Chapter 21

14 August

THE TRAFFIC WAS crazy.

Kelly pulled into the parking lot by the movie theater, planning to walk the rest of the way to the drugstore to pick up her father’s newest prescription.

Baldwin’s Bridge was bursting with the usual summer tourists as well as all the people flocking into town for the Fifty-fifth celebration tomorrow.

The marina was crowded, too. There were lots of people coming in via sailboat and pleasure yacht. Even more people were taking advantage of the beautiful weather and going out for day trips, resulting in an overabundance of little boats on both sides of the stone breakers at the harbor’s entrance.

Over by the hotel, she could see containers of folding chairs ready to be set up on the lawn first thing in the morning. Workmen were constructing a portable stage for the dignitaries. And there, off to the side, parked on the street, was the SEAL mobile. The van with tinted windows that Tom and his friends had outfitted with high-tech surveillance equipment.

So this was where they all were.

Kelly had awakened this morning to a silent and empty house. Even Charles, who’d had such a tough night, had been gone by the time she went downstairs.

She’d been disappointed.

She’d hoped to see Tom. She’d wanted to see Tom.

But his makeshift office had been empty.

Just as empty as his bedroom had been last night when she’d crept into the cottage, hoping to find him, hoping to tell him . . . what? She still didn’t know.

All she knew was that she wanted to be with him. She wanted to be near him.

And right now she wanted to help him. In any way that she could.

She headed for the van, knocked on the back door.

She sensed some kind of movement behind the darkly tinted glass, but the door didn’t open. Nothing moved.

She knocked again.

“It’s Dr. Ashton.” Mallory’s voice came in loud and clear over Tom’s headset.

Kelly. “What does she want?” he asked.

Charles’s voice came over the radio from his lookout position on the harbormaster’s deck. “If she’s smart, she’s looking for you. If she’s not so smart, she’s looking for me.”

“Let’s keep radio chatter down to a minimum, people,” Jazz’s voice cut in.

“I don’t know what she wants,” Mallory reported. “Should I let her in?”

“Yes.” Tom tried to keep his impatience and frustration from ringing in his voice. Yes, let her in, because forcing Kelly to stand outside the parked van and knock on the windows is only drawing attention to you. “Get her in there quickly. And shut the door behind her.”

He heard the sound of the door opening, heard Kelly’s voice. “Hey, Mallory. What are you doing here?”

“David and I are helping Tommy.”

“Oh, hi, David. How are you? Hey, I like your haircut.”

“Thanks. Mal did it.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, Tom says to get in. Quick.”

Tom looked at Starrett and rolled his eyes as he finally heard the door close. “Mal, can you put me on over the speakers so Kelly can hear me?”

“The van’s speakers aren’t working really well,” David replied, “but we’ve got an extra wired headset here that she can use.”

“Great,” Tom said. “Can you give it to her?”

“Tom?” Kelly’s voice said. David was a little more on the ball. He’d already gotten the headset to her.

“What’s up, Kelly?” He tried to make his voice matter-of-fact. Casual. As if she hadn’t absolutely shredded the last of his hope by running and hiding after he’d told her he loved her. As if he hadn’t particularly noticed that she’d stayed far, far away from him all day yesterday. I love you, too—not. “Something you need?”

“Where are you? You sound so close.”

“I am so close. I’m in the hotel.”

“Locke’s watching room 104 from the Congregational church tower,” Mallory told Kelly. “Jazz and Sam are helping Tommy do a room-by-room search, looking for a bomb.”

Mallory made it sound easy. As if they could simply knock on every door, explain that there might be a bomb in the room, would it be too much trouble to ask if they could take a look? . . .

No, they had to do this covertly. With Starrett dressed in a billion-dollar suit, hair swept back in a leather ponytail holder, pinky ring on his finger, pretending to be the rather effeminate “Mr. Sam” of the hotel staff, and Jazz impressively dressed in his summer uniform—posing as preliminary security for tomorrow’s event. Lt. (jg) Jazz Jacquette had even introduced himself to the desk clerks on his way in.

Tom wore surfer shorts with a big overshirt to hide the small arsenal Jazz had scrounged up from God knows where. His job this morning was to search the rooms in which no one was home.

