No Way to Die E-Book

Tony Kent

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Dempsey/Devlin
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 673

Beschreibung

'Like sitting down in front of the best action movie you've seen this year. A brilliant, gripping thrill ride.' Cass Green, author of The Killer InsideA deadly threat. A ghost from the past. And time is running out...When traces of a radioactive material are found alongside a body in Key West, multiple federal agencies suddenly descend on the crime scene. This is not just an isolated murder: a domestic terrorist group is ready to bring the US government to its knees.The threat hits close to home for Agent Joe Dempsey when he discovers a personal connection to the group. With his new team member, former Secret Service agent Eden Grace, Dempsey joins the race to track down the terrorists' bomb before it's too late. But when their mission falls apart, he is forced to turn to the most unlikely of allies: an old enemy he thought he had buried in his past.Now, with time running out, they must find a way to work together to stop a madman from unleashing horrifying destruction across the country.'A thrilling journey across America that channels Baldacci and Crais, all leading up to the classic ticking clock climax. Terrific.' Mason Cross, author of What She Saw Last Night'What an absolute belter of a book. Dempsey reminds me of an amalgam of 007 and Orphan X. A blistering, two-fisted thriller you won't want to put down until you're done.' Neil Lancaster, author of Dead Man's Grave'A pulsating action thriller' Sunday Times

Leseprobe

Praise for Power Play

‘Twist after twist... It builds to a brilliant finale.’

– Daily Mirror

‘A high-octane conspiracy yarn.’

– The Times

‘An intricate, twisty minefield of geopolitics and absolute power gone rogue. Kent has outdone himself with this one.’

– David Baldacci

‘A gripping conspiracy thriller.’

– Ian Rankin

‘Reads like Baldacci at his best. Really intelligent, bang-up-to-date thriller.’

– Steve Cavanagh, author of Thirteen

‘Scarily credible, and so pacy and well-written that I forgot where I was, who I was, and indeed that I was reading a book at all. Gripping, absorbing, a page-turner with characters you commit to 100%.’

– Judith O’Reilly, author of Killing State

‘The kind of fast-paced action thriller that keeps you hooked until the very end. I loved it.’

– Simon Kernick, author of The Bone Field series

‘High stakes, high-octane action with twists and turns that will make you gasp.’

– Adam Hamdy, author of Black 13

‘Absolutely stunning. Almost eerily topical, it hits like a heavyweight and refuses to let go until the final page. Addictive stuff from Tony Kent, who isn’t playing with his claim to be one of the rising stars of crime thrillers.’

– Neil Broadfoot, author of No Man’s Land

Praise for Marked for Death

‘Fast-paced, tightly plotted, utterly brutal in all the right places . . . Marked For Death ratchets up the tension and releases it like a final gunshot.’

– Jack Grimwood, author of Nightfall Berlin

‘Another tour de force through the legal world in a tense and atmospheric hunt for a serial killer. With this second instalment in Michael Devlin’s journey Tony Kent cements himself as a shining star in crime writing.’

– Angela Clarke, author of the Social Media Murder series

Praise for Killer Intent

‘A compelling combination of political drama and lethal action. There are echoes of Michael Dobbs’s House of Cards but there is more derring-do in Kent’s twisty tale, which has all the makings of a bestseller.’

– Daily Mail

‘An astute, cleverly plotted and scarily plausible conspiracy thriller with plenty of twists.’

– The Daily Express

For my sister Kate

Yes, the next one is coming . . .

12 JULY2021

ONE

4.57 a.m.Eastern Daylight Time

The cheap polyester shirt sucked against Ricardo Garcia’s skin like wet cling film. After so long, it had become a familiar feeling, but no less of an irritation. Twenty-one years ago, Garcia would not have ignored it. He would have questioned why his comfort was not worth the few cents extra for cotton.

Not any more.

Now he was used to the feeling of slick man-made fibre. To literally peeling his patrolman’s uniform from his body at the end of every humid night shift. It was the price he paid for steady employment.

He looked over at the newbie beside him as they turned right from Mallory Square and on to Duval Street, nearing the end of their closing-time round. The conditions had hit Clinton Dewitt just as hard, Garcia could see; his chest and stomach muscles were almost visible through the sweat-soaked khaki. The younger man’s movement seemed affected by the constriction of his uniform. Not by much, but enough for Garcia to recognise discomfort.

‘Still not used to the heat?’

The question was no criticism. Dewitt was from the north and had been in Key West for only a month. To acclimatise in four weeks was a big ask. But when those four weeks were in July? No chance.

‘The heat I can take.’ Dewitt’s tone matched his expression. The discomfort was making him ill-tempered. ‘It’s the damn wet in the air that’s bothering me. Is it always like this?’

‘You promise you won’t quit if I tell you it gets worse?’ Garcia chuckled as he answered, keeping his tone light. The humidity was much higher in the winter months, but he did not want to add to his colleague’s already bad mood.

Low pay and antisocial hours made it hard to attract good candidates to the City Commission’s Area Patrol Group. The lack of any route to promotion made it even harder to keep them. So when they managed to find someone like Dewitt? Early thirties, fit and strong, even willing to give up his rest night for a chance to learn the ropes with an old hand like Garcia?

They ain’t gonna want to lose him.

Neither man said another word as they turned left, off Duval and on to Front Street. Garcia had been walking the same route since he had started the job. Twelve times a night between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m. He could follow it with his eyes closed. This was only Dewitt’s seventh night but – physical discomfort aside – he already seemed a veteran.

‘You see that?’ Dewitt asked, breaking the silence.

‘Uh-huh,’ Garcia grunted in response. He had noticed the same movement.

The northernmost section of Front Street was short, even by Key West standards. And so the corner it shared with Duval allowed both men a view of North Bay Marina at its far end. The start and the end point of the circular patrol route, at 5 a.m. the marina was always the last inspection of the night. And thanks to Key West’s bars closing around thirty minutes earlier, it was rarely a quiet one.

Tonight looked to be no exception.

‘What do you think?’ Dewitt increased his pace as he spoke, causing Garcia to do the same.

