Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(67)

Alex closed his eyes tight. Then he nodded.

“That’s why you tried to turn yourself in,” I said. “You realized you’d killed your own sister.”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Alex said. “I didn’t—”

“Liar.” Lindy turned the gun on Alex. I tackled the old man just as he fired.

Unfortunately, my balance was off. My leg was hurt and I was weak from the fall I’d taken. We both went down and I slammed my head on the table’s edge.

Maybe Alex hadn’t been as dazed as I thought, or maybe the adrenaline was just counteracting the booze. He bolted for the door but Lindy was already back on his feet, blocking the way. There was only one other way for Alex to go—up.

He took the stairs as Lindy fired again. And somewhere down at the beach, I heard Ty yelling.

I was staggering up the stairs as fast as I could. The eighty-year-old man beat me by a mile.

By the time I got to the little landing at the top of the tower, Alex Huff had realized the obvious—there was no way out—and had turned to face his accuser.

Benjamin Lindy didn’t try to stop me from climbing into the room. His gun was an arm’s length from Alex Huff’s forehead. If I tried to tackle him, if I interfered…the gun would go off.

Both men were breathing hard, completely focused on one another.

Out the windows behind Alex, gray sea stretched to the horizon, but there was something startling nearby—a black boat slicing through the waves, headed for the shore. It seemed impossible—an intrusion from some other world. After twenty-four hours of isolation, I would’ve been less astonished to see angels streaming from the sky.

“The Coast Guard,” I said.

Neither man moved.

“Lindy,” I said. “The Coast Guard is here. They’ll take Alex into custody.”

“You tried to make a deal for your life,” the old man told Alex. “After all you’ve done.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You contacted the Marshal’s Office.”

“No.”

“I won’t let you go free,” Lindy promised. “I won’t let you just disappear.”

“He won’t go free,” I told Lindy. “Not with Longoria dead. They won’t make any deals with him now. Let the law handle this, Mr. Lindy. Put the gun down.”

“I didn’t kill Rachel,” Alex said.

No statement could’ve infuriated Lindy more.

“Try an apology,” the old man said. “Plead for your life.”

Outside, the boat bobbed closer. Several men stood at the prow. Out the opposite window, a column of smoke billowed up from the hotel—wet wood and plaster and carpet going up in a blaze.

“We have to get out of here,” Alex said. “The rest will go soon.”

“He’s right,” I told Lindy. “There’s enough explosive material in the bomb room to blow up ten hotels. It’ll take out this tower.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lindy growled. “I want to hear why you killed my Rachel. I want to hear you justify that.”

“Lindy,” I said. “He’s all that’s left of your wife. Let him stand trial, but don’t kill him.”

Lindy’s finger tightened on the trigger. Alex locked eyes with me. He was trying to tell me something. Like a silent apology.

Too late, I realized what he was going to do. He made a desperate grab for Benjamin Lindy’s hand, and the gun fired.

The shot pushed Alex against the window. The glass cracked under his weight but didn’t break. He slumped to the floor, holding his chest, his shirt already soaked with blood.

“Go,” Alex groaned. “Hurry.”

I knelt at his side. His face was colorless. He clutched his shirt, struggling to breathe, just like Ralph Arguello had done the night he died.

“I’ll help you,” I told him.

Alex shook his head.

Then he closed his eyes and didn’t move again.

The hotel rumbled behind us as another section collapsed into flames.

“Tres!” Garrett shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

I rose to face Benjamin Lindy. His face was blank, like a man who had decided his life was over.

“I’m done here,” he said simply. And he dropped the gun.

Garrett and Lane were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Both looked sweaty and out of breath. Garrett was in his chair. Apparently, Lane had helped him up the path.

“We heard the shots,” Garrett said. “Where is Alex?”

“Upstairs,” I said.

I guess my tone said the rest.

Garrett focused on Lindy. “You bastard.”

Garrett took out the .357—Maia’s gun. My luck keeping track of weapons had never been worse.

“Your friend murdered my daughter,” Lindy said. “Do what you need to.”

He did not look concerned. He looked strangely like Alex Huff—as if he were caught in a riptide he couldn’t possibly control.

“He wasn’t a murderer,” Garrett said. “He couldn’t have been.”

“Garrett,” I said. “There could be more explosions. We need to get out of here.”

“This bastard killed Alex in cold blood.” Garrett’s voice trembled. “You didn’t stop him? You let him?”