Nov 24

Nov 24 Exit Strategy - F.B. Robinson

Exit Strategy by F.B. Robinson

Book excerpt

The Shooter, Larry Smith, had placed himself near the front of the serpentine line to board the ferry. In front of him were a couple of soccer moms and three middle-school-looking kids. The moms wore stylish haircuts, tight-fitting pants and loose-fitting tops. Behind Larry were two guys who looked like they’d just left the golf course—khakis and polo shirts, healthy tans and expensive watches. They’d probably stopped by the clubhouse after the round. Larry could smell the alcohol on the nearest one. Usually, the close proximity would be a problem, but not at this particular moment. Larry was blending—like an Indian in a Bev Dolittle print—present, but almost invisible.

The Target, Roderick Malone, stood at the end of the boarding line. A wave of pain traveled up his leg; he gripped the cane in his left hand a little harder, set his jaw, and waited for the worst of it to pass. Behind dark sun glasses, he scanned his surroundings as he rifled through his coat pocket pretending to search for boarding passes.

Convinced of his talent for evaluating the human condition, Roderick assessed each person in the line. A diverted glance, a glint of smile or anguish, a casual three-sentence conversation was all he needed to distinguish predator from prey. He embraced his gift with the conviction of a religious zealot. The gift elevated him above others—bestowed him an advantage—allowed him to sleep at night.

The line before him: a pair of soccer moms, dark hair with sun-kissed highlights, one slightly less-average-looking than the other; two boys and a girl about twelve years old, soccer kids wearing cleats and shin guards, then three golfer types. Behind them was a dark-haired woman with a white German Shepherd, then eight or nine high-school kids. They were sub-divided into small, chatty cliques, most with cell phones glued to their hands. Just in front of him were a couple of grandfatherly-looking men in fishing vests. He scanned back over the line, this time from last to first, because you couldn’t be too careful.

That’s when he spotted the business guy. He wore an Atlanta Braves hat with a tweed sports jacket and carried a handsome leather briefcase. The briefcase guy glanced at his wristwatch, probably hoping he wasn’t late for dinner. Meatloaf or pot roast? Roderick thought.

The season simplified Roderick’s evaluation. In late October, Rockhead Island’s population consisted of a handful of full-time residents mixed with a small group of vacationers who didn't mind cooler temperatures and little prospect for a tan. He’d make a point to stay clear of the woman with the dog—a long-standing phobia of canines—his fear directly proportional to the size of the animal. The German Shepherd was a big bastard.

Aside from the canine, no one in the line caused Roderick concern and he felt himself relax. He shifted his attention to the array of expensive boats moored in the small harbor. Roderick liked expensive things, even those for which he had little or no use. The pristine decks basked in the orange hue of the late-afternoon sun. Motionless, like a page from a yachting magazine, the vessels waited patiently for the next round of rich and beautiful sailors. How much for one of those? Roderick wondered.

Austin Daley, stood next to Roderick, cocked her head and asked, "Everything okay?"

Roderick shifted his gaze from the expensive boats and looked down at her. "Never better," he answered with forced cheeriness. The pain radiating from his ankle was beginning to slacken. He put his arm around Austin, gave her a comforting squeeze. He liked the way she felt next to him. Firm—supple—sexy. “Thank you for asking.”

He felt Austin press against him. Even in heels, she was nearly a foot shorter than Roderick. She angled her head upward and smiled a dazzling smile. "Good," she replied.

The line began to move. Roderick and Austin were the last passengers to traverse the short, metal gangway connecting dock to deck.

Two identical ferries, The Ginger and The Maryanne rotated duty, cycling between Rockhead Island and the mainland. The boats, compact and sleek, at least by ferry standards, were designed for passengers only. Rockhead Island was smallish, a private expanse of land where forward-thinking developers had managed the improbable balance of opulent resort and ecological safe haven. Personal vehicles were forbidden; electric golf carts were ubiquitous.