‘Same as always,’ Garcia replied. His eyes had fixed on shapes he could barely make out in the darkness. ‘Pendejos have too much to drink, those boats become a homing beacon.’

Dewitt seemed to agree. Or at least he didn’t argue. He maintained his pace, and with the edge of the marina barely four hundred yards from Duval, they covered the distance in under two minutes.

But sunrise was still two hours away, so being closer did little to assist their view in the darkness. Not that light was usually necessary; beer and vodka jello shots tended to have a noise-amplifying effect. It made locating drunken tourists in the early hours more an aural task than a visual one.

And it was that very fact that made the current silence so unusual.

As they reached the entrance to the marina, Garcia could read none of his own apprehension on the younger man’s face.

He hasn’t noticed the lack of sound, Garcia thought. Why would he? He doesn’t know how rare it is yet.

Garcia strained his eyes as he attempted to count the figures who were now just about visible at the end of the marina’s third jetty. It was no use; at this distance it was just too dark. The marina was not wide, but the jetties themselves – four of them – each ran a length of around one hundred yards.

‘Are we gonna go deal with this?’

At the hissed question, Garcia turned his head to face Dewitt. Unlike the darkened smudges that he could barely make out inside the marina, he could see the younger man’s face clearly.

Still no fear. No concern. Garcia shook his head.

Well, he did say he wanted to learn.

‘You know how many there are, do you?’ Garcia asked. He was attempting to make his tone instructive, but it was difficult to achieve at the low volume. ‘Or even who they are?’

‘It’s what you said, ain’t it? It’s drunks looking for something to do after closing?’

‘Maybe,’ Garcia replied. ‘Maybe not. But tell me this: when did you last hear drunks that quiet?’

Dewitt gave no answer. Didn’t have one, Garcia figured. Instead he, too, squinted into the distance. But Garcia doubted that the younger man could make out any more detail than he was able.

‘Well, if it’s not drunks then who is it?’ Dewitt finally asked. His confident tone was unchanged by the unknown.

‘Who knows,’ Garcia replied. ‘Could just be boat residents. Could be someone looking for something to steal, or some other sort of trouble. Worse trouble.’

‘Or it could just be quiet drunks.’

Garcia shook his head. ‘No such thing.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘Well, we ain’t gonna find out standing here, are we?’ Dewitt stood up from their crouch, his tone now impatient. ‘Let’s go ask them who they are.’

Dewitt took one step forward. Garcia reached out and grasped his forearm before he could take another.

‘You really wanna take that risk, Clint?’ he asked, his voice suddenly a whisper. ‘I’ve been doing this a long time, man. And people creeping about in the dark, all silent-like . . . that ain’t usual. It ain’t good. We’re not cops; we don’t have to do this.’

‘Like hell we don’t,’ Dewitt replied. There was a streak of disgust in his voice that Garcia could not ignore. ‘We’re paid to patrol these roads and these ports and . . . all this. If we start avoiding places because of what, a few shadows? How’s that doing our job?’

Garcia hesitated. He knew Dewitt was wrong. That there was no need to put themselves at risk. And his gut was telling him that this was a risk. But in the same instant, he felt shame. Shame that, after over two decades as a patrolman, he was not willing to do his duty as readily as a man who had only just started. Worse, a man who was not even officially on duty tonight.

‘Look,’ he finally said, ‘I . . . I just don’t see what we have to lose by calling this in. By letting the cops deal with this.’

‘What about our credibility, Ricardo? And our pride, man? You really want to call other men down here, to do something because we can’t? What the hell does that make us?’

‘It’s just . . .’

‘And what if this is nothing? What if they are just a bunch of drunks?’

‘They’re not drunks. I’ve been doing this long enough. We’d hear them, we’d—’

‘OK, residents, then. Boat owners. What if we call the cops and it’s just the damn boat owners? How do we look then? I need this job, Ricardo. I’m not risking it. I’m going down there.’

Dewitt pulled his arm from Garcia’s grip and took another two steps forward before turning to face the older man.

‘You coming or you staying?’

Garcia hesitated again. His instincts were telling him one thing. But his shame was saying something else. And Dewitt’s words had hit home. I need this job, Ricardo.

Dewitt had three kids and another on the way. That, he had told Garcia, was why he had taken a job for which he was overqualified. And why he was so determined to do it well. Dewitt needed the money. He needed the work. And Garcia wasn’t going to put that at risk. He wasn’t going to see those kids go hungry,

‘Dammit. Yeah.’ He reached for his sidearm, a Smith & Wesson M&P 9. Pulling it from its holster, he fixed his gaze on Dewitt. ‘Yeah. I’m coming. But we do this armed and ready, understood?’

‘Understood,’ Dewitt replied, unholstering his own identical weapon as he spoke. ‘You gonna lead the way?’

Garcia stepped forward in answer, past the younger man. The same mixed emotions that had forced his agreement were now compelling him to take the lead. He was, after all, the senior patrolman.

These were his docks.

He covered the first fifty yards of the jetty slowly, his firearm raised. His steps were silent, at least as far as he could tell. He hoped his heart was too; in his own head, it was beating like a snare drum.

Dewitt’s steps seemed louder – clear enough to tell Garcia that the younger man was just a few feet behind – but hopefully not enough to attract attention.

The patches of light thrown by the tall lamps that intermittently illuminated the jetty gave him cause for concern, but they managed to pass under the first two unnoticed.

That left just one more, perhaps seventy-five yards along the walkway. It was close enough to announce their presence once Garcia stepped into the light. More importantly, it was close enough to finally see their targets.

‘I’ll stop under the last light,’ Garcia whispered over his shoulder. ‘You come up beside me, weapon raised. Understood?’

‘Got it.’

Two more steps to go. Somehow Garcia’s heart rate increased even further.

He took a deep breath. He had intended it to be calming but it had no such effect. It did nothing to slow his racing pulse.

But still Garcia stepped forward again. Slowly. Deliberately. Into the light.

He focused on his raised weapon, his hands shaking.

He could see the shadows now. Not their faces. Not their features. But he could see what they were doing, and in that moment he knew that he had been right.

