after that, a 100-mile swim through the Pacific Ocean to the western coast of Mexico.
Twenty-five yards short of the steps to the beach, their captor ordered a hard right turn. Linked as they were in a circle, some stumbled at the pivot, but no one fell. More gunfire ripped the night, this volley coming from far away, well on the other side of the clubhouse and the pool. Tyler thought he might have seen flashes.
“None of your concern,” the leader said. “We are heading for the pool deck.”
That meant another hundred yards or so of difficult footing. The circle of strangers navigated erupting palm roots and fallen coconuts as they made their way through the shadows cast by tastefully suspended lights that had been installed in the treetops. And because God had a wicked sense of humor, the in-ground sprinkler system was throwing water everywhere. Though the air temperature was likely still eighty degrees, the water and the slight breeze combined to make the night feel frigid. Within seconds, Tyler’s khaki shorts and polo shirt were soaked, as was Annie’s slinky little dress. He felt like a pig for noticing that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and that, well, she was cold, too.
“Why is this happening?” Annie whispered.
“Just keep going,” Tyler whispered back. “I don’t know.”
“Are they terrorists, do you think?”
“I don’t know that, either,” he said. Listening to the news, you’d think there was a very specific definition for what a terrorist was, but if these thugs didn’t meet a commonsense definition, he didn’t know who could. “Just do what they say.”
The pool at the Crystal Sands Resort was unlike any community pool Tyler had frequented as a child. No rectangular construction and swimming lanes here. This was a pool that wanted to be a lagoon. The complex was actually a series of pools, split among four different levels, each linked by elaborate waterfalls and separated by flowers and palm trees. A lazy river circumnavigated the whole area, providing opportunities for guests to float on rafts through the bar and restaurant areas. The water in the river was dormant now, but the waterfalls still flowed. The normally soothing sound of rushing water provided no solace tonight as Tyler marched like a gulag prisoner to his death.
More gunshots in the distance.
As his cluster of hostages made their way up the gradual hill to the concrete lagoon, Tyler saw more of the guests being herded into the same spot. They, likewise, moved in clusters, hands joined as they shuffled along. The smallest group he saw was four people, the largest looked to be ten. Everyone wore varieties of nearly nothing, clearly having been rousted from sleep.
Terror and dread manifested differently among the terrified. Some people were crying—men and women alike—but most moved stoically, eyes wide and darting from compass point to compass point. Tyler saw the Rabinowitzes, the older couple from Indiana that he’d crossed paths with late in the day yesterday. Mr. Rabinowitz—Jacob, if Tyler remembered correctly, an ego-fueled executive with a trash company—was bitching to the poolside bartender about the blandness of his Bloody Mary. When he’d caught sight of Tyler watching, the old guy had said, “Mind your manners, shithead.” The wife—Tyler didn’t catch her name—rolled her eyes, his clue that this was common. It must be tough going through life living with an asshole for a soul mate. The enormous rocks adorning her fingers and ears were clues, Tyler thought, to the price of tolerance.
Tyler saw Zach Turner and his wife approaching, as well. They were a nice couple from Virginia. He’d spent over an hour with them at the edge of the lazy river chatting about Zach’s tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Tyler had found the story of the IED explosion that took Zach’s leg off below the knee particularly fascinating. Now he found it fascinating that the terrorists had allowed him to put on his prosthetic leg, but not a shirt. In this dim light, his burn scars seemed somehow more prominent than they had in the full light of day. Both of them looked shaken.
Annie gripped Tyler’s hand ever more tightly as they scaled the shallow steps that led to the upper pool area. It was entirely possible that her fingernails were drawing blood from his palm, but he didn’t want to complain.
“There are no children,” Annie whispered.
Tyler didn’t know what she meant at first, but then he saw it, too. The Turners had eleven-year-old twin boys, but they were nowhere to be seen. Ditto the two girls who belonged to the Severances.
Annie’s grip tightened even more. “You don’t think they—”
“No,” Tyler said, cutting her off before she could say the unthinkable. “The parents aren’t upset enough for that.” He didn’t know if that was true, but that was his story and he was sticking to it.
At the top of the steps now, on the upper pool deck, their conductor said, “You can let go of each other now. If you can find a seat, take it. If you try to leave, you will be shot.”
Tyler was happy to be shed of the sweaty guy’s hand, but he was happy to keep hold of Annie’s. Even if he’d wanted to let go of it, he didn’t think she’d let him. “Let’s grab a chair at the back, near the bathroom,” he said. He didn’t know why, exactly, but that seemed like a good place to be. Certainly, he didn’t want to be in the front, where they would be most visible. The chairs near the restrooms offered them the added benefit of being near the bar and the back gate.
He didn’t wait for an answer from Annie. Rather, he guided her past the pool’s wheelchair ramp and toward the rank of chairs that nobody wanted during the day because they offered nearly full shade—the very opposite of why most people came to a resort like the Crystal Sands. The chaises he selected were constructed of the same canvas and heavy wood as all the hundreds of others, but theirs lay against one of the elaborate white ceramic planters that defined the outer perimeter of the pool area. Immediately beyond, toward the rear, lay the descending pathway that ultimately led to the garbage Dumpsters and the maintenance sheds for the golf carts, which toted guests from one end of the compound to another.
The flood of guest hostages continued to swell as sleep-deprived rich people arrived in their clusters of various sizes, each of them guarded by a team of riflemen.
“There are so many of them,” Annie whispered. Her tone sounded like equal parts fear and awe.
Tyler assumed she was talking about the terrorists, not the guests, and he had to agree. These were some badass dudes. He had a horrible feeling in his stomach that people weren’t going to take them seriously enough, and that more of the resort’s guests were going to die before this ended—whatever the hell this was.
CHAPTER 2
WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?
Jonathan Grave’s eyes snapped open. He thought he’d heard gunshots, a quick burst of automatic-weapons fire, distant but distinctive. Perhaps he’d been dreaming, but—
There it was again, and it was definitely gunfire. A sustained burst this time, and accompanied by screams.
“Gail,” he said. “Wake up. Something’s wrong.”
She lay with her head on his chest and was slow to respond.
“Come on, Gail. Wake up. Somebody’s shooting.” As he spoke, he slid out from under her, and she stirred.
At the third ripple of gunfire, she was wide-awake. As she sat up, the covers fell away from her breasts and she moved quickly to cover them. Jonathan shot to his feet and darted naked to the sliding glass door that served as their window onto the beach. Out beyond the glass and the low hedge that surrounded their patio, everything looked normal in the silver light of the moon. It cut a brilliant slice across the calm waters, only to be lost in the rolling luminescence of the waves breaking against the white sand.
“What do you see?” Gail asked. He could hear her rising and dressing behind him.
“Nothing, yet,” he said. “But that was definitely gunfire.” He unlocked the slider and pulled it open.
“Whatever