So far so good. They were on the third floor—two more to go. And the higher they got, the less likely they were to find a bomb. Someone with the Merchant’s experience and knowledge would know that a bomb on the fourth floor would do far less damage to a building than one on the first floor.

But Tom had realized last night that while they had a photo of the Merchant checking into the hotel with a cartful of luggage, room 104 contained only one small suitcase. Where was the rest of his stuff if not in one of these other rooms?

Tom signaled for Jazz and Starrett to go on up to the fourth floor as he let himself into the last room at the end of the hall.

“I thought the chances of there being a bomb in the hotel itself are slim.” Kelly’s voice sounded as if she were right there, whispering into his ear. “I thought this guy’s MO was a car bomb.”

The room looked as if it were being occupied by a family with a small child. Baby toys were everywhere. But that didn’t mean Tom didn’t search it thoroughly. If he were a terrorist planting a bomb, he’d scatter a Bite Me Elmo doll and bright-colored blocks on the floor, too.

“Today we search the hotel,” Tom told her as he moved efficiently through the room. “Tonight and tomorrow, we’ll be out in the parking lots.”

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Not a lot,” he said flatly. “If you want, you can hang with Mal and David—help them man the van. But like I told them, I don’t want you inside this hotel, not under any circumstances.”

“I was kind of hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you,” Kelly told him. “When are you going to take a break?”

“Wednesday.” She wanted to talk to him. Great. She wanted to tell him it was probably best if they kept their distance from each other until he left at the end of the month. She didn’t want to hurt him and . . .

“Are you serious?” she said. “You’re not going to take a single break between now and—”

“No.” He let himself out of the hotel room, making sure the door was locked behind him. Room 375 was clean. He made a little checkmark on his list, stuck it back into his pocket.

“You’re not even going to go to the bathroom?” she asked. “There’s not even a time when I can come in and talk to you while you pee?”

“Kelly, I’m a little busy now,” he said tightly. “Do you mind saving the humor for another time?”

“I don’t want to wait until Wednesday to tell you that I was wrong from the start.” She lowered her voice. “What we’ve got between us is more than just sex. But I was scared, Tom. I’m still scared, but after last night, when I looked for you and you weren’t there, now I’m more scared about losing you.”

“Um, Kelly—”

She lowered her voice even more. “I miss you. I miss the time we spent together. I miss talking to you. Believe it or not, I love talking to you as much as I love—”

Tom quickly cut her off. “Yeah, I know what you love. And now that the entire team—including your father—has heard it—”

“What?”

“Everyone’s listening,” he told her, unable to keep from laughing. Jesus. Of all the things she might’ve said to him, he hadn’t been expecting this. And despite the fact that she was going to be very embarrassed, he was glad. It wasn’t “I love you, too,” but it was good enough for now. “This is a very open channel.”

Kelly laughed, too. “Oh, my God. It is?”

“Please don’t stop,” Starrett’s voice drawled. “Personally, I’m finding this a million times better than The Young and the Restless.”

“Thanks,” Tom said dryly, “but I think she’s probably done.”

“I’m not,” Kelly said. “Because I still have to tell you that I love you.”

“See?” Starrett said. “She’s not done.”

“I didn’t want to have to wait till Wednesday to say that,” Kelly added.

“Although, on Wednesday, you wouldn’t’ve had to make it a public service announcement,” Tom pointed out. She loved him. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy or scared to death.

“I don’t care who hears,” she told him fiercely. “I love you, and it’s a good thing.”

She sounded as if she were still trying to convince herself of that fact. Tom knew exactly how she felt.

“I mean,” she faltered, “as long as you still love me, too . . .”

Silence. There was dead silence.

Kelly flashed hot and then cold and then hot again as she waited an eternity for Tom to reply.

“How about we plan to take a break in about an hour and a half?” he finally said. “When we’re through with the fourth floor?”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I just want to continue this more privately, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she said. “So in about an hour and a half—”

“Tom, we’ve got a small commercial helo approaching the hotel roof,” Locke’s cool voice cut in. “Is there some kind of landing pad up there?”

