“This cold shoulder, Frank, I’m on your shit list now?”
“You’re not on my shit list.”
“Then why didn’t you consult? Why alert me at the last second?”
“I’ll see you at three. We’ve got a uniform that’ll fit you. We’ll provide lasers and vests. Weather’s supposed to be clear, eighties, light breeze from the south. This won’t be Prince Key again. I promise you that.”
* * *
Just after noon Flynn and Prince returned from a quick run-through, up and back to Turkey Point, to make sure Flynn had the route clear. Flynn was looking relaxed, his face lit up, chapped by the wind and sun. Docking in front of the assembled group, he handled the Whipray nicely, slipping into the tight space between Thorn’s skiff and the Chris-Craft, coming alongside the pilings without a bump. Cameron tossed the lines to Thorn and stepped ashore.
“Piece of cake,” Flynn said to Leslie. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Everyone had gathered at the dock to await their return, Leslie with the cell phone still in her hand. The Chee brothers were perched side by side on the seawall.
“There’s been a change,” she told Flynn and Cameron, holding up the phone. “Drill’s going down tonight. They’re going to hit at eleven.”
“Why?” Cameron said.
“Somebody got a wild hair. A conflict in schedules. Who can say?”
“Maybe they’re suspicious?”
“Don’t think it’s that. Our guy blames it on some FBI power play.”
“And the gator roundup?” Thorn being helpful, one of the team.
“I’ll get my gear and you and I will head out now.”
Cameron followed Leslie to the house, Wally tagging along. Pauly climbed off the seawall, went over to the Whipray, pocketed the ignition keys, gave Thorn a long, warning look, then headed up the lawn to join the others.
“Listen, Flynn.” Thorn was knotting the bowline to a cleat.
“Save your breath. I’m going ahead with this. What Pauly did to Sugar, that was wrong. He and his brother are seriously fucked up. But the rest of us aren’t like that. I believe in this. It’s important, worth the risk. Someone has to take a stand or there’s not going to be anything left worth saving.
“People your age, you won’t be around when the worst of it starts, so it doesn’t matter. My generation didn’t screw it up, but we’ve got to fix it if we’re going to survive and leave something for our kids. So stop trying to push me around. Decision’s made. Just back off.”
Thorn looked off to the eastern sky where a single frigate bird was hanging high in the blue distance like the silhouette of some prehistoric dragon. To sailors long at sea there was nothing graceful about that bird’s soaring flight. They saw it simply as an ominous sign, a symbol of impending doom. Until this moment Thorn had never entertained such horseshit.
“All right,” he said. “I get it. It’s completely your call. I don’t have a say. But listen to me for one second. Another issue.”
Flynn was squatting down beside the rear cleat, retying the stern line. Pauly had halted on the back deck, keeping watch on the two of them. Thorn was pretty sure he was out of earshot. But he kept his voice low.
“There’s a pistol in Sugar’s car. Might come in handy.”
“You’ve got me confused with somebody else. I don’t shoot people.”
“I’m not talking about shooting people. You say you want to survive, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Flynn rolled his eyes up to the heavens and shook his head.
“If you change your mind,” Thorn said, “it’s in the glove box.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“SURE, MCIVEY. YOU WANT TO drive, help yourself. Just not so fast this time, okay? We’re in no hurry. Curtain doesn’t go up till we walk onstage.”
Her mouth stretched into a smile, but her eyes remained estranged. Whatever heat there’d been was finished, along with Sheffield’s usefulness.
Everyone wore black trousers, black shirts with gold FBI logos front and back, and all of them were fitted out with laser-sensitive vests. No Kevlar tonight. Minus Billy Dean, it was the same crew as Sunday night, everyone haggard and hungover from the ordeal, but still fairly upbeat at the news that no one was going to be docked for the Prince Key mess.
Out in the armory parking lot in the balmy night air with the Suburban gassed up, doors flung open, ready to roll, Sheffield walked from man to man in a last-minute inspection. One more time everyone presented his handgun, opening the clip or cylinder, showing it was empty, working the slide. Worst threat in a drill like this one, a live round snuck into the mix.