD and sank lower. The man suddenly gathered his senses and instead of fighting the chain, gave a powerful tug, ripping the handcuff from Cayden's hand, slipping the chain from his neck and swimming towards _Blue Horizon_ , his arms and legs like a surprised dog thrown in the deep end.

Cayden panicked.

He couldn't let him reach the boat.

He inflated his BCD.

He unsheathed the knife from his ankle and with the momentum of his ascent drove it into the exposed chest. Blood erupted and clouded his vision before his buoyancy popped him onto the surface. The man's smoky eyes were wide with surprise - frantic movements frozen. For a moment, he looked directly at Cayden, then the surprise faded, his eyes glazed, and his head fell forward.

Stunned, Cayden watched the body float away before the weight of his clothing took him under.

Sounds rushed back at him. He could hear the siren of the cutter but now the clatter of gunfire. He looked towards _Blue Horizon_. He was a few metres from the bathing platform. He swam quickly, hauled himself out and looked through the gate. The two others were kneeling on the fly bridge. One had an automatic weapon and the other had a long pipe on his shoulder. As Cayden watched, it fired with a jet of smoke and a flash from the rear. Cayden lay flat, the trailing smoke from the rocket-propelled grenade, devoured the distance. There was a flash of light beneath the bridge of the Cutter, quickly followed by the boom of explosion.

The Cutter's speed fell away, the exhaust subsided from her stack and the bow wave collapsed. She was a few hundred yards off the beam, the breeze nudged the smoke away and Cayden could already see crew pulling hoses. Men were standing at the forward 25 mm gun. It fired, sounding like ripping shirt studs. A series of geysers erupted in front of _Blue Horizon_. They were worried about hitting _Blue Horizon_ Cayden realised and the two men on the fly bridge new it.

Metal Studs was readying the RPG launcher for another firing when he glanced down to the deck. He looked for his colleague. He saw Cayden but no man in red Bermuda shorts. "Son-of-a-bitch" he screamed

Cayden was on his knees, paralysed with fear, waiting for the grenade to scatter his body over the ocean, mesmerized with the finger curled around the trigger, acrid smell of cordite, the siren on the Cutter, his senses acute, waiting.

The .50 calibre shells tore through the fly bridge. The two men dissolved like sugar in water, and then he heard the long rip of heavy machine gun fire from the Cutter.

Two RIBS raced across the gap. Men leapt over the side, their M16 rifles trained over the deck. Cayden was jumped from behind and spread-eagled, a knee between his shoulders pressing him down. "Stay down," the man ordered as the rest advanced through _Blue Horizon,_ securing each section.

The pressure finally released and he was helped to stand up. "Sorry sir," a young man said shouldering his rifle.

"You're one hell of a guy to track down," a familiar voice said beside him.

"Agent Williams," Cayden said uncertainly. She wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. A Kevlar vest protected her upper body. She holstered her pistol and smiled. "She's not dead is she?" Cayden said.

Sly shook her head. "No."

Cayden looked out over the empty sea. "So they were telling the truth."

Sly nodded.

"They said," he gestured up to the Fly Bridge, "the woman in the pool was one of Maalik's girls. I also heard Rachel's voice Sly but I was afraid to really believe it."

"She's alive, Cayden. What happened?"

Cayden let the tank fall from his back. He sat heavily on it and gazed blankly at the deck, listening to the orders and stamp of boots around him. "Maalik's taken her again, don't know where."

Sly crouched down. "She's alive Cayden, that's the most important thing."

Cayden smiled at her bleakly. "Is it? I have killed two people," Cayden whispered harshly. "Two!"

Sly squeezed his leg. "Self defense, we were watching from the Cutter."

"I feel drunk, like I'm on drugs, hallucinating this..." Cayden waved his arm up at the destroyed fly bridge.

"Focus Cayden. Concentrate on Rachel. When you get her back everything will be normal again, I promise." Sly helped him stand and step from the _Blue Horizon_ into one of the ribs.

As they approached the Sword, Cayden reached out and held her hand. "Thank you Agent Williams," he felt tears, "thank you for coming." He hugged her. She began to complain but after a while, her arms came around his waist.

********

_Blue Horizon_ lay alongside the Sword, the surface oily. The temperature had rapidly climbed to ninety-five. Pressure hoses washed down the fly bridge, blood dyed water ran from her scuppers, spreading like an inflating balloon across the surface.

They had spent all morning meticulously bagging body parts and collecting evidence required for the investigation when they returned to base. They had sent divers out to look for the body of the third man but with no luck. Cayden was still coming to terms with how he felt about that as he stood with Captain Gementera, inspecting the damage caused by the rocket propelled grenade.

"A few feet higher and that could have been serious," he said and Cayden shaded his eyes from the reflection of the bridge windows just above the black and buckled plating.

"I appreciate all you've done Captain," Cayden said, feeling inadequate.

Captain Gementera looked up at him and adjusted his cap. His face was serious for a while as he studied Cayden. He eventually smiled. "Just doing our job Cayden. Hell, the boys enjoyed the action. It's been a very quiet cruise."

Sly was at the rail looking down on the deck of _Blue Horizon_ , she was talking on a satellite phone.

"The missing man? The man I...." Cayden said.

Captain Gementera held up his hand. "I see the investigation going like this. Seventh Coast Guard District Ops handles the paperwork, states authorisation given to return fire on a private vessel in international waters because a USCG vessel was under attack, open and shut case of defending a taxpayer's asset with necessary force. Unfortunately one body was never recovered." Captain Gementera put on his sunglasses and looked at Cayden. "If you want to say something different, that's up to you."

Sly Williams appeared beside them. "Say what Captain?"

"Cayden's thinking about the third victim."

"I thought you'd have had enough of the media by now," Sly said adjusting her glasses, grinning, swatting a fly from her arm.

Cayden glanced down at the fly bridge of the _Blue Horizon_. "I feel like I'm getting away with...I don't know...murder," he said quietly.

Sly blew out her cheeks. "Crap Cayden, you've got witnesses, it's called self-defense," Sly stopped grinning. "OK, we'll talk about how you should feel about the scum-bag later, right now we need to get to Nassau. Is your Dolphin operational yet Captain?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. The engineers found a stress crack through a major part, the only way that _helo_ is leaving the deck is by crane."

"Shit," Sly said.

"I would love to take you there on the Sword but we're at the end of our patrol and just don't have the fuel."

"Shit," Sly said again.

"Who were you talking to on the phone?" Cayden asked.

"Captain Gammon, remember her, she wanted to be kept in the loop and I thought it only fair. She's OK really," Sly said giving a small grin. "Anyway, I'm officially off the case, and I don't have to report in till' Monday, so I thought I'd pursue this until..."

"You're not official!" Captain Gementera said whipping off his sunglasses.

"Yes, yes, but just not in Miami," Sly said quickly. "My jurisdiction's out here. If you're worried talk to my boss at Homeland Security, he won't be too friendly but'll confirm my status."

Captain Gementera still looked uncertain.

"Oh my God, look at the size of that!"

They hurried to where a USCG gunner was looking over the side.

Through the red stain around _Blue Horizon_ a sinister shadow glided, its dorsal fin occasional sliced the surface, leaving a wake through the blood slick.

"A Hammerhead, fifteen feet long," the young man said excitedly.

Sly shivered and looked away and Cayden thought of the body floating out in the depths.

"OK, there's no alternative. We'll take the _Blue Horizon_ to Nassau," Sly said.

Captain Gementera was still looking at the shark. "That's a stolen boat worth nearly two million dollars which we've been ordered to tow back to Miami," he said and when he looked up and saw Sly's expression he shrugged apologetically. "Orders are orders and I've already broken a few today."

An hour later, after patient negotiation, Sly managed to persuade the owners that it was better for their boat to be driven to Nassau then towed behind the Cutter. She had emphasised the risks, that a tow by a Coast Guard Cutter often resulted in considerable deck damage, much to the annoyance of Captain Gementera who was listening. She neglected to mention that most of the fly bridge had been shot away and was going to have to be completely rebuilt. Eventually the CEO of International Yacht Sales agreed that she could take his boat to Nassau, where he would have an inspection team ready and any damage would be billed to the government. Sly repeated the name of the marina in Nassau that they would meet at, and thanked him for his cooperation.

That left Captain Gementera. Sly waited patiently while he satisfied himself that all the evidence and pictures had been taken for the investigation and then she waited with growing anxiety, while he tracked down her boss.

After introducing himself, Captain Gementera grudgingly passed the handset to her. "Your boss wants a word."

Sly turned her back, chewed her lip.

"Agent Williams. You've disobeyed orders, used assets without proper authority, destroyed property, endangered Coast Guard lives, for what?" His voice was low, measured, Sly knew he was seething.

"Events happened fast sir...I acted on impulse..."

"Impulse!" That was the first time she had ever heard him raise his voice. "Nine eleven did not teach us to react on impulse Agent Williams."

"No sir, I just..."

"Shut up Agent Williams."

Sly blushed, she held the phone tightly, listening to the static.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what I can do with you, so this is what's going to happen. I need time to think about this, think about whether you have a future here, think about whether you have a future in any agency..." Sly scooted a chair over with her foot and sat, her back to the others, "...forget Monday, I'll see you Wednesday, seven thirty, do with the time what you will, but if you don't make it...for any reason, then I'll take it as your formal resignation and you can collect your things from PR. Put me back to Captain Gementera."

Sly pushed a hand through her hair, passing the handset back to the curious looking Captain, who listened for a while, said "thank you sir," and replaced the handset.

"I assume my boss satisfied your concerns Captain?" Sly said looking out of the bridge window.

"Didn't sound happy, but said you had full Homeland Security clearance."

"Good. Shall we go?" she smiled brightly at Cayden.

Cayden nodded noticing the tears in her eyes. He shook Captain Gementera's hand.

********

With Cayden at the controls, _Blue Horizon_ slipped her lines and left the side of Sword.

The crew lined the deck and waved, Cayden opened the throttles, grimacing at the dirt and debris littering the console from the destroyed bridge above. He glanced at the chart, (all her navigation receiving aids had been destroyed), swung the wheel to starboard and straightened her on a northeast course for Providence Channel. At twenty-five knots, the Sword fell quickly away, until her glimmering white superstructure dipped below the horizon.

"Here I found these, I think we deserve one," Sly said.

Cayden accepted the Budweiser and they clinked bottles. "Cheers," he downed the contents, which hit his empty stomach. He smiled. "Thank you, something I seem to keep saying to you." he clinked her bottle again. "You ever thought about a career in powerboats?"

Sly held his gaze, her eyes large, she looked away. "First, it's too early to thank me Cayden, and secondly I still have my job, tenuous I agree, but I still have it, and it's something I really want to do. You should understand that better than anyone." Sly wore a blue baseball cap with CGC Sword, a crest and WHEC 399 on the front. "Anyway, my boss might be a hard ass, but nothing compared to what you must be like to work for."

Cayden did not smile. He held up his bottle. "Any more of these?"

Sly saluted sarcastically. "I'll go check, Captain."

Sly had also been given a white t-shirt with CGC Sword and an outline of the Cutter covering her left breast - which was difficult not to linger on with the absence of any bra - blue trousers that unlike Cayden's, were a size too large and turned up at the ankles. Strands of hair escaped from her cap and fell down the side of her long smooth neck. Her jaw was clenched when she returned. She tried hard not to look at him.

Cayden took his hand off the wheel and touched her arm. She flinched, her skin goose fleshed. Cayden dropped his hand to his side. They stood riding the motion of _Blue Horizon_ , both feeling the tension. Cayden's emotions whirled. Rachel was alive, the relief made him light-headed, excited. He felt in control again after what seemed days of despondency.

Flashes of light off the bow and he concentrated on the flying fish fleaing from the tumbling bow wave. A lone pelican, lifted effortlessly over them, dropping across their wake, resuming its wave top cruise. Cayden felt his emotions following its dip and rise.

Sly finished her beer, lowered the bottle, running the tip of her tongue along the top of her lip.

_Blue Horizon_ rolled unexpectedly, like a well intentioned but meddlesome grandmother forcing two uncertain teenagers to dance, they stumbled into each other's arms. For a moment, there was confusion, their cap peaks jabbed each other and Cayden struggled to hold the wheel and prevent Sly from falling. _Blue Horizon_ settled. A look of panic rushed through her eyes, her lips parted. Her cap slipped off. Cayden bent and his lips brushed hers. Sly stiffened, but Cayden applied more pressure and like a flame to wax he felt her body soften against him. His tongue gently started to explore, she moaned and pushed hard, her hands clasping behind his neck.

Their hands moved urgently. He could smell the carbolic soap from her shower on the Sword, infused with her hot scent and sea, miniature detonations of arousal at the nerve centres throughout his body, a central burst of desire that sent a shudder through him. Sly felt it, urgent, moaning, her eyes tightly shut, nails running over his warm, muscled skin, pushing down between the waistband of his trousers, squeezing his buttocks. She moved her hips against his hardness and Cayden groaned, she snatched off his cap, fingers pushing through his short hair, following his shaven jaw, squeezing between their mouths. She gently pushed their faces apart.

Cayden opened his eyes.

