Gambit, David Hagberg [most life changing books .TXT] 📗

This time, he looked up from cleaning the already immaculate barrel with a short ramrod and a small piece of oiled, lint-free cloth. “But I do get nervous,” he said.

“Your hands are steady, never any sweat on your forehead, except for the time in Paris when you finally asked me to marry you.” She reached over and put two fingers over the inside of his wrist. “Heart steady, less than one beat a second. Yet you’re getting ready to defend your hearth and home—and me, from someone you think is damned good. Better than the first two.”

McGarvey simply nodded, because there was no reason to explain something to Pete that she already knew since the first time they’d come under fire what seemed like a century ago.

Pete looked down toward the ICW. “Lou has us covered in all directions, and if whoever is coming has decent intel, they might be aware of that fact. And even if they have no direct evidence, they know about you and about Otto, and you’re convinced that they’re coming, which means they probably have a plan for getting through whatever defenses are in place.”

“Which is why we’re going to start making it easier for them.”

Pete grinned again. “Why did I think you were going to say something like that?”

“Because we want this to be over with, and neither of us wants to sit around forever.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to get the boat ready. You can bring one of the assault rifles and one MP7, plus some ammunition down and maybe some provisions. We’ll head out to the Gulf nice and slow and easy and putter around a couple of miles offshore.”

“For how long?”

“Overnight. If something hasn’t happened by then, we’ll come back here and get ready for Serifos.”

“Whatever it takes, we’re going to force the issue just like you did at the Pentagon and the White House, right?”

“I don’t want to keep our lives on hold waiting for something to happen. And I need to know why, as well as who.”

“We know why,” Pete said. “I knew it from the first day I met you.”

McGarvey said nothing, concentrating instead on finishing with his pistol.

“You’ve never been afraid of stepping on toes, anyone’s toes; it doesn’t matter to you. Weaver, Putin, Kim Jong-un. If something is wrong, you want to make it right.”

“Tilting at windmills. Been doing it all my life.”

“Not that at all, my darling. Don Quixote was a knight with rusted armor, something you’re not. But maybe it’s time to hang it up.”

He knew where she was going, and he put up a hand to stop her, but she overrode him.

“Listen to me, Kirk. You’re not a young man now.”

“Only fifty.”

“There are kids out there half your age with twice the reflexes.”

McGarvey shrugged.

“Sooner or later, you’ll be a millisecond too slow, your aim off by just a tenth of a centimeter, your sense of justice will blur your judgment at the wrong time.”

“You’re right, of course. But here we are,” he said. This time, when she started to object, he overrode her. “And I don’t want you in the firing line if … when that happens.”

“Too bad,” Pete said, rising. “Finish what you’re doing, and I’ll get our things together.”

“Lou, what’s on our perimeter?” McGarvey asked.

“Boat traffic is moderate on the ICW and light in the Gulf as normal for this time of year. Some noncommercial aircraft traffic from the Venice airport. My threat level assessment is at less than 5 percent.”

“How about foot traffic on the beach and vehicles on the road?”

“Some beach activity around sunrise this morning and only some local road traffic, including several lawn care people and a Frontier Cable Systems maintenance van. I verified a work order.”

“We’re going sailing. Should be leaving within the hour.”

“I’ll keep you advised.”

“Where’s Otto?”

“Mary made him go home to sleep. They think it may be a busy evening.”

Pete was just leaving the kitchen, but she stopped and turned back.

“What do you think?” McGarvey asked.

“Insufficient data. But a night attack would be optimal.”

“Too optimal?”

McGarvey—barefoot, wearing swim trunks, no shirt, his prosthetic leg obscene looking in his mind—went down to the Whitby ketch tied to the dock. Unlocking the hatch, he went below, checked the status of the batteries on the automatic charger—they were full—and by long habit powered up the VHF radio and switched to the NOAA weather channel for this area of the coast that included inland waters as well as those in the Gulf out twenty nautical miles.

Topside again, he took the sail covers off, starting with the mizzen aft and then the main. When he’d bought the thirty-year-old yacht several years ago, he’d opted to stick with hand-raised and reefed sails rather than the electrically operated in the mast self-furling sails. Keeping systems simple meant that at sea, out of the range of marinas, fixing something that broke was possible.

A pair of Jet Skis came up from the south, and standing at the main mast, McGarvey watched as they approached. The drivers appeared to be boys, possibly teenagers.

“Lou, evaluate the Jet Skis approaching.”

“Rentals from Sporty’s in Venice. Roger and Benjamin Kaplan, brothers with Michigan driving licenses.”

“Are there any other marinas with boat rentals either north or south of my position?”

“Yes. Several dozen.”

“Threat assessments?”

“All at less than 5 percent.”

“Tell me when any assessment exceeds that number.”

“Yes.”

Pete came down with a small, two-wheeled pushcart of the type usually found at marinas, filled with food and drinks, and handed the bags and boxes across to Mac, who took them below. When they were finished, she went back to the house for a second load as McGarvey stowed the steaks, drinks, and other perishables in the galley’s large cooler.

Topside again, he started the diesel and checked over the transom to make sure that the cooling water was flowing before he went onto the dock and released the spring lines, leaving only the bow and stern lines.

By two thirty, the rest of the provisions,