Page 11 of Savage Protector
“Excellent.” Ethan grins, well satisfied.
“There were half a dozen vehicles there, too. Transit vans. We put those out of action and relieved them of a couple of laptops from their office. I thought Casey or Frankie might have a look.”
I’ve never met either of them, but I do know that Casey and Frankie are the resident computer geeks here on the island. There may be useful intelligence on those machines once we’ve hacked into them.
“Even better.”
“What about you, boss?” Jack takes up the questioning. “I assume Gallagher wasn’t interested in chatting.”
“No, they—” He is interrupted when the door flies open, banging into the wall behind it. “What the fuck…?”
A young man hurtles in, can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. I don’t recognise him, but he clearly hasn’t dressed to impress. Baggy sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and a bright-orange baseball cap proclaiming the merits of Lando Norris is tugged down over his unruly dark-blond hair. The one exception to his generally scruffy appearance is his high-end Fendi trainers. Very nice, he won’t have had much change out of a grand for those.
“Frankie…” Ethan begins.
“There’s someone in the water,” the youth blurts.
Ethan is on his feet. “Fuck. Who? How…?”
“A girl, red dress,” the lad proclaims. “She’s drowning.”
“One of our kids?” Ethan is already breaking into a run.
“No, boss. They threw her from a boat.”
By now, most of us are up. “What boat?” Jack demands. “Where?”
“About a mile out. Southwest.” He thrusts a scrap of paper at Jack. “The coordinates, boss.”
No one stops to ask any more questions. The room empties in moments, and we are all sprinting hell for leather down the main stairs. Jack and Ethan reach the Caraksay jetty first, I’m right behind with Rome. The four of us pile into the closest motor launch, and Jack takes the helm. Within seconds, the engine roars into life and we’re off, nose raised as the craft skims over the waves.
Thankfully, the North Atlantic is unusually calm this morning. It may be August, the height of the summer allegedly, but the seas around the Outer Hebrides don’t usually get the memo.
Jack keys the coordinates provided by Frankie into the onboard navigation system.
“How long?” Ethan asks him.
“Less than a minute,” Jack mutters, “assuming Frankie got the location right.”
“He’ll be right,” Ethan growls. “Eyes peeled, everyone.”
We scan the gentle waves for any flash of red, Ethan using the binoculars stowed in the cockpit while Rome and I shield our eyes from the sun. Visibility is excellent this morning. If she’s still afloat, we should spot her.
Several tense moments pass, the seconds stretching to a minute.
“Should be around here somewhere…” Jack eases back on the throttle, starts to slowly circle the area. “Where the fuck is she?”
It’s been too long. Even at this time of year, the North Atlantic rarely gets above about five degrees Celsius. The shock of the cold water is enough to kill, even assuming the girl could swim.
Jack circles again, more slowly this time.
“There!” Ethan shouts. “About fifty yards out.” He points to a spot somewhere to our west. “Can you see? Over there.”
We all squint into the sunlight, and Jack wheels the launch around to cover the distance between us and the drowning girl. At first, I can’t see anything, then, “Yes, I see her, too.”
Just a glint of bright red, not even recognisable as a person. Almost as soon as I spot her, the girl disappears under the waves.
“She’s gone down,” Rome mutters. “We’re too late.”