There was nothing innocent happening here.

‘STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE.’

Garcia’s voice was loud and firm. It sounded calmer than he had thought he could manage. Filled with more authority. Enough to stop the shadows moving at least; each one turned to face Garcia where he stood, now visible in full uniform under the jetty’s final light.

‘DON’T MOVE A GODDAMN MUSCLE.’

He felt a surge of confidence as the shadowy figures obeyed his orders. It calmed him where the deep breath had failed. With his hand steadied and his eyes fixed on the shadows, he called out behind.

‘Newbie, you joining me up here or—’

The final words never left Garcia’s lips. The feeling of a dull, heavy blow to his back distracted him from finishing the sentence, but, even without it, the eight-inch blade that plunged into and then across his back, expertly puncturing both lungs in one strike, would have made any further sound impossible.

Garcia tried to turn. Tried to see who had struck him from behind. But now his legs would not obey him. He felt his knees give way as he slowly crumpled down to the damp wooden planks beneath his feet.

For just a moment, he wondered what had happened.

It was a fleeting confusion, instantly replaced by an agony beyond anything he could have imagined as the knife was torn from his back. He looked up and in that moment his unknowing eyes locked with his killer’s, just as the blade bit into the side of his neck and was drawn slowly across his throat.

TWO

5.35 a.m. EDT

Joe Dempsey leaned against the guard rail of his thirty-fifth-floor balcony, took a first sip of tea and watched the early red-gold hints of sunlight reflect off the glass frontage of the building ahead.

The Manhattan air was already warm, suggesting another blistering day ahead. By now Dempsey expected nothing else; the past weeks had been an uninterrupted run of glorious summer. He had been cautioned about New York’s intense seasons before moving here. Told that half the city’s population would go elsewhere between June and September, to escape the unbearable heat.

That warning had come almost four years ago and yet since then the mercury had rarely hit those fabled heights. Dempsey’s first few summers as an adopted New Yorker had been unusually mild. No bad thing, he realised now. The previous summer had been hard enough on the city, thanks to the Covid-19 lockdown.

The addition of a heatwave would have made it unbearable.

But that was then. It was 2021 now and though the world was still in recovery, there was freedom enough to make the soaring daily temperatures manageable. Shops were open. Bars and restaurants. Even the parks. After fourteen months of strict limits on their liberty, Manhattan’s one point six million residents could now leave their homes, the city and even the state.

This renewed freedom made Dempsey smile as he watched the streets below. For far too long he’d been looking out on an eerie mix of stillness and silence, the life of the city seemingly extinguished by an invisible enemy. But now? It was alive. And while still far from its normal self, it was recovering fast.

A true testament to human resilience.

Or maybe it’s just New Yorkers?

The question flashed through his mind as he registered an angry exchange of words and car horns at the intersection of 74th Street and 1st Avenue. Loud enough for the sound to reach Dempsey a block away and four hundred and fifty feet up, he quickly spotted its source: a yellow cab turning right and into the path of an oncoming garbage truck, neither driver willing to give an inch. Only the crunch of metal on metal would have made the scene more quintessentially ‘New York’.

And all before 6 a.m.

Dempsey dismissed the thought as soon as it had arrived. As typical as the scene was to Manhattan life as he had grown to know it, Dempsey had seen enough of the world to know that neither his adopted city nor its residents were unique. Not before Covid. Not during it. And certainly not after.

The virus had hit the entire world and it had hit hard. Dempsey had seen that first hand. The International Security Bureau had been unaffected by the shutdowns that had blighted economies across the globe. There had been no reduction in existing threats, worldwide or domestic. If anything, the overall danger level had increased, with rising tensions between the US and China over the impact of the virus.

And that had made Dempsey and his team as essential as they ever were. Maybe even more.

For almost a year, the threat of conflict between the USA and its only realistic global rival had preoccupied the United Nations as much as the sickness itself. That meant that it had preoccupied Dempsey too, resulting in him spending less time in New York in 2020 than he had in either of the two years before it. While everyone else stayed home, Dempsey and his ISB team had travelled an eerily quiet planet, pursuing the source of the misinformation that had put the two giant nations at odds.

But that was then. It had been months now since they had uncovered the truth. And so months since the USA and China had put their rivalry aside and focused solely on beating the virus. The mass vaccination programmes that were now in place had almost achieved that.

For now he could put those thoughts out of his mind and just watch the sun rising over Manhattan, awakening the city that supposedly never sleeps.

Apartment 35D of the Stratford Building – 1385 York Avenue – faces west. A fact that should have made its balcony better positioned to enjoy a sunset than a sunrise. That had been Dempsey’s expectation when he had signed the lease three years earlier, but it had taken just one morning for him to be corrected. Rarely asleep beyond dawn, he discovered on that first day that the three blocks between The Stratford and its nearest high-rise neighbour was the perfect distance for the sunrise to be reflected back towards him.

At the height of the morning, it would provide a sheer wall of light. But now, as the sun barely crept over the rear horizon, the first few beams turned those opposing windows into small portals of gold, allowing the New York skyline to break through the darkness of the night.

For Dempsey, this was when the city was at its most magical.

The sound of multiple sirens reached his ears from the distance. One was close. Just three blocks away, by his reckoning. The surest sound of city life. It almost brought his smile back, as he took another sip of hot tea, but Dempsey forced the reaction down.

As welcome as it was to hear life in Manhattan again, those sirens meant bad news for someone.

He reached for his smartphone. In just seconds he had connected to the live departures board at New York JFK airport. An instant more and his fingers were moving again, locating British Airways Flight 1594 from New York JFK to London Heathrow.

10.30 a.m., the display told him. Departing on time.

Dempsey allowed himself that smile. He was happy. In less than five hours, and for the first time in two years, he was going home.

THREE

5.40 a.m. EDT

‘Is that the last crate?’

Cam Arnold pointed to the sealed plastic container that Scott Turner was holding. Arnold stepped forward as he spoke, careful to avoid contact with the pool of congealing blood that had spilled out of the still-warm corpse lying between them.

‘All but the smaller box,’ Turner replied. ‘That’s back . . . that’s along the jetty, up by the boat. Just like you said.’

