The waves in the small bay were much smaller than the ones crashing against the rocks farther out, but they gently surged against the shore in steady intervals, and the sound they made as they washed ashore was loud enough to cover the softer sounds of movement. Like the scuff of Caspian’s running shoes against the pebbles.
Caspian waited for the next wave, then he moved, each step calculated. The exposed beach felt endless, but he knew that rushing would get him caught.
Twenty feet.
The man was bracing one hand against the rock as he unzipped his pants.
Fifteen feet.
The woman angled her body to the right and pulled something out of her waterproof pack.
A pistol? Shiiit.
It was too late for Caspian to double back now. He was committed.
Ten feet.
Caspian adjusted his trajectory, angling his approach so that he could take advantage of the rocks to shield himself from the woman’s view sooner. But that also meant it would take him an extra five or six seconds to reach the man, who was now looking up as he relieved himself.
Five feet.
Then the man stiffened. It was a subtle, brief hesitation, like a deer sensing a wolf behind it. But he was too late.
Caspian rushed forward and drove a sharp punch into the man’s lower back, just above his right kidney. The man let out a choked grunt as his body arched back. Keeping his stance low, Caspian snaked an arm around the man’s thick neck, then locked his elbow under the man’s jaw. He tightened his grip, his biceps pressing hard against the man’s carotid artery to cut off the blood flow to his brain. The man thrashed, trying to claw at Caspian’s arm, but his strength faded fast, and within seconds, his muscles slackened.
But Caspian didn’t let go. Not yet.
When the man’s knees buckled, Caspian twisted sharply, slamming the unconscious man’s head against the rock. Not hard enough to kill him but hard enough that he wouldn’t wake up for at least a few minutes.
Moving fast, Caspian searched the man, who had a pistol—a Glock 19—holstered inside his waistband. Caspian yanked the gun free and ejected its magazine.
Full.
He then pulled the slide.
One round in the chamber. Good.
Craning his neck, Caspian chanced a quick glance toward the woman. She was still near the Jet Ski, but an instant later, she turned her head.
Caspian ducked, his heart hammering in his chest.
Had she seen him? He didn’t think so, but he held still, listening, glad he had a gun in his hand.
Move, Caspian!
He patted down the man’s cargo shorts. One pocket held a pair of flex-cuffs. In the other was a wallet that contained two fifty-euro notes and two credit cards with the names Oscar Turner written on them. There was also a laminated ID under the same name.
Caspian raised an eyebrow, then swore under his breath. The ID was a license to carry. The man he had just knocked out was legit.
Or at least this card says he is.
Caspian’s stomach tightened. Had he made a mistake? Had he misread the entire situation? Was it really Paul Hobb he had seen with his hands secured behind his back?
I saw what I saw.
He had seen the renowned investigative reporter. He was sure of it.
Caspian quickly removed the unconscious man’s shoes and socks, then shoved one sock deep into the man’s mouth. He stripped the man of his gray jacket and used the flex-cuffs to secure his hands behind his back. With that done, Caspian pulled the jacket over his own shoulders, zipping it up halfway. It wasn’t a good fit, but it would have to do. If he kept his head down, he hoped he could close the distance before the woman realized he wasn’t her colleague.
