The Ocean Dark

39

Special Agent Rachael Voss stood on the deck of her squad’s seized drug boat and tried to tell herself that Josh Hart was still alive. She’d known agents who claimed to have a kind of sixth sense about such things, that they’d know if something had happened to their partner or their wife or child. It would have been a comfort to believe such a thing, but she’d always thought those people sounded like assholes when they spouted off about spiritual connections and psychic rapports and crap like that.

For all Voss knew, Josh might be floating somewhere out on the Caribbean, feeding the fish. She didn’t want to believe that, but she had to accept it as a possibility. Standing out there in the merciless sun, sweat trickling down her back and between her breasts, eyes squinted against the glare off the water, amounted to Voss punishing herself for not wanting to accept it.

The only reason for Josh not to have set off the PLB by now — so many long hours after signaling that the Antoinette would rendezvous with their gun seller — was that his cover had been blown. Josh was either dead or in no shape to be setting off any beacon. Voss considered the possibility that the Rio brothers had found both the sat-phone and the PLB and tossed them overboard instead of throwing Josh over, but that seemed like wishful thinking.

Her hands started to shake and she crossed her arms to still them.

Last time she’d checked her watch, it had been after two p.m. The Colombian drug lord’s yacht floated in the same waters where the Antoinette had been sailing when Josh had called in on the satellite phone. That meant they weren’t that far from the rendezvous point for the gun buy. How far away was the Antoinette now? The only things on their radar were tiny, scattered islands. Nothing moving. No sign of the container ship.

Standing out on the deck meant more than one kind of torment for Voss. The scorching heat was hot enough, but the glare of the people on the other boats around hers burned her just as badly. There were four Coast Guard craft and two Immigration and Customs Enforcement ships, and the commanders of those vessels were getting more than a little impatient.

“Rachael.”

Voss hung her head and surprised herself by laughing, but she didn’t turn around.

“Christ,” Pavarotti muttered. “Special Agent Voss.”

She turned to look at him. The younger agent had taken a lot of crap from her this time out, and he’d put up with all of it. Now, though, even Pavarotti looked like he was on edge. And why not? They were all tired and ragged, wondering if this deal was going to fall apart, and if they’d left an agent out in the field to die.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Pavarotti stood up straight, like he was a jarhead reporting to his commanding officer. “Supervisory Special Agent Bosworth contacted me and asked me to pass along a message.”

Voss sighed, and gritted her teeth. “Go on, Joe. What did Chauncey say?”

“Supervisory Special Agent Bosworth—”

“I’m gonna break your nose, Plausky.”

Pavarotti allowed her a smile. “I quote, ‘Tell Voss if she doesn’t answer her phone I’m going to come out there and shove it down her throat.’ He also mentioned that SAC DelRosso would be on the line the next time your phone rang.”

Voss had continued to communicate with the guys coordinating the interagency efforts for the Coast Guard and ICE, but she had stopped picking up Chauncey’s calls a little before noon. Now she looked at Pavarotti.

“We’re not leaving Josh out here,” she said.

Pavarotti nodded once. “I’m with you. But at some point, the rest of these guys are gonna be called away.”

“What else did Chauncey have to say?”

“He had other choice words for you, but honestly, Rachael, they were halfhearted. He’s got more on his mind than just being pissed off at you for not responding.”

Voss shook her head and looked out to sea, back turned to Pavarotti and all of the other ships who had gathered there to wait for some signal, any indication that Josh Hart might still be alive, so they could rush in and save his ass and bust some assholes responsible for putting automatic weapons on the streets of America.

DelRosso was the special agent in charge. The only reason Chauncey would get him involved was to hammer home a point, or to take this case away from her. Probably both. And that meant only one thing.

“Ed Turcotte’s come to town?” she asked. But it wasn’t really a question.

“He and his squad left St. Croix an hour ago,” Pavarotti said.

Voss swore under her breath, then turned to him. As she did, her phone began to ring. She flinched, her heart racing, and started to reach for it. Her hand froze.

“You’ve got to answer it, Special Agent Voss,” Pavarotti said.

The boat swayed under them. Voss stared at him. “Oh, now you’re all fucking official?” she asked bitterly. “DelRosso’s going to tell me to stand down, Joe. He’s going to tell me to wait for Counter-Terrorism to get here and turn the case over to Turcotte the second they arrive.”

“Answer it, Rachael. Tell him whatever he wants to hear. Turcotte’s not here yet. It’ll be hours yet. Until then, we do whatever we have to do to take care of Josh.”

Taking a deep breath, Voss answered the phone.