Sly stepped back, her chest rising and falling, nipples hard points against the cotton, hair, a wild frame of gold, skin melted honey, she twisted a ring on her right hand, biting down on her lip, eyes, wide, uncertainty flickering over his features, then an abandoned cry, they attacked each other, tugging off t-shirts, stamping out of trousers, pulling off underwear.

Her warm breasts sucking against his chest.

"What about the boat?" she said breathlessly, her mouth still on his.

Cayden fumbled with the throttles, feeling them click into neutral, _Blue Horizon_ collapsed on her wake, settling, to wait patiently.

Naked, Cayden clenched her hard buttocks, lifting her, wrapping her long legs around his waist, her wetness and warmth enveloped his aching hardness and he froze with exquisite intensity. Every fibre taught, she started to move, their lips locked together, her hips moved rhythmically, his leg muscles burning with keeping them balanced, she pulled away, holding his face in her hands, she looked deeply into his eyes, small gasps escaped with every thrust. Cayden looked up at the ceiling and snarled as release swept through him.

But their bodies demanded more.

Sweat glued them together.

Sly, her stomach quivering from orgasm, held her thighs clamped around him, uncertain smiles, Cayden bent to her breasts, teasing a dark nipple. She moaned, hips moving, and Cayden could feel his own desire building again. He walked her to the wide couch, the air from the open doors cool on their bodies. They fell on the leather, her legs still wrapped tightly around him.

At some stage, Cayden switched off the engines and then the only sound was their cries and the occasional slap of water against the hull, now abandoned to the current.

However, _Blue Horizon_ was not completely alone, cruise ships passed like distant tower blocks, a freighter thudded by so closely that Cayden was forced to go on deck. They were interrupted again when a Captain from a sailboat hailed them, asking if everything was OK. These were only momentary breaks. Only when the sun, in a finale of red and pinks, dipped below the horizon, did they pull away from each other, exhausted.

An unusual splash roused Cayden. Dolphins were feeding, their graceful backs curving through the blackening waters, their skin catching the last glow of sunset. A few youngsters slapped their tails on the surface, one made a halfhearted jump. Cayden called for Sly but by the time she could summon enough energy to join him, they had disappeared. The yellow stain of town lights reflected off the few clouds to starboard. Cayden went to check the chart.

"That must be Freeport on Grand Bahamas," he said putting his arm around her shoulders and they silently watched the remaining light blend into dark, like a celestial hand controlling a dimmer switch. Her body was warm in the night air and he could feel arousal returning. They kissed, but this time it was different, dangerous. They both instinctively broke apart, thankful that their expressions were hidden in the darkness.

"We must get going," Sly said.

Cayden was silent and they continued to stand in the dark.

"How long will it take to Nassau," Sly asked quietly.

Cayden remained silent. A fish disturbed the surface near by and they could hear the distant roar of a jet passing.

"Cayden. We have to go," and he shivered as her fingers lightly traced down his arm.

"What if we didn't? What if we just disappeared?"

A wave slapped the hull.

"Then people will suffer. People who you care about... a lot," Sly said.

Neither of them wanted to mention her name. Cayden didn't want to feel guilty, not yet. Not standing there, and that's where he wanted to stay. Why go forward, back into the world of pain?

"I'm going to take a shower and then see if I can find something for us to eat," Sly said moving away.

"Sly..."

She stopped and he could see the curves of her body outlined against the white deck.

What just happened..." He slapped his hand against his thigh.

"Just happened," she said quietly and disappeared inside.

He blinked, like a camera shutter, trying to capture the scene, but he knew that the whole experience would flatten, become one-dimensional, the guilt would take over and he would forget the forces that drove him to that unique moment. Cayden retrieved his trousers and went to start the engines, their deep rumble forever breaking the dream.

Sly showered, and then retrieved the remaining Subway sandwich, cut it in two and carried it together with the last bottles of Budweiser, to Cayden behind the wheel. He smiled his thanks and they ate and drank in silence. Afterwards she took the wheel and he went to shower, washing away her scent with great reluctance.

********

Four hours late, _Blue Horizon_ berthed at Freeport Marina, the shadowy light did nothing to hide her wounds. The inspectors from International Yacht Sales, who had planned to meet them, had given up waiting. Sly was relieved. They were not going to be happy. She switched on her cell phone and it took a while to search for the Bahamas Telecom signal. It finally beeped with a signal and then immediately beeped several times with messages. She listened, holding it away from her ear. "Yep, the CEO isn't happy!" she said. She text the CEO stating that his boat was at the designated berth ready for collection. If he had any other problems he should call Captain Gammon at Miami Dade County Police Department. That would send Gammon apoplectic, Sly thought.

Cayden realised he must have accumulated dozens of messages on his mobile number. He wondered how Carol was coping back in the office. The thought of Tomahawk was disconcerting - another world suddenly. He had no wallet, no passport, no money, nothing, and he wondered if he didn't like it.

"We need to contact the local police, see if they've got anything on Maalik," Sly stopped suddenly and went down on one knee to do up her shoelace.

Cayden gazed silently at a heron standing like a statue on a light post. "Do you know where he's heading?" Cayden asked following her up the pontoon.

"I have a hunch," she said. "It's late. We'll have to wait 'til morning. We need somewhere to sleep."

"We could go back to the boat," Cayden said.

Sly stopped and looked at him for a moment and then smiled. "I think not, if that C.E.O. turns up, I don't want to be around."

Cayden felt foolish. "I need to get in contact with Jac," he said quietly as they walked through the gates and into the marina office.

"I'll call the Marshall he's with in the morning," she said smiling at the marina duty manager. "Here you go," she handed over the keys to _Blue Horizon_. "Name's Sly Williams, U.S. Homeland Security, people from International Yacht Sales will be along in the morning to pick her up."

"Yes Missy," the man yawned. "What's his name Missy?"

"You'll recognise him. He'll be pissed off".

They found a cab and the driver took them to the closest hotel with accommodation - the Holiday Inn on Bay Street.

The streets were still crowded. Groups outside bars and cafes, talking and laughing. Cayden wanted to stop the cab and pull Sly with him into the colourful mass but what could they celebrate.

The Holiday Inn was unremarkable. Regardless of where they built them, they all looked the same Cayden thought. Corporate identity, or lack of imagination, he wasn't sure.

"Only a double available," the girl at reception said.

Sly shrugged and paid with her credit card taken from a bag containing her passport, her Homeland Security Agent badge, a Body Shop lip care stick and her 9 mm pistol. When the receptionist asked for Cayden's passport, Sly produced her ID, explaining Cayden was going back to the States as a witness to a Federal Court case, and because of threats to his security, was traveling without identification. The receptionist looked skeptical but on glancing at the clock behind her decided it was too late to argue. They were taken to a third floor room, down one wing of the u-shaped, sand coloured building, overlooking a floodlit, rectangular swimming pool.

They ordered from the room service menu two mixed salads, cheeseburgers, fries, two one-litre bottles of water, and a large pot of coffee.

Cayden opened the patio doors and went on the terrace.

"Welcome to the Bahamas," Sly said putting her arm through his.

A Cruise ship moved out into the channel from the harbour to their right. It towered above them, the decks ablaze.

Giggling from below, and they saw a couple on a sun lounger by the pool.

The palm trees were lit by coloured lights and reggae music played from the thatch-roofed bar down by the beach, four men were playing table tennis, the occasional drunken cheer accompanying the tap of the ball.

Cayden clenched the railing, Sly's arm fell away. "What happened...was a release, nature's way for our bodies to depressurise. Tell me about Jac."

"Back to business huh?"

"That's right," he said without conviction.

Sly opened the door for the waiter. They sat opposite each other on the balcony. "Darnel..." Sly said biting into her burger, "the Marshall...reported a gunfight at the airport involving Gittens," she took another bite and shook her head at Cayden's startled expression. "No, Jac's fine, but the creep got away again," she took a mouthful of coke, "Your brother hooked up with a local detective...Winston I think he said, and he's got a ride with him to Trinidad."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Sly's eyebrow arched. "I only accessed my e-mails on the Sword and it kind-a-slipped my mind for a while, you know?"

"Sorry," he poured some water into their glasses. "Gittens is definitely linked to Maalik?"

Sly nodded. "Definitely," she picked up some fries, dipped them in ketchup. "He's Maalik's enforcer, dual U.S., Trinidad nationality, easy to slip in and out of the States so he could whack any threat to Maalik here in Miami, be back in Trinidad by the time the crime was reported, with a watertight alibi. I bet Gittens also couriered drugs from Trinidad to Miami, taking the money earned from people trafficking with you, back to the island." She took another bite of her burger. "Sorry... _with your boats_."

Cayden watched a moth bang against a light as he slowly chewed.

"Now everything's got too hot for Maalik in Miami, he'll head for Trinidad, I'm convinced."

"Why?" Cayden said.

"He's an operation already set up, contacts, this Gittens guy, hopeless immigration laws, he'll get a new identity and carry on. Trinidad struggles with corruption, gangs, all the usual bullshit. Like all the bigger islands, you have money, you'll become king of the heap in no time. Maalik's originally from Turkey but he can't go back, or anywhere else in Europe, border controls are tight and he's a wanted man."

Cayden allowed Sly to finish before he said anymore. "And Jac's going into the middle of it, shit!" Cayden pushed back his chair, went back to the railing, "Did this Marshall have any news on my parents?"

"No Cayden," Sly stacked the plates. "I left a message for Darnell to call as soon he heard anything."

"So Darnel has your number?"

"Ahuh, but the idiot didn't go with Jac. He thinks, Gittens went to another island, so he stayed in Tobago thinking he'd get a flight easier as soon as he heard anything definite."

"So how are you going to hear from Jac?"

"I'm assuming Darnel will be kept in the loop."

Cayden finished his coffee. "If Maalik's gone to Trinidad, how's he going to get in if the airport's closed?"

Sly joined him at the railing. The table tennis had finished, the four men were at the bar, talking to two girls. "He wouldn't have used it anyway, and definitely not with Rachel. There are float planes, helicopters, he could fly to another island and take a ferry or private boat, any number of ways for him to get there."

Cayden watched the girls suddenly surrounded by the four men. "What are we going to do?"

"Get Rachel back Cayden, I promised, remember? I'm also getting Maalik, there's no way some swaggerin' _U.S. Marshall's_ goin' to be putting him away"

"Prove them all wrong," Cayden said.

Sly nodded, her expression serious. "I'm good at what I do."

"We all are in our own little world, but when we get out of our depth..."

Sly leant forward, elbows on the metal railing. "You're suggesting..."

Cayden held up his hand. "Nothing... I'm suggesting nothing, other than I thought I was a good...negotiator... I was out of my depth with Maalik, that's all."

"And you think I should still be stamping passports at Miami International?"

Cayden was silent. A moth had crashed onto a plate, its wings becoming coated with ketchup. "You enjoy what you do?"

Sly turned, leant her back against the railing, crossed her arms. "Enjoy..." she frowned. "Yeah, a lot of the time, but satisfaction definitely...putting the bad guys away...yeah, nothing beats it."

"Someone once said, revenge is a dish best served cold," Cayden said picking the moth from his plate and flicking it over the railing.

"What the hell are you saying Cayden. This is all about revenge? That I've fucked up the investigation, possibly got your parents murdered because of what...?" she glared at him. "Oh I get it, you think this about my husband's murder?"

"Whoa, where the hell did that come from?" Cayden said checking that the coffee pot was empty. "I'm not saying that. I'm saying be careful. Maalik is dangerous, very dangerous. Unless you go at him with a cool head, he'll hurt you." He reached out and squeezed her arm. "I need some sleep."

Cayden had already settled under the sheet when Sly dropped her towel and stood naked by the side of the bed. Her body was beautiful. Long slender legs curved to slim hips with a strip of golden hair at the fork. He tore his eyes from the provocative strip to her slim waist and then her elegant neck, accentuated by her braided hair, clipped to the top of her head. He could feel himself harden.

"Business as usual?" she said uncertainly.

Cayden looked up at her. "If we do anything now, it'll be pre-meditated."

She nodded and slipped under the sheet.

He turned on his side, his back to her and reached for the light switch. "I don't regret what happened Sly," the light clicked off, "I think you are a very brave, beautiful woman, and I want you to be very careful."

There was the rustle of sheet, her hand stroked his shoulder, "I'm sorry for being angry," she whispered. "Could you hold me?"

Cayden rolled over, her body snuggled around him, his hardness digging into her, she adjusted letting it slide between her thighs, she sighed. Cayden squeezed his eyes shut, blocking the memory of the woman he was meant to love, his guilt, worming its way into him, which he would confront once she had been rescued, once she was safe and their lives had returned to normal.

Chapter 25

The little hospital was a small square building with a pitched, corrugated tin roof. The walls painted in two shades of pink and the shutters, fastened back against the walls, brilliant white. A striped lawn, bisected by a swept path of crushed coral led to the main entrance, protected by old wooden doors, gothic in style and reminding Jac of churches in England. He stood, looking down the path, the sun forcing him to narrow his eyes, wiping away the stinging sweat. He felt nauseous, but it had nothing to do with the heat.

A polite cough and Jac glanced over his shoulder. LBW waited patiently, apparently unaffected by the heat. He wore a lightweight jacket over his cotton shirt. A wide brimmed straw hat shaded his face.

