"Your victim's face is too mangled to get proper recognition. I ran his name through the database. Something is off. His credit history is short. Three months. A few purchases. Looks like a dummy ID. If you can give me his fingerprints, I can do a more comprehensive search.”
I thanked her and told her I'd be in touch. Then I called Brenda. "Have you run Steve Davidson's prints yet?”
"I was just about to call you. Steve Davidson is not Steve Davidson. His real name is Nathan Mercer. At least, that's what the database tells me.”
"Who's Nathan Mercer?”
“That’s your job to find out.”
"I figured you would say that."
I thanked her for the information, then called Isabella back and told her the man's true identity. She said she would look into it and get back with me. She was in the middle of something. I didn’t ask.
After I hung up, I did a quick Internet search for the name. Not much came up—a CareerLink profile in the technology and defense sectors, alumni information from MIT, and an article featuring Nathan about off-grid living.
We inhaled the burgers and fries, then grabbed some supplies and transferred them to the Raptor. I cast off the lines. Jack took the helm and navigated us out of the marina. Once we passed the breakwater, he throttled up, bringing the boat on plane. The small HPDE tactical boat carved through the swells. The moon hung low in the sky, shimmering the water. The stars flickered above. A few lazy clouds drifted in the sky. It was a nice evening. Any chanceto get out on the water was a welcome relief. Nothing else seemed to matter out here. We left our troubles behind at the shoreline.
But somehow, trouble had a habit of finding us.
Jack was doing well. His shoulder had pretty much healed. Still a little sore and achy from time to time, but all things considered, he had a lot to be thankful for. We all did.
It took about an hour to get to Emerald Cay. I figured that was as good a place as any to hide the briefcase.
Flynn had a lot of questions.
8
We circled the island, making sure we were alone. Jack pulled into the bay, and we dropped anchor in the shallows. I grabbed a shovel, flashlight, the briefcase, and a backpack with bottles of water and snacks. I climbed over the gunwale and marched up the beach to the tree line.
Jack and Flynn followed.
We took a narrow path through the underbrush, crunching on leaves and stepping over fallen logs. The dappled rays of moonlight filtered through the canopy.
In the meadow, high grass swayed with the wind. Across the field was the old World War II-era bunker and artillery platform. Twisted weeds and vines reclaimed the structure. Tagged with graffiti, it was a common hangout for kids, drug dealers, and ne'er-do-wells.
We’d had our fair share of experiences on Emerald Cay, not all of them good.
Mosquitoes buzzed, and I slapped my skin when the vultures made a landing. The air was humid and sticky, and the briny breeze coming off the water felt good.
"Where the hell do you want to bury this thing?" JD asked.
I glanced around, looking for an appropriate landmark. There was a tree that had been struck by lightning and split in half. It was unmistakable. I figured it was as good a place as any to bury the case.
This wasn’t the first time somebody buried something out here. We'd dug up a few artifacts in our time.
I walked to the tree and marched off a few paces to the north. I stabbed the shovel into the ground and stomped on it with my heel. The blade pried up a mound of dirt. It was soft enough here. I figured we could dig a few feet down without too much trouble.
It didn't take long to work up a sweat as we dug out a hollow pit. The mosquitoes continued to swarm. The breeze would push them away for a bit. When it died down, they'd return.
With the three of us going at it, it didn't take too long. But Jack had to take frequent breaks. His shoulder wasn't exactly loving the idea. I told him not to push himself, but Jack wasn’t the type of guy to pay attention to limitations. Neither of us ever wanted to admit defeat. Especially not against the battle of time. It comes for us all eventually.
I figured a few feet would be safe enough. I placed the case in the pit, and we covered it with dirt and packed it down. Then we grabbed leaves and twigs and covered the pit, so it was indistinguishable from the rest of the terrain.
I snapped a photo and made a note in my phone about the location. It would totally suck to bury the case out here, then not be able to find it again.
I glanced around, making sure we were still alone. It was just us, the wind, and the mosquitoes. The stars and moon were the only witnesses to our clandestine adventure.
I said to Flynn, “Not a word to anyone.”
