Chasing the Son (23 page)

“I have him,” Sarah said. “What’s he worth to you? Wait. Don’t answer. I think we’ve gone past money now, haven’t we? This is personal.”

“It is.”

“And it’s personal for me too,” Sarah said. “Seems we’ve both had our pound of flesh carved from us in the past and want retribution. Perhaps there is a way for us to both be satisfied.”

“And how is that?” Mrs. Jenrette walked across her master suite to the French doors that led out onto the balcony running across the front of the house. She stepped outside. It was late in the day, the sun slanting rays across the harbor.

Fort Sumter was out there, still taunting her.

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” Sarah said. “But I will give you Harry Brannigan if you give me what I want. Tomorrow morning, Mrs. Jenrette. When I ask, you give me what I want. And we will both have our satisfaction.” There was a short pause. “And I do want my ten million also.”

* * *

Sometimes honor was a bad thing, but a man had to have a code. Doc Cleary most definitely regretted listening to Erin Brannigan beg to see her son over the radio three weeks ago. He’d known it was her by the information she had and he vaguely remembered her voice from so many years ago when Horace brought her around.

The fact she’d been gone for almost all of Harry’s life was something he’d been willing to put aside to agree to her request for a clandestine meeting; after all, there was still Mrs. Jenrette to deal with.

The journey back had taken eighteen days, out of the Mediterranean, and then across the Atlantic to this hidden spot at Wassaw Island. He and Harry had waited two days until a boat showed up just the other day; but Harry’s mother wasn’t on board, but rather a woman leading a trio of toughs from the islands.

Cleary had seen their like before, but he’d never met anyone quite like Sarah Briggs. She’d only spent a few hours with them, grilling Harry about what had happened at the Institute, and Doc about what he knew about Horace, and then she’d departed in a small Zodiac driven by one of the toughs, who’d returned an hour later.

Since then, nothing. Except for once when they were tied to chairs, a newspaper was propped in his lap, and one of the toughs took their photo.

Proof of life. Doc had seen enough movies to know what it meant.

“Do you think she’s going to sell me to Mrs. Jenrette?” Harry asked.

They were locked in the bow stateroom on the boat. There was a hatch above, not large enough to crawl through, but it allowed light through and it was cracked open, allowing ventilation. They had a small latrine and food was shoved through the door every so often, on a random schedule, whenever the three guards felt like cooking something up; usually island fare that was surprisingly good.

Doc had been thinking along the same lines, but not expressing it. They’d discussed escape plans (coming up with nothing viable against three armed men) and speculated where Harry’s mother might be. Doc had told Harry what little he knew of Erin Brannigan.

They’d discussed Harry’s father at length during their many months at sea. Doc could see Horace in Harry, in the strong jaw, and the tough physique, but he also saw his grandmother Lilly in the graceful way Harry had handled the sails and scampered about the deck and his eyes. For a long time it had pained Doc every time he looked into those eyes, because they reminded him of her; but he knew that was selfish and he’d put it aside, shelving that it in a bittersweet part of his mind.

“It’s possible,” Doc said, never one to obscure reality with wishful thinking. “She’s a bitter old woman.” He was seated on one side, on the narrow bunk while Harry was on the bunk on the other side. “She didn’t use to be that way. I knew her a long time ago. But the deaths of her husband and son gutted her and she put everything into Greer. And then—“ he left it unsaid.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea to love someone that much?” Harry said.

“Oh no,” Doc said. “Never regret love. But never turn it into hate. Bitterness kills the heart.”

“Maybe I should have stayed and explained—“ Harry began not for the first time.

Doc cut him off. “Let’s not get into that again. Going up against Mrs. Jenrette is bad enough, but throw in Gregory, Fabrou and Mongin and no one would have believed you. We tried to get the truth, but when I learned what the official account was, we knew we had to go.”

“Still—“ Harry paused and cocked his head. “Someone’s coming.”

The noise of a boat engine came in through the cracked hatch.

“I assume our friend is back,” Doc said.

On the deck, the three men Sarah Briggs had hired to sail here didn’t know what to make of the approaching boat. In fact, they didn’t know what to make of much of what they’d been doing. Her instructions had been brief: keep the two men locked up below, answer the cell phone she left with them and do whatever she instructed.

