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Holmes took a seat across from Marple. He looked past the hair, the makeup, the padding, the attitude. He’d seen her disappear behind disguises and fake identities before. She was good at it. But now she was planning to dangle herself in front of a psychotic serial killer, with sniper rifles pointed in her direction.

He leaned toward her and put his hand on her knee. “Let’s rethink this, Margaret,” he said. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

The cabin jolted as the chopper lifted off.

Marple shifted in her seat, her cuffed hands in her lap. “Too late for that now,” she said, her voice low. The Yorkshire dialect was gone, along with the edgy tone. “Brendan, listen to me. Oliver Paul has been killing women for over twenty years. He’s killed dozens of guards and energy workers in the past two weeks. He’s promised that someday he’ll kill you. Enough. It ends tonight. I know what I’m doing. You have to trust me.”

“What if this turns into a firefight?” said Holmes. “Those guys in the back—they’re snipers.”

Marple glanced at them and turned back to Holmes. “Let’s hope they’re good.”

CHAPTER 83

AS THE SUPPLY boat Espada approached the security perimeter around the Aquila, a searchlight beam hit Oliver Paul square in the face. When he raised his hand against the glare, he saw a sleek patrol boat heading in his direction, churning up a white wake on the dark water. He could make out two men in uniforms. One was at the wheel. The other was holding the searchlight.

Paul called out to Lev in the Espada’s wheelhouse. “Hold up! Put her in idle!”

The ship glided to a stop, engine rumbling, waves lapping at her bow.

Andrei emerged from the hold and stepped up beside Paul. “Security?” he asked. He had one hand on the butt of his gun.

“Hang back,” said Paul. “I’ll handle it.”

As the patrol boat pulled up alongside, the searchlight raked the Espada’s deck. The man holding it shouted across the gunwale. “You bound for the Aquila?”

“That’s right!” Paul shouted back. “Food supplies!”

As the hulls of the two crafts nearly touched, the officer jumped across the narrow gap and landed on the Espada’s deck. He held out one hand toward Paul. “I need your registration and cargo manifest.”

Paul was ready. He’d located the documents in the Espada’s safe—a cheap combination model, easy to crack. He reached into his pocket and handed the papers over. The officer held them under a flashlight, examined them briefly, then handed them back.

“Okay, you know the drill,” he said. “I’ll let the rig know you’re coming. Pass through the perimeter and hold a position fifty yards off the platform. Wait for instructions on your ship’s radio. They’ll send a supply manager down to meet you. Then the crane will offload your cargo.”

“Got it. Thanks.” As always, Oliver Paul appreciated precise instructions.

The officer jumped back onto his own deck. After a few seconds, the patrol boat turned and powered off into the darkness.

Paul signaled Lev, waiting behind the wheel. Lev hit the throttle. The Espada moved forward. Paul grabbed the rail and worked his way to the prow. The Aquila was still two hundred yards away, but it loomed like a space station against the dark sky. Only the waves breaking against the massive support legs gave any clue that the structure was anchored to planet Earth.

Paul did not have to guess when they were fifty yards out. The Range Finder tool on his Apple Watch told him, right down to the centimeter. One of his simpler embellishments. Paul worked his way back amidships and hopped into the cockpit next to Lev. Andrei sat by the stern.

The ship’s radio crackled. “This is the Aquila, hailing Espada. Do you copy?”

Oliver picked up the radio mic. “Espada here. We copy.”

“Proceed to twenty yards off our starboard and drop anchor. We will send somebody down to you.”

Lev gave the boat a little more gas, moving her closer and closer to the platform, until Paul waved his hand. “Stop!”

Andrei stepped forward. At this point, the only clear view of the rig was straight up. As Paul and his two crewmen watched, an orange crane arm swung out over the water. Dangling from a cable at the end of the main boom was a round, open-sided lift with a lone figure standing in the middle. It was hard to even see him at this distance.

The boom arm stretched out farther and farther, until the tip hung directly over the Espada. The lift descended at a slow, steady rate until it landed with a thud on the aft deck.

A thickset Black man in a hard hat and life jacket unclipped from a safety line and stepped off. He nodded to Paul. “You the captain?”

Paul walked over to meet him. “I am.”

“Rich Wobig, supply manager.” He did not look happy. “What’s with the night delivery?”