Chapter 15

I said a silent prayer when I heard people come on board. About an hour of scuffling and shouting and banging around, then the engine started. Shortly afterward, the boat started moving.

Once we were out of the harbor and the driver opened up the engine, the other occupants quieted. I risked cracking the lid of the locker a little and let some fresh air into the stuffy space.

The ride from Victoria to Reagan’s estate took about forty-five minutes. When the driver slowed the engines, I peeked out and saw the lights on the buoys start blinking, then three of the buoys went dark. The boat glided between them, and though I couldn’t see behind us, I was sure the lights went back on.

We passed the yacht, then the seaplane and pulled into the dock. I listened to people coming and going for another hour, then things got quiet again. It was ten-thirty at night by my chrono.

Blurring my image, I slipped out of the locker and onto the deck. Twenty minutes later I was sure that I was alone on board and the dock was deserted. I called Karen and she answered on the first ring.

“Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Sitting on the boat, all alone, taking a look at the house. Most of the lights are out.”

“Yeah, at least from where I am. So, you’re all right? No problems?”

“Smooth as silk. I’m going to check out the security at the house. I won’t call you again until I’m ready to get out.”

I kept to the shadows as I made my way to the house. The periphery near the outer wall of the estate was well lit, but only a couple of lights were on at the house itself. It was a sprawling place, two stories high.

The outbuildings showed a little more activity. That was good for me, as it meant the staff were at their homes rather than at the mansion.

I knew from the plans that only two doors existed on the second floor. One led out to a veranda overlooking the front lawn and the water. The other led to a narrow stairway in the back. All the lights were off in the kitchen, so I let myself in there. I was prepared to disable an alarm and pick the lock, but the alarm wasn’t on, and the door wasn’t locked. Country folk. All the security was in place, but obviously on a day-to-day basis, people didn’t bother. Nothing had ever occurred to make the inhabitants security conscious. The focus was all on the outskirts of the property.

Hugging the walls and moving slowly, with my form blurred and wearing night-vision goggles, I knew the chances of me being detected were very low. I moved from room to room, checking out the impressive furniture and art works.

The dining room displayed some of the original impressionist paintings whose copies sat in the Gallery in Vancouver. In what I could only describe as the most stereotypical study-library-mancave I’d ever seen, Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee proudly held a place of honor. I had to chuckle. Surely the Robertsons had paid a small fortune for their version of the painting, but I wasn’t taking any bets as to which was the genuine article. Susanna and the Elders hung on the opposite wall.

A sideboard held an enviable set of lead crystal decanters and glasses. I checked inside and found half a case of fifty-year-old rare Irish whiskey. Using some napkins I found there, I wrapped two bottles so they wouldn’t clink against each other and put them in my pack.

Further inspection of the house revealed art—expensive art—in almost every room. 

On the south side of the house, a room with a wall of windows was set up as an artist’s studio. Van Gogh’s A Wheatfield with Cypresses sat on an easel. Another easel in front of it held a half-completed copy. An artist’s palette and brushes lay on the nearby table. I checked the unfinished forgery and saw the same telltale brushstroke angles Martel had shown me.

Sneaking upstairs, I heard the unmistakable sounds of two people having sex behind one closed door. I listened for a while, and then a woman said something and laughed. Satisfied, I moved down the hall toward the only room with light showing around the door.

The door was ajar a couple of inches, so I took the chance of pushing it farther open so I could see into the room. Gavin O’Bannon lay on a bed. An IV bag hung from a pole next to the bed, along with a couple of electronic monitors. O’Bannon’s left shoulder was heavily bandaged, and his chest was wrapped.

A woman stepped into my line of sight. She checked on the IV, checked the monitors, then drifted back out of the picture. A nurse, I assumed. I briefly considered finishing the job, but decided it would be tricky enough escaping the compound without dodging Reagan’s thugs.

Slipping out of the house the same way as I had entered, I made my way back to the dock. I briefly considered going back to Victoria in the equipment locker, but that didn’t sound like much fun. It would also be pushing my luck.

To add to my problems, a squall had blown in while I was in the house. The wind rustling through the trees provided a prelude to the rain. A flash of lightning out over the water gave me an idea.

