Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“Bayer is back from his swim. He’s well tanned. Little guy, but muscular. Tried to hit on some ladies. Struck out.”

Finally, at around six o’clock, I made another report. “James Whitehead just drove up in a green Range Rover! He’s coming inside the hotel. War is here.”

Only one more game player to go.

We waited. Death had yet to arrive.

Chapter 111

SHAFER WAS IN NO PARTICULAR HURRY to flash the checkered flag. He took his sweet time thinking through each possible scenario. He had spotted the coast of Jamaica on the horizon several hours before. He had originally flown to Puerto Rico, then sailed from there in a chartered boat. He wanted to be able to leave either by air or by sea.

Now he calmly waited for nightfall, drifting in his boat with the cooling trade winds. It was the f

amous “blue hour” on the sea, just past sunset, extraordinarily serene and beautiful. Also magical and slightly unreal. He had finished five hundred more push-ups on the deck of the boat, and he wasn’t even winded. He could see half a dozen large cruise ships anchored near Ocho Rios. All around him were scores of smaller boats like his own.

He remembered reading somewhere that the island of Jamaica had once been the personal property of Christopher Columbus. It pleased him to think there had been a time when a man could take whatever he wanted, and often did. His body was tight and hard, and he was bronze from the three days of sun during his trip. His hair was bleached even blonder than usual. He’d had the drugs under control for almost a week now. It had been an act of will, and he’d risen to the challenge. He wanted to win.

Shafer felt like a god. No, he was a god. He controlled every move in his own life and in the lives of several others. There were surprises left, he thought as he slowly sprayed his body with cooling streams of water. There were surprises for everybody who still chose to be in the game.

His game.

His plan.

His ending.

Because this wasn’t just a game; it never had been. The other players had to know that by now. They understood what they had done, and why there had to be payback. It was what the Four Horsemen had been all about from the beginning: Endgame is payback, and payback is mine… or theirs? Who knows for sure?

His father had taught him and his brothers to sail, probably the only useful thing he’d ever done for Shafer. He actually could find peace on the sea. It was the real reason he’d come to Jamaica by boat.

At eight o’clock he swam to shore, passing several of the smaller sailboats and a few motorboats. He found the physical exertion a neat antidote to his anxiety and nerves. He was a strong swimmer and diver, and good at most other sports as well.

The night air was peaceful and calm and fragrant. The sea was flat. Not a ripple disturbed the surface. Well, there would be plenty of ripples soon.

A car was waiting for him just off the coast road, a black Ford Mustang, glossy and shiny in the moonlight.

He smiled when he saw it. The game was progressing beautifully.

Famine was there to meet him.

No, Famine was there for another reason, wasn’t he?

George Bayer was waiting on shore to kill him.

Chapter 112

“GEORGE BAYER isn’t in his room. He’s not with Oliver Highsmith or James Whitehead, either. Damn it to hell! He’s loose.”

The alarming message went out over the two-way radio. Sampson and I had been watching the south side of the hotel for close to eight hours, and we were sure George Bayer hadn’t come our way.

We heard Andrew Jones’s concerned voice on the radio. “Remember that all of the Four Horsemen are agents, like ourselves. They’re capable and deadly. Let’s find Bayer right away, and be extra alert for Geoffrey Shafer. Shafer is the most dangerous player—at least we think he is.”

Sampson and I hurried out of our rented sedan. We had our guns out, but they seemed inappropriate at the beautiful and serene resort. I remembered feeling the same way nearly a year before, in Bermuda.

“Bayer didn’t come this way,” Sampson said. I knew he was concerned that Jones’s people had lost Famine. We wouldn’t have made that mistake, but we were seen as backup, not the primary team.

The two of us quickly walked up a nearby hill that gave us a perspective on the manicured lawns rolling down toward the hotel’s private beach. It was getting dark, but the grounds near the hotel were relatively well lit. A couple in bathing suits and robes slowly walked toward us. They were holding hands, oblivious to the danger. No George Bayer, though. And no Shafer.

“How do they end this thing?” Sampson asked. “How do you think the game ends?”