“I’m guessing you guys had no luck with your hacking,” Juan said drily.

“Au contraire, mon Chairman,” Murph said. “They didn’t stand a chance.”

“Pretty simple military-grade encryption algorithms,” Stoney added. There wasn’t a computer system Eric and Murph couldn’t break into, as far as Juan knew.

“What did you find on the laptop?” he asked.

“That was the mother lode for the arms smuggling operation,” Murph said. “Shipment manifests, payment schedules, the works. The guys at Langley will have a field day.”

“What about the phone?”

“It took a bit longer to access those files because of the water damage,” Eric said. “We found the usual text messages and phone logs, again related to the smuggling op. We also found a few files. One of them was particularly intriguing.”

“Why?”

“Because it had dates. Four of them. Three dates occurred over the last three months. The fourth date is two days from now.”

“We’re still working on what they refer to,” Murph said. “Below each date is some kind of code.” He read off the list. “Alpha seventeen, Beta nineteen, Gamma twenty-two, Delta twenty-three.”

“Obviously, the Greek letters are in order,” Eric said, “but we haven’t been able to decipher the numerical progression’s pattern.”

“Assuming there is one,” Murph said. “They could also have been assigned randomly, although the continual increase suggests that’s not the case.”

“And you don’t have any theories about what they mean?” Juan asked.

Murph shook his head. “We’ve scoured the laptop for anything that refers to these codes and dates, but there’s nothing. Without more data, we’re at a dead end.”

“We’ll hand the information over to Langston Overholt. Maybe his people can find a pattern for the dates in their intel. After that, as far as we’re concerned, our job is done and we can collect payment, just in time for everyone’s quarterly shares.” Because all of the crew were partners in the Corporation, profits were shared after expenses based on position and length of service. Although the hours were long and the missions risky, everyone aboard could expect to retire to a life of luxury after their years aboard the Oregon.

That evening, the Corporation enjoyed a five-star dinner. As coffee was being poured, Juan said, “We’ve got a long trip to Malaysia coming up to bust that piracy ring in the Strait of Malacca, so I hope everyone has plans to make the most of their shore leave in Jamaica.”

“I talked Linda into a girls’ day at the Sunset Cliff Spa and Resort,” Julia said. “I’ve read it’s Montego Bay’s finest new resort.”

“In exchange for putting up with massages and manicures,” Linda chimed in, “I talked her into taking windsurfing lessons with me.”

“We’ll see how you feel about doing that after you have a few glasses of good Sauvignon Blanc and a foot rub,” Julia retorted. “What about you, Linc? A massage for you, too?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “With all those great coastal roads? It’s time to get my motorcycle out of the hold. And since there’s a new Harley dealer in Mobay that rents bikes, Eddie’s gonna come along with me.”

“How about you, Hali?” Juan asked. “Any adventures for you?”

“I have a feeling I might find one. MacD and Trono are taking me to a bar on the Hip Strip called the Waterfront. They claim it’s got the best mojitos on the north coast.”

“Be careful with those two. I don’t want you waking up wondering what happened to all your clothes.” Juan looked at Murph. “Let me guess what you’re going to be up to . . .”

“Oh yeah! Time to set up the skateboard park. Eric’s going to help me construct a new half-pipe. I’m trying to invent a new trick called the Murph 720.” Juan grudgingly let Murph transform the deck into his own playground, when the opportunity arose. It was a small price to pay for having such a technical wizard on the team.

“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “I’ll be there to film it for everyone’s viewing pleasure later when he wipes out.”

“What about you, Juan?” Julia asked. “Is there a beach with your name on it?”

“No, I’m going to stay on board to catch up on paperwork and oversee the resupply.”

“The hell you are,” Max said.

“No, really. I’ll be fine.”

Max threw a look at Julia. “You were right. We’re the only ones who know what’s best for him.”

Juan trained his eyes on the two of them, recognizing co-conspirators when he saw them. “What are you scoundrels up to?”

“We thought you might be reluctant to take a little R and R,” Max said, “so I took the liberty of chartering a fishing boat for tomorrow. Throwing back a few Red Stripes and wrestling tuna will do you some good.”

Juan glanced at each of them in turn and realized arguing was useless. He put up his hands in surrender and laughed. “All right. I’ll go. But then it’s back to work.”

“That’s what we wanted to hear. You won’t regret it.”

Montelíbano, Colombia

As the helicopter descended toward the landing pad, Hector Bazin took in the sprawling estate hugging the forested hillside next to the village of Montelíbano. With its terraced gardens, tennis courts, and three swimming pools fit for a Hawaiian resort, the mansion and grounds seemed an ostentatious way to show that cocaine trafficking had been exceedingly good for its owner, Alonzo Tallon. But the lavish villa also indicated that Tallon could afford Bazin’s business proposal.

The helicopter flight from Cartagena’s international airport had taken less than an hour, nearly the same time it had taken for his private jet to get to Colombia from his home in Haiti. Due to Tallon’s mistrust, Bazin and the three men accompanying him were forced to ride in Tallon’s helicopter instead of chartering their own. Guards with RPGs made sure no other chopper would be allowed anywhere near the mansion.

When the helicopter settled onto the pad, Bazin and his men exited into the sweltering tropical air to find a dozen guards aiming Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles at them. Bazin stepped forward and stopped in front of the only man not holding a rifle, Tallon’s second-in-command, Sergio Portilla. Bazin recognized the beefy subordinate by his thin mustache and the tattoo of a flaming skull on his neck. Portilla did his own visual appraisal of Bazin, verifying that he was the same man as the one in the photo that had been sent.

Like most Haitians’ skin, Bazin’s complexion was a smooth ebony, and his hair was cut tight to his scalp. An inch over six feet tall and as lithe as a panther, he concealed a well-muscled physique beneath the contours of his tailored Armani suit.

“I must check you for weapons,” Portilla said with a growl. Bazin noticed a bulge under Portilla’s jacket, which meant that either his suit was too tight or the pistol underneath was too big.

Bazin’s men grumbled, but he quieted them with a stern look. He knew it was all part of the ritual. New visitors normally weren’t allowed inside the house, let alone those who hadn’t been searched. He held his arms up high as Portilla patted him down thoroughly.

Assured that Bazin was unarmed, Portilla jerked his head for him to follow, leaving Bazin’s men at the helicopter. A solo meeting was one of the requirements to get an audience with Tallon.

They took a serpentine path through the marbled halls and lushly carpeted rooms of the air-conditioned mansion. Bazin stifled a sneer at the lavishly gilded decorations. Tallon’s taste went toward the gaudy and grandiose, a far cry from Bazin’s own restrained inclinations.

When they reached Tallon’s palatial office, it was more of the same. Gold leaf on every surface that wasn’t teak or granite, the better to display his wealth. Against one wall was a well-stocked wet bar, replete with expensive scotches and ports. On the other wall hung an original Picasso from his Cubist period. A gigantic cherrywood desk squatted at the far end of the room.