Scorpion Strike. John Gilstrap

Jonathan grumbled. “I forgot about them.”

      “Okay,” Gail said. “We can wait for a minute or two.” She drilled Jonathan with a glare. “Can’t we?”

      “Sure,” he said. “Why would we want to hurry?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. Not because waiting wasn’t a stupid thing to do, but rather that he hated to sound whiny. “It’s Lori, right?”

      She nodded. “He should be right here. Who were those men?”

      “Bad guys,” Jonathan said. It was an accurate description of how he divided much of his world. There were good guys and bad guys. The rest didn’t matter.

      Another burst of machine-gun fire rippled the night.

      “That’s shooting, right?” Lori asked.

      “It’s healthier to think of it as people dying,” Jonathan said.

      “Oh, my God,” Lori said.

      “Oh, come on,” Gail admonished.

      “There is no better time for the unvarnished truth than when you’re under attack,” Jonathan said. To Lori: “Where’s your bungalow? Are you right next door?” He pointed out the shattered door to the left.

      “Yes.”

      Jonathan headed off in that direction. “I’ll see if I can move him along a little faster.”

      Lori moved to intervene. “Please don’t hurt him.”

      He stopped and forced a smile. “I’m not a bad guy,” he said. “I just want to hurry him along a little.”

      “No need to,” said a voice from just beyond the aura of light that spilled through the ruined doors. It was Hunter, and he’d found a pair of shorts, running shoes, and a polo shirt. He held out some clothes and shoes for Lori. “Thanks for waiting.”

      “Thanks for hurrying,” Jonathan countered.

      While Lori pulled herself into an outfit that looked remarkably like the one her husband wore, Hunter said, “I have a question for you.” He addressed it to Jonathan.

      He waited for it.

      “Where’d you get the mad knife skills?”

      “I grew up in a bad neighborhood,” Jonathan said.

      “Bullshit.”

      “Okay.” It was, in fact, bullshit. Jonathan had grown up in unparalleled wealth under the protection of a father who happened to be one of Virginia’s most notorious criminals. This was not a discussion he intended to have.

      “And how come you were Steve and Alicia at the pool this morning, but Gail and Dig under pressure?”

      He’d done that, hadn’t he? He’d used Gail’s name and she’d used his.

      “No bullshit answer for that one,” Jonathan said. “Just no answer at all. Hey, Lori, how are we doing?”

      Her trembling hands were having a hard time wrangling her shoelaces. “I’m trying,” she said.

      Jonathan pointed with his forehead. “Why don’t you give her a hand. This is not a place we want to stay.”

      Hunter got her fixed up, and they stood together.

      “Stay close to us,” Jonathan said, “and if there’s shooting, hit the ground fast.”

      CHAPTER 3

      “LOOKS LIKE WE WERE LUCKY TO GET CHAIRS,” TYLER WHISPERED. Weary, confused guests flooded the upper pool deck, and the chairs were being gobbled up. During the day, there was always ample seating for those who wanted to sun themselves on the pool deck—and there were pool boys to fetch more if they were needed. However, in the dozens of times that Tyler had visited the Crystal Sands, there’d never been a time when every guest was here at the pool. Typically, they were strewn throughout the resort, from the kayak launch point to the beach to the bar to the golf course. Chairs would soon become a scarce commodity.

      And it was hot. Every night was warm at the Crystal Sands—that’s why people came here in the first place—but the steady breezes gave relief. As the bodies packed in, each of those ninety-eight-point-six-degree heat generators raised the temps and blocked the breezes. It became apparent to Tyler after only a few minutes that it had been too long since too many had had a shower.

      “I wish they’d tell what they were going to do to us,” Annie said.

      “We’ve already seen what they’ll do if we don’t cooperate,” Tyler replied.

      “Will you two please shut up?” hissed the woman to their right. Aged somewhere between fifty and seventy, the lady was clearly a sun worshipper, with skin that made a football look pretty. She’d taken the time to put diamond studs into her ears before being herded out of her room. Or, maybe she just slept with them in. Was that even possible?

      Tyler looked at the woman, said nothing.

      “They’ve told us to stay quiet,” the lady pressed.

      “So, why are you talking?” Annie asked. Tyler smiled and she seemed pleased with herself.

      The captors all looked like soldiers who’d bought their gear from the same store. Black on black on black, from shoes all the way up through shirts and what Tyler presumed were bulletproof vests. They carried the same guns and they all had radios attached to their vests, just behind their right shoulders. The radios ran to square microphones that looked to be attached by Velcro to the front side of their right shoulders.

      Tyler counted eleven of them, all men, but there could have been more. He might also have double counted, since they all looked alike. They didn’t say much, but when they did, it was in English. Since the accents sounded Russian, he ruled out your standard ISIS nut bags, but he wasn’t sure that made him feel any better.

      Best he could tell from the little he’d overheard, they referred to each other not by name, but by phonetic alphabet letters. He’d heard references to a Bravo, an Echo, and a Golf. He recognized the handles as elements of the military alphabet, so he assumed that there must be an Alpha, Charlie, and Foxtrot out there someplace. Plus more, he imagined.

      Several of the other guests had dared to ask what was going to happen to them, but none of them got answers. One did get a punch in the face, though.

      Over at the blue mosaic-tiled bar, two of the soldiers sat on high stools, goosenecking over a stack of wallets and purses and their contents. From what Tyler could tell, they were less interested in the valuables than they were in the credit cards and such. In fact, after they pulled the cards from the wallets, they cast the wallets themselves off to the side. They also seemed interested in passports.

      It wasn’t until Tyler saw a familiar green-and-white accordion-folded striped stack of paper that he understood what they were up to. “They’re matching IDs to the guest roster,” he whispered.

      “How do you know?” Annie asked, which startled him. He didn’t know he’d spoken aloud.

      “The paper,” Tyler whispered. “My stepfather, Baker, won’t hesitate to spend ten grand on a new chandelier in a guest room, but the hundred bucks to replace the antique dot-matrix printer at the reception desk is a step too far. That’s the only place we use that paper.”

      Tyler’s attention was drawn to an intense discussion between two of the guards, one of whom carried a megaphone that he hadn’t yet used. The other man carried a manila folder that was stuffed with papers. They disagreed over whether or not it was time to start something. The objection had to do with some people who were missing.

      The captor on the left cocked his head to the side and said into his radio, “Hotel, this is Alpha. Is Foxtrot with you?” He waited maybe ten seconds and then repeated the question. “Their radios must not be working.”