Jac dropped his chin, his footsteps crunched on the coral. The few meters of path seemed tortuous. If it was them, he was sure he would never have the strength to leave.

LBW gave their names to the duty nurse. The nurses white uniform was as dazzling as the shutters. Jac's vision blurred as he watched the nurse look down her list. Eventually she tapped her pencil on an entry and glanced up with a puzzled expression. "You'll have to wait a minute?"

"Why?" Jac said

"I cannot say , please wait...over there," the nurse pointed to a bench.

LBW glanced at his watch.

They had arrived two hours ago at Chaguaramas marina. Showered and changed into clothes from the marina shop, Lee had driven them in his old Ford pickup to Blanchisseuse. During the journey, Jac felt the big man's impatience, especially as he had received information from Dublo, that they had found the helicopter near Matelot. Dublo's sister had been contacted by the local hospital; her brother in law, shot and left for dead, was alive but in a critical condition.

LBW paced reception. Jac could not be resentful. He lowered his head into his hands and stared vacantly at the polished tiled floor. A drop of sweat rolled off his chin and left a mark on the terracotta finish. This was too cruel he thought. To be kept waiting just a few yards from where his parents lay. Did no one care enough to make the process a little easier?

During the boat ride from Tobago, he had thought about his bleak future. His parents had been such an important element to his life. They had always been there. When he took the boys for Sunday lunch, their faces would light up at hearing their grand children's stories; receive with enthusiasm the pictures Dylan had painted at pre-school. He remembered staring for hours at the wake, thinking how easy it would have been, just to step off.

Footsteps approached. Jac squeezed the tears away and looked up.

A small Asian man in a doctor's coat with a mask slipped around his neck stood before him.

"How can I help you Mr.Callejon?"

Jac glanced uncertainly at LBW. He held his hands tightly in front. "I've come to identify the bodies."

The doctor's eyebrows arched at the nurse behind the reception desk.

"They've had to be moved," he said. "The electricity," he shrugged.

Jac closed his eyes, sat back in his chair.

"The refrigeration system kept stopping in the morgue. So, we arranged a truck to take them to Port of Spain. The hospital has its own generator."

"A truck..." Jac groaned.

"It was a refrigerated truck so..."

Jac leapt up and clenched the lapels of the man's neatly ironed coat. "You sent my parents in a refrigerated truck?"

LBW stepped forward, prising his fingers from the doctor's coat. "I'm Detective Winston. Were you able to get an identity for the couple?"

The doctor ran his hands down his jacket. He rose on the balls of his feet, squaring his shoulders. "No. The files had not arrived. We've been so busy with the heat and the air conditioning not working. Blame Taylor and his militant union, we're doing our best."

"Thank you," LBW said taking hold of Jac's elbow and guiding him outside.

The nurse called after them. "There was a woman here, two hours ago looking for them too."

"What was her name?" LBW said marching back and leaving Jac on the pathway.

The nurse rushed to her desk and looked through her diary. "Sorry. I didn't write it down."

LBW glared. She sat quickly.

Lee was leaning against the door of his truck. "What's up?"

"They moved the bodies to Port of Spain."

"No names?" Lee said

LBW shook his head.

"You want me to take him?"

Jac was looking at his shoes, one foot sweeping the path of crushed gravel.

"You have a charter in the morning?" LBW said.

"They're stuck in Tobago. I've got time."

LBW reached out and clasped his younger brother's shoulder.

"You want to get in Jac?" Lee touched his fist with his brother's before getting into the cab of the pickup. "Later Bro, you be careful now."

"Thanks Lee, thanks for everything," LBW said and his brother smiled before disengaging the clutch and roaring up Main Street in a cloud of dust and blue exhaust.

********

Marie knocked over a chair in her rush to get to him. She pinned him against the wall and kissed him until he had to break for air.

"You missed me then?" he said smiling.

She was desperate to show him just how much. The bed was not made for the punishment their large bodies submitted it too. The two front legs collapsed at the moment of combined climax and they rolled onto the floor in a tangle of sheets and limbs. They ended up side by side on their backs looking up at the revolving ceiling fan. Marie blew a strand of hair from her face and looked at him.

"Did the earth move for you too, sugar?"

They both laughed until they were clutching their sides with pain.

Marie had some left over beef stew and insisted that LBW ate before he left again. He sat down at the table, smelled the rich aroma of meat and vegetables.

"Looks like you haven't eaten in days," she said watching him pick up his fork and attack the food.

"I haven't eaten anything as good in years," he said lifting the bottle of Heineken that she placed in front of him.

"You could have it every day if you wanted," she said.

LBW slowed his eating. "You be careful now, with food this good I could eat you out of house and home."

Marie laughed her jowls wobbling with the effort.

"Oh, then we could move down to Fred's."

LBW laughed. "Well then, you got yourself a deal."

Happiness shone in her eyes and LBW knew he had just made the best decision in his life. When he had finished, he took hold of her hands and told her briefly what had happened in Tobago.

"That poor, poor man," Marie said when he told her about Jac Callejon.

"I'm going to get Gittens, Marie, he's going to pay, believe me."

"He's an evil man, Lancelot, I'm scared for you.

LBW held her hands. "I'm going to be careful, especially with all this great cooking in my future," LBW said kissing her tenderly. "When I come back it'll be for longer, I promise."

"You make sure sugar," Maria called after him as he walked down the steps from her porch and started up the street to the station.

The Sergeant jumped to attention and LBW smiled. "Sorry Sergeant I lost your gun," he said.

"No problem Detective Inspector Winston, how can I help this time, sir?"

LBW leant on the front of the young Sergeant's desk and pulled his phone towards him.

"You could start by giving me two minutes privacy and then come back with another weapon."

The Sergeant left with alacrity.

"Captain Clay, this is Winston," LBW said. "Captain?"

"I know who the hell it is," Captain Clay said ominously. "If you've called to explain what happened on Tobago, don't bother...I know."

"Dublo's brother in law was the pilot Captain, what could I do?"

"I warned you Winston, what would happen if you failed to get Gittens again."

LBW picked up a pen and started circling the date on the Sergeants desk calendar. Round and round, until the nib broke through the paper.

"Winston I'm up to my ears and I don't have time to talk to an ex-policeman," Captain Clay said, there was more weariness in his voice than anger.

"Wait, Captain just...wait," LBW said beginning to circle the 'Friday' on the calendar. "I shot a man Captain, for the first time, on duty, I shot a man. Now that may not be a big deal to you, or half of the men in the department, but it is for me. I'm not dropping this Captain, so I'm either going after Gittens as a civilian, and you might have to arrest me for murder, or you keep me on, and you get a commendation for another villain being put away, because what ever happens, I'm getting Gittens."

The line crackled and LBW thought the power had been cut, "Captain?"

"Yeah, I'm still here Winston."

LBW stopped scribbling and looked at a framed photograph of Brian Lara behind the Sergeants desk. "Captain, I know I've let a lot of people down, myself included, you've every right to kick me out, but I'm going after Gittens, the only way you're going to stop me is putting my butt in gaol, and I reckon you haven't got the space right now for that."

Silence, LBW could here shouting in the back ground, eventually Captain Clay sighed heavily. "Winston, I've got no time to think about you now, I've got paperwork coming out'f'my ass, so just...do whatever the fuck you want..." the shouting got louder, "don't you come into my office..." Captain Clay shouted and the line went dead

LBW replaced the receiver carefully.

The Sergeant stepped in. "Happening all the time since the strike," he said.

LBW looked up questioningly.

"Phone going dead," the Sergeant said handing over another 9 mm Walther and a shoulder holster. It looked new.

"You sell these things?" LBW said inspecting the pistol.

The Sergeants eyes widened. "No sir," he almost shouted, rounding the desk and producing a piece of paper from a drawer. "The station inventory sir, last pistol from storage, you see...the serial numbers match."

"Easy Sergeant, it was a joke," LBW said not looking at the paper. "I need one more favour. A car and driver."

This time the sergeant almost saluted and LBW refrained from grinning. He scowled instead, remembering that he hadn't told Captain Clay that Lee was coming in with Jac Callejon to identify his parents. He guessed he wouldn't have cared anyway. He wished Lee had a cell phone.

LBW settled in the back of the battered Toyota. "Matelot driver, and don't worry about the speed limits."

The driver looked with annoyance in the rear view mirror, Matelot was the next town north of Blanchisseuse, but because of the mountains, there was no coast road, and the detour took them inland.

"Come on get going," LBW said pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes. "I still need to get back to Port of Spain today." He closed his eyes and started to think of where he would _pray one more time at a battle ground_. Jada Gittens was not the sharpest knife in the box and therefore the code couldn't be too obscure. Where would he pray - a church, grave, a monument that had some particular significance to him? Perhaps where he had lost a brother or someone close to him in a gang fight - which could be the battleground too? LBW had not known about Gittens before the fated airport assignment. He would look at his records when he got back to headquarters. The only thing he could be certain of; Gittens had returned to Trinidad. He took some satisfaction from the fact that he had been right on that.

The island was more chaotic than LBW had imagined. When they had wound out of the steep passes in the rainforest covered Northern Ranges they encountered road blocks on the Eastern Main Road and Valencia Road, set up to catch looters escaping Port of Spain. He grew more restless from the delays and the constant radio reports of the troubles. It seemed everyone on the island who had a gripe against the government was using the situation to demonstrate. They had descended into anarchy and LBW was saddened with the Government's apparent apathy. The Trade and Industry Minister was blustering that the Government was not going to give into the power workers demands. The journey took three hours, double the normal time. A frustrating twenty minutes at the local police station in Matelot, to find the location of the helicopter bought LBW to boiling point. The whole building heard what he thought of the desk Sergeant before he obtained a map showing the helicopter's location in a ploughed field, a mile outside town.

The track proved too rutted for the Toyota. The sun was touching the tops of the mountains as LBW panted up the final incline, his jacket slung over his shoulder, dark rings of sweat under his arms. A police Suzuki guarded the entrance to the field, waiting for the arrival of a replacement pilot.

The helicopter had landed undamaged.

LBW banged on the side of the Suzuki and the driver leapt out, as if connected to a spring, he started to fumble with his holster.

"Relax Constable, I'm a good guy," LBW held up his badge.

He looked cautiously at the badge. "Detective Inspector Winston," he said slowly. He was short, overweight, his face almost round with smooth cheeks blown out as if he was permanently holding his breath. He had thick protruding lips and cautious, darting eyes, which widened with recognition. "Sergeant say's...heard you been suspended...sir"

"What's your name," LBW growled.

"Smallaka, Sir."

"Well Smallaka, if you were good at hearing things, you would have heard me blowing steam up this bloody hill, wouldn't you?"

"Yes...sir"

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen, sir," Smallaka wiped his forehead.

"Well I'm twice your age Smallaka, but do you see me sleeping? Is that what they teach at the academy now?"

"Wh-wh-what Sir..."

"Sleeping!" LBW shouted. "Every damn policeman I come across on this sick island is bloody sleeping!"

Smallaka stood to attention, the buttons on his shirt threatening to burst. The Toyota driver sniggered. LBW glared. "Now, if you two don't mind, I'm going to do some police work. I assume you have some gloves in your vehicle Constable Smallaka?"

LBW opened the pilot's door. The medical report stated he had been shot in the side of his head. The bullet had miraculously passed through his mouth destroying his lower jaw but missing vital arteries and the brain. He was in a coma.

LBW could see the amount of blood he had lost. Gittens must have known he had not killed him and LBW wondered why he had not finished the job. He found the answer on the back seat - an empty clip from his P38.

Forensics had yet to make the journey. LBW pulled on his latex gloves. He lifted the eight round box and made sure it was empty. Gittens must have had one bullet left.

Lucky for the pilot, if you called lucky being in a coma and with the prospect of not being able to talk, LBW thought.

Grande Riviere was the nearest hospital, but LBW was certain Gittens would have gone somewhere less conspicuous. He peered closely at the brown leather of the rear seat, there was the unmistakable stain of dried blood. He felt a buzz of triumph, first a broken collarbone, now a bullet wound. But why force the pilot to land here? LBW backed out of the helicopter and searched the small field. The thick clogs of ploughed soil already threatened by forest plants. If the farmer had planted something in the rough furrows, it was difficult to see what. The borders were crowded with impenetrable clumps of tall bamboo and beneath the tree branches burdened with bromeliads, orchids and hanging liana vines, were dense ferns, heliconias and philodendrons. The pilot had demonstrated considerable skill to land in such a walled clearing. LBW trudged back to the waiting policeman, looking in disgust at his shoes clogged with the damp, rich soil.

The police 4 x 4 Suzuki Jimny had skinny, fifteen-inch tyres. Smallaka had driven to the edge of the field along a path set by much wider vehicle tracks. LBW followed the tracks to the dirt road. There was a place with a lot of crossing of tracks as the vehicle made a K turn, before they led off up the valley. The road was little more than a donkey trail or _Bench Trails_ as the locals called them. Tall Immortelle trees arched overhead with liana vines reaching down as far as the rutted surface.

"Where does this go?" He asked Smallaka.

