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  Four days ago, I left Rodney Bay, St. Lucia. Yesterday I made my landfall in the U.S. Virgin Islands at St. John, where I cleared myself into the U.S. with customs and immigration. My paperwork was clean, which was important.

  Before Rodney Bay, I was in Ste. Anne, Martinique. I was half of a happy cruising couple when I got there, but things changed fast, sometimes. The lady who was with me got into a little difficulty that left several people dead on a megayacht. She departed from Martinique without stopping to tell me goodbye.

  Fortunately, she left her passport aboard Carib Princess. With that and a gratuity to a travel agent, I was able to get her name off my ship's papers and secure my outbound clearance from Martinique. I left a couple of hours after I discovered what she did. The next morning, I made a clean entrance into Rodney Bay with St. Lucia's customs and immigration people when their office opened.

  The sail from Ste. Anne to Rodney Bay only takes a few hours; it's about 20 miles. It took me a little longer because I disposed of two bodies en route. While my lady was wreaking havoc on those people aboard that megayacht, two of their friends came looking for me on Carib Princess. The lady was just a friend, but those fools thought I was working with her. That mistake cost them their lives.

  Before I returned to my boat from clearing in, I received an encrypted text from my client. That was what I called them since I retired. They used to be my employer, and I still did contract work for them from time to time. I wasn't allowed to say who they were, but my retirement checks came from the U.S. Army.

  I spent a few years in the Army before my client discovered my true talent. They kept me on the Army's rolls, but my chain of command changed. I worked for a small department of the government that made use of my particular skills.

  That was why I was in St. Thomas — to use my skills to solve a problem for my client. The problem was embodied in a native-born U.S. citizen of Syrian descent named Daoud Nasser, and he was staying in the villa I just visited.

  Daoud Nasser was his birth name, but he changed it legally to David Nash somewhere along the way. Nash was a known member of ISIS. He was working with ISIS in Syria. That made him a wanted man in the States. Nash starred in a cellphone video on a phone confiscated from a dead ISIS fighter in Syria two years ago. I didn't know what the video showed, but whatever it was, it was worth Nash's life.

  Nobody knew what Nash was doing from the time the video was made until he came to St. Thomas. Facial recognition software picked him up at immigration when he flew in from Paris a month ago. He set up housekeeping in that rented villa I scouted earlier. The rental was in his new name, David Nash, and he signed a year's lease.

  The client tracked him until the warrant for his execution came through. Recently, Nash took one of the high-speed ferries to Tortola twice to meet an unidentified man. With the warrant in hand, my client suggested that I could nail Nash in Tortola, since it was British territory.

  I chuckled at the client's naïveté. Typical of desk jockeys, my client was aghast at the idea of killing a U.S. citizen on U.S. soil. They suggested that I watch for him at the ferry terminal in Red Hook and follow him to the BVI, but that was no good. I was much less likely to get in trouble for killing him in St. Thomas. It was like the Wild West compared to the BVI. But it didn't matter where I killed him. I never got in trouble.

  To get in trouble, I had to get caught. My unusual talent was that I never got caught. Careful reconnaissance was the key to a successful assassination, and that was why I was anchored here in Christmas Cove.

  The target's compound was less than a mile away on the southeast corner of St. Thomas. I couldn't quite see his villa from my anchorage; it was hidden behind Deck Point, the spit of land that separated Cowpet Cove from Jersey Bay. I timed my trip earlier, though. From here, I could reach Nash's private beach in ten minutes.

  It was possible to scramble over the rocks from Deck Point, where I landed the dinghy, and approach the villa from Deck Point Road. Given that I might have extra time before Nash came back, I could scout that route tomorrow night. It never hurt to have a backup plan.

  Approaching from the beach was less likely to attract attention. Nash was not an amateur. He and his security people would see the land side as more vulnerable.

  There was also the question of how to eliminate the target. If I killed him in U.S. territory, an accident would be best, but it wasn't the only way. I needed to know more about his behavior before I worried too much about how to carry out my mission. That meant more reconnaissance.

  A drug-related killing could be as believable as an accident, depending on his activities. St. Thomas was a hotbed of drug trafficking. Mid-level drug smugglers were forever killing one another in this part of the world. It could be as simple as planting contraband or cash among the bodies. His security people would have to be part of the package if I chose that option.

  An accident might have allowed me to spare Nash's troops, which would have pleased my client. But operational details were my call, and a credible accident was harder to arrange than an outright killing. I figured whoever was guarding this piece of garbage was no better than he was. The more the merrier as far as making it look like the work of a cartel.

  But Nash wasn't in residence, so I needed to check with the client for an update on his whereabouts.

  4

  I woke up in the cockpit, still in my wetsuit. The sunrise roused me. Glancing at my watch, I saw I’d slept for less than an hour. I went below and loaded my coffee pot, firing up the stove. While the coffee perked, I took a quick shower to rinse off the salt and sand.