In my survey of the property, I had found a large propane tank next to a shed halfway between the back of the house and the wall. Making my way around the house to the shed, I disabled the electronic keypad and opened the door. The generator that supplied electricity for the house was inside.

Pulling out my phone, I called Karen. “Pick me up in half an hour at the place where you dropped me off the other day.”

“It’s starting to rain, and the waves are picking up.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m hoping the storm will mask my escape.”

The next time lightning flashed, I placed my hand on the control box, sent an electromagnetic surge into it, and shorted it out. All of the lights all over the compound went out. Backing out of the shed, I headed for the wall.

As I snuck between two of the out buildings, a man opened the door and stepped out into the rain. He turned and shouted back into the house. I couldn’t hear it all, but I did catch the phrase, “…that bloody generator…”

I froze in place, hoping he would walk by without noticing me. Instead, he walked directly toward me. To top it off, a flash of lightning highlighted my shape.

When I blurred my form, I blended into the background around me, but I wasn’t truly invisible. Light didn’t pass through me. As a result, I always avoided having light behind me. The lightning didn’t cooperate.

“Who’s there?” he called.

I morphed into the form of one of the men I’d seen on the boat in Victoria.

“It’s me,” I called. “Damned generator’s out.”

Sometimes your luck is good, and sometimes it’s not. He turned on a flashlight and shined it in my face. The man whose form I had copied stepped forward.

“What the hell?” He stared at me with his mouth hanging open.

I kicked him in the stomach. He bent over, and I clubbed him in the back of the head with a two-handed fist. Either I wasn’t strong enough, or his head was too hard, but the blow didn’t knock him out. He dropped to one knee, and his hand holding the flashlight struck out and caught me in the side. The blow spun me around, and I stumbled and fell.

My father’s voice screamed in my mind, Get up! Get up! Get up! He had drilled into me over and over that the last place you wanted to be in a fight was on the ground. I rolled away and regained my feet. The sky opened up, and rain fell in a deluge.

My adversary struggled to his feet, but before he could gain his balance, I rushed him again, dropping at the last moment to sweep my leg into his knees. He flew into the air and landed hard on his back and his head. I kicked him in the head, and when his eyes stayed open, I kicked him again.

He lay there, still breathing but not moving. I took off running before anyone else came along. As I ran, I dropped his form and blurred again, trusting to the darkness to hide me.

I had to slow down when I reached the trees. I found a footpath and followed it even as I heard shouting from far behind me. I kept moving, but kept an eye out for any kind of obstacle, such as the tripwire I had found outside the wall. It probably wouldn’t have power with the generator down, but if I tripped and broke my skull, it wouldn’t matter.

And then the wall loomed in front of me, as smooth and high on the inside as it had appeared from the outside. Shrugging out of my backpack, I fished around inside for my rope and grappling hook.

Luckily, they had trimmed the trees back when they built the wall, but even so, I barely had enough room to swing the hook. It sailed up and over the wall, and I pulled it back slowly. When the rope offered its first resistance, I carefully pulled the hook against the wall and put my weight on it. The hook held.

I climbed up the wall until I reached the top. Turning the hook around, I dropped the rope down the other side and rappelled down, then shook the hook free and retrieved it. I stuffed the rope back in my pack, keeping an eye out for the tripwire. Even so, I almost tripped on it.

Reaching the chain-link fence, I pulled a set of heavy-duty bolt cutters out of my pack and set to work. It would have been easier to climb the fence, but I had no desire to deal with the razor wire. As I worked, I heard voices behind me on the other side of the wall. They sounded confused.

As soon as I cut a hole large enough for me to slip through, I crawled to the other side, then bent the cut section of fence back together. I used a couple of slip-ties to hold it, hoping it would pass a casual inspection. I really didn’t want Reagan thinking he’d had an intruder, but that hope was probably dead.

Even though I was fifteen minutes late, Karen was waiting for me, wearing night-vision goggles and cradling a semi-automatic rifle in her arms. I pushed the boat off from the shore and hopped in. I sat there shaking with cold, and she draped a dry blanket over me. We let the boat drift for half an hour, and didn’t start the engine until we were well away from Reagan’s compound.

When we got back to Victoria, we took showers and changed into dry clothes. I was too exhausted to go out, so we ordered from room service. With the help of Reagan’s thousand-credit-a-bottle whiskey, it tasted great.