"All over, sir," the man jumped to attention pointing in the general direction of the mountains.

LBW smiled. "Well Smallaka, I want you to take me for a drive."

Immediately his eyes darted between his vehicle and the helicopter. "But my orders were to... sir," he pointed this time towards the helicopter.

LBW nodded while he got into the little Suzuki. The suspension groaned with his weight. "My driver will do that. Come on Smallaka, we haven't got much time."

In low gear, the Suzuki bounced and slid up the narrow track. Vines brushed over the canvas roof and bamboo scraped the side. Smallaka switched on the main lights. Insects screamed their dusk chorus. They could clearly see the tracks of the larger vehicle in the mud. They crawled up a steep incline and reached the ridgeline of guarding foothills. The trees thinned and beyond were the taller black outline of the mountains.

"Stop here Smallaka. Switch off." He got out and went to stand on a slab of rock that looked out over the valley. There was no light, nothing but the black silhouette of trees. Something pale caught his attention as he started back to the Suzuki. He knelt down and bent over the side of the rock. When he got back and switched on the dome light, he could see it was a shirt, stiff with dried blood. LBW held it to his nose smelling the metallic musk of it. Gittens must have stopped to change the dressing. He was pleased it was still bleeding and the journey along the bench trail would not help. LBW had a strong urge to continue but decided it was foolish with only Smallaka and his 9mm as back-up. Anyway, Gittens had twenty-four hours on him and was probably the other side of the island by now. Or he could be over the next ridge, weak with fever or recovering from a 'butchers' operation, lying weak and helpless in a farmers hut.

"What do you think Smallaka, should we go on?"

His head looked like a shiny brown balloon. His gaze darted nervously about the cabin before settling on the fuel gauge. He tapped it importantly. "Sorry sir, not enough fuel."

LBW nodded.

With difficulty in the cramped interior, he twisted in his seat and managed to retrieve his phone from his trouser pocket. No signal. When he got the other side of the Northern Range, he would call and find out when a pilot was coming to retrieve the helicopter. He would ask him to make a sweep of the area.

Smallaka, crashing the gears and straining at the wheel, managed to turn the Suzuki and started driving with care down the incline. An hour later, they were back at the field and Smallaka drove them to where they had left the Toyota.

"You OK on your own?" LBW asked as he stepped down from the Suzuki and stretched.

"Yes sir, Sergeant says I'll be relieved soon."

LBW thought it highly unlikely giving the conditions on the island. He guessed his Sergeant had sent his newest and greenest to do a job no one else wanted. He would not be relieved until the pilot showed up.

"You have a weapon Smallaka?"

"No sir, my Sergeant says I'm not ready."

LBW thought for a while. "OK," it was probably just as well. "You hear anything coming down that track you leave fast. Do not hang around, understood?"

Smallaka nodded sweat flying from his face.

"And you call me on this number before you even talk to your Sergeant," LBW scribbled on the back of a cigarette packet he retrieved from the dashboard. "Make sure you call me, yes?"

Smallaka nodded, vigorously.

********

LBW snapped the laptop shut. The connection to the internet had been slow at best, but now when he had a page of interest, the system froze, then collapsed. He glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. He had been able to sleep on the long drive back from Matelot, occasionally waking from the wail of a siren. He had nodded a tired goodbye to his driver outside headquarters.

Port of Spain still echoed with chaos. On the way in, they had past several cars ablaze and mobs running from police with shields and batons. The main desk had been clogged with concerned citizens, while policemen fought with handcuffed youngsters at the booking counter, before taking them to overcrowded cells.

The detective's floor was empty. His desk lamp the only source of light. LBW stretched as he walked to the window and raised the blind. People still coming and going from the main entrance below. All the buildings on the far side of town were in darkness from another power failure. Headquarters had lost electricity several times, the generator taking over after a few minutes. It had made searching the internet for likely battlegrounds frustrating. The contents of Gittens file lay spread on his desk. One surprise was the investigators reference to his ancestry – Amerindian - and it being a possible link to his aggressive attitude to authority. A psychologist's report had concluded; Gittens might harbour resentment concerning how his ancient ancestors had been treated.

According to a brief section of history, he had been able to download; Indians had arrived from the South American mainland and inhabited the islands before Columbus's arrival in 1498. There had been two main tribes, the gentler crop growing Arawaks of the South, and the fierce Caribs of the North; the area the helicopter had landed. They had reputed to have been cannibals and had fought fiercely against the Europeans attempt to colonise the islands but it had ultimately been a losing battle.

Perhaps that was where Gittens was praying, at an ancient Carib Indian site, hidden deep within the northern mountains. There had been 35,000 of them when Columbus arrived, now there were about three hundred, concentrated in the east, near the town of Arima.

LBW walked back to his desk and sat down. He drained the last of the cold coffee from the vending machine downstairs.

He made a note to call one of his back street butcher's in Arima. If he had gone out to treat Gittens injuries, then he wanted to know.

There were other phone messages on his desk, which he now re-read. One was from Marie and he thought of calling but decided it was too late. The message said that she had already started cooking something special. LBW smiled, his features calm in the glow of the lamplight.

Another, from Darnel demanding he call him at the Tobago airport hotel. He had tried but had been cut off after a few words to the receptionist. LBW picked up and re-read a printed e-mail from Dublo. _Thank you for the kind words regarding Bryan. (Pilot) Darnel aware of helicopter being in Trinidad, almost_ apologised _for doubting you. Said Maalik escaped from U.S. heading to Trinidad with a hostage, Rachel Clarke (get this) girlfriend to Cayden Callejon, brother, Jac_!! _Wanted to come over and help but boss back tomorrow - my ass is already hurting. Be careful -when you find Gittens, first bullet has my name on it. Diablo_.

LBW picked up the phone and heard a dial tone. He quickly tapped in the number of the Airport Hotel on Tobago. This time he stayed connected.

"Darnel," a slurred voice said.

"This is Detective Inspector Winston, Darnel."

There was a slight pause. "You know what time it is?"

"Listen we could be cut off. Tell me what you know about this Maalik guy."

LBW scribbled on the pad in front of him. He wrote: _Turkish - people trafficking – Europe - drug distribution \- Miami - suspected of several murders (Gittens) - hostage taking – Cayden Callejon's girlfriend (Rachel Clarke) -Callejon's boats used to smuggle – whereabouts unknown –Trinidad???_

"Why do you think Maalik's coming to Trinidad?"

"There's this Homeland Security agent, Williams, she's green, screwed up big time in Miami, seem's this case attracts it huh?"

LBW did not respond.

"Anyway, been on Maalik from the beginning, tried to sort out this kidnap with the Brit Clarke, whole deal went south, big fight in the Gulf, and her reading of the situation is that he's now heading this way. But as I say, she's fucked up so many times..."

"How can I get hold of Agent Williams?" LBW said.

"Not talking to her direct, my partner says she's in Nassau, following the trail, but I don't hold much hope..."

"You still think Gittens not on Trinidad?" LBW said.

Darnel yawned. "Fuck you Detective, you just got lucky...this time."

"Yeah well I'm going to get lucky again. Make sure you call me on my cell if you hear anything," LBW said reading out his number.

"Your pal Diablo has things sealed pretty good, I've got a float plane coming in from St Vincent tomorrow first thing, so I plan to fly down tomorrow and help nail this son-of-a -bitch once and for all. If that's all right with you?"

"You've no jurisdiction here Marshall, and if Gittens is captured alive, he'll be going on trial here."

"Bullshit Detective, I've still got papers giving me authority for extradition, don't fuck with me on this, the U.S. Government gives you boys' a lot of favours."

LBW took a few deep breaths, deciding any help was better than none and he could be doing his bit to shore-up relations with the U.S. Perhaps they could annex it like the US Virgin Islands; might make his future life in Blanchisseuse, a little more peaceful. "Let me know when you arrive, I'll try and pick you up."

He looked at his watch. It was one in the morning and he could still hear the sirens and shouting outside. He needed some rest. He collected up the files and notes and switched off the desk light.

After walking several streets, he found a taxi. Bars and shops, normally open to early morning, were closed, except those that had been broken into. They drove slowly by an electrical store. The boards had been ripped down. Smashed TV sets and stereos lay scattered across the pavement. LBW could see dark blood stains on the concrete and several riot shields scattered among the debris. His driver, his dreadlocked head nodding to the reggae music coming from the car stereo banged the wheel with his hand. "Dat's bad shit mon," he said looking in the rear view mirror.

LBW fixed his gaze but did not reply.

"It's them Muslim Nigga's, they so restlass, you know?"

The world was blaming all its problems on Muslims he thought. The Indians in Trinidad followed Hinduism or Sikhism - the most peaceful of religions. It was tragic if the Black Africans were blaming the disturbances on misguided beliefs.

They made it to his quieter neighborhood of St. James. He paid the driver and looked down the path to the darkened house. His car was no longer outside and he hoped Eric had taken it to repair. He would call him in the morning. The house looked undamaged and when he stepped inside, it was as he had left it. There was no power so he found the torch hanging on a nail by the front door and went through to the kitchen where he knew Beth kept the candles. He was surprised at how little he had thought of her over the past few days. He lit candles and arranged them on the table in the small dining room. The house had never felt like home, more a parking place for his sister's children. He went to the bookshelf carrying a candle, found a book he remembered being given for Christmas, years ago, by some distant uncle who had decided he needed some learning.

He read the dustcover. _A History of Trinidad & Tobago_. It had remained unread but now he flicked through the pages with enthusiasm. It started with the Columbus discovery in 1498, and chronicled sporadic attempts by the Spanish to colonise the country. It was not until the 18th century that things really began to happen, when Spain's King, offered to any citizen from a friendly country to Spain, free grants of land. The population increased steadily with people from Europe and slaves from Africa. Then the British attacked in 1797 and Trinidad remained a British colony until 1962.

There were skirmishes with the Spanish and the British built forts, named Picton and George after the King, but neither saw any action. No specific battles were mentioned or battlegrounds listed. They rebuilt Port of Spain after it was burnt down in 1808, then they abolished the slave trade, which resulted in a flood of immigrants from India and China, until they now represented forty-five percent of the population, and why now, people like his taxi driver, were so fearful of them. There had been riots for water, the collapse of the sugar industry, the annexing of Tobago, the economic saviour from the discovery of oil, and the resulting collapse of manufacturing and agriculture, the decline in oil and the oilfield riots of 1937 and then the rise of militant nationalism, which he realised, had not gone away. LBW snapped the book close. He was not surprised they were suffering the current problems. One quick look through the history of the island provided all the necessary reasons he needed to see why there was economic and political unrest. He could clearly remember militants of the Black Muslim party, _Jamaat al Muslimeen_ storming Parliament and taking hostage the Prime Minister in 1990. The crisis had been resolved but there was still great resentment towards the Muslims. Perhaps the taxi driver was right to be worried. LBW had a sudden thought. Darnel had mentioned Maalik was Turkish. A Muslim country. He made a note to check police records to see if his name was linked to Jamaat al Muslimeen.

LBW closed the book and stared sadly at the cover showing a montage of pictures depicting Trinidad's progress through the centuries. After years of disillusionment, LBW had experienced a renaissance over the last few days. He felt passionate about his country again. There was urgency within him for everything to return to normal. He wanted a safe foundation, to build a less complicated life with a woman in a small town on the north coast. A life away from the politics of the St. James neighborhood and away from people like his soon to be, ex-wife. He did not want his dream destroyed by political unrest and his island torn apart by crime and anger.

LBW reached over to the sideboard and picked up the Yellow Pages. There were hundreds of churches listed. There were listings for Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist Union, Pentecostal, Church of Christ, Ethopian Orthodox Church Mission right down to Zion Precious Corner Stone Ministry. There seemed no connection to praying and a battleground. The more LBW thought about it, the more likely it seemed, Gittens reference had to do with his ancient Arawak ancestry and some forgotten place that he and his ancestors only knew about.

LBW yawned. It was two thirty. He blew out the candles after making another note to find out when the replacement helicopter pilot would arrive. He went to bed for the last time, he hoped, in that house.

********

The Police canteen was good for one thing; English Breakfasts. Fried egg, bacon, tomatoes, bread and beans, a tradition that had not left with the British. LBW was the first in and sat at his usual chair, hidden behind a pillar, assuring him that he could eat without disturbance. He had the paper open and he read the depressing headlines of riots, looting and murder. The only optimistic sign was the Government finally considering starting a discussion with the union representatives. LBW grunted. Taylor and his utility workers were leading the whole thing; there was nothing legitimate about his grievance. He was a militant, out to cause as much mayhem as possible. LBW turned to the back pages but discovered that even the Cricket was depressing. He laid the paper aside and concentrated on enjoying his breakfast.

Despite the fact that Gittens was still at liberty, LBW was in a good mood. In fact, the more he thought about it, he could not remember the last time he had been in such a good mood. The breakfast helped. Several colleagues gave surprised looks as he brightly wished them 'Good Morning', on his way to the office. He sat down at his desk and reached for the phone.

"I miss you," was the first thing he said to the sleepy voice that answered.

"Lancelot?"

"Who else would be missing you?" he asked, a tingle of alarm running down his spine.

There was a husky chuckle and he relaxed.

