“Thank you.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
“Are you sure you don’t want help?”
“This is all the help I need. I’m not involving anyone else in this. I’m taking care of it my way.”
He started to leave, then hesitated. “I really do think you’d be an incredible asset to our organization. I suspect after you take care of your business, you’ll have a clearer head. You can let me know your decision in a few days.”
Xzavier slid out of the booth. After he had left the coffee shop, I moved to the other side of the table, grabbed the backpack, and peered inside.
There were two weapons—a black 9mm pistol with suppressor and plenty of ammunition, along with a modular SK-7 Specter Sniper Rifle. It was a state-of-the-art weapon that broke down into five components. The barrel, receiver, stock, optics, and suppressor could all be assembled in under 90 seconds, with no tools required. The barrel was a titanium alloy wrapped in carbon fiber. The receiver was made from a reinforced composite polymer. Thecollapsible stock had an adjustable carbon fiber frame with a recoil-absorbing gel pad. At 6.7 pounds, it was light and capable, firing 7.62 mm NATO rounds. With a thermal scope and laser rangefinder, it was a killing machine.
Xzavier also included a pair of nitrile gloves.
He had thought of everything.
By his tone, I could tell this was the last bit of free help he would give me unless I decided to join his organization. He’d gone above and beyond, and I suspected that was all in an attempt to make me feel like I owed him something. How could I possibly say no after such generosity? Maybe it was a tactic, maybe it wasn't. But I did get the sense that Xzavier genuinely cared for his team members. They were a tight-knit family that would do anything for each other.
I left the coffee shop, climbed into the Porsche, and drove across the island to Windswept Harbor. With bits of my memory intact, I remembered an abandoned fishing trawler the Company used as a black site for interrogations and detainees.Silent Catch.
I parked the Porsche in the lot, climbed out, and hustled down the dock. I climbed a chain-link fence that surrounded an abandoned warehouse, not far from the vessel. From the rooftop, I would have a perfect line of sight to the old fishing trawler and the dock.
The red brick building had been tagged with graffiti. The windows were broken out, and doors pried apart. Bubbling with rust, the hinges squealed as I pulled the door open and stepped into the dark warehouse. I spiraled up the staircase to the fourth floor, then climbed an access ladder that led to a hatch that opened to the roof.
From there, I crawled across the asphalt roofing to the parapet and assembled the sniper rifle.
The stars flickered overhead, and the moon presided over my mission of doom. A few clouds drifted on the breeze.
The weapon clicked into place with a satisfying clunk. It was a process I had done thousands of times before.
The weapon was light and perfectly balanced. I swung it over the edge of the parapet and took aim at the dock through the thermal scope. It felt good against my shoulder—way better than it should have. I was no stranger to this kind of thing, and the memories were all coming back to me.
Pineapple Bay and Coconut Key were major hubs for narcotics and weapons trafficking, along with human trafficking. The agency had used the location to track and monitor underground networks and develop assets involved in the smuggling trade. It also gave them an opportunity to exploit black market economies for off-the-books funding. If you needed $100 million dollars to topple a regime in a Third World country and instill a new political puppet, it wouldn't be hard to move dope through the Keys and generate funds—all under the guise of national security. It gave them the opportunity to recruit all kinds of unsavory characters in the trade and use them as intelligence assets.
The memories flooded back. To be honest, I think I was happier without knowing the truth. I was learning a lot about myself.
I decided to confront this head-on and called Ross. He picked up after a few rings.
"Hey, it's me," I said.
"Savannah? I’ve been worried sick about you. We lost track of you.”
"I had to go dark there for a minute."
"Is everything okay?”
"Yes, I'm fine. I need to talk. But not over an open channel. This device is not secure.”
"Okay.”
“Meet me at the Windswept Marina.”
“Why there?"
"I don't know," I said. "It feels familiar."