Turner’s voice was quiet, naturally muffled by the ski mask that concealed his face. But was that the only cause?

Arnold couldn’t be sure. Every one of his men had been trained to kill, Scott Turner included. But, until this morning, Turner at least had never seen real death. Not violent death, anyway. And sure as hell not up close and personal. That had now changed.

And Arnold had to wonder what effect it was having.

It’s his first time, he reassured himself, that’s all. Shit like this, it can affect the best of us.

For now, Arnold would keep things simple. No complex orders. No discussion. He would give the boy time and space to get his head straight. Turner was uniquely important to what they were here to achieve, Arnold believed, and he knew the kid would need a clear mind for what lay ahead.

He pointed again to the crate in Turner’s hands.

‘Take that one to the back of the van and load it, then wait for me there with the others.’

Turner nodded his head without a word, stepping aside as he did so to give the older man space to pass him on the jetty. A little more space than was necessary, Arnold noticed.

The unforced distance clinched it: Turner was spooked.

Maybe I should have warned him.

Arnold forced the doubt from his mind.

What’s done is done. Plus he’s motivated. It’ll kick in.

Arnold walked away without another word, into the darkness and towards the small boat he knew to be moored at the far end of the jetty. Turner did the same, but in the opposite direction. Back to North Bay Marina’s entrance and to the deserted Front Street.

The shape of a vessel gradually emerged out of the shroud of darkness as Arnold moved closer. It was far smaller than the luxury sailboat he had passed towards the front of the marina; if anything, it was closer in size to a local tourist fishing boat than to the yachts that were more common in this particular marina. The difference, though, was not as noticeable without other boats close by for comparison. Unlike the other jetties, this one was mostly unoccupied. Arnold had seen to that.

He continued to walk, the dimmest of lights from the boat now just about illuminating his path. A few more steps and he was parallel with the bow, and, for the first time, he could make out the small box that Turner had mentioned. Placed in the very centre of the walkway, it had been hidden from sight by the same darkness that had protected the boat itself.

Arnold placed a hand on the body of the vessel and leaned in.

‘You ready to go?’

A single outlined figure was just about visible from where Arnold stood. The boat’s only occupant, Arnold knew.

‘As soon as you say the word.’

‘Perfect. Give it ten minutes from now, then get moving.’

‘OK.’

‘In the meantime, stay alert. You hear anything that worries you before the time’s up, you cut and you run. Got it?’

‘Got it, Cam.’

‘Good. See you back at the camp.’

‘You too. Good luck.’

Arnold did not acknowledge the man’s final words. Why would he? He had planned this thing to perfection and so luck had nothing to do with it. Instead he crouched down, carefully picked up the small box and slowly walked back towards the lights of the marina.

A minute later and he was on Front Street, by the open back doors of a long, grey Dodge Sprinter van. Four men were waiting, all now visible under the street lighting, their masks removed.

It was the first time Arnold had seen the faces of his team in weeks. He had deemed it too risky to have them all in a location as small as Key West while he made the arrangements for tonight, so he had stationed himself here alone. All recent contact between them had been via the usual discreet channels.

That stage of the operation was now over. With his preparations having gone perfectly and his isolation no longer necessary, Cam Arnold was back where he belonged.

He was back in command.

He carefully placed the small box into the rear of the open van, then repositioned three of the larger plastic containers that had already been loaded so that they pinned that box in place. Satisfied it could not move during the journey ahead, he stepped back, closed the van doors and turned to his men.

‘Is the Jeep parked where I told you?’ Arnold directed his question to Turner.

‘Exactly where you said,’ Turner replied.

‘And you took the route I told you, right? From there to here?’

‘To the letter.’

The answer sounded strange to Arnold’s ear but then so did a lot of the language Turner tended to use, especially with his British accent thrown into the mix. Arnold skipped past the thought as quickly as it arrived, his mind instead focusing on one far more important.

The kid’s voice, he told himself. It’s more certain than on the jetty. He sounds like himself again.

Arnold studied Turner’s face even as he assessed his tone. He looked intently at the younger man’s eyes, looking for any sign of doubt. To his relief, he found none.

Just a wobble, Arnold told himself. Same thing could happen to anyone. But he’s back.

‘OK. OK, good. Then you know what has to happen now. You take the exact same route back to the Jeep and you get moving. And you make damn sure you follow the road directions I gave you to get off the island. Understood?’

Turner nodded his head. Two of the others grunted their understanding. And the fourth man – Paul Holly – stayed silent.

The lack of questions reassured Arnold. Every one of them knew the plan – or at least enough of it to perform their own role within it. And every one of them, he was sure, would do their duty.

He turned to Paul Holly.

‘You’re with me, like we agreed.’

Arnold gestured towards the Sprinter’s passenger side as he spoke and Holly moved towards it without a word or even a glance towards the other men. Another unquestioning soldier.

Arnold glanced to his left while Holly moved, his eyes drifting back towards the marina’s entrance as he took a final moment of reflection on ‘Phase One’. So far his plan had run perfectly, but there was no time for celebration. There was a hell of a lot still to do and a hell of a lot that could still go wrong. But still he could not suppress his satisfaction.

He had hand-picked his men for this task. Four of them, selected from the fast-growing patriot militia known as Liberation. Once a force to be reckoned with, it had taken Arnold ten years to return the group to its former strength. For most of that time, tonight’s success had seemed an impossible dream. A fantasy. But not any more. Arnold had seen to that, with the unknowing, ironic assistance of a government of traitors.

The corrupt, self-serving bastards in Washington had gone too far, Arnold knew. And finally people were beginning to wake up. To understand. Not everyone. That would be too much to hope for. But enough that he now had an army to choose from, made up of followers who would act without question.

And now Liberation had struck its first blow. It would be the first of many.

Arnold forced himself to shake the thought and returned his attention to the remaining three men on his team. For what was ahead to play out as he intended, it was key that they all did their part.

‘You know what has to happen now, guys.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘We do.’

‘Just make sure you stay under the radar. Do nothing to draw attention to yourselves, you got that?’