“Anyone know?” Tom asked, his voice instantly that of a team commander.

“Yes,” David said. “The hotel has facilities for rooftop pickups and drop-offs of guests.”

“This one’s coming in with only a pilot,” Locke reported. “Probably a pickup.”

“Activity in hallway,” Starrett said quietly. “Tom, stay out of sight. Jazz’s in room 415, dark-haired man coming out of room 435, carrying a small overnight bag, looks like . . . Tango, tango—I’ve got visual, team, it’s our man.”

Tom took the stairs three at a time as he heard Starrett say, “Excuse me, Mr. Rakowski—”

“Shit, no, Sam,” he said. “You just gave yourself away.”

He didn’t see it, but he heard it. Three gunshots. It didn’t take much to picture what had happened. Starrett called the Merchant Mr. Rakowski, the name he’d used to check into that decoy room down on the first floor, and the man turned around with his weapon already out and firing.

“Jazz, report!”

“Starrett’s down,” the XO’s deep voice said. “We need medical assistance—he’s bleeding pretty badly. The Merchant’s in the far stairwell, and yes, sir, we’ve got a bomb in room 435. Holy Mother of God, it must’ve been rigged to the door opening because the timer’s just switched from oh-nine-thirty tomorrow to twenty minutes from now. It’s homemade, L.T., but it’s a big motherfucker. Our man definitely knew what he was doing. Someone better start evacuating this building. I’m not sure I can get past all these booby traps in time to keep this thing from blowing.”

“Medical assistance is on its way,” Mallory’s voice cut through. “Kelly told me to tell you she’s coming to help Sam.”

“No!” Tom shouted as he kept going past the fourth floor, toward the roof. “God damn it, you tell Kelly to stay in the van!”

“But she’s already on her way.”

“Shit! Jazz, call WildCard,” Tom ordered. “He’s standing by. Use him, however you can, to help you with that bomb. Mal, call the police, tell them we found something real. Locke, be ready for anything.”

“Always am, sir.”

He burst onto the roof, out into the brain-splitting brightness of the morning. Weapon drawn, he ran for the other access door.

And then there he was.

The Merchant.

He saw Tom, saw his weapon, and raised his own side arm.

He was just a little too late.

Tom kicked it, hard, from his hand, like a game-winning soccer kick. It went flying back through the open access door. Tom heard it rattling down the stairs. Goal!

But the Merchant was already swinging his briefcase, and it landed hard against the side of Tom’s head, then hard against his right wrist. His weapon dropped, too, and the Merchant dove for it.

Kelly took the stairs to the fourth floor. Starrett had been shot. Please, God, don’t let him have been shot in the chest or the face or . . .

He was slumped on the floor, bleeding heavily from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Two and a half inches lower, and that bullet would have hit his heart. Two and a half inches lower, and this man would be dead.

As it was, he was unconscious, and Kelly saw there was blood on his head as well. A second bullet had grazed his temple. She took off his headset and put it on. She had far more use for it than Sam did right now.

The door to 435 was open and as she went inside to get some towels to use to stop his bleeding, she stopped short at the sight of the bomb.

Dear God, Tom had been right all along. Tom, who was no doubt chasing the man with the gun. Please, God, keep him safe!

“Seventeen minutes and counting down,” Jazz was saying grimly to someone on the hotel telephone. “I’ll try to describe it completely, but I sure as hell wish you could see it for yourself.”

David sat up. Lieutenant Jacquette wanted WildCard, out in California, to see the bomb that was in room 435.

He could do it. He could help. With his Internet camera. His laptop.

He opened the van door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said to Mallory. “Stay right here, all right?”

“But—”

“I’ve got to get something,” he told her, and ran for home.

Mallory couldn’t get through. She’d used the cell phone to dial 911, but she kept getting freaking disconnected.

Don’t go anywhere.

Don’t leave the van.

That rule was supposed to apply to David and Kelly as well as herself.

So why was she the only one left sitting here like a big idiot?

Her job was to warn the police about the bomb. Start the evacuation of the hotel. Fifteen minutes now before the bomb went off.

Screw this. How could she warn anyone with a cell phone that didn’t effing work? She switched off her lip microphone, left the van, and ran for the hotel.

