Polar Shift

43

Doyle was glad that this would be his last trip to the lighthouse island. He had never liked the place. He had grown up in the city, and the remote beauty was lost on him. He would be even happier once he had disposed of Lucifer's Legion and left the island forever.

He landed his plane near the island, tied up to a mooring buoy and rowed to the dock where one of the Lucifer creeps was waiting to greet him. He could never remember their names and told them apart by hair color. This was the red-haired guy who, because he most resembled Margrave, seemed to have an elevated status in the group, although he was short of being a leader, anathema to the pure anarchists.

"Haven't seen you since our car chase outside Washington," the man said in a soft-spoken voice that sounded like the rustle of a snake in dry leaves. "Too bad your friends got away."

"There's always another time," Doyle said. "We'll tend to Austin and his friends once we take care of the Elites."

"I'll look forward to it. You should have let us know you were coming," the man said.

Doyle hefted a canvas bag he was carrying. "Tris wanted to surprise you."

The answer seemed to satisfy the legionnaire. He nodded, and accompanied Doyle to the elevator that whisked them to the top of the cliff.

The other Lucifers were waiting on the lighthouse bluff, and when Doyle repeated his reason for coming to the island they gave him that unnerving grin. They all headed for the keeper's house. Doyle led the way to Margrave's kitchen. He got six glasses and a beer and placed them on the table.

He pulled a bottle of champagne from the bag and poured it around. Then he opened the can of beer and held it high.

"Here's to the imminent destruction of the Elites."

The red-haired man laughed. "You've been hanging around with us anarchist types too long, Doyle. You're starting to sound as crazy as the rest of us."

Doyle gave him a friendly wink. "Must be catching. Cheers."

He upended his beer and drank half the contents of the can. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching with pleasure as the Lucifers tossed down their champagne as if it were water.

"By the way, Margrave wanted me to give this to you."

The package had come the day before. With it was a note, signed by Gant.

The note said: "Plans for PS postponed until next week. Please give this gift to our friends in Maine after you share a special bottle of champagne with them. Say it's a gift from Margrave. Very important to wait until they drink their champagne."

The red-haired Lucifer opened the package. It was a DVD disk. He shrugged and slipped it into the DVD player. A few seconds later, a still picture of Gant's face appeared on the screen.

"I want Lucifer's Legion disposed of," Gant's voice said.

"And how do you propose we go about doing that?"

Impossible. It was the conversation he and Gant had after the foxhunt.

"Go up to Margave's island in Maine, tell them that you have a gift for them. Say it's from Margrave. Send them to hell, where they belong, with a glass of the bubbly."

All eyes in the room were on Doyle.

"It's not what you think," he said, brandishing his most charming Irish smile.

Doyle never had a chance. He'd been doomed the moment he got the disk. He would never know that disk came from Barrett, not Gant. And that the bug Austin had planted under the garden table had done its work well, picking up Gant's instructions to murder the Lucifiers.

He got up and tried to make a break for the door, but one of the Lucifers tripped him and he fell to the floor. He got to his feet, grabbing for the gun in an ankle holster, but he was pushed back to the floor and relieved of his weapon. He stared up at the six satanic faces ringed around him.

He couldn't figure it. The Lucifers knew he had poisoned them, yet they were smiling. Doyle would never understand that the opportunity to kill surpassed all other emotions, even fear of their imminent death.

He heard the knife drawer slide open, and then they came for him.