Page 23 of Murder Island
CAPTAIN CAL SAVAGE IV watched from the bridge as the chopper touched down. Lial stood beside him, stone-faced. By now, Savage could read her moods clearly. He had trained her himself. She was still irritated about not getting the assignment in Chicago—and newly irked about not getting the assignment on the island. But Savage stood by his decisions. An operative like Lial was too valuable to risk in a fight. He needed her for more nuanced work. Mind, not muscle.
On the platform below, the cockpit door opened. Four black-clad men jumped out onto the deck. From what Savage had seen from their body-cam feeds, the mission had gone flawlessly—all six targets slain silently in the night, with Doc Savage left to take the blame. The captain could not have been more pleased.
“You know what this means?” he asked.
“I do,” said Lial curtly.
Savage told her anyway. “It means the end to the Doc Savage saga once and for all. Once news of this crime spreads, the world will remember the Doc Savage name only for its dark side. Mindless cruelty. Sociopathic violence. As it should be.”
Lial responded with a tight smile. “You’re right. What could be worse than a child killer?”
“And look,” said Savage, pointing toward the chopper. “There’s the bonus.”
The rear door of the helicopter slid open. Two of the men grabbed their prisoner and pulled her down onto the deck, feetfirst.
Savage glanced at Lial. He could see her eyes widen as she tried to control her excitement.
“She’s taller than I thought she’d be,” Lial said.
One of the men cut the cables around Kira’s legs and torso, then pushed her forward along the deck. Even after her ordeal, she looked fit and strong, thought Savage. Plenty of fight left in her. Which was exactly what he needed.
“You’re looking at the best operative our alma mater ever produced,” said Savage. He rested one hand lightly on Lial’s shoulder. “No offense.”
She shrugged his hand away. “None taken.”
Savage could tell that Lial was more impressed than envious. And with good reason.
It’s not every day that you meet a legend.
CHAPTER 27
MY HEAD HURT. My whole body throbbed. Dozens of people were screaming at me in a language I didn’t understand. Men and women. The last thing I remembered was being clubbed on the head and loaded into a canoe. No idea how far I traveled, or how long I was out. I knew two things. The island I was on was a lot bigger than the one I left. And I was in serious trouble.
They had me in a wooden chair in the middle of a room with chains wrapped around my torso. A year ago, when I was at my peak strength, I might have been able to snap one of the links. Not today. I wouldn’t have gotten far, anyway. Some of the men in the crowd had spears. Some had guns.
We were in a big tin hut with three walls. The onlookers formed a horseshoe around the sides. The fourth wall of the hut was mostly open, looking out toward the water. Sweat was pouring out of my body. It must’ve been over ahundred degrees under that tin roof. I could smell myself and everybody else in the room. A dank, wet, human stench. The screaming got louder. I heard feet stamping and spear shafts pounding on the floor. These people wanted to kill me. And I couldn’t blame them.
They thought I’d murdered their boys.
My cutlass was lying on a wooden table in the middle of the room. The blood had dried to a rusty brown. I kept shaking my head, but I knew everything pointed to me. I’d been the only living person left on the island. And compared to the boys, I was a giant. They would have had no chance against me. None.
I recognized the men from the outriggers. Big, bare-chested guys, with elaborate tattoos across their biceps and pecs. The women in the room wore long patterned skirts with T-shirts or tube tops. Some of them were sobbing. Maybe mothers of the boys, or sisters. A few of them had tried to claw at me, but the men held them back.
The whole room went silent.
Five men entered in a line from the open side. They sat down at a long table at the front. Senior citizens. Wrinkled brown faces. Hunched shoulders. White hair, or none at all. They wore baggy trousers and short-sleeved white shirts, with thick beaded necklaces. I had no hope that any of them would speak English. Then the guy in the middle pointed at me and called out a single word.
“Killer!”
It might have been the only English word he knew.
My muscles tensed so hard that my chair jerked back a few inches. “No!Not a killer!” I yelled. The crowd started shouting again—louder, angrier. One of the elders raised a hand to quiet the room. I squirmed against the chains. I wanted to use my hands, as if gestures would help. I lowered my voice. I tried to sound calm, reasonable, innocent.
“The boys,” I said. “We swam together. Fished together. Ate together.” How could I explain that I’d saved them all from a goddamn shark? “I didn’t kill them! I don’t know who did!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman twist free from the men around her. She bolted toward me. Her eyes were wild. When she was two feet away, she curled her lips and spit in my face. I could feel the warm wetness dripping down my cheek. Then she slapped me, so hard it stung. Two men grabbed her and pulled her back to the wall.
I heard the sound of a motor in the distance, coming from the ocean side. I looked out. A small speedboat was heading toward a wooden dock, kicking up a V-shaped wake. One man aboard behind the wheel. Tall. Tanned. White.