  Refreshed and wearing dry shorts and a T-shirt, I sat down at the table in the main cabin with my satellite phone and a cup of coffee. It was too early to call the client, so I composed a text message instead.

  I didn't give them details of last night's surveillance; that would have made them nervous. I wanted them to know that David Nash was away from the compound on St. Thomas for an indeterminate amount of time. The security guards seemed to think he wasn't coming back any time soon.

  If the guard was right about Nash going to Miami, my client would need to sound the alarm with the Department of Homeland Security. Or maybe they would order me to Miami. That would be unusual, but Nash was an unusual target.

  The scary thing about his being in St. Thomas was that he could go anywhere in the U.S. without passing through immigration or any other security checkpoints. He was raised as an American; the bastard was born in the States. He knew his way around our country.

  Not only did he have freedom of movement, but he was a wealthy man. Nash could do a great deal of damage unless somebody stopped him. And there was every reason to assume that he wasn't in the U.S. because he got homesick for baseball games and hot dogs.

  With the text on its way, I was having second thoughts about that coffee. I needed more sleep, not caffeine. Stepping into the galley, I took a vacuum bottle out of the locker beside the stove and decanted the coffee into it.

  It was 6 o'clock in the morning in the Virgin Islands. I wasn't likely to hear anything from the client for a few hours. I could catch up on my sleep. I put the thermos of coffee and the encrypted satellite phone on the saloon table and stretched out on the settee for a nap.

  The ringing of the satellite phone woke me from a sound sleep. I wasn't fast enough to get to it before the caller hung up, but only my client could call that phone. A quick look at the clock told me I slept for three hours. Allowing for the time difference, it was 8 o'clock in Virginia, where my client's office was located.

  I poured a mug of coffee from the thermos and picked up the phone. It looked like a regular, commercially available satellite phone, but it wasn't. After I keyed in the access code, the screen told me I missed a call from an unknown number.

  That was the client. As I said, this wasn't a normal phone. It only accepted calls from one number — the client's. I used the cursor keys to highlight the little voicemail icon and pressed the enter key. After
I entered another, different passcode, I heard the recorded message.

  "Urgent that you return this call. We need to discuss your recent text regarding the missing shipment. We're waiting."

  It was the woman who assigned my targets for most of my career. Her voice was as familiar as my own.

  I went through the convoluted routine to return the call from “unknown caller.” After one ring, I heard a series of clicks and tones as the call was routed through a random series of relays. The woman answered.

  "Extension 4235. State your callback ID, please."

  "Callback ID is 691414," I said.

  "You recognize my voice?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "And you've been authenticated," she said. "Are you alone?"

  "Yes."

  "When did you discover the shipment was missing?"

  "Three a.m., local time."

  "In St. Thomas?"

  "Yes."

  "And how confident are you that it was mis-routed to Miami?"

  "Not very, but that's what I overheard."

  "And was there damage to any of the goods in storage at your end?"

  "Minor," I said. "Nothing that will take more than a couple of hours to repair."

  "Good. I don't suppose you have an address in Miami for the shipment?"

  "No."

  "How about the means of shipment?"

  "No, sorry," I said. "I didn't hear anything about that."

  "Is that young woman still sailing with you?"

  "No."

  "Where is she?" she asked.

  "I have no idea. Why?"

  "I'm asking the questions. Did you give her that passport we arranged?"

  "Yes, but — "

  She cut me off. "Just answer my questions."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Hello? Are you there?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you respond to my statement?" she asked.

  "It was a statement."

  "So what?"

  "So you said to just answer your questions."

  "Still the same old smart-ass."

  "I'm getting bored with this conversation."

  "Tough," she said.

  "I'm retired, remember?"

  "Why is that relevant?"

  "I don't have to do this. That's why."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "You can't just waltz in and screw with me anymore. You need to buy me candy, send flowers, maybe. Suck up to me, if you want me to do your bidding."

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  "Why did you ask about the girl?"

  "We haven't seen any recent activity on the passport we got for her."

  "No, you haven't. She doesn't have it any longer."

  "You said you gave it to her."

  "I did. But when we parted ways, she left it with me."

  "So you still have it?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Some of our relatives are looking for her. Do you know if she has a different passport?"

  "I'd be surprised if she didn't."

  "Do you know what name she's using?"

  "No."

  "Do you know anything about her?" she asked.

  "A little."

  "What's your relationship with her?"

  "Purely personal. I'm getting annoyed with this."

  "We got you a passport for her, no questions."

  "And I appreciate it, but you've used up the goodwill from that. Why the questions about her?"

  "She's wanted for questioning about several murders of organized crime figures. Our relatives were about to arrest them, but they think she blew them away. Does that surprise you?"

  "No."

  "Did you know about that?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you part of it?"

  "No. But they were asking for it. She gave them what they deserved."

  "If you say so. We hear two of her possible victims are still missing, unaccounted for. Know anything about that?"

  "Maybe. You got names?"

  "Only one matters. His name's Frankie Dailey. He's supposedly a confidential informant for our relatives. Heard of him?"

