Gambit by David Hagberg (fantasy novels to read txt) 📕

Next, he undid a corner of the canvas covering the boat and, taking the umbrella bag, climbed aboard. He pulled the AR-15 out of the bag, inserted one of the magazines, jacked a round into the firing chamber, and, making sure the weapon was ready in all respects to fire, he laid it aside.

He loosened a small section of the canvas enough that he had a clear sight line to anything out on the waterway, and then, mindless of the heat, settled down to wait.

The ICW passed behind an island where a lot of people had pulled up with their boats and were partying just within sight of the Venice Inlet when McGarvey’s cell phone buzzed. He put it on speaker mode. It was Otto.

“I found the wife. She came up about a hundred yards offshore from your house, and it looked as if she lost control of her machine and went into the water.”

“Are you sure it’s the wife?” McGarvey asked, throttling way back.

“I couldn’t catch the registration number, but it looked like the same model green Kawasaki as the husband was driving. Anyway, I thought she was going to drown, and I was going to call 911 when she got control of herself and swam to shore.”

“Where is she now?”

“Sitting in your gazebo with her head in her hands.”

“What’s Lou’s evaluation?”

“Not enough data; she’s given it only a 28 percent probability that the woman and her husband are the ones gunning for you. Their creds check out as valid, and the screen grabs of her face we took from the surveillance cameras don’t show up on any database we have access to.”

“Did she try to contact anyone after she got to shore?” Pete asked.

“She was wearing a beach jacket of some sort, but she lost it in the water. All she’s wearing now is a very skimpy bikini, no place to hide a phone or a weapon.”

“Yes, there is, if she’s determined enough,” Pete said.

“And it’s possible she’ll find the Beretta I taped under a seat in the gazebo,” McGarvey added.

“If they’re the shooters,” Otto said, “what do you want me to do? At least call Jim?”

“Does it look like she’s in any physical trouble?”

“No.”

“Then she won’t need medical help,” McGarvey said. “We’re turning around and going back to the house.”

“If they’re the ones after you, the wife showed up to lure you back, and the husband who you passed on the ICW is waiting for you to do just that so he can take his shot.”

“Any sign of him?” Pete asked.

“No, but he could be waiting just outside the perimeter.”

“Which would make them smart.”

Taio laid the rifle down and tried to phone Li, but after four rings, he gave up. Either she’d lost her phone, had her hands full driving the Jet Ski—which in any case would be too loud for her to hear the ring—or she had gone ashore and was in the house already.

If the latter were the case, the McGarveys would be turning around and heading back.

It could take as long as forty-five minutes or even an hour before they got to this point. But he was a patient man.

He crawled out from under the canvas on the shore side, got his bottle of water from the Jet Ski, and went back inside, where he took a drink. Easing the canvas cover up a few inches so he had a clear view of the boats passing on the waterway, he picked up the rifle, switched the safety off, and settled down to wait.

McGarvey slowed to just above idle as they approached the Crow’s Nest restaurant and marina, the channel out into the Gulf a couple of hundred feet dead ahead. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

“I’m all ears.”

“If they’re the ones gunning for us, the husband is waiting for us somewhere near the house, but we won’t know which side of the channel he’s hiding until he takes a shot. And if he’s any good, he won’t miss.”

“One of us could go up the mast; he might be concentrating on the cockpit.”

“Whoever’s up top would be an easy target. And hunkering down below the coaming in the cockpit wouldn’t do us any good either. If he brought a long rifle in the umbrella bag, the rounds could penetrate the hull.”

“I could take the dinghy ashore once we get a little closer and come up from behind him,” Pete suggested. “Catch him from behind.”

“We still don’t know which side of the channel he’s on,” McGarvey said.

He shoved the throttle forward, and the Whitby surged toward the jetties. Then he got on the phone and called Otto.

“We’re going out into the Gulf, anchoring offshore from the house, and taking the dinghy in. Keep an eye on the woman, and let us know what she’s doing.”

FORTY-NINE

The early evening was soft, a light breeze coming off the lake through the open sliders in the bedroom of the villa ruffling the gauze curtains. Susan and Hammond had made love and were lying in each other’s arms.

“When will we know?” she murmured.

“When I get notice that the second half of the payment was made into their account,” Hammond said.

He was still torn two ways. One part of him wanted it to be over, and the other wanted the game to continue. It was nuts, but he was also torn between excitement and being more frightened than he had been since his biggest deal in the middle of the dot-com that had netted him his first billion and ruined the poor bastard who’d gone up against him.

“I have a better idea,” Susan said. She got up and padded out of the bedroom.

“Where the hell are you going?” he called after her.

“Just a sec,” she said.

She came back with her iPad, and, sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed, she powered up the machine and then googled Sarasota area news outlets.

Almost immediately, a list of local