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No one interfered with the search; they were largely alone. A pickup eased up and parked just across the road. The driver, in a sweat-stained gray shirt, speaking into his cell phone, walked to the back of his truck and began tossing trash bags into a ditch beside the road. The concept of littering as a crime seemed not to exist in the Bahamas. Rhyme could also hear some laughing and shouts from the other side of the fence surrounding the metal fabrication plant but otherwise they had the place to themselves.
Looking for the nest, Thom, Poitier and Rhyme walked, and wheeled, through the weeds and patches of dirt and sand, the Storm Arrow doing a fair job of finding purchase in the uneven terrain. Poitier and Thom could get closer to the edge and he told them what to look for: cut-back brush, indentations, foot or boot prints leading to a flat area. "And look at the patches of sand." Even a spent cartridge leaves a distinctive mark.
"He's got to be a pro," Rhyme explained. "He'd've had a tripod or sandbags to rest the gun on but he might've used rocks too and left them set up. Look for stones out of place, maybe one balanced on another. At that distance, the rifle would have to be absolutely steady."
Rhyme squinted--the pollution and the wind stung his eyes. "I would love some brass," he said. But he doubted the sniper would have left any empty cartridges behind; pros always collected them because they contained a wealth of information about the weapon and the shooter. He peered into the water, though, wondering if a spent shell had been ejected there. The sea was black and he assumed very deep.
"A diver'd be good."
"Our official divers wouldn't be available, Captain," Poitier said regretfully. "Since this, of course, isn't even an investigation."
"Just an island tour."
"Yes, exactly."
Rhyme wheeled close to the edge and looked down.
"Careful there," Thom called.
"But," Poitier said, "I dive. I could come back and see if there is anything down there. Borrow some of the underwater lights from our waterside station."
"You would do that, Corporal?"
He too peered into the water. "Yes. Tomorrow, I--"
What happened next happened fast.
Finger-snap fast.
At the sound of clattering suspension and a hissing, badly firing engine, Rhyme, Thom and Poitier turned to look at the dirt road they'd just driven down. They saw the gold Mercury bounding directly toward them, now with only two occupants in it.
And Rhyme understood. He glanced back, seeing the man in the gray T-shirt, the litterer from the pickup truck, race across the narrow road and tackle Poitier as he was drawing his gun. The weapon went flying. The assailant rose fast and kicked the gasping corporal in the side and head, hard.
"No!" Rhyme cried.
The Mercury squealed to a stop and two of the men they'd seen following earlier leapt out--the one with the dreads in the sleeveless yellow shirt and his partner, shorter, wearing the green T. The man in green ripped Thom's phone from his hand and doubled him over with a blow to the belly.
"Don't!" Rhyme shouted--a cry as involuntary as it was pointless.
The man in the gray T-shirt said to his partners, "Okay, you see anyone else?"
"No."
Of course, that's why he was on the phone. He hadn't come here to pitch out trash at all. He'd followed them and used the phone to let the others know their victims had arrived at the killing site.
Poitier gasped for breath, clutching his side.
Rhyme said firmly, "We're police officers from the United States. We work with the FBI. Don't make this worse on yourself. Just leave now."
It was as if he hadn't spoken.
The man in gray walked toward Poitier's pistol, lying in the dust ten feet away.
"Stop," Rhyme commanded.
The man did. He blinked at the criminalist. The other attackers froze. They were looking at the Glock in Rhyme's hand. The pistol was unsteady, for sure, but from this distance he could easily send a bullet into the torso of the assailant.
The man lifted his hands slightly, rising. Eyes on the pistol. Back to Rhyme. "Okay, okay, mister. Don't do with that."