‘We’ve got it, Cam.’

‘And don’t dawdle.’ Arnold turned his attention back on Turner as he was speaking. ‘You get back there as fast as you can and you make sure they’re ready.’

‘They’ll be ready, Cam. We all will.’

Arnold stepped forward, thrusting out his hand. First towards Turner, who took it and shook it firmly. The other two men did the same and then stepped back, ready to go do as Arnold had instructed.

‘We’ve got one shot at this.’ Arnold stayed close as he spoke. ‘We’ve got one chance to show these fuckers in Washington that they don’t own us. One chance to show them whose country this really is. So let’s make that count.’

FOUR

6.40 a.m. EDT

The tiniest vibration of Brian Spence’s phone was enough to wake him, just as it was most mornings. Brian had always been a light sleeper and an early riser. The opposite of his husband, Andrew, who had yet to find a storm that could rouse him. Brian’s sunrise alarm could have been set at full volume and it still would not have woken the man next to him.

Not that Brian was going to take that risk. His sunrise ritual was his alone. His moment of peace and contemplation. Brian wasn’t giving that up, and especially not today. Not now they were finally in port.

The journey from Teichman Point in Galveston to Key West – just over one thousand nautical miles – had taken eleven days by sail. And of all the places he and Andrew had visited in their years together – and there had been many – none meant as much to them both as Key West.

Pulling on a thin white robe, Brian slipped quietly from the shared main cabin and made his way to the galley. Three minutes more and he was climbing the steps to the deck, a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand and a double-cupped bowl containing two halves of a pink grapefruit in the other.

The sun had been going down when they’d arrived at North Bay Marina the previous evening but it had been light enough to notice that the place was quieter than usual. Normally it took some serious skill to manoeuvre into their regular mooring on the third jetty, but even with the rest of the marina being busy, the third pier had been deserted. It had made the task of docking almost effortless.

Now, as the sky began to streak with orange and as the darkness began to break, Brian was grateful for that desertion.

He settled himself onto his regular cushioned seat. It faced east, with no sight nor sound of other boats either side, and – just as he had for the past ten mornings – Brian felt in that moment as if he were the only man on Earth.

He looked at his new watch – like this trip itself, a birthday present from Andrew. 6.51 a.m. Two minutes to sunrise. The colours of the sky were changing by the second as the sun prepared to make an appearance.

He placed his coffee on the surface next to him and climbed to his feet, just as the tip of the sun finally broke on the horizon. His timing by now perfected, he raised his hands high above his head as he took in a deep breath. Three seconds in as his arms went up. Five seconds out as they came back down.

He took another. And then another. His morning ritual, played out in his favourite place on Earth. A reminder, if he ever needed one, of just how lucky he was to have this life. Confirmation that . . .

The object on the jetty caught Brian’s attention and broke his contemplation. He slowly lowered his arms as he focused his eyes, trying to make out some detail.

What the hell is that?

He could not see enough to answer his own question. Whatever it was, it was at the far end of the wooden walkway. Maybe seventy yards distant. From what little he could see, it was motionless.

He squinted, trying to focus as the dawn slowly lit up the dock. It looked like an animal of some sort. Or the body of one.

Is it . . . is it a seal?

The size seemed right, as did the way it was crumpled on the floor.

Or maybe it’s just a pile of clothes?

He willed it to be this more attractive possibility. A dead animal, rotting on the walkway, was not how he wanted himself and Andrew to begin their time here. That was not a good omen, and they were a couple who took such things seriously.

A pile of clothes, then. That’s what it is.

He climbed down from the yacht and onto the jetty, moving carefully; the last thing he wanted was to make that night’s headlines.

‘Texas socialite drowns in deserted Key West marina’? No, that’s not how this trip’s ending.

Brian walked slowly, careful that his cotton slippers did not slide on the damp wood. The details of the object became clearer with every step.

Twenty yards and Brian already knew his guess was wrong.

Forty yards and he no longer thought he was looking at an animal.

And sixty yards was as far as he got before he turned, kicked off his footwear and sprinted back towards the boat.

FIVE

8.10 a.m. EDT

Sergio Vega wiped a sheen of morning sweat from the back of his neck as he slammed the car door hard. The lack of air conditioning inside the vehicle had left him dripping, even on the short ride here. It had taken his already sour mood and dialled it up to ten.

A/C was an extra cost in a squad car. Vega knew that. And he knew that the bean-counters back at the sheriff ’s office would never authorise that expense on a fleet vehicle they would never see, let alone drive.

Sonsofbitches never miss a chance to save a dime, he thought irritably. Just so long as the saving doesn’t affect them.

He wiped his palm across his brow and flicked off the perspiration. For just a moment, he felt like kicking the car. He might even have done it if only he’d been somewhere else. Somewhere other than a crime scene. But he wasn’t and so he would do what he did every day.

He would suck it up and he would get on with his job.

Vega took a deep breath as he approached the loose yellow tape separating North Bay Marina from the rest of the world. The air was already hot and the feeling of it as it filled his lungs did little to change his mood, but it was better than the stuffy interior of his car. Another two breaths and he had reached the tape. One more and he was under the cordon and inside the marina, his mind now fully focused on what lay ahead.

Whoever he was here to see, they deserved his full attention.

Vega had joined the Monroe County Sheriff ’s Office ten years earlier, at the age of just twenty-five. It had been his first real job after graduating college and in the decade since then he had dedicated himself to it, to an extent unmatched by any of his colleagues. Vega’s focus had cost him much – while his brothers and sister had built families, he’d managed not one relationship that had gone beyond its first month – but it had been worth it. At least as far as he was concerned.

Vega had made sergeant within six years and had been the local homicide investigator for the past three, working out of Major Crimes. With career progression that fast, his ultimate ambition – to be the first Cuban-born county sheriff – had evolved from a snowball’s chance in hell into a near sure thing.

Even so, his specific role within the department did not account for much of his working day. Suspicious death was relatively rare in the Florida Keys and so, like many of the specialist officers under Monroe’s sheriff, Vega doubled up on that duty with more regular responsibilities. Everything from routine patrol to standard investigation work. Even – when manpower was stretched – the curse of Key West night duty.