She had not called to tell them she was coming, or anyone else for that matter, so they drew their pistols.

On board Preston Gregory’s boat, which barely made classification as a yacht at forty-two feet, Pappano stood on the foredeck. A sniper, another former Secret Service agent, who’d been on the CAT—counter-assault-team—and cashiered after being found drunk in a hallway during a Presidential trip to Europe. Pappano had hired him on previous occasions. The sniper lay prone, covered with a piece of canvas. A fold in the canvas allowed him to see out and gave a clear line of fire for his rifle. The muzzle of the weapon did not poke out; that was the sign of an amateur.

Slightly behind their counterparts in Special Operations, CAT still used the SR-25, also known in the military as the MK-11, for sniping. Essentially it was an upgraded version of the AR-10 chambered for 7.62 ammunition. The gun the sniper used also had a sound suppressor.

It might be a tad outdated. but it could get the job done.

“I see three,” Pappano said.

“I confirm three,” the sniper said.

“Terminate.”

The first round hit the man farthest away, on the bridge of the boat, exploding his head like a melon. The second round was on the way before the first victim hit the deck. The third man had less than a second to react.

He was beginning to move when he too was killed.

It was all over in less than two seconds. The sniper stayed in position though, scanning the boat through his optics.

Just in case.

They pulled up next to the boat and Pappano led two men aboard as the sniper threw aside his canvas cover and provided overwatch.

Below deck, all Doc Cleary and Harry heard were three thuds above them and the other boat getting closer, then idling.

They heard the lock being turned, then the door was opened and a short man with a pistol in his hand filled the opening.

“Are you—“ Doc began, getting to his feet, but the man had the gun up, aimed at them, answering his question.

“Turn around,” Pappano ordered. “Hands behind your back.”

Another man squeezed in and zip-tied their hands together.

“Come on,” Pappano said, leading them up to the deck-level cabin.

The bodies of the three who’d held them captive were lined up on the floor.

“So you understand we mean business,” Pappano said, pointing at the three dead men with the muzzle of his pistol.

“Who are you?” Doc asked.

“You don’t need to know,” Pappano said.

Doc and Harry were transferred to Preston’s yacht, while one of Pappano’s men took the helm of Sarah Briggs’ boat. They got underway, edging out of the low country and into the open ocean, heading due east.

Doc and Harry were moved below, once more locked in a stateroom, this one with just a single porthole. Their zipties were cut just before the door was locked on them. Harry stood by the porthole, staring out at the open ocean. “Who do you think
these
people work for?”

“Not Mrs. Jenrette,” Doc Cleary said.

“How do you know?”

“She wants
you
dead, not others. This is out of her league.”

“Then whose league is it in? Why are we heading out to sea?”

“Harry.” Doc Cleary said it calmly, sensing the agitation in his young protégé. “Remember the days we were becalmed in the middle of the ocean?”

Harry nodded. “Put your mind back in that place.”

“We fight if we get a chance,” Harry said. “I’m not going the way that couple went off of San Diego.”

Doc Cleary knew what he was referring to: a couple took some men out for a test drive of their boat and ended up being tie together to the anchor and thrown overboard. A frightening way to go.

“We fight,” Doc agreed, “but I think the fellow in charge wants us alive. Since he’s already got three bodies on the other boat, two more wouldn’t make much difference.”

That seemed to satisfy Harry slightly. But then the boat slowed down. They could hear muffled voices. Then a muted explosion. Harry was leaning, trying to see. “They’re scuttling the other boat. The one we were on.”

“Getting rid of the bodies,” Doc said. “Since we’re not on it, I’d say we’re useful for a while longer.”

“They were people,” Harry said.

Doc was surprised. “What?”

“Those three men,” Harry said. “They held us prisoner, but we know they were just doing it for the money. They never hurt us. They fed us. They were people. They didn’t deserve to die.”

Doc Cleary looked at Harry. “True, true. Many who die don’t deserve it. But many who live have a pain worse than death.”

Harry turned from the porthole. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t know anyone’s true story,” Doc said. “No one but you and me can say what truly happened at the Institute. I’ve regretted every day that I got you that appointment.”