"I'm sorry it's so early but I needed to...to see if you were OK."

"I'm fine, but will be better when you're here next to me, sugar"

"How's the bed?"

Again the chuckle. "Oh I already got my 'fix it' man making me the strongest, biggest bed in the world. Not even a hurricane will take this down. You wait till you check it out."

"Oh I plan to do a lot of that," LBW said keeping his voice low and glancing over to the next desk. He clamped the phone tight against his ear as he listened to the sort of things Marie would be doing to test the bed.

When he saw his Captain walking towards him he straightened in his chair. "Has there been any looting with the power strikes?"

"Ahh...no sugar, the local Sergeant's been very attentive, but sugar, I still feel's so sad about that poor boy, Jac, his parents being taken away in a truck for heavens, I just wished I'd met him, told him how sad I was. It's a terrible thing...a terrible thing."

"You weren't in any way responsible Marie, you must not blame yourself." LBW said looking up at his Captain glaring down at him.

"I think the Prime Minister himself, should apologise that such a terrible thing should happen to people like that. I'm going to get the Reverend to say a special prayer, he can be mighty powerful," Marie said quietly.

"I'll see what I can do with the Prime Minister," LBW said smiling into the phone. "I'll call you later."

"What you got to do with the Prime Minister?" his Captain rumbled, his eyes bulging behind thick lenses.

"Someone thinks, he should personally apologise for the murders in Blanchisseuse."

"Hmm, you've been let off the hook then?"

LBW's fists balled. "No, if it makes you happy Captain, I'll have that hook buried deep in me for the rest of my life."

"My office Detective, I need to know where we are with Gittens."

For the next forty minutes LBW told what he knew including the conversation he had with Darnel.

The Captain took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. A button on his straining shirt was missing and LBW could see a tuft of black, curly hair through the gap in the fabric. "Shit Winston, let me make it clear, I still think you should be fired OK?"

LBW looked down at his own shirt, self consciously pulling the fabric away from the rolls of fat. He could feel the arms of the chair digging into his thighs. He had lost some pounds but vowed to lose more.

"But, my boss had a call from Homeland Security, FBI, CIA, who the fuck knows, but the pressure's on to keep the Americans sweet on this, with the troubles we're having, we can't lose their good will. OK, I'm not happy about a U.S. Marshal running around our island thinking he can solve our crimes, but you manage to get Gittens this time...you hand him over. Understood?"

"But Sergeant Loutoo," LBW exclaimed.

"Too damn late for you to care about that now?"

LBW put his hands on the side of the chair and pushed upwards. "When I get Gittens, he's going on trial here."

The magnified eyes looked up at him. "Don't fuck with me Winston," Captain Clay said. "You don't do exactly as I say, Loutoo's death Detective, will be the one you go on trial for..."he pulled a file across his desk and opened it, started to read, "get out."

LBW reached the door.

"Oh and Winston, you fuck up again, and you come back on this floor, I'll have you arrested for impersonating a policeman."

LBW opened the door.

"And fucking lose some weight," his Captain said loudly enough for the detectives to stop what they were doing and smirk.

LBW smiled and quietly closed the door. He had a signal on his cell phone. He called the airport. On his second attempt, the police helicopter pilot, who was about to leave for Matelot, came on the line.

"What can I do for you Detective?"

"I want you to make a reconnaissance detour over the Northern Mountain ridge line."

"How's that going to help Bryan? I hear, this maniac should never have been free, he's the one on the airport road, isn't he?"

LBW rubbed his forehead. "Ahuh, and no he shouldn't have been," he said quietly.

"What should I be looking for," the pilot said irritably.

"Anything out of place, a shiny truck outside a farmer's house, a group of men running around with automatic weapons, that sort of thing."

"I'll let you know." The line went dead.

He called the Port of Spain hospital and in the chaos had no luck getting through to the morgue to see if Lee and Jac Callejon had arrived. He would walk over in an hour.

He stretched, avoiding any contact with the other detectives, and opened Gittens file. When his phone rang, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly midday. He thought it might be the pilot and was surprised to hear Dublo's voice.

"Bumbles!"

"Morning Dublo," LBW said evenly."

"Anything on Gittens?"

"Don't worry. I'm carving your initials on the first nine millimeter."

"I wish I could be there Bumbles. Like old times."

"Your sister giving you a hard time?" LBW said.

"Not so bad. Bryan's conscious, doctor reckons surgery should hide most of the damage. He'll fly again."

LBW smiled. "Dublo, I've got to get to the hospital."

"Sure Bumbles. Oh, I nearly forgot. That prick Marshal Darnel, called and said he's lost your number. He's on his way. Leaving in ten minutes by float plane."

"That means he'll be here in half an hour."

"You lettin' him get involved?"

"No choice," LBW growled.

"Good luck Bumbles. We'll go fishing when things are back to normal."

"We'll charter Lee's boat. I think I owe him a few."

LBW stood and straightened his shirt around the shoulder holster, tucking the tail back into his trousers. His earlier good mood had encouraged him to select a more colourful shirt than usual. It was a Pierre Cardin his wife had bought, ex-wife he reminded himself, on one of her trips to Miami, something she would tell anyone who listened. LBW had to admit, he liked the unusual maroon colour, it seemed to detracted attention from his body – so he had thought anyway. He got up and tugged at the belt to his grey trousers. He took a lightweight, grey linen jacket off the back of his chair, another Miami purchase trying to make him look like a TV cop. He retrieved his battered and stained white Stetson Chatham from a hook near the door, and left the floor followed by hostile stares.

He went down to the basement and found the Sergeant in charge of vehicles. His request for one was met with hysterical laughter. "Look around you Detective." When LBW had, he saw that the garage was full of battered police vehicles. One in the corner had been on fire, dumped next to his crumpled Land Rover.

LBW walked up the ramp and out into bright sunlight. He found his sunglasses and looked up and down for a cab. He thought about going across the street to see if Eric had fixed his, but decided the boy was probably inundated with police vehicle repairs and did not want to put any more pressure on him. Anyway, it was probably safer not to take his car out on the streets. There was a group of women, all wearing black bandanas, loudly protesting the arrest of William Jacobson, whoever he was. They were chanting 'Free Will', outside the entrance. Illegible gang names had been spray-painted on the brickwork. The group of women had blocked the traffic and their shouted protests were being accompanied by the blare of horns.

LBW nodded to two beat officers who seemed unconcerned by the chaos and was about to say something when he thought better of it. He slalomed between two delivery trucks and decided he needed to head north for a taxi.

Port of Spain looked like the day after an out-of-control party; glass, litter, broken furniture, damaged cars, black fire stains.

At Mahatma Ghandi Square, which was a triangle of litter-strewn dirt on Park Avenue, he found a cab that had just discharged two women.

He dropped into the back seat and the turbaned driver looked round with surprise.

"I'm going off duty, you have to get out."

LBW had seen no other. He held up his badge. "Police business. I have to get to the docks."

"It would be quicker to walk," the man said his head shaking from side to side.

"Just go," LBW said irritably. "I'll pay double."

"Where is your police car?"

"Drive or I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

He tugged at his beard and eventually turned back, slapping his hands on the wheel. They drove for a few minutes with the driver taking his frustration out on pedestrians and other drivers. When a uniformed traffic cop stepped out and held up his hand to allow traffic from a side road to cross, he finally lost his temper. "You are no bloody better than when the British were here, we are still treated like second class citizens. Look how you just stand around and allow them to destroy our holy places. There will be another battle of Waterloo if you are not careful policeman. But we will be better than the French."

LBW turned from looking out the window. The man's black eyes were glaring at him in the rear view mirror.

"What are you talking about?"

The driver muttered something as he glared ahead, his head shaking side to side as a driver behind hooted. "We will have to go via Anapita Avenue, Wrightson Road is blocked this end."

"OK, but what did you say earlier, about a holy site?"

"Our temple at Waterloo, it has been taken over. The police will do nothing," the driver slapped the wheel again and glared at LBW in the mirror.

LBW leant as far forward as he could. Waterloo was a small dirty town on the Gulf of Paria, south of Port of Spain and bordering the southern part of the Caroni Swamp National Park. A battle had never taken place there as far as he could remember but of course, the name was from one of the worlds most famous. "Tell me everything, quickly."

"It's the temple in the sea, our holy temple," the driver said irritably. LBW wanted to shake him. "Tell me about it," he demanded.

"A great man, he was just a labourer, a peasant slave bought here by the British, called Seedas Sadhu. He built our first temple in 1947 but it was bulldozed and he was sent to prison because he built it without permission on the lands of Caroni, the sugar cane bastard," the driver waved angrily at a cyclist to get out of the way. "But Sadhu did not give up. When he was released he decided to rebuild the temple, but this time in the sea, a place nobody owned. All by himself, with just a bicycle to transport the materials. He slaved for twenty-five years and finished in 1994. Thousands offered to help but he would accept none, a great man," the driver finished angrily.

"What happened?" LBW said.

"What do you care," the driver said.

"I want to help..." LBW leaned forward so he could read his name from a card on the dashboard. "...Andrew Singh, but you're going to have to help me."

"Help you..." he muttered laying his hand on the horn. "Yesterday, these men arrived. They threw everyone out, took over the caretaker's house, barricaded the pier, the police..., when they finally arrived they were told by these men, they were repairing the island, dangerous work and the barricade had been put there to stop us getting hurt."

LBW was having difficulty sitting still. "Have you seen them, these men?"

The driver shook his head.

"Are you sure? It's very important."

"Oh, now you say it is very important." The man shook his head again. "No I have not seen them. My family told me this morning, I am going down to help their protest when I throw you out."

"At last," LBW shouted, hitting the roof of the taxi and making Andrew Singh scowl fiercely. "You cannot believe how badly I needed some luck my friend." His mind had been churning over the code with increasing frustration.

"You want to go to the ferry terminal?" the driver asked.

LBW could feel his heart pounding. Perspiration soaked his shirt. _Pray one more time at the battleground._ The temple at Waterloo! Had to be what Gittens was talking about. It had to be. The only question; what was he praying for?

LBW looked at his watch. Half an hour since he had left his desk. The plane should be landing any minute. Should he collect Darnel or order the driver to take him to Waterloo? What about the hospital? Lee could look after Callejon. The urgency was intense.

"These men that have taken over the temple. Can you tell me anything about them?"

"I told you, I have not been there. I was going before you fell into my taxi but my sister told me they had American accents," Andrew Singh said, "they told everyone to stay away for a few days and the temple would be returned undamaged. But we do not believe them, unlike the police!"

LBW was not surprised to hear the police were reluctant to investigate. They would undoubtedly be non- Indians, and like the rest of the force, resentful towards their swelling numbers. In addition, the troubles in Port of Spain meant priorities were elsewhere. A perfect time for Gittens to do whatever he was planning.

"Take me to where the float planes dock," he said tensely. He was going to need backup and he guessed Darnel was as good as any. They arrived outside the small corrugated hut that served as customs and waiting area. Moored to the specially constructed pier were two floatplanes, a local sightseeing Cessna and a twin engine aircraft with U.S. registration.

"If you want to get your temple back, wait for me," LBW said opening the door.

Andrew Singh looked at him intensely.

"Trust me," LBW patted him on the shoulder and got out.

The Waterport Duty Officer looked at his badge before answering his question. "Yes Detective. They should be here in about two minutes."

LBW looked down the pier. The sky was clear without a cloud in sight. The water was shades of turquoise. Seagulls were diving and squabbling over debris near the end of the pier. To his left, several small freighters were anchored, waiting their turn to enter harbour. An electric fan ruffled the pages on the counter in front of him and LBW pointed to the big twin-engine plane. "When did that come in?" he asked.

"Yesterday."

"From Nassau?" LBW asked.

The officer held down a piece of paper as he read it. "Yes sir, via Puerto Rico. There were three passengers, excluding the pilot."

"Was one a white woman?"

The officer looked down at his notes. "I wasn't on duty sir, and there's no note here."

"Port Aviation, this is niner Yankee, oscar alpha papa," the radio squawked.

"Alpha papa, Port Aviation," the officer said importantly.

"I'm on approach."

The officer scanned the stretch of flat water in front of them with his binoculars.

LBW looked out of the window. What he had thought was one of the whirling seagulls suddenly glinted and as he concentrated, he realised it was the approaching seaplane. It still looked a long way out and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter top.

"You are clear to land alpha papa," the officer said and LBW hurried outside.

Chapter 26

They had moved on.

He had woken at dawn, her breath on his arm. He had stared at the ceiling. Watching the light strengthen. Eventually the alarm had sounded and her eyes had sprung open. Immediately she had pulled away from his side, a look of confusion. Her naked back to him, the sweep of her body to her waist, the curve of buttocks under the sheet. She had sat on the edge of the bed fixing her hair and he had watched the supple play of her muscles. She had hesitated from getting up, and glanced over her shoulder. He remembered the look of uncertainty and the strand of hair coming loose that she had tucked behind her ear. For a long moment, emotions flew between them, like thrown plates in a silent movie love scene. A sad little smile worked its way to her eyes and she had stood, perfect buttocks walked away and Cayden knew the image would stay with him forever. All these hours later, he could hear the shower and remember the agonising minutes he had spent, wondering whether she had invited him to join her.