It was amazing. There were people playing Frisbee on the lawn, workmen building a stage. And in the hotel lobby, it was as poshly, snobbishly too-elegant-for-the-likes-of-you as it always had been.

That was going to change, and fast.

There was a line at the front desk, a line at the concierge’s counter. But there was a security guard, gun strapped to his side, chatting up the woman working at the gift shop.

Mallory skidded to a stop in front of him.

“No running in the hotel,” he said sternly.

“Yeah? How about when there’s a bomb set to go off in fifteen minutes?”

The guard got even more stern. “Bomb threats are a felony, young lady. Even when said in jest.”

“This isn’t a threat or a joke, Jack. It’s in room 435. We need to start evacuating this building now.”

“Paoletti, right?” he said, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, I know you. You’re Angie Paoletti’s kid. You know, we got a call from the police department, warning us that Tom Paoletti was hallucinating some kind of terrorist threat. Do me a favor, kid. Go home, and take your nutball uncle with you.”

“I’m serious. Sir. Officer.” Mallory gave respectful a try. “Please, will you at least go up to room 435 and—”

“You got ten seconds to get the hell out of here,” the security guard told her. “And the only reason I’m being nice and letting you leave without calling the police is because I’m friends with your mother.”

“Friends. Right,” Mallory said. “Does your wife know?”

He reached for her, but she was already gone.

Charles stood gripping the railing on the deck of the harbormaster’s house, Joe beside him. “What do you see?” he said. “Alyssa, please. Shoot the bastard.”

“Tom and the Merchant are fighting,” Alyssa Locke reported from her perch in the church tower. “Hand to hand. Believe me, sir, if I could get a clear shot . . .”

“Kelly,” Charles said. “Where are you?”

“She’s here,” David answered the old man. “With Sam. The mike on her radio headset broke. She can receive but she can’t send.”

He stepped over the fallen SEAL, trying not to look at the blood on the towel Kelly held pressed to the man’s shoulder. God, Sam Starrett had been shot. This all had seemed like pretend back in the van, but it wasn’t. It was real.

“Get out,” Tom’s voice rasped over David’s headset. “Get her the hell out of there, now!”

“I’m not leaving Sam,” Kelly said calmly. “He’s already lost too much blood.”

David repeated her words as he carried his laptop and camera into room 435.

And there it was.

A bomb.

It looked a whole lot less assuming than the bombs he’d seen on TV and in the movies. It had a timer, counting down minutes and seconds. There were thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds left. Forty-six. Forty-five. Forty-four.

Jazz was dripping sweat. The hotel telephone was tucked under his chin as he looked at all the wires.

“God,” David said. “Those wires are all the same color. How do you know which is which?”

Jazz glanced up at him. “Yeah, what? You really think the Merchant’s going to color code them for our ease in defusing this sucker?”

“But in the movies . . .”

Jazz shot him a withering look.

David set up his laptop. “I brought my Internet camera. You said you wanted WildCard to see this bomb. Well, now he can.”

The withering look vanished, fast.

Kelly prayed. Dear God, don’t let her save Sam only to have them both blown up. Dear God, keep Tom safe.

She could hear Locke from the church tower, describing Tom’s fight with the Merchant. “I can’t get a clear shot,” she kept saying. “They’re all over the place. I can’t risk it.”

Then, “Uh-oh,” she said. “We got some trouble. The pilot’s getting out of the helo. He’s armed.” Her voice was tight. “I could use some orders.”

Tom was silent. Kelly applied pressure to Sam’s shoulder and knew that Tom’s silence was not a good thing.

Mallory ran into the middle of the lobby, scrambling up onto the top of a table as she heard a shot ring out.

She took advantage of the sudden lull.

“Excuse me, rich people, I need your attention! There’s a bomb in this hotel, up in room 435, and it’s set to go off in about twelve minutes! That sound you just heard was a gunshot. Someone should definitely call the police. And everyone else who wants to live better grab their wallets and head for the door and—”

She didn’t see who grabbed her and pulled her down from there. Whoever it was, she didn’t like the hand over her mouth, didn’t like the way he held her by the chest as he dragged her across the lobby and into an elevator.

