Page 107 of Near Miss

“Three, possibly more.”

“Sounds like you need a little recce before the heads start to roll. Where are you?”

“Rockland, Maine.”

“Is that where the targets are?”

“No, they’re on a nearby island, Islesboro.”

“So, we’re talking about at least one boat. How about available weapons?”

“Bring what you need. Ammo, too.”

“What else? An armored personnel carrier? A bazooka?”

“Equipment for night work.”

“When do you need this done?”

“Last Thursday.”

“Okay, let’s hold it right there. This has all the makings of a first-class fuckup. I’ll come up there and see what’s involved, then I’ll round up what I need.”

“This needs doing right away.”

“Then you’re talking to the wrong man. I don’t do right away. I just do it right. You want a referral? I know half a dozen people who can serve up a cock-up on demand, but then there’ll be bodies everywhere.”

“Oh, all right. Be at Teterboro, Atlantic Aviation, at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll go over everything after you get here, then you can order what you need.”

“See you later.” Sarge hung up.

Chapter 55

Asimov squinted into the morning sky and picked up a black dot, which swiftly became an aircraft on final approach. It set down and taxied to the ramp. The airstairs door opened and a large man descended, followed by a smaller man.

Asimov shook the larger man’s hand and said, “Hello, Sarge.”

“Hello, Dimitri. My friend here is the Corporal.”

Asimov shook hands with the smaller man, then the three of them got into an elderly Lincoln town car.

“Okay,” Sarge said, “let’s hear it.”

“First, we get the ferry; we’ve got twelve minutes.” The Lincoln shot forward.

The gates were just starting to close when they drove aboard.

“Is this the only way out here?” Sarge asked.

“For the public, yes. You may have whatever transport you need when the time comes. Right now, this is the best way to look things over, without attracting attention. There’s a ferry back in an hour and a half we can catch. That should be enough time.”

They drove through the village. “Stay out of the store,” Asimov said. “The island grapevine starts there, and you don’t want to be on that radar.”

“Gotcha,” Sarge replied.

Asimov handed him a large-scale map of the island, then they drove on, until they stopped at a point where a driveway was interrupted by a large log.

“What the fuck?” Sarge said.

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