Unfortunately for Vega, manpower was often stretched. Last night had been no exception.

The night shift had ended at 7 a.m. and Vega had reached his small apartment less than ten minutes later. The short time span between clocking out and falling into bed was, Vega always told himself, one of the few positives of living so close to the centre of town. A positive that had been denied him today.

Vega had caught no more than twenty minutes of sleep before being called back to work. As the only homicide investigator in the district, the body at North Bay Marina was his responsibility.

Immediately after the call he had showered, pulled on a fresh set of clothes and headed straight to the sheriff ’s office’s local headquarters on College Road, where he had picked up his crime scene kit and his sweatbox ride. From there he had rushed to Front Street. Door to door to door, all within forty minutes of the call-out.

Pretty damn efficient, he thought. Even if I do say so myself.

It took barely five steps for Vega’s satisfaction in his own efficiency to fade as he spotted his deputy.

Lucas Willis was a new addition to the sheriff’s office. The latest in a long line of young deputies, all appointed to Key West with misjudged ideas of how life in party central would be. As a rule, each lasted as long as it took for those illusions to be shattered. Willis had hit five months so far and Vega had seen his smile dampen with each passing pay cheque.

What he had also seen – an even surer sign of the deputy’s discontent – was his weight gain. Willis had hardly been slim on recruitment, but he was twenty pounds heavier now than he had been in January. With the extra lumber he looked unhealthy even on his best day. And this was not that day.

A painful combination of stress and exertion dominated his sweating face as he ‘jogged’ towards Vega.

‘Jeez, Luc. We’ve already got one dead body this morning. Don’t go adding another.’ Vega stepped forward as he spoke, half expecting that he would need to catch the deputy as he fell.

‘I’m sorry, Sarge,’ Willis panted, already out of breath. ‘It’s just . . . it’s . . . the Key West PD. They’re here.’

‘What?’ The detective made no attempt to hide his irritation. ‘What the hell—’

‘And . . .’ Willis tried to push on through pained breaths. He had more to say. ‘Sarge, they’re not . . . they’re not alone.’

The statement halted Vega’s train of thought, his flash of anger replaced by confusion.

Not alone?

‘Who else is here?’

‘No clue, boss. But they ain’t local.’

Vega had more questions, but what was the point? Willis’s last answer was plainly the extent of his knowledge. He focused on the practicalities.

‘Where’s the body?’

Vega looked around as he spoke, looking to answer his own question. He did so almost instantly. As large an area as North Bay Marina covered, there were only four jetties that stuck out from the dockside and so only eight lines of moored boats. And only one of those jetties had a cluster of sheriff ’s office deputies.

‘It’s over there, Sarge.’

Both Willis’s reply and his pointed finger were unnecessary; Vega was already moving.

‘Who did PD send?’

‘Lieutenant Smart.’

Willis was breathing hard as he answered, struggling to keep up as Vega increased the pace. The difference in physical condition between the two men – Willis’s borderline obesity against Vega’s naturally slim, gym-honed fitness – could not have been more evident.

‘He say why he was here? The report was pretty clear that this one’s a homicide.’

‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t speak to him, Sarge,’ Willis replied. ‘Susie did. They just . . . they . . . they told her to . . . clear the scene.’

‘Clear the scene?’ Vega felt his internal temperature rise. ‘They told her to clear my scene?’

His pace increased even more. It left Willis trailing behind, breathless and unable to reply. Vega hardly noticed; Willis had exhausted his usefulness.

The detective’s attention was already elsewhere.

For a location as easily cordoned as the marina, Vega would expect no more than four deputies; the sheriff ’s office could just about spare that minimum. Willis was one and the other three were now directly ahead, all of them just feet from the third jetty. In front of them, blocking their access to the wooden walkway, was a yellow cordon. It was an expected detail but, Vega quickly realised, it was not one of their own.

That’s PD tape. He felt his heart rate rise, his earlier irritation turning to anger. Those sonsofbitches have ejected my team from my own goddamned crime scene. Just who the hell do think they are?

‘Sarge. Did you know these guys were gonna be here?’

The question came from one of the deputies, half-shouted as Vega approached. He did not answer. He did not even glance over. Instead his eyes remained fixed on the three figures he could see through the morning haze, all standing together near the far end of the jetty.

He passed the deputies without a word, ducked under the yellow tape and covered the seventy or so yards of the walkway at speed. His focus was now absolute as the details of the group ahead became visible.

Vega recognised one. The only man and the person Willis had told him to expect: Lieutenant Frank Smart of the Key West Police Department. The two women he had never seen before. Which, in a community this small, could mean only one thing.

They’re federal.

The realisation slowed him. He was close enough now to see the two strangers clearly, but both were facing out towards the sea and so his view of them was limited. One – the taller of the two by more than a head – seemed to be dressed consistently with Vega’s conclusion. A black jacket over a black skirt, with a hint of a white collar visible against her long blonde ponytail. The other was dressed for comfort in the summer heat: sandals, knee-length khaki shorts and a loose white blouse. The more informal dress suggested that she was the senior of the two.

None of which tells me anything I need to know, such as just who the hell . . .

The sound of his approach must have been louder than Vega realised and so he found his thoughts interrupted as all three turned to face him. For the first time he could see the faces of the women. The sight confirmed what he already knew: he had met neither of them before.

‘Sergeant Vega.’

Lieutenant Frank Smart stepped forward as the detective came close. His formality was unusual; Vega could not remember the last time Smart had addressed him by his rank. It took barely a moment to deduce why Smart had come over all official.

A show for the feds.

‘We’ve been expecting you,’ Smart continued.

‘Well, I sure as hell wasn’t expecting you, Frank.’ Vega had no intention of engaging in Smart’s display. Feds or no feds, he was here to work. ‘The call I took said this was a murder. That makes it my jurisdiction, not yours. So why’s the PD here?’

‘There’s no need to turn this into a conflict, Sergeant.’ Smart’s tone was reasonable. His repeated use of Vega’s rank instead of his name was not. ‘We’re only here to help.’