“You thought it was best for my future.”

“I was wrong.”

“You were,” Harry said.

And that brought a smile to Doc’s face. “I am so glad to hear you say that.”

The engines revved up and the boat made a long arc, heading west.

“We’re going back,” Doc Cleary said. “We’ll find out soon enough what’s going on.”

* * *

By boat, Riley meant an F-470 Zodiac. A dinghy; not a boat per se in the class of Sarah Briggs, and only fit to be used to transfer people back and forth to a yacht in the class of Preston Gregory’s. But he was content with it, although almost every boat, especially around Hilton Head, was bigger than it.

He’d seen
Caddyshack
and enjoyed it.

He expertly drew the Zodiac up to the pier on the northern end of Daufuskie, cutting the motor as he looped a rope a stanchion. One other boat tied up to the pier, but otherwise the place looked deserted.

“Where are we going to look?” Westland asked, as he helped her off the boat.

Chase hopped up next to them.

Riley pointed at the other boat. “Whoever that is won’t be far.” He pointed. “Marshside Mama’s, most likely. It’s been closed but—“ Riley nodded as he saw three men sitting at one of the outside tables.

“That’s the guy,” Chase said, pointing at one of them, “who dove off Fabrou’s boat.”

“The others are Chad Mongin Senior and Junior,” Riley said. “Owned most of this island long ago, but sold most of it off. Now they have a place on the mainland, across the water. The elder is a degenerate.”

“’Degenerate’?” Westland asked as Riley led the way along the dock toward the restaurant.

“Gambler,” Riley said. “I cut him off long ago.”

“How do you want to approach this?” Chase asked.

“I want to approach this from the perspective of finding out what the fuck is going on,” Riley said.

They came up to the table. The three men stopped talking and turned to stare at them. Dillon was partially dry from his swim. The Mongin’s were dressed in what was pretty much the uniform of the Low Country: khaki slacks and golf shirts.

“Hey, Mongin,” Riley said, eyes on the elder.

“Riley,” Mongin said.

“Who is your friend?” Riley asked.

“My name’s Dillon. You must be Dave Riley.” Dillon shifted his gaze. “And you’re Horace Chase.” He looked at Westland. “You have the advantage, ma’am.”

“What a polite young man,” Westland said. “I am growing more enchanted with the Low Country with each new encounter.”

Chase addressed Dillon. “Saw you jump ship not long ago.” He jerked a thumb at the water. “Merchant Fabrou not happy with you?”

The three at the table exchanged glances.

“We just found out that he had a heart attack,” Riley continued. “Same as Alfonso Farrelli yesterday. Someone is wiping out the competition for this land-grab.”

“He was fine when I left,” Dillon protested.

“Then why did you jump ship?” Chase asked. “While getting shot at?”

“Preston Gregory,” Dillon said. “He—“ then he paused. “Shit. Preston is doing it. He killed Fabrou’s son. Then he killed Merchant.”

“Back up,” Westland said. “What about Fabrou’s son?”

“I grabbed him last night in Charleston,” Dillon said. “I was trying to find out about what happened that night with Harry Brannigan—“ he paused and looked at Chase—“what happened with your son that night at the Institute. I don’t think they’re telling the truth. I mock hanged him, but left him alive. But Preston showed up on the boat saying he was dead. Had his Institute ring, which I left there at the bridge. He killed him. Then he killed Merchant. Wiped out the Fabrou’s. They were the other half of this deal.”

As everyone absorbed that, Dillon turned to the two Mongin’s. “You’re next. You and whoever owns Bloody Point. And Mrs. Jenrette. Preston wants it all.”

“Oh shit,” Chad said, pointing. A fiberglass speed boat was roaring up to the dock, four men on board.

“Heart attack time is over,” Chase said, checking his pistol.

“Preston is with them,” Chad said. “We can talk to him.”

“I doubt that,” Riley muttered.

Un-noticed by the rest of them, Westland reached into her bag and hit a button on her phone.

* * *

The sniper was relaxing in the back of the idling MH-6 ‘Little Bird’ helicopter, the roar of the engine a comforting sound. She wore a ‘monkey harness’, with a strap bolted into the floor. The measurement on the strap was exact, the result of many hours of experimentation.