The aircraft bucked through turbulence, jolting him awake, guilt was building, the closer they got.

The Nassau police department had been efficient, locating the floatplane Maalik had hired. The pilot had not filed a flight plan but it had only taken an hour to discover that it had refueled in Puerto Rico and landed in Trinidad. They had immediately taken a Bahamas Air flight to Tobago via Puerto Rico, during the flight Sly had managed to get Marshal Darnel to wait for them in Trinidad, before flying onto Port of Spain.

Cayden watched the swirls of turquoise and deeper blue get closer to the large yellow floats protruding out under the aircraft. The propeller was a sunlit disc.

Across the aisle, Sly's head was turned towards her window. She had tied her hair up and stuffed it under a cap. They had bought clothes at a Nassau airport. She wore a pair of close fitting knee length shorts, an open white cotton shirt over a white t-shirt and a pair of black slip on shoes. She had also bought a backpack for a change of underwear and a spare top.

The floats kissed the still lagoon and the gentle hiss rapidly built to a roar as the full weight of the aircraft settled. The propeller blasted spray against the windows. The pilot taxied, the aircraft now rocking like a boat, towards the jetty.

"That's Maalik's plane," Sly said looking over the seat in front. Cayden could see the pistol in its holder at the base of her back.

They docked and a wave of heat passed through the cabin. He was immediately glad that he too had chosen to wear shorts; similar to Sly's but not as well fitting. He was still wearing the CGC Sword cap and a grey cotton short sleeve shirt. They looked like regular tourists and that's what the large black man in a Stetson must have thought, when he ignored them, and raced to meet Marshal Darnel. He started to pull him towards a waiting taxi before Darnel prised open his grip and pointed to the two of them.

"Detective Winston, this is Agent Williams and Cayden Callejon. You remember his brother at the airport?"

LBW shook hands quickly. He looked at Cayden for a moment. "Your brother's been taken to the hospital."

"Is he all right?"

LBW raised an eyebrow. "To identify...the bodies."

"Of course," Cayden nodded. "I'll go there straight away," and started walking towards the taxi.

"I'm afraid that's mine," LBW rested a hand on his arm. "We've been having some problems on the island," he said apologetically, "it's not far to walk, the officer over there will give you directions," LBW pointed to the port office.

They started getting into the taxi. "I know where Gittens and I think Maalik is," he said urging Darnel to get in.

"Where?" Sly asked.

"How?" Darnel said.

"Was Rachel with them?" Cayden said running back.

LBW held up his hand. "We'll let you know Mr.Callejon. Get to the hospital, your brother needs you."

"I need to be with them both," Cayden said getting in. LBW looked in through the window. "Detective, it's been a long journey and I'm not stopping now," Cayden said from the interior. He nodded hello to an angry looking Indian sitting behind the wheel.

"I haven't got time to argue your priorities Mr. Callejon," the suspension creaked as LBW got in beside the driver. "Go," he cried, "And forget the speed limits."

"I'm only allowed to take three passengers. You're going to break my taxi," the driver said.

"Yes, but we're going to get back your Temple back." LBW said. "So go!"

The taxi jerked forward and Cayden could feel his leg sticking to Sly, jammed tightly between him and Darnel. "This fucking island," Darnel said.

Cayden watched the fat detective fan himself with his hat. His head had a fine down of grey hair. He had an intelligent, noble face he thought. He fidgeted with his hat between fanning. Dark, friendly eyes fixed on his in the rear view mirror. "Mr.Callejon, I really don't think this is a good idea. I understand your concern for your girlfriend but if she's there, we'll get her, and bring her back. You should wait at the Hilton."

Cayden looked down at his hands. "No," he said quietly.

LBW tried to twist round in his seat but it was too difficult. The taxi came to a screeching stop, a queue of traffic stretched in front of them.

"The pavement," LBW said waving his hat. The driver looked at him as if he was crazy but reluctantly edged his tired taxi up onto the slabs of concrete and accelerated.

"How's my brother?" Cayden said hanging unto the roof handle as the taxi swayed and banged over the uneven surface.

"I haven't managed to talk to them since they got to the hospital, my brother does not own a cell phone. They should have visited the morgue by now."

Cayden felt his despondency return. He watched the billboards flash by, the weeds growing in the baked earth by the road, their brown limbs festooned with litter. The poor looking housing and then in the distance the taller buildings of Port of Spain. Jac was there. He could feel a great pressure building at the base of his skull. He wasn't sure he could take much more. When he looked at Sly, she gave him a concerned smile. She squeezed his arm.

A container truck had pinned a bus to a road sign. Crowds were gathered by the cab. A police officer stood uncertainly by his motorbike. He watched Andrew Singh drive by on the pavement in a cloud of dust.

They joined the Uriah Butler Highway and the taxi crept up to its maximum speed of sixty miles an hour. The occupants fell into a heat-induced stupor.

Darnel punched the headrest. "Damn Detective, couldn't you have found a horse and cart or something even slower. Perhaps we'll get there and find they've died of old age. That'll save some effort."

Forty minutes later, they turned off the Highway and bounced down a gravel road between fields of sugar cane, following the signs for Waterloo. The driver, visibly distressed with the punishment, carefully navigated every hole until even LBW's patience ran out, threatening to throw him out of his taxi unless he kept his foot firmly on the accelerator.

They reached a t-junction and Andrew Singh turned left. They could see the cluster of tin roofs for the village above the green fields of early sugar cane.

"How much further?" Sly asked.

"Just one minute," Andrew Singh said and LBW waved his hand to slow down. The taxi rounded a corner and they were confronted with a line of parked cars, a cordon of men and women across the road.

"What the hell..." Darnel said.

"Protestors," Andrew Singh said proudly.

They stopped at the back of the line of cars and got out.

Cayden adjusted his sunglasses. In front of the human barrier was a circular gravel parking area surrounded by low scrub trees and brown clumps of grass. Opposite, a path ran on top of a fabricated bank about six feet high, across the shallow water to a small island no bigger than a major road junction round-a-bout. An overturned car blocked the entrance to the path - the rusty underside faced them. The temple was white and round in design, with a minaret type spire on the roof and a series of ornately carved wooden shuttered openings, as windows. A number of steps led to a terrace, which encircled the single storey structure, bordered by a low balustrade, designed wall.

The crowd surged around Andrew Singh's taxi. When LBW identified himself, they angrily demanded what he was going to do and whether he was just going to stand around like the other policemen. They pointed to them leaning against their car parked near the edge of a sugar cane field. Cayden watched LBW hold up his hand to placate an old woman who seemed to be the voice of the group. She was dressed in ragged clothes of faded reds and blues, the material scooped up between her scrawny, bowed legs. She had fierce black eyes and Cayden wondered whether she was related to Andrew Singh. LBW marched towards the policemen who straightened from the side of the car, looked uncertainly at one another, cigarettes hanging limply from the corner of their mouths.

Cayden turned to look back at the Temple, desperate to see a sign of Rachel. Two men appeared and ran down the path to the overturned car. They were dressed in jeans and t-shirts and carried guns. They had emerged from the right of the Temple where there was a narrow, two-storey house, which Cayden assumed was used by the caretaker or Temple Priest. It looked like it had one room on the ground floor and one above. The seaward wall formed part of the island edge. Cayden pushed through to the front of the gathered crowd so he could get a better view. Beyond the seaward wall of the house was a long, flat-hulled boat, tied to a low jetty. The boat reminded him of an Everglade airboat, except this had an outboard and not an aircraft propeller on the back. As he watched, a man awkwardly jumped down from the dock, and maneuvered a heavy looking duffel bag into the middle of the boat.

There was a sudden wailing of a police siren and the crowd parted with a murmur of excitement. The police car, with the two men cowering behind the dashboard, crept through their lines and edged out into the empty parking area. LBW walked, crouched behind the boot. As they went by Darnel and Sly stepped out and joined him. When they reached the middle of the circle the police car stopped and the two policemen seemed to almost fall out and cower behind their doors. Cayden ran forward and crouched with them. They were twenty metres from the overturned car.

"What are you doing here?" Sly hissed.

"I think they're getting ready to leave," Cayden said, wiping the perspiration from his eyes.

"Cayden those guards have MP5's. They've got a range of about 200 metres. Get back to the crowd."

Cayden was surprised at how different Sly appeared. She looked like she had taken a drug. Her eyes were glittery and darted quickly from one object to another.

Cayden clung to the bumper of the police car, his mind screaming at him to run back to safety.

"Gittens... where are you..." LBW mumbled and Cayden could see he had the same glittery excitement in him.

"Hello," a voice shouted.

Cayden froze. He wiped his forehead and then slowly raised his head above the boot lid. Through the dirty glass of the police car, he could see him standing on a balcony that fronted the narrow window on the top floor of the house. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap and Maalik had a gun pressed to the side of a woman's head that he held tightly in front of him. She was very still. A white t-shirt stained and stretched across the swell of her breasts, a red piece of cloth tied around her mouth.

Cayden stood up. "Rachel!" He took a few steps out from behind the police car, there was the crack of gunfire, and the windscreen shattered. Cayden fell to his knees, his hands above his head.

"Stay where you are Mr.Callejon," Maalik shouted. He pushed Rachel closer to the low railing of the balcony. Her legs braced out in front of her, resisting. "May I say, how very nice it is to see you again Cayden Callejon. Have you bought the rest of what you owe me? And so soon!" Rachel twisted in his grip and he tapped her head with the pistol. Her legs sagged and he put an arm around her waist to stop her toppling over the balcony.

"Let her go Maalik, and we'll talk about it," Cayden shouted.

"Cayden," Sly hissed. "You're not in a fucking boardroom now. Get back here."

"I don't think so. I must admit I'm surprised to see you and your friends so soon. News travels fast. But, from where I'm standing the odds still look in my favour," Maalik said.

"Let's negotiate," Cayden said. "I'm sure..."

"Mr.Callejon that's enough," LBW said.

Cayden turned and squinted at the calm, stern face of the big Detective.

"You're not trained to negotiate something like this. No get back out of harms way," LBW said calmly, motioning with his pistol for Cayden to join the line of distant protestors.

"What's the matter?" Maalik sneered, "The big boss, to big to grovel on his knees in the dirt; too big a man to plead to get his whore back."

Cayden clenched his fists at his side, the others were urgently telling him to leave. He bowed his head.

"You know what I do to whores Cayden – remember the swimming pool?"

"Maalik you hurt her and I'm going to kill you," Cayden yelled. He could feel the pressure bursting through him.

Maalik leveled his pistol. The dirt exploded a few feet in front of Cayden. The two policemen sprinted from behind the open doors, running for the crowd.

"I think I've told you before infidel, I don't like to be threatened. Now, the rest of you, step out."

Sly and LBW stood and walked up beside Cayden. Agent Darnel remained hidden, his expression incredulous.

"Agent Williams, you have come a long way," Maalik shouted. "And I believe you're the fat Detective my associate has talked about. Throw your weapons out in front of you."

The pistols raised a puff of dust as they landed a few feet away.

"My wishes are simple. You and your friends stay exactly where you are for the next five minutes and then we shall leave with all...my buried treasure," Maalik giggled, "if you take another step forward, I will instruct my men to shoot. And they'll be aiming at our fans out there, not you. So if you don't want a lot of innocent people killed, I suggest you do exactly as I say."

"How are you going to get away Maalik? This island is locked down tight," Sly said.

Maalik turned and said something to a figure standing behind him in the shadow of the interior. "As usual you underestimate me," Maalik said, "my good friends, the power workers have guaranteed that the police are too busy to deal with this?" Maalik grinned, "and they are right, look who's been sent. A big fat black man, a whore of an agent, a weak infidel," his teeth white in the dark shadow of the doorway, "I'm still waiting for the rest of what you owe me Callejon, until then, I shall enjoy the body of your whore a little longer," he dragged Rachel into the interior.

"I'm open to suggestions," LBW said, loudly enough for Darnel to hear.

"What fucking school of negotiating did you go to," Darnel said. "My dead grandma's pet rabbit could have done better that."

"We can't let them go," Sly said.

There was movement behind the overturned vehicle and the two men appeared, there weapons leveled towards them.

Cayden glanced sideways at them. "What about Rachel?" he asked.

"There're no alligators around here Cayden," Sly said. "We have to gamble that Maalik only likes to hurt people... imaginatively."

"Gamble!" Cayden shouted, stepping away from them and causing the two men by the car to tighten their grips. LBW reached out and clenched his arm, pulling him closer. His eyes now blazed with anger.

"You've interfered enough. We cannot let them get away Mr.Callejon. The island is in chaos. He could easily escape again."

Cayden shook his grip free. "The three of you against them? What the hell are you going to achieve, other than getting shot," he said. "Why don't you call for backup?"

"No fucking time," Darnel growled. "I suggest you get to safety and leave this to the professionals. We'll get your woman back."

"You're not thinking clearly," Cayden said desperately. "I'm sure he's thinking of escaping through the swamp back to the sea plane. We could catch him out in the open. Or disable the plane, anything other than a Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid suicide run."

"Gittens!" the name exploded from LBW. Cayden whirled around and watched someone hobble down the path. One of his arms was in a sling. He looked like a cartoon character, he thought, with his long spindly limbs that seemed to move to a motion all of their own.