Larry Smith—the briefcase guy with the Atlanta Braves hat—the guy Roderick Malone had casually dismissed as some late-for-dinner schmuck, positioned himself on the back corner of the upper deck, on the starboard side of The Ginger. The October sea air braced his face, occasionally tugged the brim of his cap. Over his right shoulder, the late-afternoon sun produced a fiery-orange blaze in the western sky over North Carolina.

Once everyone was aboard and the captain used the intercom to dispense his obligatory greeting along with a short list of dos and don’ts—mostly don’ts—mostly common sense. The twin Cummins engines rumbled to life and the captain maneuvered the boat from the tiny man-made harbor. Once clear, the boat gathered speed and began to slice through calm open water tracking towards Rockhead. The boat’s propellers churned a froth trail as seagulls rode behind the craft on currents of air—like kites without strings.

The boat headed toward the graveyard of the Atlantic: a stretch of sea near Rockhead Island that had claimed more than its share of victims over the past three hundred years. For a short, but glorious period, Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet, pirates at the top of the food chain, infested the coves and inlets of the treacherous coastline and ruled the waters.

Teach, better known as Blackbeard, had met his fate just north of Rockhead at Ocracoke Inlet. Witnesses claimed he’d been slashed twenty times, and shot five more—a tale Larry figured had likely been embellished over time. The fate of Bonnet, “The Gentleman Pirate,” was more succinct—captured in Charleston, South Carolina, then summarily hanged. Larry understood, just like with his profession, that pirating wasn’t for those focused on the long game.

The autumn air had ushered most of the boat's passengers into the warmth of the enclosed cabin below, leaving the upper deck mostly empty. Larry reserved most of his attention for the woman who sat on the other side of the deck, perched on the edge of her bench, back straight, as if posing for a picture. She didn’t look towards Larry. Her attention was divided between her surroundings and the canine lying at her feet.

Larry wasn’t a dog guy but subscribed to the theory that people owned dogs that reflected their personalities. The woman on the other side of the deck fit well into his premise. Her dog, a white German Shepherd, had yellow, predator eyes and teeth like those described in Little Red Riding Hood. Larry was self-actualized enough to understand his assessment wasn’t entirely unbiased. His view of women in general, and specifically women of beauty, had recently sustained some serious damage.

As The Ginger made her way, “Old Rocky,” the island’s lighthouse appeared as a tiny appendage on the hazy horizon. The boat’s intercom crackled as the captain informed his passengers of a school of dolphins off the port side. The woman twisted her body, turned her back on Larry, and gazed out to the open water. It afforded him the opportunity to openly stare.

She wore a tan overcoat that stopped just short of her knees, red shoes with enough heel to accentuate nicely-shaped calves. The coat’s belt cinched around her slender waist and strands of shoulder-length chestnut hair fluttered in the breeze under a large, floppy white hat. Larry sensed the hair was a high-dollar wig. For reasons he didn’t understand, his wife owned several of them. The woman’s hat was secured with red fabric she had tied under her well-defined jawline. Large, red-framed sunglasses covered her eyes. She looked like a movie star—or maybe a spy from an old movie. Larry Smith hoped the sight of her would stir something inside him.

She didn’t.

Too much damage.

Under Larry’s left arm, a copy of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal rode neatly folded and tucked. Beneath the paper and his jacket, a Beretta 9mm rode cradled in a custom-made shoulder holster. Next to him, on the white bench, sat a camel-colored Coach briefcase—a gift from his now-estranged wife, Jennifer. It might have contained legal briefs, or investment proxies, or maybe even patient files—but it didn't. Unbeknownst to Jennifer, Larry had modified the interior of the case, lined it with a precision-sculpted foam rubber. Sandwiched between the layers were the real tools of Larry Smith's trade—a Walther P22, an extra clip of ammo, and a titanium suppressor.

The weapon was designed for close-in work. The .22 long-rifle round would penetrate the skull on entry, but rarely exited. The slug usually bounced around inside the skull—a lethal pinball slicing through the brain. Larry preferred shots to the back of the head as not to see their faces. No last-second acknowledgment of their fate or the man about to deliver it. If he saw them at the moment of impact, their expressions never failed to haunt him. The images lodged in his subconscious for days—sometimes weeks.

Back of the head—always Larry Smith’s first choice.