She elbowed him hard in the ribs as she bit his hand, and he released her. But the elevator doors had already closed, and they were already going up.

She turned to face him, ready to fight, and found herself gazing into the barrel of a very deadly-looking gun.

And the man holding it had a face she recognized. He was in that picture she’d taken of the Merchant. He was the man she’d captured on film, talking to the terrorist. His face was ugly, distorted with anger. And on the back of his hand, just as Tom had described, he had a small tattoo of a single, staring, creepy-as-shit eye.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. “I should kill you right now!”

Mallory refused to cry. Instead she stood tall, chin high, just like Nightshade would have. “Surrender now, asshole, and it’ll go easier on you.”

Tom was dizzy.

The Merchant was strong, and Tom struggled to stay in control, to keep from rolling back to where his weapon had landed on the gravel rooftop.

He fought to keep the Merchant’s hands pinned, knowing full well that the man was carrying a knife, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to shove it hard into Tom’s chest if he had the slightest opportunity.

Tom was winning, though. He’d started winning the moment Locke had fired the shot that had chased the pilot back into the helo. He’d started winning big when the pilot and helo took off, leaving the Merchant behind.

“Pin him, sir,” he heard Locke say. “Pin him, and I’ll take him out.”

Easier said than done, particularly when his head was throbbing and his equilibrium was off. Still, Tom had his arm around the Merchant’s neck as they flopped about on the roof. He was cutting off the man’s air. He could feel him starting to fade, his kicks growing weaker.

“Eleven minutes and counting,” Tom heard Jazz report. “And L.T., if you’re listening, it’s occurred to me that there might be a reason our little Merchant purchased two alarm clocks. I’ve got two empty boxes here, but only one is used in this particular piece of performance art. If you’ve got this guy’s ear, you might want to ask him where he’s put the second bomb.”

Oh, fuck.

Tom let go of the Merchant, scrambling back to grab his weapon and hold it with both hands, aimed at the man’s forehead.

He pulled himself to his feet and administered scumbag resuscitation by kicking the terrorist hard in the ribs.

The Merchant drew in a shuddering breath.

“Get up,” Tom said. “Hands on your head.”

The man couldn’t do more than push himself onto his hands and knees for several long moments. But time was running out. “Get up!”

“Drop the gun.”

Tom did nothing of the sort. He kept his weapon trained on the Merchant as he turned slightly toward the access door.

It was Terrorist Number Two. Tom recognized him from the photo Mallory had taken. And, oh, double fuck. He had Mallory, his weapon held to her head.

“Drop it or I’ll kill the girl.”

How the hell had this happened?

“Jesus, Mallory,” Tom said.

“Mallory?” David’s voice cut through. “Mal, where are you? Did you leave the van?”

“I’m sorry,” Mal said, too softly for Tom to hear her, but he could read her lips. Her microphone was broken. Jazz was going to hear about these cheapshit headsets, that was for sure. She had a scratch on the side of her face, no doubt from the broken piece of plastic. Her lip was swollen, too. The bastard had hit her.

“Drop. The. Gun.” T2 was starting to lose it.

“Please, Tom, do whatever he says,” David begged him over the headset from down on the fourth floor. “Please don’t let her die.”

“Drop it,” T2 ordered.

If Tom did, they were both dead. He kept his own weapon on the Merchant. “You drop your gun, asshole, or your boss checks out. And the next bullet’s yours, I promise you that.”

“Lieutenant Paoletti, please step a little to your right.” That was Locke’s cool voice. Locke, who was in the church tower with a sniper rifle and the best aim in the U.S. Navy.

Tom stepped right.

He felt the shot whizzing past his cheek, heard it crack, and T2 crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

“Mallory!” David’s cry was anguished. Of course, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see, could only hear the sound of the gunshot.

Mallory was sprayed with blood, but she didn’t faint, didn’t fall. She scooped up T2’s weapon before it even had time to bounce. She held it in both hands, like Tom, aimed directly at the Merchant, also like Tom. Only she aimed the barrel lower, much lower than the man’s forehead.

“Tell David I’m still alive.”