He disappeared behind the overturned car but his braying voice carried clearly across to them. "Fat pig, I'm going to make you pay for what you did to me."

"You think you hurt now Gittens, wait till I get my hands on you again," LBW moved surprisingly quickly. He yanked Cayden in behind the open door of the police car and sent him sprawling across the seats. Sly disappeared behind the boot. LBW let off the hand brake and pushed the car. Its tyres crunched over the crushed stone. Their thrown pistols came level. LBW dived for them, picked up both, and then rolled back behind the open door. He fired through the open window and one of the men spun away from the overturned car.

Cayden scrambled into the back seat of the police car.

Stillness, and Cayden could hear his heart thudding, every fibre in his body tensed. He could hear the cry of a seagull, a fly trapped on the back window, the crunch of gravel as Sly or Darnel adjusted their position.

Then the air erupted.

The car shook with the force of the assault. The radiator burst and the windscreen shattered. He pushed himself to the floor as stuffing from the seats filled the cabin, together with shards of exploding glass and the whine of a ricochet. The MP5 emptied thirty rounds into the police car in seconds. When the magazine clicked empty Cayden found that he was screaming. Bits of glass and stuffing from the interior covered his head and shoulders.

"Don't wait for a reload," Sly yelled her voice receding as she ran from the car.

Cayden felt someone grab his ankles. He looked down his body in time to see LBW, his face covered with sweat, pull him in one movement from the foot well. They fell behind the hissing and smoking police car as the next thirty rounds hit with enough force to start pushing it backwards on its flattened tyres.

Cayden caught a glimpse of Darnel diving behind a pile of crushed stone. The magazine clicked empty and LBW shoved Cayden towards the crowd. Cayden ran, his ears ringing and his heart thumping, his back tense as he waited for the impact. He could see the protestors cowering among their vehicles and the distance did not seem to shrink. He could feel his legs moving but his muscles becoming rubbery. He did not know if he could make it. He looked behind him. LBW had not followed. The rip of the MP5 started. He could see the bright sparks of light from the muzzle. The police car was disintegrating. It was impossible for the big man to survive; his cover was being eaten away. Then spurts of gravel raced across the distance towards him. Cayden stood paralysed waiting for the shock of bullets ripping into him. The firing stopped abruptly as the shooter pirouetted away. Dazed, Cayden looked to his left. Sly was crouched behind a tree her arms stretched, her pistol in front of her. She waved at Cayden to carry on. He turned and almost fell over the bonnet of the car nearest him and collapsed behind it.

Andrew Singh sat him up against the door panel. "Have you been shot?" the turbaned driver shook Cayden's shoulders. Cayden pushed him away. The man knelt in front of him with angry black eyes. "I think you have made things worse."

Cayden waited for his breathing to return to normal. He could hear the occasional chatter of the sub machine guns and the less frequent crack of the pistols. He ignored Andrew Singh and rolled to his stomach so he could look under the car. LBW was still behind the police car and the others had moved to flank the overturned car but they were pinned down behind the bank and he doubted they were going to get past.

"They need help," he mumbled. "Give me those," he said indicating Andrew Singh's sunglasses. Reluctantly the man hooked them off his shirt and handed them over. "Can't see a thing with this sun." His knees were bleeding. "Do you have any weapons," he said to the group that had crouched around Andrew Singh. He was met with blank stares. "Come on. You want your bloody Temple back. At least help!"

None of them moved. "Great!" Cayden looked past them. An old JCB, the yellow long since faded to a rusty brown was parked with its front bucket buried in a pile of shingle. He ran, crouched over, to it. One of the rear tyres was flat. There was no glass in the cab frame and the seat was just a plank of wood. "Does anyone know if this works?" He looked frantically over the cracked dials and broken switches.

"You need to push this," a boy said who was standing on the plate behind him.

"This," Cayden said stabbing the button. There was a click but nothing else.

Cayden looked at the boy helplessly who smiled back shyly. His white turban looked like it was about to slip over his eyes. The crowd parted and Andrew Singh walked through carrying a battery. Beyond, Cayden could see the opened bonnet of his taxi. Without saying a word, he opened a rusty lid in the engine compartment and pulled a screwdriver from the back of his trousers. "He's my father," the boy said.

Cayden nodded. Andrew Singh reappeared from behind the engine cover and nodded. Cayden stabbed the button and this time the engine turned but did not fire. Andrew Singh held up his hand and went under the cover again. Next time he reappeared and Cayden hit the button it turned once, twice and then burst into life with a black cloud of smoke.

"How does it work?" Cayden shouted above the noise.

The boy worked the levers. The bucket lifted out of the shingle in front of him. Cayden had always understood machines and quickly learnt what each lever did. He reversed the JCB and the smoke billowed from the stack. He backed it onto the road and found that the brakes did not work. Still rolling backwards he selected first with a crunch from the gearbox, the JCB lurched forward. He raised the bucket to block his forward vision and turned it to face forward. The flat rear tyre squeaked, made steering difficult. He crunched the lever into second and stood behind the wheel, his foot hard on the accelerator. The JCB slowly gathered speed.

When he reached LBW, he estimated the JCB had reached fifteen miles per hour. The wheel twisted in his hand and he could feel the back slipping. LBW looked stunned as Cayden thundered by in a cloud of black smoke. From his elevated position, he could see Sly, knee deep in water, crouched behind the bank. He sat down behind the protection of the bucket and gave a half salute, hoping that none of the ricochets he could hear managed to find their way into the cab. He risked a fraction of a second look over the bucket to make sure he was on target. The rusty belly of the car was dead ahead, Gittens was hobbling back up the path.

The teeth of the bucket sank into the soft, rusty metal of the car. Cayden was thrown forward with the impact, his bruised ribs slamming against the steering wheel. He grunted in pain but managed to cling on. The JCB was still moving forward although its back wheels started to spin on the loose gravel. Cayden pulled back on a lever and the bucket rose, pulling the car off the ground. Once clear of the brake, the JCB began to gather speed again. Cayden stamped his foot on the accelerator and stood to see how he was doing. The right wheels ran along the edge of the bank and for a moment, he thought the weight of the car was going to pull them over. He had a glimpse of one of the dead guards floating in the water below and then the JCB swerved back into the middle of the pathway. There were a few centimeters to spare either side of the rear tyres. He risked a quick look behind and saw the three of them running for the path. Darnel was the first to arrive and he shot the other wounded defender, struggling in the water. He scooped up the discarded MP5 and carried on running. Cayden turned to look ahead. The shutters to the top window of the house burst open, a man raced out onto the balcony. He leveled his MP5 and bullets pinged off the metal frame of the cab, one so close, Cayden could feel its sonic blast. Then miraculously, the gun flew from his grasp and his body staggered back into the darkened interior. Cayden shot a look over his shoulder and Darnel gave him the thumbs up.

The car hit the corner of the house. The wheel wrenched from his grip and the JCB swerved to the right, its power pushing the car through the flimsy wall. The weight of the house collapsed onto the engine of the JCB, which gave a dying bellow and sagged onto broken suspension. Cayden tumbled with the falling debris to the ground. Darnel dragged him away from falling masonry to the back of the JCB. "You OK?"

Cayden nodded spitting the dust from his mouth.

"Fucking impressive," Darnel said patting him on the shoulder, before moving forward.

"Cayden what the hell do you think you're doing?" Sly said, panting beside him.

"Thought you needed help," Cayden grinned weakly before spitting out more dirt.

She smiled and patted his knee. "You did good." She handed him her pistol. "Be careful the safety's off."

"That's the last, eight rounds. Use it carefully," she said.

Cayden looked at her blankly.

"You've used one before?"

He shook his head.

"Just pretend it's an extension of your index finger, look down the top of the barrel over the site, and squeeze the trigger, don't jab at it." She pushed the barrel away from her as Cayden studied the pistol. "Be careful. No more heroics." She grinned before picking up the MP5 she had recovered from the other man at the blockade. She checked the magazine and then looked at Cayden, her dust smeared face serious. "Am I going to have to stay here and make sure your safe?"

LBW lumbered past looking like a human equivalent to the JCB, his face grey with dust and streaked with sweat. He didn't stop but carried on round to the left and the front of the Temple.

"That guy is fucking unbelievable," Darnel said. "Hey, you heard of team work," he yelled after him. "Sly cover me."

"Rachel," Cayden croaked getting to his feet.

Sly and Darnel, ran to the corner of the house. There bodies were shrouded in a cloud of white dust.

Gunfire.

From the corner of his eye, Cayden saw movement and turned to see someone running down the landside of the Temple. He spotted Cayden and lowered his gun.

It was Captain Min Oo. Cayden had lied to Sly. He had used a weapon before. A shotgun on a pheasant shoot. He had missed everything. He raised his pistol and squeezed. The bullet took a chunk out of the top of the wall but it had the effect of forcing Min Oo to take cover. Cayden tried to spit more dust from his mouth but found it too dry. Anxiously he looked from the wall to the corner of the house. He felt very exposed beside the JCB.

Min Oo's head popped up with both hands raised. "Don't shoot. Don't shoot."

Cayden squinted down the barrel his hands shaking, almost blinded by the dust caking his sunglasses. His finger tightened and the pistol bucked in his hand.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot," Min Oo screamed lying in the dirt his hands stretched in front of him.

Cayden's mouth was too dry to say anything, so he gestured with the pistol for Min Oo to go down the pathway. Andrew Singh would not let him through.

Sly raced in beside him. "Cayden are you OK?" she said looking at the back of Min Oo, hands held fearfully above him, shuffling down the pathway.

He looked at her dust-streaked face, her eyes full of concern. He tried to smile.

She helped him to his feet.

"I'm fine. Have you found Rachel?"

Sly shook her head. "Gittens is giving us a hard time."

She left and Cayden stuck the pistol into the belt on his shorts, and climbed the raised arms of the JCB to the exposed upper floor of the house. He stepped around the edge of the bucket into the dark interior. The wooden floor - buckled with splintered planks from the JCB impact. The few items of furniture - a wooden framed bed, a table and two chairs were thrown against the far wall. A crack, enough to see a glimmer of sunlight through, zigzagged down the far wall. A lump of plaster fell sending more dust into the clogged air. Cayden whipped off his sunglasses and peered through the gloom. Rachel was curled on the floor near the balcony window.

Gunfire resumed outside.

Cayden flinched. Gittens was putting up a fierce resistance. Maalik must be with him. Cayden stepped cautiously away from the bucket and onto a threadbare rug, which was rucked and creased over the broken floor like a covering of cracked chocolate. The boards creaked with his weight.

"Rachel...I'm here angel."

The boards creaked and he stopped. Pushing his foot forward to test his weight.

Rachel stirred. She coughed and raised her head.

"Stay still angel."

She looked at him, the red cloth still tied around her mouth. Her hair was white with plaster and her bare legs were black with dirt. Her blouse was torn by the left arm. She sat up with difficulty, her hands tied behind her back. Recognition, her eyes widened, watering from the dust. He could hear her calling his name behind her gag.

"Stay still, you're safe now," Cayden inched forward, testing the boards. His arm out-stretched, reaching for her fingers as she stretched towards him, tears made channels through the white dust on her cheeks.

Her groans suddenly changed to a muffled scream. Cayden looked into her eyes and realised she was looking past him. He spun round. A phantom figure grew from the steps that led down to the lower floor.

Maalik.

He had lost his baseball cap and his sunglasses. His head coated in white dust but his trim beard had remained black, his eyes blazed with anger. Cayden reached behind him, found the pistol in his waistband, and without a second thought, leveled, and fired. Stunned, he watched Maalik stagger away from the head of the stair and slump back against the far wall. For a moment Cayden stood, the pistol getting heavier and heavier, waiting for the figure to move. Eventually he dropped his arm and turned back to Rachel. He took a step, their fingers touched and the floor gave way. With a sickening rush his body fell, the air driven from him, his chest jamming in the gap. Gasping, he looked desperately for Rachel. She was slithering to him. Suddenly she froze. Terror in her eyes. Cayden's head snapped around.

Maalik was pushing himself off the floor, he was groaning with pain but eventually stood, swaying, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, the white covering of dust on his shirt, black with blood. He staggered towards them, his right hand holding a pistol. Cayden looked desperately for his weapon. Rachel's head was level with his. He stretched and pulled the red material away. She maneuvered to her knees, her eyes glistening.

"I love..."

The bullet threw her away like a doll from a spoilt child. She collapsed against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her, her chin on her chest, her hair covering her face. Rachel sat as if asleep, a red stain spreading in the centre of her t-shirt.

Cayden felt something cold against his temple. He tore his gaze from Rachel and looked up at the hate filled eyes. Maalik pressed the barrel against his head, pushing so his ear crushed against a floorboard. There was an empty click. Dimly he could hear shouting. They were looking for him. Several more clicks. The pressure released and slowly he looked up at Maalik, now standing above him.

"No matter infidel. I have not had the pleasure of killing you, but you will die a thousand deaths for this day."

He grinned and dropped the gun at his feet before moving away. Cayden watched him disappear down the stairs but he continued staring at the space. His eyes blurred, desperation filled him. He started screaming.

