Dirk stared at the gunman in disbelief, then opened his palms and slowly raised his arms into the air.

Chapter 48

48

RATHER THAN CONTEMPLATE HER PARALYZED LEG, Summer focused her thoughts elsewhere. She stared at the radiated tortoise plodding across the beach, then gazed wistfully at the empty sea. Finally, she considered the object buried in the mound she had slept against.

The material that Dirk had exposed was thick and rubberized. By daylight, she could see that the mound was in a distinct oblong shape, formed by the object buried within. Summer studied the material, rubbing her hand across the faded letters that had been stenciled in black.

Barbarigo. It sounded Italian, which piqued her curiosity. Using her driftwood shovel, she scraped away the sand above the word, revealing a compressed roll of the rubber material. She could tell it had once been inflated. Digging some more, she saw that it was a rubber raft. It was old, but well preserved by the layers of beach sand built over it.

She dug down on the opposite side of the layered rubber and soon struck a hard, flat object. Scooping away the sand, she saw it was a hardwood bench, presumably one of several in the large raft, offering another hint of its age. She continued digging and exposed another section of rubber, the raft’s flooring. A small ribbon of blue material poked through the sand, catching her eye. Using her hands, she carefully brushed away the sand, exposing more of the material. It was round in shape, and she saw it was a sailor’s cap. Tugging gently, she freed it from the sand, but then suddenly gasped, dropping it from her fingers.

Underneath the hat, she had exposed the grinning skull of its owner.

THE WAREHOUSE CONTAINED a small machine shop, along with several workbenches stacked with carpenters’ stores. Banks of lube oil and diesel fuel lined one wall, near a large humming generator. A small forklift and two all-terrain vehicles were parked near an open tool bin by the door. The bay was dimly lit, but warmed by the sounds of an African percussion band blaring from a CD player.

Dirk absorbed all this as he was marched into the warehouse and ordered to stand against a corrugated tin wall. The mechanic and the gunman conversed for a moment in what Dirk guessed was Malagasy, then the mechanic ran to report the presence of the intruder.

The gunman stood next to the workbench with the disassembled motor, rocking on his heels as he held his weapon on Dirk. He was young, no more than seventeen. His hair was worn long, and he stood with a sulking hunch. It was easy to see he had no formal military training. Grease stains covered his military-style fatigues and his fingers. Dirk guessed he was primarily employed as a mechanic’s assistant, with secondary duty as a guard.