The men chatted for a few more seconds, then parted company. The first man went back into the salon and closed the door. The guard turned to the railing and lingered there, staring over the side.

Come on, pal, where’re you going?

Fisher drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety.

Five seconds passed. Ten.

The guard drew his flashlight, clicked it on, and started walking toward Fisher.

12

FISHERdidn’t hesitate. He lifted the pistol and fired. The SC gave a muted cough. The bullet struck squarely in the center of the man’s forehead and he crumpled.

Fisher remained motionless, waiting to see if the shot had attracted attention. After thirty seconds, he holstered the pistol and crab-walked to the body. The 5.72mm bullet had left a neat, nearly bloodless hole between the man’s eyes. Only a trickle of blood had leaked onto the deck.

Contrary to movie portrayals, this type of nearly bloodless wound was as much the rule as the exception when it came to handguns. In this case, however, Fisher had an edge: His pistol was loaded with low-velocity Glaser Safety Slugs. Prefragmented and loaded with dozens of pellets, each the size of a pencil tip, a Glaser goes in cleanly and then shatters, spreading shrapnel inside the wound.

He quickly frisked the body, found a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an electronic card key. He kept the wallet and key and tossed the rest overboard. He used the sleeve of the man’s jacket to wipe up the trickle of blood on the deck, then manhandled the body to the aft railing and slipped it into the water.

He keyed his subdermal and whispered two words: “Sleeper; clean.”

Even with the operational autonomy Fisher enjoyed, Third Echelon was still part of the bureaucratic machine known as Washington, D.C., and Lambert was still required to file after-action reports, including details of how and why lethal force was used.

“Sleeper; clean” translated as “lethal casualty; no complications.” “Napper; clean” stood for “nonlethal casualty, no complications.” Similarly, the word “mess” meant Fisher’s use of force had drawn attention or was likely to. “Wildfire” meant he was engaged in an open gun battle. “Breakline” meant he’d been compromised and the mission was in jeopardy. “Skyfall” meant he was now operating in E&E (Escape and Evasion) mode.

And the list went on. Of course, having been an operator himself, Lambert wasn’t a stickler for details, especially when things got hot. “Mind yourself and the mission first,” he was fond of saying. “If the paper-pushers want details, they can make some up.”

Still, Fisher saw some value in real-time reporting. Over the years he’d seen a lot of operators die because they’d reacted too fast, had failed to think a step ahead. In this case, even before the guard had turned toward him, Fisher had already decided lethal force was his best choice and there was a low chance it would jeopardize the mission. Even when it came to quick decisions, the Six P’s applied.

“Roger,” Lambert replied.

“Going to the bridge.”

Fisher checked his watch: forty minutes until the FBI arrived.

HEheaded down the port-side deck. Over the railing he could hear the hiss of water skimming along the Duroc’s hull. He paused, pressed himself against the bulkhead, and lowered into a crouch. He needed a moment to think.

The puzzle of who was behind the Tregoand Slipstone attacks was rapidly becoming complicated: The Trego, true registry and owner unknown, had been manned by a single Middle Eastern man who’d set the ship on a collision course with the Virginia coastline. The conclusion was easy to jump to and, in this case, seemingly correct. But now this, the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. So far, the Duroc’s crew appeared uniformly Asian—Chinese American, judging by their accents. If the satellite images were correct and the Durochad in fact taken the remainder of the Trego’s crew to Freeport City, where did this Chinese crew fit in? And why the Bahamas? And why were they monitoring the fire bands—

Then it struck him: loose ends. He should have seen this immediately. He keyed his subdermal. “Lambert, put Grim to work: Unless I miss my guess, the Trego’s crew is dead. Executed and buried in a burned-out or burning building somewhere on the island.”

“How do you figure?”

“Just adding two and two together. I’ll explain later. Just have her monitoring the fire radio bands.”

“Will do.”

Fisher stood up and crept forward until he could see through the bridge hatch porthole.

Inside, the bridge was dimly lit by bulkhead sconces and a single white light filtering up from what Fisher assumed was the rear interior ladder. A lone man sat in an elevated chair at the helm console. Fisher craned his neck until he could see all of the rear bulkhead, which he scanned until he spotted what he was looking for: an electrical panel.

He drew the SC-20 from his back holster and thumbed the selector to STICKY SHOCKER: LOW. The charge would be enough to paralyze the helmsman for thirty seconds to a minute. He needed the man alive and able to talk.

He reached up and tested the doorknob—slowly turning it until certain it wasn’t locked. The helmsman would be instantly alerted when the door opened, and Fisher had to assume he was well trained and ready to sound the alarm. He took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.

Surprisingly, the man didn’t turn, but instead laughed. “Man . . . It took you long enough.”

What . . . ?

“Where’d you go for the coffee? Peru?”

Now the man turned.

Fisher didn’t give him a chance to react. He fired.

The sticky shocker struck the man in the neck, just below the right ear. Fisher heard a faint sizzle. The man stiffened, then slumped over, his torso hanging toward the deck. The man’s limbs, still stimulated by the shocker, continued to twitch. His hand thumped rhythmically against the chair leg.

Fisher shut the door, crouched down. He holstered the SC-20 and drew his pistol. Expecting coffee. . . As if on cue, he heard the clang of footsteps on the rear ladder. A head rose from the ladder well, followed by a torso. “Hey, Tommy, here’s your . . . What the hell are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

The man turned his head. Fisher fired. The man’s head snapped to the left and he toppled over. The coffee mug clattered to the deck and rolled away.

Wrong place, wrong time, friend.

Fisher holstered the pistol, hurried forward, grabbed the dead man’s collar, dragged him under the nearby chart table, then turned his attention to the helmsman.

He pulled Tommy the helsman from the chair and bound his hands using a flexi-cuff. Tommy groaned, slowly regaining consciousness. Fisher dragged him to the rear bulkhead and propped him up. Tommy’s eyes fluttered open. “What’s going—”

“If you want to live, stay quiet,” Fisher whispered. “Nod if you understand.”

“What? What’s going—”

Sam slapped him across the face. “Quiet. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded groggily.

“Do I have your attention?”

Another nod.

“Let’s make sure.”

From his calf sheath, Fisher drew his only sentimental weapon, a genuine Sykes Fairbairn commando dagger.

Given to him by an old family friend, one of the original combat instructors at STS 103—also known as the legendary WWII Camp X commando training school—the Sykes was more than an artifact. Finely balanced and razor sharp, it was arguably the finest special ops knife ever made. And at seven inches, the dagger’s double-edge blade and needle-sharp point was the ultimate attention-getter.

Fisher inserted the tip of the Sykes inside Tommy’s left nostril and stretched it outward. Tommy’s eyes went wide.