The seaward side of the Temple had a walled in gravel floor area, with poles supporting brightly coloured prayer flags. Sly approached cautiously but didn't see him hobbling through the fluttering sheets of material until too late. Gittens bounced off Sly with a grunt and sat heavily on the gravel. Sly reached for a flag to stop her fall and it ripped with her weight. Gittens fingers scrabbled through the gravel looking for his weapon. He found it and got to his feet, looking down at Sly as she desperately unraveled herself from the material.

Gittens aimed.

LBW attacked with a snarl.

Gittens fired, but he was spinning to face the charge, the bullet ricocheted off a pole and then LBW swatted it from his hand. Gittens shout was cut short as LBW's body engulfed him. They rolled across the courtyard in a cloud of dust and snapping flagpoles.

Sly scrambled to her feet and went after them. She pulled away the tangled debris. LBW was laying face down, his jacket torn and stained with sweat and dirt. She knelt down and shook the huge man's shoulder. LBW's bloody head pulled back. Slowly he pushed himself to his hands and knees. Gittens body lay below him, his lower lip hung open slackly, and a thin line of blood began to ooze from the corner.

"I told you I was going to hurt you Gittens," LBW growled.

The hooded eyes looked at LBW. There was a brief flare of contempt and then Gittens made a sucking noise and more blood dribbled from his slack lip. His body shuddered and he went still, the strawberry shaped birthmark on his cheek growing strangely darker.

LBW felt for a pulse and once satisfied there was none, stood. He kicked Gittens over onto his front and looked at the severed flagpole protruding between his shoulder blades. "He was the last one in the Temple," he said and they looked back towards the house.

"Cayden," they said together.

At that instant Maalik staggered out through the dust-cloaked doorway.

"Look out!" Sly shouted to Darnel who had been walking towards them.

Darnel threw himself to the ground as Sly fired.

Maalik dropped over the side of the harbour wall.

As they cautiously approached, there was a splutter of an outboard. They raced to the side emptying their weapons at Maalik. None stopped him and the boat rapidly reached the mangroves on the southern border of the Caroni Swamp National Park. Disturbed Scarlet Ibis wheeled away from his approach, like pulsing arteries, they spread out along the dark borders of the mangrove, their wings flashing blood red in the setting rays of the sun.

Chapter 27

A glittering cone, widening to the horizon, obscured in haze, where the sea and sky blurred like a Turner painting. Cumulus clouds looked like puffed-up pillows at the head of a rumpled silk sheet. Occasionally, the sunny path was slashed with the wake of a Blade.

Cayden adjusted his position in the Captain's chair, three decks up on the one hundred and eighty foot yacht - _Olivia._ It was the first time he had stirred for over half an hour. The fan on the console blew over him, disturbing his fringe; his longer hair had helped soften the savage look of despair. A couple wandered out towards the bow. They stood under the Tomahawk flag and touched their champagne flutes. The woman laughed, gave her glass to the man and twirled drunkenly to the bow where she spread her arms wide; she even looked like Kate Winslet. The man took a picture before the wake from a passing Blade made her totter from the rail.

Cayden tapped a cigarette from a red Dunhill box. He noticed the flame shaking as he bought the lighter to the tip. He sucked in the smoke, feeling it burn and tickle his throat. He took a quick gulp of Coors Light to quell the urge to cough. A Blade; _a revolutionary thrust forward in design, iconic as a Ferrari, seamlessly working cutting edge technology and everyday functionality_ – the boating press headlines had claimed, glided in towards the side of _Olivia_ , her bow wave melted into the Gulf waters as she stopped short of the side, the engines rumbled as the driver reversed, to bring her stern too. The Blade kissed the pontoon and Tomahawk employees secured her, before the invited press and VIP customers, made their way through the white sun beds and sculptured GRP to the pontoon and then to the interior of _Olivia_ , where more champagne and Randy's gang of sales people waited.

Before he had left for the solitude of the bridge, he had heard above the laughter and pop of champagne bottles, that Randy had sold eleven, with deposits taken. It was turning out to be one of the most successful launches of any new boat model. Cayden drew deeply on his cigarette and then allowed the smoke to dribble from his mouth. A launch arrived from the marina, a half a mile away. He could see the white blocks of downtown Miami and the condo's lining the shore. Above the whir of the fan and electrical motors running the myriad of systems ensuring luxury on _Olivia_ never faltered, he could hear the loud chatter from the latest arrivals. A woman's excited laughter and immediately his thoughts blackened, returning to a wind-swept graveyard near Chichester, a light drizzle settling on upturned coat collars and moistening the already wet cheeks of mourners, huddled under black umbrellas. He had stood alone, unprotected, the drizzle, running tears down his back. The thick clogs of clay had sounded like her fists, banging on the lid. He had even stepped forward, expecting her to cry out, 'Stop! It's a macabre joke, to show how much you would miss me'. He had not spoken to anyone, those that approached, shrunk back from the look of hateful despair, attending instead to Rachel's mother's dignified tears. He had gone to his office and sat in the dark fighting his guilt with anger, the anger with disbelief, the disbelief with hopelessness. The sorrow percolated through him until it felt every cell ached.

_You never know what you've got, until it's gone_ , the cliché echoed within him. Tomahawks, the employees, Meadow Light Farm...everything had become a chore.

Cayden crushed out the cigarette, his eyes burning.

"There you are!"

Cayden had not heard the door open to the bridge. He hurriedly put on his sunglasses.

"We thought you might like something to eat," Janet Hart said holding a plate of thinly sliced smoked salmon and salad. Jac had his arm around her shoulders.

Cayden took the plate and nodded. She was looking better, but the tip of her nose was still red from frequent bursts of crying, her eyes were a spider's web of veins. She had paid a price, as heavy as his, for thinking she could out-maneuver Maalik. She had gone to the police when she discovered Maalik had been using her Catamarans as well, to smuggle East European migrants. The police had started an investigation but it had been too late to save her parents, who, she thought had been safe on holiday in the Caribbean. Gittens had found them in Trinidad, waited his chance, and then one of his men, posing as Marie's assistant, had given them the key to the villa.

Cayden chewed a forkful of salad and then settled the plate on the bridge console. He lit another cigarette. "How're you doing Janet?"

She put a hand on his shoulder. "Jac's taking me to Blanchisseuse to stay with Detective Winston and Marie..."

"The agent?" Cayden said blowing smoke.

"She's been so sweet, feels terribly guilty that she had left the office unlocked..."

"Anyway," Jac interrupted, "despite being a local hero, Winston's semi-retired to Blanchisseuse to run the local police station, but he's insisting it would be a good idea to go back, to close..." Jac looked tenderly at Janet, "a few doors."

Janet brought a tissue from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. "They're putting up a memorial, I want to lay a wreath...they're being so kind," she smiled brightly, but the corner of her lips quivered and Cayden squeezed her hand before Jac stepped forward and hugged her. They had been inseparable since their astonishing coming together at the hospital morgue in Port of Spain. The shock seemed to have fused them, like molten wire.

"Janet would like Tomahawk's to take over Hart Catamaran's," Jac said, "I said I would talk to you. I think there are some synergies that could come out of combining the companies."

Cayden raised his eyebrows and his brother shook his head slightly, a silent request for him to be positive.

"Of course," Cayden said crushing another cigarette, "let's sit down and discuss it in more detail when you get back from Blanchisseuse."

Janet blew her nose and then kissed Cayden lightly on the cheek. "Thank you Cayden." She went to the door. "I need to go to the heads. I'll meet you downstairs Jac. Don't forget your parents are arriving on the next launch."

Jac rested his hand on Cayden's arm, preventing him lifting another cigarette to his mouth. "Killing yourself won't help," he said quietly.

"Won't it?"

"Why do you feel you must suffer on your own?"

"I never shared my life when she was alive. Why should I change now?" Cayden said grimly, pushing his hand away.

"You can't blame yourself. You did what you thought was right."

Cayden sighed. "Bollocks."

They watched a Blade perform a series of sweeping turns as she crossed the bow of _Olivia._ The sheets of spray flying from the stabilising ridges along her hull glistened in the sunlight. She looked alive, her design at one with the element she was built to live on, as breath taking in mechanical form, as a dolphin.

"So what are you going to do? Allow Rachel's memory to destroy all that you've struggled your whole life to achieve? She wouldn't thank you."

"If I had paid more attention to her..."

"You loved her in your own way. She knew that," Jac said earnestly.

Cayden was silent.

"It'll never work you know," Cayden said after a while. He looked up at his brothers puzzled frown. "Hart Catamarans?"

Jac sighed. "I know, but I'll do whatever it takes to help her."

Cayden stubbed out his cigarette and slipped off the chair. He punched his brother's shoulder lightly. "I know. So will I," he smiled tightly. "I think you guys are going to be very happy together. Now let's go and tell the folks the big news."

Jac pulled back and looked at him with amazement. "You noticed?"

"A rock that size is hard to miss. When's the big day?"

"Not decided, we just wanted to get this far and then see," Jac said preventing Cayden from opening the door. "They will get him you know, he won't get away with it, they'll hunt Maalik..."

Cayden nodded curtly. "Of course."

Jac hesitated. "You'll come...to Blanchisseuse?"

Cayden held his brother's hand. "I'll try, but I'm glad for both of you, really glad...you know that don't you?"

Jac hugged the stiff frame of his brother, then opened the door. They walked down the thickly carpeted staircase to the lounge, their blazered shoulders touching, their Tomahawk lapel pins glinting from the recessed lights.

Randy Royce leapt from a sofa and raced over, a wide grin on his lined, suntanned face.

"Twenty orders boys," he said with restrained excitement, "the most successful launch in the history of the industry."

"That's good news Randy," Jac said glancing at Cayden whose haggard features remained unchanged.

They were in an area before the main sitting room, set aside as an office and employee rest area. It was full of enthusiastic employees and several photographers and reporters from magazines and newspapers.

Randy turned in front of the brothers stopping any further progress. "Everyone, could I have your attention," he called. In the expectant hush, he raised his glass. "To the Callejon brothers, Tomahawks, and the Blade."

Cayden shook hands and camera's whirred with the applause, the pictures destined for the covers of the world's boating magazines. Next week he would see his confident gaze on a glossy cover, but there was no hiding the pain in the eyes. Everyone knew what had happened but had been warned to stick to the subject of the launch. One, young ambitious reporter, had started to ask how he felt about Rachel's murder and had been quietly escorted off the _Olivia_. Like the page material they were printed on, the reporters glossed over the subject with stock phrases like; _despite tragic personal circumstances, Cayden Callejon was at the launch..._ , and, _showing the effect of his recent tragedy Cayden Callejon was understandably subdued at the launch..._

Cayden would read the praise but his gaze would stick, like a magnifying glass in the sun, he would see the edges around her printed name curling, blackening as the guilt burnt its way through. There would finally be ignition, a bright flame of understanding on how his life was to carry on, but that was a long way off.

###

About the author

Simon M. Gray's multidimensional journey to the world of thrillers

What to do if your boss is telling you that he does not want you to work for him any longer? Is it a failure or just on the contrary, a reason for joy (overall, you hated him)? Simon M. Gray's answer to a bad boss was to write a thriller.

After losing his job, Simon had very strong feelings about his former employer: "I was crushed, my plans devastated. I considered what type of person could be so indifferent to another's fate and how many people's lives had been ruined by others' blinkered self interest. Was it really him or had business made him that way? So I started writing." In this way, he turned from a trainee of a powerboat company into a writer. His adventure with literature started in 2008 with _Blinkered,_ a thriller where one of the main characters is an owner of (what a surprise!) a powerboat business. Later Simon created _Unquiet Mind_ , a sequel to _Blinkered_. His latest work _Time Stops Ticking_ published.2010

At the time of writing _Blinkered_ apart from his negative experience of working in the motor boat industry Simon had already behind him some practice as a yacht master. A journey - on the sea and across different continents - was an inseparable part of his work and his life. No wonder that travelling is also one of the themes of his books. This experienced traveller takes his readers on a journey to the exciting places that he has visited, from the United States to the Caribbean, from Peru (with the Amazon jungle and the Inca villages in the Andes Mountains) to Trinidad, China and Hong Kong.

Through his books, Simon also takes his readers along for the ride across current affairs. The background of the events which Simon's characters are involved in consists of the most burning phenomena on the political and social global scene: an Al Qaeda-like terrorist organisation and its global network, China's emergence as a superpower, an under-age suicide in Gaza, the glamorous but bloodthirsty world of business.

Although Simon's novels are classified as thrillers they inspire readers to deeper reflection. They are also a journey into the world of human feelings in search for answers to everyday questions. Ways of dealing with life's challenges, a reflection on loneliness experienced even in the group of seemingly close people and the importance of friendship are amongst the more serious themes he tackles.

Simon's novels are more complex than one could expect from thrillers and reflect the author's multifaceted nature. Born in South Africa, Simon currently lives in Arundel, UK, but has spent some time working in the US. He openly admits that his professional life has been "wobbly and bumpy" and that writing is much more to him than just another rung in his career's ladder – it is the "paracetamol to the headache" of his past professional experiences.

http://www.simonmgray.com

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/simonmgray