But David was already in the doorway. “Mallory.”

“He called me Mallory,” she said to Tom. “Did you hear that?” She was crying, covered with tears and snot and blood, but she didn’t waver. “David, go back and help Jazz. I’m all right.”

He was crying, too. “I just . . . God, I love you and I thought—”

Mal smiled. “I know. Go.”

“Both of you go,” Tom ordered them. “Get out of here. Now.”

Mallory shook her head. “No, I think I’ll back you up a little longer. You don’t look very good, Tom.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one with the gun.” He looked at the Merchant. Both of the Merchants. Double fuck, indeed. He fought his dizziness. “Tell me where the second bomb is.”

The Merchant’s gaze shifted. Just a little. Just enough. Out to the harbor.

And with a blazing revelation, Tom knew. As he gazed into the son of a bitch’s eyes, he knew the whole plan. He knew how this asshole’s mind worked. The bomb was on the fourth floor, not to do the most structural damage, but rather to act as a shepherding device to push the crowd away from the hotel.

Away from the hotel and down toward the marina.

Where all those little boats were sitting, all in a row. The Merchant had to set only one bomb in one boat, and the rest would blow sky-high, like a chain of firecrackers, one right after another. The entire marina would go up into the biggest terrorist explosion in U.S. history, and anyone within hundreds of yards would go with it.

The Merchant looked up at the blueness of the sky. And then, without warning, he rushed Tom’s gun.

But Tom didn’t need warning. He knew this man too well, knew he’d choose death over capture.

He squeezed the trigger of his weapon and ended the Merchant’s too-long life.

“Locke, Joe, Charles!” Tom’s voice rang clearly over Charles’s headset. “The second bomb’s on a boat, possibly underwater, under the hull, where you won’t even be able to see it.”

Charles could see Alyssa already running across the lawn from the Congregational church. Joe, too, was already down the stairs that led to the boat slips.

But even though Charles’s legs weren’t moving as quickly, his brain was doing just fine. He pushed open the door of the harbormaster’s office and appropriated the guest register, checking the names of all the boats that were currently docked in the visitor slips. It was premium real estate, those visitor slips, bringing a hefty amount of income into the marina, making it possible for regular folks to dock a boat there without having to quadruple mortgage their houses.

He used his finger to go down the list and . . .

There was nothing that jumped out at him. No boat named Merchant’s Prize or something equally obvious.

But there was one thing that caught his eye. The Sea Breeze. At the start of the week, it had been docked in slot A-3. But halfway through, it got moved over to B-7. Now, that was odd, because as far as convenience and ease, A-3 was a better slot. However, as far as blowing up things went, B-7 was smack in the middle of the marina.

“Alyssa, Joe, check B-7,” he said over his radio headset.

But just to be safe, he took all the spare copies of all the keys that were hanging on the harbormaster’s wall.

Dottie, who worked behind the counter, stood up. “Mr. Ashton, what are you . . . ?”

“Stealing all the visitors’ boats,” he told her crossly. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Navigating the stairs with his walker wasn’t happening, so he tossed the damn thing to the bottom, and went down like a little kid, on the seat of his pants.

Joe searched the inside of the Sea Breeze. And there it was. A bomb. In the head. The timer read seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds, exactly three minutes behind the bomb in the hotel.

Alyssa Locke was right behind him, and she tossed him her radio and headset and dove headfirst into the murky waters of the harbor. She came up coughing, grabbed a lungful of air, and went back down.

He could see Charles, making his way down the steep ramp that led to the B slips.

Alyssa came up, gasping. “He’s right. Tom’s right. This thing’s rigged to blow. The entire hull is wired with explosives.”

“There’s a bomb in the john, too,” Joe told her.

She reached a hand up, and he helped haul her onto the deck. She was heavy for such a little thing. Or maybe he was just getting too old for this.

“It’s probably the timer,” she said, slicking her hair back from her face and going to take a look. “Yeah. See how this wire runs down here and over the side. But this one’s rigged with a failsafe—we cut this wire, and this smaller bomb blows. Which will set off the other bomb.”

She put her headset and radio back on. “L.T., are you there? We’ve located our second bomb, and we’re in serious trouble.”

