Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(30)

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THE FOLLOWING MORNING after breakfast Stone phoned Bret Todd, his captain. After an exchange of pleasantries, he inquired about the availability of Breeze, the 125-foot motor yacht he and two business partners had bought from the estate of the former owner.

“We put her in the water the day before yesterday,” Bret said. “We’ve pulled her apart for a major cleaning, now under way, but we could have her ready by noon tomorrow. Where did you want to go?”

“Oh, just a bay cruise for a few days.”

“Then I’ll get the crew cleaned up, too, and we’ll pick you up at your dock at noon?”

“Noon would be very good,” Stone said.

“How many guests?”

“Two—one of them will be bunking with me.”

“Then we’ll see you at noon tomorrow.”



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JOE CROSS presented himself at the charter FBO at Teterboro and showed them his pilot’s license, medical certificate, and logbook. He did a walk-around of the Bonanza, a six-seat, single-engine aircraft, then he flew the charterer around the traffic pattern, landed, and taxied to the ramp. Half an hour later they took off for Rockland and landed an hour and a half after that.

They drove their rental car into the town, and on the way, passed a gun shop. Joe waited while Jane went inside. Half an hour later she came out with a long gun pouch and a brown bag, and she got into the car.

“Find what you were looking for?”

“A very nice Remington 700 and a box of 30-06 ammo,” she replied. “I fired a few rounds on their range, and it sighted in well.”

“Then let’s go take a look at the granite quarry,” he said, checking his phone map. A few minutes later they parked at the roadside near the fence and looked at the pit. “There,” he said, pointing at a little shed. “That’s where it will be.”

They stopped at a hardware store on the way back into town and bought a pair of bolt cutters and a crowbar, then continued to the marina.

“That’s lovely,” Joe said, pointing at the picnic boat, “and it blends in perfectly around here. There must be dozens in Penobscot Bay.” They checked in with the office, Joe presented his captain’s license, and a young man gave them a tour of the boat, showing them the engines, charts, and other equipment aboard. They settled in, then went to dinner at a local restaurant. It was dark when they left.

Cutting through the quarry fence, then using the crowbar on the shed’s hasp was simple enough, and Joe took half a dozen sticks of dynamite, some fuses and detonators, and they were back aboard the boat before midnight.

Joe sat down and spread out the chart of Penobscot Bay. He tapped the chart. “That’s our target area,” he said.





23




The following day at noon, the yacht’s tender pulled up to Stone’s dock, and the three of them handed their things aboard, and the dogs scampered willingly into the launch.

Ed Rawls’s gear included a long gun pouch. “I thought we might shoot some skeet,” he said to the crewman.

“Of course, sir. We have all the equipment aboard, including the shotguns.”

“Thanks, I prefer my own gun,” Ed said.

They motored quickly out to where Breeze lay at anchor, her boarding steps lowered, and soon they were seated in the sunshine on the fantail, enjoying Bloody Marys.

The anchor rattled up and was secured, as were the steps, and the yacht glided away from the harbor.



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DIRTY JOE CROSS stood in the cockpit of his chartered picnic boat and watched her depart through his binoculars. “Well, shit,” he said.

“Surely we can keep up with something that size,” Jungle Jane said.

“I guess that’s our only choice,” Joe said. “We have no idea how long they’ll be aboard.”

“I hope they’re not doing a transatlantic,” Jane said.



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—

ONCE THEY were under way, the captain, Bret Todd, came aft. “Did you have a destination in mind for today?” he asked Stone.

“It’s a calm day, why don’t we go out and have a look at Monhegan Island? Maybe we could anchor off for the night, if conditions allow.”

“Certainly we can, if the seas remain calm. As I expect you know, there’s no sheltered mooring at Monhegan.”

Stone nodded, and Bret went back to the bridge.

“Where’s Monhegan Island?” Meg asked.

“Pretty far out. We may not be able to go ashore, but we can get a look at it. It’s where Andrew Wyeth did many of his paintings.”

Ed Rawls seemed more interested in other boats than Monhegan. He used binoculars to scan each one as he sighted them.

“What are you looking for, Ed?” Meg asked.

“Pirates,” Rawls replied.



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DIRTY JOE FELL in half a mile behind the yacht and set the autopilot to their heading.

Jane handed him a sandwich and a beer. “How fast are we going?”

“Twelve knots or so. I guess that’s cruising speed for them.”