Page 77

THE SIXTY-FOOT SUPPLY boat called the Espada bobbed next to an aluminum pier on Black Duck Bay, just south of Houston’s massive Exxon Mobil refinery. In the distance, freighters eased through the channel with their tons of oil or stacks of multicolored cargo containers, heading out into the Gulf.

The Espada’s load was a lot more modest—five hundred pounds of fresh fruit and vegetables bound for the galley aboard the Aquila, one hundred miles south. The refrigerated hold was at maximum capacity when two dockworkers drove up with another forklift, pallets loaded.

Oliver Paul watched from behind a concrete pillar as Captain Ben Garcia waved them off.

“¡No más! We’re full.” His bill of lading was already filled out. No way was he about to change it now. Whatever produce these guys had could go on the next trip, or on somebody else’s boat.

The men ignored him. They were both wearing heavy-duty ear protectors. Maybe the captain thought they couldn’t hear him. They parked the forklift parallel to the hull before jumping off and heading up the gangway.

Garcia’s two crewmen were belowdecks, making the boat ready for the night crossing. The irritated captain walked over himself to intercept the two gringo intruders, who showed no signs of stopping. They acted like they owned the place.

“Hey!” Garcia called out. “I said no more tonight! Take it back to the warehouse!”

“No problem,” said one of the guys. He walked right up to Garcia and jammed a stun gun against the nape of his neck as Garcia was turning away from them. The device’s powered-up modification delivered a jolt directly to the brain stem. Instant unconsciousness, with no marks. The watchmaker’s design. Garcia spasmed and dropped, drooling onto the deck.

The other intruder dragged Garcia behind a housing. Then he and his partner stood on either side of the ladder that led to the main hatch. “¡Hola!” he shouted down.

From where he was hiding, Paul heard a muffled, “Cap?” from below. Then footsteps on the ladder. As soon the first crewman emerged, with the second close behind him, the intruders jammed stun guns against their necks too. They both tumbled back down the ladder like broken mannequins.

Paul waited for the signal. Two pulses from a flashlight. All clear. He stepped out from behind the pillar and walked up the gangway and onto the deck. He looked down through the hatch and saw the two men crumpled at the bottom. “Tie them up. The captain too,” he ordered. “Then get the load.”

Paul’s men, Lev and Andrei, were efficient. It didn’t take long.

Ten minutes later, they were in deep water and heading due south, with their cargo stored in the hold. The Espada was good for twenty-one knots, tops. It would be a four-hour journey to the platform. The three bodies had already been gutted, weighted, and dumped into the Gulf.

Oliver Paul stared out at the dark, rippling waves. He’d wait until they were farther out to make contact. That would leave plenty of time for Holmes, Marple, and Poe to get Matts out of her cell and onto a plane.

Either that or see all hell break loose.

CHAPTER 77

THE KITCHEN AND dining table at the lodge were spotless. Gabrielle Desan had stayed behind to help Virginia with the cleanup. She clearly didn’t want to risk running into Gestard on the way back to Ithaca. After Desan left, Virginia headed off to her bedroom. “I need to get that man out of my head,” she told Marple.

Now Marple was sitting in the great room with Holmes, Poe, and Grey.

“I wish you’d told us in advance about your little ambush,” said Holmes.

“I was afraid it might dampen your appetite,” said Marple. “I needed your honest reactions to the meal.”

“The food was fantastic,” said Poe. “It’s your mentor who made me queasy.”

“You’ll have a hard time pinning anything on that little prick in court,” said Grey. “These accusations are all he said, she said. Different jurisdictions. No physical evidence.”

“I agree,” said Poe. “It’s a hard case to prove.”

Marple smiled. “Leave him to me.”

Holmes looked down as his phone buzzed. He checked the screen. Marple saw his expression darken. He waved to the others to gather around. “It’s Paul.”

Marple squeezed in beside him on one side, Poe and Grey on the other. Holmes held up the phone to give everybody a clear view of the screen.

At first, it showed two eight-digit numbers. Geographic coordinates.

Then a video loop of a giant oil platform in the middle of an expanse of dark water.

Finally, a text. Just four words:

NO AGNES, NO MERCY