They made the remainder of the ten-minute drive to the marina in near silence. At least half a dozen police cars raced past them toward the ambush site with their lights flashing and sirens wailing.
“Find out the names of the Bahamian police officers,” Max said. “Add them to our list. I want their families to be taken care of.”
Four officers had died tonight, doing their job. It was up to him to make sure they hadn’t died in vain. Our cause is just. It’s bigger than we are, worth more than we are.
CHAPTER FIVE
Palm Cay Marina
New Providence, Commonwealth of the Bahamas
“Pierce . . . I need help . . . now!” a female voice said, out of breath.
It took Hunt a couple of seconds to realize who the voice on the phone belonged to. Dorothy Triggs? Her voice was tight, barely recognizable, at least two octaves higher than usual. Hunt looked at Anna, who had taken a seat on the bed, and mouthed, “It’s Triggs.”
“Pierce . . . hello?”
He put the call on speaker so Anna could hear. “I’m here. What’s going—”
“I was . . . ambushed. Max’s dead. I think,” Triggs said, sounding as if she was running. “Get the fuck out! Get out!” she yelled. “I said get out!”
“What’s going on? Where are you?” Hunt asked, getting up and signaling Anna to grab his go bag. “I’ll come to you.”
“No! Stay put,” Triggs replied, sounding like she had regained some sort of control over her situation.
“What just happened, Dorothy? Who were you yelling at?” Hunt asked.
“I hijacked a car,” the deputy director of the Directorate of Operations replied. “I’m on my way to you.”
“Are you hurt?” Anna asked.
“I’ve been shot. Shoulder.”
“Where are you?” Hunt asked, trying to pinpoint her location in his mind.
“Close to the Baha Mar resort. You know where it is?”
“There are two hospitals close by,” Hunt replied. “There’s the Doctors Hospital and the Princess Margaret Hospital. Go to one of them.”
“I can’t go there,” Triggs said. “The people who ambushed us know I’m still alive and that I’m injured. They’ll be sending people to look for me.”
“Send the marines to secure the emergency room,” Hunt suggested. “Nobody will dare attack you with them on site.”
“The marines are already on their way to the ambush site. There are only four of them. Before today’s attack, the Bahamas wasn’t considered a high-risk assignment.”
“How bad is it?” Hunt asked. “Truthfully.”
“What do you think?” Triggs barked back. “They killed my son.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry,” Hunt replied, keeping his voice neutral. “I was talking about your physical injuries.”
“It hurts like a bitch, but the pain keeps me awake. Which is good. I can’t move my right arm, but I don’t think I’ve lost too much blood.”
“Understood. Drive carefully. We’ll be ready for you.”
The second he hung up, Hunt ran to his neighbors, a pair of Canadian orthopedic surgeons who had purchased the unit next to Hunt and Anna’s. Most of the beachfront residents in Palm Cay knew each other pretty well, so Hunt didn’t feel bad waking them up—especially since he’d seen Marguerite and Keith in action the week before when another of their neighbors had been attacked by a barracuda during a diving expedition in the Exumas. The fish had managed to sever an artery in the guy’s pelvis. Even in combat, Hunt had rarely seen so much blood in so little time.
The way Marguerite and Keith had taken immediate control of the situation had impressed him. During Ranger School, Hunt had been told over and over that blood loss was extremely dangerous and had to be taken seriously, on and off of the battlefield. Once a person had lost approximately one-fifth of his blood volume, they went into a condition called hypovolemic shock, which in turn often led to the failure of major organs.
“Isn’t it a bit late to go fishing?” Keith joked, opening the door to Hunt’s knock. In his midforties, the Canadian doctor had cool, blue, intelligent eyes. Despite his friendly tone, there was something guarded in it, as if he knew this wasn’t just a late-night social visit.
“A friend of mine is on her way to my place,” Hunt said. “She’s been injured.”
“What kind of injury?” Keith was fully awake now, all signs of sleepiness gone.
Behind him, Hunt saw Marguerite approaching, dressed in a Minnie-and-Mickey-Mouse pajama set.
“She’s been shot in the shoulder,” Hunt replied.
If either of them was surprised, they didn’t show it. “How long until she arrives?” Marguerite asked, all business.
“Eight, maybe ten minutes,” Hunt replied.
“Okay,” Marguerite said, tying her long blonde hair into a ponytail. “We’ll see her here, but we’ll need about that much time to set things up. Can you help?”
CHAPTER SIX
Palm Cay Marina
New Providence, Commonwealth of the Bahamas
Triggs hung up from her phone call with the ambassador. The call had been disheartening to say the least. The marines were now at the ambush site and had recovered the body of the SUV driver but not Max’s. How could that be? She’d seen the explosion. She’d seen the men finish him off. It didn’t make sense.
Unless . . . could Max be alive? Could he have survived the explosion? The firefight? For a blind moment, hope surged through her, only to be followed by a deep sadness.
Then I truly abandoned him, she thought, her heart sinking like a stone.
Overwhelmed by emotion, she began to cry. A bone-deep exhaustion and grief overtook her. Tears ran freely down her face. For a moment, she thought about ending it all by crashing head-on into an oncoming car but pushed back the idea almost immediately. The car hit a large pothole, and a strong jabbing pain shot through her shoulder. Her jaw tightened.
Get a fucking grip on yourself!
Triggs took a long, deep breath. Then another. It cleared her mind and helped her to focus on what she had to do next. The ambassador had informed her to expect a call shortly from the United States secretary of defense. She’d start there. With the limited resources available in the Bahamas, her first consideration was to return to the safety of the United States. The SecDef would help accomplish that goal.
She was turning into the Palm Cay neighborhood when she felt her phone vibrate between her legs. She held the steering wheel with her knees while she pressed the talk button.
“This is Triggs,” she said, surprised at how weak her voice sounded.
“This is James Flynn, Dorothy. This line isn’t secured,” he warned her. “Can you talk?”
“I can. Were you briefed on what happened?”
“I spoke with the ambassador a few minutes ago, and he filled me in,” the SecDef replied. “Listen, Dorothy, I’m not sure what you’re doing in the Bahamas, but I’m told you’re now on your way to Pierce Hunt’s place. That true?”
“I’m there now,” Triggs said, parking her car in front of the beachfront townhome.