  "Yeah, but not lately. And our relatives shouldn't expect to, either. He got some bad fish."

  "Bad fish? I don't…"

  "They ate him, the bad fish did."

  "Do you have personal knowledge of that?"

  "Yes. It was self-defense. He started it. The fish were just doing what fish do."

  "I see. Will you see the girl again?"

  "I hope so. You got a problem with that?"

  "No. As long as she's not mixed up in our business."

  "Okay. I get that. Now what about the missing shipment?"

  "We're working on that. You still interested in helping us out?"

  "Sure. You want me to ask around at the origin address? See if they know anything?"

  "Not just yet. But can you do that if we need for you to?"

  "Yeah. It may damage more goods, but I can handle it on the quiet. It won't come back on us."

  "Hold off. We just started tracking the shipment. I'll give it a few hours. You stand by where you are until you hear from me."

  "Okay. No problem. Anything else?"

  "Yeah. About the girl."

  "What about her?"

  "We're good with that, just between you and me. You're entitled to a little companionship. Just be careful. I don't want to lose you in a mob crossfire after all we've been through."

  "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it. I'll get back to you on the shipment."

  She hung up, and I finally took a sip of the coffee I poured before I returned her call. It was stone cold. That was the longest I ever talked with her since I started taking orders from her years ago.

  And it was the first time we ever discussed anything that bordered on personal. I always wondered about her, wondered what she was like. But we had never met, and we never would. That was the way this worked, the way we stayed under cover.

  5

  With time on my hands as I finished the thermos of coffee, my thoughts turned to Mary. That was the girl my client mentioned, or at least that was the name she was using when we met.

  Mary and I were in the same line of work, but for different people. As best I knew, she was a freelance operator. Mary and I never got a chance to discuss the details of her working arrangements.

  We met by accident in a little fishing village called Puerto Real, on Puerto Rico's west coast. At least, I thought it was by accident. I wasn't sure about that. The story she told me then was that she was on the run from some bad people.

  I believed that at the time, because three of them tried to kidnap her within a few minutes after we met. I helped her avoid their clutches, and we sailed together for a few weeks, but that was another story.

  They caught up with her about a week ago when we were relaxing in Ste. Anne, Martinique. Or maybe she caught up with them; it was hard to tell.

  Anyway, as my client suggested, Mary got the better of them. She left in a hurry with a trail of bodies behind her. She killed them all, except the two who came looking for me.

  Frankie Dailey, the one who was “supposedly” a confidential informant for “our relatives” — that would be the FBI — was the one who told me Mary was a killer for hire. He and one of his minions tried to capture me and take me to Frankie's yacht.

  He meant to question me along with Mary, but it didn't work out the way he planned. If he was working for the FBI, I was Mother Teresa's long-lost son.

  After he told me everything he knew about Mary, he and his sidekick passed away right here aboard Carib Princess. Then I went to Frankie's yacht to see if Mary needed help, but she was already on her way out of town when I got there.

  I got a text from her later; she wanted to meet me in Puerto Real in a few weeks to resume our friendship. That gave me an incentive to wrap up this David Nash business in a hurry.

  I was glad my client had no objection to my relations
hip with Mary. But I wasn't about to share my plans for meeting her. The client didn't have a need to know, as they say in the spook business.

  It was thanks to Mary's problems that I changed the name of my boat to Carib Princess. Now that I was back in U.S. waters, I planned to restore her original name. That way, my own identity would be slightly more obscure, just in case anything untoward happened.

  Taking out my tools, I cut into the fiberglass that covered the lead ballast in the boat's keel. A strongbox rested atop the cast-lead plug.

  I opened the strongbox and put Mary's old passport — the one my client asked about — in a file folder with several others. The passport Mary used when I met her was in there already; the rest were mine, in several names.

  Being able to change identities at will was important to my health. From another folder, I took out one of several U.S. Coast Guard Certificates of Documentation for this boat. It showed the vessel name as Island Girl. That was my favorite. I put the document for Carib Princess in the folder.

  Next, I picked up a piece of loosely rolled waxed paper. It was the backing for a set of vinyl transfer letters spelling out Island Girl. I put that on the chart table along with the new Coast Guard certificate and closed the strong box.

  A half hour later, I finished laying up new fiberglass to conceal the strong box. I would have to paint the glass work to finish the job, but the epoxy resin needed a day to cure before I could paint over it.

  Up on deck, I launched the inflatable dinghy and tied it off alongside. I retrieved the vinyl transfer lettering and a bag containing acetone, rags, and a package of single-edge razor blades.

  Climbing down into the dinghy, I untied it and moved it around to the stern. It took me five minutes to scrape off the Carib Princess name. I cleaned the surface of the transom with acetone and the rags.

  While it dried, I unrolled the new lettering. Using a fingernail, I picked at a corner of the backing paper that covered the adhesive on the lettering. Once I got it started, I positioned the unrolled sheet of lettering on the transom and secured it with tape across the top.