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He was now within thirty feet—and still advancing.
Payne squeezed off his next five rounds in rapid succession, and when the slide locked open, he smoothly thumbed the magazine release, replaced the empty mag with a fully charged one, then thumbed the slide release, chambering a new round as he brought the sights back on the shooter.
Just as he was beginning to squeeze the trigger, the man collapsed at his feet.
—
Five minutes later, with more backup units arriving, their sirens screaming and lights flashing, Matt Payne waved off Air Tac One. Just as the helo’s floodlight went dark, the Texas Ranger flicked a small black bean on the dead shooter’s back.
Byrth turned and saw that Payne was staring at his hands. And that they were trembling.
“That was good work, Marshal. Sometimes these bastards—full of adrenaline, drugs, whatever—just won’t go down.”
Payne nodded. “Someone once told me, ‘Always, always, always empty your mags.’”
[FIVE]
Off Key West, Florida
Thursday, November 20, 10 A.M.
The Viking, its engines at idle speed, skimmed almost silently across the glass-slick Atlantic Ocean. Matt Payne, at the flybridge helm talking on his cell phone, turned the wheel as the sleek Sport Fisherman passed the outer markers of the Boca Chica channel. That put the bow just to the right of the sun on the horizon, its golden rays glowing brighter and brighter.
“Yeah, Tony, last night Amanda got a nice photograph from Maggie McCain. It’s of her and her parents on the sailboat leaving Saint Thomas.”
“Speaking of Saint Thomas,” Anthony Harris said, “I got a call from one of the DEA guys. He reported that they found Captain Jack floating in the harbor. And it wasn’t pretty.”
“How so?”
“You know boats have those emergency signal guns . . .”
“Sure.”
“. . . well, someone wanted to send a signal, all right. They fired a twenty-five-millimeter white phosphorus one into his chest.”
“Damn! That’s an illumination flare. Once it starts burning it doesn’t stop until it burns out. That’s fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, and apparently he lit up the harbor pretty good. They said folks from a cruise s
hip got video of it and put it online, thinking it was part of some celebration.”
“Well, in a warped way I’m sure it is cause for celebration. For Garvey at least. But what about the coke?”
Tony chuckled. “Damnedest thing, Matt. You know the men’s room over the evidence room? Night before last, a waterline to one of the shitters broke loose. Initial blame went to maintenance—or lack thereof. Then someone said it looked like the line might’ve got cut. Who knows? Regardless, the result was three feet of standing water. Flooded the shitter and, a floor below, all the evidence brought in during the previous forty-eight hours.”
Matt heard steps and turned to see Amanda approaching the helm with a cup of coffee and a copy of Cruising Guide to the Bahamas. She slipped the cup into the holder on the console, then put the book in with the towels that were in a beach bag at Matt’s feet.
Matt smiled at her and said, “Well, Tony, I guess once in a great while there is a little justice in this screwed-up world. Talk to you later.”
He broke off the call.
Amanda tugged the phone from his grip. She turned it off.
“No more talking,” she said, then tossed it into the bag. It disappeared under a towel. “Enough with the phone.”
She then turned up the sound system.
Bob Marley was singing “Is This Love.”