“I’ve got at least two more minutes to go before I neutralize this bomb,” Jazz’s voice came back. “No way can I get down there and take care of that one, too.”

“I’m on my way,” Tom said.

Charles tossed his walker into the recessed deck of the boat, then swung himself on board. It wasn’t graceful, but it got the job done. “Alyssa,” he said. “Dearest. Jump back into the water and see if the bomb is attached to the inboard motor.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“You’re not going to make me do it, are you?”

She took off her radio again and, with a hard look at Charles, she went over the side.

“What are you thinking?” Joe asked.

Alyssa came back up, sputtering and coughing. “It’s not connected—at least not as far as I can tell.”

Cybele. Charles was thinking about Cybele.

“I have the Sea Breeze’s key,” he told his oldest friend.

He could see understanding in Joe’s eyes. “I’ll come with you.”

“Why should we both go?” he said as gently as he could.

“No one’s going anywhere.” Tom’s voice rang over their headsets. “Just wait for me to get down there.”

“I got it,” Jazz’s voice was thick with relief. “Timer’s stopped running, L.T.”

Joe swung himself down below. “This timer’s still going. Four minutes and counting.”

“Is someone going to help me out of the water and back onto that boat?” Alyssa called.

They were out of time. If Charles was going to do this, he had to do it now.

“Kelly, you made me proud this morning,” he said into his microphone. “I love you. I’m glad you found Tom, glad you recognized what you found.”

Joe had tears in his eyes. “I’m coming with you,” he said again.

“You can’t,” Charles said, and for the first time in nearly six decades, he embraced his best friend. “Tell the truth to that writer—that Cybele was the real hero of Baldwin’s Bridge.”

He’d caught Joe completely off guard with his embrace, and when he finally pulled back, he was able to push his friend neatly over the side and into the water.

Charles started the motor with a roar, and the boat didn’t blow up. That was good.

“Daddy, I love you!” Kelly had gotten herself to a headset with a microphone.

“I know,” he told her. “That’s the one thing I never doubted ever in my life, Kelly. You loved me, and Cybele loved me. It was more than I deserved.”

He backed out of the slip, and he could see Alyssa and Joe, still there in the water.

He could see Joe’s face, Joe’s eyes, Joe’s anguish.

And Charles touched his right ear, giving Joe his sign.

He was ready to go.

Tom turned to see Kelly running toward him across the lawn.

Out in the harbor, Charles had opened up the throttle, breaking all the posted speed limits as he headed for the open sea, moving quickly out of radio range.

Kelly slowed, her chest heaving as she cried.

Tom reached for her, and she went into his arms.

Down on the dock, Locke helped Joe out of the water.

In the hotel, Jazz sat with Starrett, eyes closed as he waited for the ambulance.

Mallory and David stood at the window, watching the Sea Breeze grow smaller and smaller.

And there, on the deck of that boat, Charles finally knew. He finally understood why Cybele gave her life for him and for Joe and for the Fighting Fifty-fifth.

And he finally forgave her.

She had been in pain, and weary of life. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, because she did, oh, he knew that she did. But unless she’d acted when she had, Charles would have sacrificed himself to save her. And then, once again, Cybele would have been left with her heart turned to ashes. She loved him so much that she didn’t want to live without him.

She was an amazing woman. She saw in him a hero, and when he was with her, he was one.

Charles aimed the bow of the boat toward the distant horizon, at peace with himself for the first time in years, knowing that he’d managed, one last time before he died, to once again become the man that Cybele Desjardins had loved.

On the lawn between the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel and the marina, near the statue honoring the men who gave their lives in the Second World War, Tom held Kelly close.

On the dock, a bedraggled Joe saluted the far-off boat as beside him, Lt. Alyssa Locke bowed her head.

The explosion was distant, but still loud enough to make everyone in the harbor and on the hotel lawn look up and out to sea.

For several seconds, there was a hush. A moment of silence.

But then life resumed.

Laughter.

Children shouting.

An ice cream truck approached, its bell ringing.

Tom stood there with Kelly for a good long time, letting her look into the faces of the many people whose lives her father had saved that day.