Twenty-Eight

Teddy knew he wouldn't make it two inches out of the salt marsh with his truck. Some cop'd spot him. He waited until three in the morning to make his move. He was frozen and uncomfortable and badly in need of a shower, and hungry-damn, he was hungry. But he summoned the energy to haul his weapons and ammo out of the back of his truck and set it all in the wet grass. Then he started carting it back to Bruce's cottage. That was work. Took three trips, although the third one was because he counted his grenades and two were missing. He went back and found them under the front seat.

He was pissed at everybody now. Luke, Zoe West, her prissy little sister, the FBI agent. That Kyle prick. Bruce was okay. He wasn't pissed at Bruce. He was sorry that if his plan didn't work out, Bruce would end up with the local cops, the state cops, the ATF and the FBI crawling over his property. Couldn't be helped. But the plan would work.

Not that Teddy had ever been much at planning. Usually he implemented other people's plans. Last time he planned, he ended up in federal prison. He'd had a much bigger arsenal in mind then. He'd had it all planned out. Then he got caught buying illegal weapons from illegal sellers, and next thing he knew, he was staring up at Judge Monroe in a fancy courtroom.

Teddy saw through Stick Monroe immediately. He was the kind of guy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and tried to pretend he didn't look down his nose at other people but did. As far as Teddy was concerned, Monroe had rigged the damn trial. He denied Teddy's lawyer every motion and made him look like an idiot in front of the jury. Teddy just wanted a fair shake. That was all.

Stick hadn't wanted him in his courtroom. He wasn't a big-enough case. He wanted terrorists and mobsters and serial killers. Teddy wasn't even a good-enough criminal.

When he finished hauling his stuff, he was so hungry and tired he thought he'd pass out. He went into the cottage and found a box of crackers he'd left. He gobbled them up while he made his way over to the lobster pound. It had rained earlier, but now it was just drizzling. His fingers were numb from the cold.

An old rowboat was turned over in the grass and muck alongside the launch. He'd seen it the other night with Kyle. He kicked it over and decided it'd do-it wouldn't sink before he was finished. He dragged it to the water and floated the bow out, keeping the stern on the cement launch. There was only one oar. He'd have to manage.

He didn't think the boat could handle all his weapons and ammo, so he'd left a bunch of it hidden in the brush and scrub pines by the cottage. None of it could be traced back to him, and nobody'd ever believe Bruce Young would be playing around with illegal weapons. Not that Teddy was worried. No way would anyone stumble on his stash before he could get back for it.

It was a good plan. He knew it was. He'd thought through his options. Of course, he always believed he thought through his options. He did okay when he had structure, routines, orders to follow. Mostly, anyway. Unless the orders were stupid. His mother used to say, "Teddy, you have to learn to make good decisions." His father would just slap him up the side of the head and say, "You stupid son of a bitch, what did you expect?"

A prison shrink had told him those were mixed messages.

He'd kept a half-dozen flash-bang grenades, a couple of fragmentation grenades, his 9 mm, his semiautomatic and enough ammo to make him feel secure. He dumped it all into the back of the rowboat, shoved off and climbed in.

He paddled with the one oar as if he was in a canoe.

He made almost no noise and stayed within a few yards of shore, half rowing, half paddling. He went right past Luke Castellane's yacht. It'd be alarmed and locked up tight. Teddy considered lobbing a flash-bang over the bow. That'd serve the bastard right for firing him. Scare the hell out of him.

But that'd happen soon enough.

His boat leaked. The cold water oozed over his shoes, but he was sitting up on the seat. His ass wouldn't get wet. He kept rowing.

It was cold and dark, just the hint of dawn, a paler gray light far out on the horizon. A Maine sunrise was something to see, but with the rain, it wouldn't be much this morning. He'd be out of here by then, anyway.

The FBI agent's boat, the one Bruce'd rented him, was tied up down by Christina West's café. Teddy managed to steer his boat up to its bow, right at the end of the slip.

The leak was worse. Water was pouring into his rowboat.

He was glad he had his weapons and ammo wrapped in a waterproof tarp. He pulled them onto the seat next to him, then heaved them onto the dock without making a sound.

Kyle Castellane's BMW was parked next to the café. Teddy had a key. He'd swiped the spare when he'd gone over to the yacht last week to discuss keeping an eye on Agent McGrath with Luke. He'd had a feeling he might need a BMW before this job was over.

Christina West was up already, getting the coffee on and making muffins. That could be a complication. The lobstermen would be rolling in soon, too.

He carried his stuff up to the parking lot and set it down, fairly certain Christina couldn't see him at this angle. He put on earplugs and goggles and got out one of his flash-bang stun hand grenades. He was excited, nervous. This had to work.

He walked back down to the docks as calm as anything. His rowboat was sinking fast. At least it hadn't sunk with him in it.

Holding his breath, he pulled the pin in the grenade and lobbed it perfectly into the stern of the G-man's lobster boat.

Then he turned and ran like hell.

One second, and boom. A 175-decibel explosion and searing, blinding light. It was doing just what it was supposed to do. Make a lot of noise, disorient, distract, confuse and basically scare the hell out of people.

That'd wake up Gooseshit Harbor.

Teddy didn't linger to admire his handiwork. He climbed into the BMW, started it up and pulled out his earplugs as he backed out.

Twenty-Nine

"Get down here." Bruce Young's voice was intense but under control on the other end of the phone. "Someone just torched your boat. My boat."

J.B. had heard the explosion and was halfway out of bed. "Anyone hurt?"

"No. The marine patrol and local cops are already here. They think it was a flash-bang stun grenade. A lot of noise and light."

Zoe, wide awake, held the blanket up to her chin as she sat up, whether because she was cold or had just come to her senses and realized where she'd spent the night, J.B. didn't know. "Is that Bruce? What's he saying? What was that explosion?"

"McGrath? You there?" "I'm here. Flash-bangs are intended to cause confusion and disorientation, not damage-" "Yeah, so maybe that was the point."

J.B. rolled out of bed. He was stark naked and cold and had meant to spend a gray, drizzly morning in bed with a troubled hothead of a woman he didn't know if he'd ever get enough of.

He saw that her bandage hadn't come off her wrist during the night. There was no sign of fresh bleeding. She was watching him impatiently, as if she should be the one talking to Bruce. J.B. thought of last night. Lovemaking in the attic. Dinner. More lovemaking.

Life could be good. Definitely. "McGrath-" "I'm on my way." He hung up, and Zoe frowned at him. "Someone tossed a flash-bang into your boat?" He nodded. "I'm meeting Bruce on the docks." "I'm coming with you." Still holding the covers in place, she kicked her legs off the side of the bed and reached onto the floor for her clothes. After their lovemaking in the attic, she'd showered and put on fresh clothes. They hadn't lasted, J.B. remembered. He'd carried her up here and removed them piece by piece.