‘You’re here to help? Help, as in “assist”, you mean? So were you assisting me when you threw my team off my crime scene, huh?’

‘That’s on me, Sergeant Vega. I’m the one who ordered your team to stand by.’

Vega turned his head at the interruption, to face the shorter of the two women. Her intervention suggested that he had been right; she was the boss.

‘I apologise if I crossed a line there, son. Be assured, all I was trying was to preserve a crime scene. Your crime scene.’

The words were carefully chosen and delivered with a melodious accent that, to Vega’s ear, hailed from somewhere in the Mississippi Delta. It was not the voice he expected from a fed – too soothing, for one thing – and yet it carried its own subtle authority.

The combination was disarming but Vega was determined to stay focused.

‘And who were you preserving it from, exactly?’

‘Well, since you ask, it was from your people. A few of them, son, seemed they were fixin’ to trample all over the place, given half a chance. I didn’t reckon you’d want that.’

Vega wanted to answer, to think of something smart to fire back, but instead he said nothing. The ‘people’ she had referred to? He looked back towards the marina, towards a group of deputies that included Lucas Willis. The metaphorical bull in a china shop.

With Willis factored in, there could be no good answer to what she had said.

‘No,’ he finally replied, turning back to face the woman he already thought of as ‘The Boss’. ‘No, I wouldn’t want that.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

The Boss smiled as she spoke. A warm, genuine smile. Vega felt himself return the gesture – it was somehow impossible not to – and, as he did, her earlier words came back to him. Words he had overlooked.

Your crime scene.

‘Wait, you called it my crime scene?’

‘Who else’s crime scene is it gonna be? This is Monroe County jurisdiction. And you’re the sheriff ’s homicide investigator. We ain’t here to change that.’

They were exactly the words Vega wanted to hear and yet not for one moment did he believe them. It was just not how the feds worked. Not now. Not ever.

‘All due respect, Agent . . .’ He left a long pause, expecting it to be filled with an introduction. When the Boss did not accept the invitation, he continued. ‘You’re down here throwing around orders and making things happen. And so I’ve got to ask: just who the hell are you?’

The Boss’s smile widened. An irritating reaction, whether intended or not. Vega looked towards her colleague for an answer. The taller agent was, he now realised, unusually striking, with a cold, perfect symmetry and near-porcelain skin. She was also all business, her expressionless face giving nothing away.

Having received no response from her either, he turned back to face the Boss.

‘Look, it’s pretty damn clear that you’re about a hundred pay grades ahead of this guy—’ he pointed his finger at Smart as he spoke ‘—so I know you’re not police. And you sure as hell ain’t dressed for the FBI. So I’m gonna ask you again: who the hell are you?’

Smart stepped forward, as if to answer. Judging by the angry look on his face, Vega’s insult had bothered him. Just as Vega had intended. He half-turned to face Smart before they were stopped by the Boss’s raised hand.

It was a clear, unspoken message. She would answer for herself.

Smart stepped back.

‘I ain’t dressed for the FBI, Sergeant, because I ain’t with the FBI. And I ain’t from no other branch of local or state law enforcement with which you might be familiar. My . . . interests, they go a little beyond that. I’m Special Agent O’Rourke and all you need to know is that I’m with Homeland Security.’

O’Rourke indicated to the woman next to her.

‘And this here, Sergeant Vega, is Agent Nicki May. Department of Justice.’

Vega followed O’Rourke’s gesture and his eyes met May’s for the first time. Her previously stern expression broke in turn, replaced with a polite, one-sided smile and a nod of her head. The slight grin brought some character to a face that was otherwise too perfect, with the improvement only increased by the spark he believed he now saw in her eyes.

A moment more and Vega would have been holding Nicki May’s gaze for too long, but he stopped himself in time. He gave her a quick smile and turned his attention back to O’Rourke.

‘Homeland Security? What does any of this have to do with you guys?’

‘Officially, nothing. As far as anyone knows, we’re not even here. Not yet, anyhow. Like I said, this is still your crime scene. I intend for it to stay that way.’

At first Vega said nothing, all too aware that it was a lot to take in. The mere fact of a Homeland agent at the site of a random Key West murder would have been enough; just why the hell was she there, he still wanted to know. But then that same agent not pulling rank? That was unheard of.

He looked wordlessly from O’Rourke to May and then to Smart, then back along the jetty to his own small, insignificant team. Four of them, all behind a cordon they were not considered important enough to pass. That fact had angered Vega just minutes earlier. But not any more.

Now it just gave him the clarity he needed.

Because they are insignificant. And so am I.

He turned back to O’Rourke.

‘You mean for now.’

‘What?’

‘You mean it’ll stay my crime scene for now. Right up until I find something that makes it your crime scene.’

O’Rourke did not reply, but then she didn’t need to. Vega was right and every one of them knew it.

SIX

8.30 a.m. EDT

The blood from Ricardo Garcia’s throat had congealed into a sticky, viscous pool that spread a full three feet out from his body. To the untrained eye, it would have resembled nothing more than thick, red corn syrup. Lots of it.

To Vega, it was a potential mine of information.

The relative sparsity of arterial spray told him that Garcia had died quickly. Perhaps from the deep wound to the back that was visible through his torn patrol shirt; even without the addition of a slit throat, that wound would have been fatal. Whatever the ultimate cause, the manner of blood loss suggested that the patrolman’s heart had stopped just moments after the final wound was inflicted.

What blood had left his body from that point onwards, while still substantial, was a result of both pressure and gravity.

Vega could tell all of this from blood placement alone. Unluckily for him, the timing of Garcia’s death was much less clear-cut.

The average July temperature in Key West was enough to accelerate rigor mortis far beyond its usual speed. As a result, the rigidity of Garcia’s corpse meant little. The temperature of the body itself was equally unhelpful. With the surrounding environment so warm, Garcia’s remains would never cool to the same level as would happen elsewhere.

Both factors made Vega’s job more difficult. Or, to be more accurate, they made it slower. The medical examiner would be able to settle time of death at autopsy. But Vega took pride in never having to wait that long. Today, he realised, he would have little choice.

The body, then, had told him all it could for now and so he rose from his crouched stance, gently replacing the sheet he had pulled from the corpse as he did so. He moved slowly, careful to give the fallen patrolman the respect he deserved. Ricardo Garcia was a victim now. His body was evidence. But until last night he had been a living, breathing human being.

More than that, he had been someone Vega knew.

Stepping back, Vega turned and faced the group of three people – O’Rourke, May and Smart – who were still behind him on the jetty. They had stayed ten yards back, both a respectful distance and one that maintained the integrity of the scene. O’Rourke had already assured Vega that none of them had approached the body prior to his arrival, adding credibility to her claim that this remained his case.

As welcome as that reassurance was, it still begged the question:

So just why the hell are they here?

The thought continued to bother Vega as he walked back towards them, noting as he did so what a mismatched grouping they appeared from a distance.

Frank Smart, a senior Key West police officer who always wore a black suit totally unsuited to Key West weather, was the dictionary definition of a WASP. Put him in any lawyer’s office in any major city and he would be indistinguishable from ninety per cent of the men around him. Physically and intellectually. But down here? Down here he stood out like a . . . well, like a WASP in Key West.

Agent O’Rourke, conversely, was no one’s impression of any kind of federal agent, which was what most intrigued Vega about her. Aged in her mid-fifties, he would guess, and both short and overweight, O’Rourke was wearing the uniform of a middle-aged holidaymaker – she could have passed for any one of a thousand tourists who would be frequenting Duval Street later today – and yet it did nothing to diminish her presence. As a black woman representing the pinnacle of the intelligence community, she was impressive, and an automatic role model to someone like Vega, who knew better than most the challenges faced by minority agents and officers in law enforcement.

Then there was Agent Nicki May, the physical ying to O’Rourke’s yang. Nine or ten inches taller – more in her heels, which gave her an inch on even Smart – May was naturally pale and likely rail-thin beneath her black suit. She also seemed to lack the easy authority of her Homeland counterpart. That was possibly an unfair conclusion, Vega realised, no doubt based on her younger age and her deferment to O’Rourke as lead agent. But it was still the conclusion he had reached and so far he’d seen no cause to reassess it.

He fixed his eyes on Smart as he drew closer.

‘This one’s gonna hurt the guys at the Patrol Group, Frank.’ Vega’s earlier animosity towards Smart had lessened. After what he had just seen, he regretted that he had succumbed to a petty rivalry. ‘That’s no way for a good man to go.’

‘I know.’ Smart had not seen the full crime scene up close, but he had seen enough. ‘I know.’

‘What’s the Patrol Group?’

Vega turned towards O’Rourke. He had assumed that Smart would have explained this already.

‘It’s one of our key resources in a place like this,’ he began. ‘We’re tourist-heavy with lots of minor crime. The Patrol Group sends out lone patrolmen to handle the small stuff, the kind of things that would usually be a distraction for the sheriff ’s office or the PD.’

Vega gestured towards Garcia’s covered corpse before continuing.

‘This . . . this doesn’t really happen to cops down here. Not often, anyway. But it never happens to patrolmen. They’re gonna take this hard.’

‘And this particular patrolman. Mr Garcia. You knew him?’

‘Every cop knew Ricardo,’ Smart answered. ‘He’d been on patrol so long he’d become an institution.’

‘In that case, I’m sorry for your loss.’ O’Rourke reached out to touch Smart’s arm in consolation. It was an instinctive reaction. Informal and fleeting, and quickly turned into a gesture towards May. ‘We both are.’

‘It’s neither of us who need condolences.’ Vega stepped forward as he spoke. ‘We’re not here to grieve for Ricardo. We’re here to catch the bastard who killed him.’

‘Good to hear, Sergeant Vega.’

O’Rourke’s lyrical voice made every positive comment feel like a reward. The effect was no doubt intentional and Vega knew that he had to ignore it. He needed a clear head. Not easy in the presence of two agents who were both, for very different reasons, unusually intriguing.

He made a decision.

‘Special Agent O’Rourke. Agent May. I think I need to speak to Frank – to Lieutenant Smart – alone. Do you mind?’

‘You go for it,’ O’Rourke replied. She glanced towards May. ‘We can keep each other company right here.’

Vega smiled his thanks, indicating for Smart to follow, and then walked him a short distance along the jetty, in the direction of the marina. When he spoke again, Vega kept his voice low.

‘Have you spoken to anyone from the Patrol Group yet?’

‘Only real quick. I didn’t pass on any details or anything. Didn’t think it was my place.’

‘What did they tell you?’

‘Not much. They were in shock at the news, even without knowing the full picture.’

‘Anything we can use?’

‘Hard to say,’ Smart replied. ‘Though what they did say, it confirmed to me that Ricardo was killed while on patrol. And that the marina was the last stop on his round, which ended at five a.m. So I figure that gives us a pretty clear time of death.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Vega replied. ‘Did you get any idea when his last call in to the Patrol Group hub was?’

‘The last time Ricardo checked in was twelve past one. Two drunk girls needing help home. They passed it on to your office.’

‘Yeah, I remember the call. I was on duty last night, I almost took it myself but one of the deputies was closer. They picked them up, delivered them back to their hotel.’

Smart said nothing, and so Vega continued.

‘If that was Ricardo’s last call in, then that means he died sometime between twelve past one and five a.m. That’s the best we can say for now.’

‘But his patrol ends here, and he’s dead here,’ Smart observed. ‘And we can tell from the level of blood on the walkway that he wasn’t killed somewhere else and dumped here, right? He’s lying where he fell.’

‘That’s right, but his patrol route is twelve rounds over seven hours. So after he last called in, Ricardo could have passed through this marina what? Four times at least? Poor guy could have bought it on any one of them.’

‘Shit.’

‘What about witnesses?’ Vega shared Smart’s frustration, but it was not the time to show it. ‘Anyone report anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Not really. The man who found the body – guy called Brian Spence, from the sailboat further up the jetty – he said he heard a few noises outside the boat last night. But nothing worth getting out of bed to investigate. So he thought, anyway.’