Doubled down Deadly

By G. R. Daniels

Graham Carde comes close to death in the very first chapter of this thrilling novel. This is the third in the Crisis Series by G.R. Daniel. It's one threat after another for Carde and his girlfriend, a tough member of Canada's Mounties. Why is a cottage country resort hotel being targeted by armed attackers? Why does a New York lawyer want to buy this place? And why is a Mexican cartel coming north to stake a claim on bayside property? Double Down Deadly is packed with action, twists and turns. It's one in a series of thrilling novels built around Jackson Phillips, CEO of a military software company, his friend Graham Carde, a former soldier, pilot, hunter and fishing guide and a strong cast of technical geniuses and cops. The series is set in Ontario, Canada and moves seamlessly between the big and stylish city of Toronto to the island cottages of Georgian Bay. If you think Canada is a quiet, peaceful place, think again. There's excitement, suspense, mystery and plenty of thrills in this adventurous tale. Graham Carde is a new hero who has a knack for stepping into the sights of crooks and spies. Meet him and his boss in The Russian Crisis and follow the drama in Crisis In The Cold, Doubled Down Deadly and Devil's Chair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. R. Daniels
• Release date: Dec 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999486723

G. R. Daniels

G. R. Daniels is the pen name of this author. He is a veteran journalist who has worked as a front-page reporter, editor, tv writer, tv on-air reporter, tv producer, radio producer, internet blogger and website writer. He also is one of the world's busiest media relations trainers and crisis consultants, working on major and one-off projects for corporations, government bodies, institutions and individuals. His popular novels offer heavy doses of action, thrills, intrigue and complex plots. They are fascinating and fun reads from someone who has been there and done that for world-wide audiences. Daniels writes often about his native Canada but also provides his readers with international stories such as Escape from Zaatari. Many readers are joining the growing audience for Daniels' exciting and absorbing novels. Become one and write a review for this outstanding author's works.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Graham Carde watched as the diver came to the surface of the ice-cold water and swam to a 24-foot SeaRay. He grabbed hold of a railing on the swim platform and pulled himself up. The diver in his black dry suit and hood looked like a seal but Graham knew this was no saltwater animal looking for fish. This was a man searching for two dead bodies and a couple of unique sniper rifles in Canada’s Georgian Bay.

The diver took something out of a small mesh bag and threw it onto the deck. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a rifle and certainly wasn’t a dead body. Graham moved his own Princecraft aluminum fishing boat slowly toward the other craft.

Hello, he yelled as he neared the 24-footer. The diver was removing his hood disclosing a mass of black hair. He turned toward Graham and Carde noted the man’s thin, hard face. He was still too far away from the cruiser to see details but Graham had a sense the man was fit and highly alert.

Do you need any help? Graham asked. He was now within about three metres of the diver’s boat.

The diver moved to the doorway of the forward cabin. He reached down and came erect again with a long gun in one hand. He held it loosely at his side but in plain sight.

Why?

Because it looks like you’re diving alone. Did you lose your partner?

No, I’m good. The diver’s voice was deep. He didn’t have to shout to be heard. He waited, motionless.

If you’re looking for shipwrecks I can point you to a couple of interesting ones to dive on. Graham held his boat in place with a few small adjustments of his outboard motor.

No, man. I don’t need any help. The man lifted the shotgun.

That’s not friendly, pal, Graham told the diver. Graham pegged the gun as a Mossberg SA-28, a very good shotgun.

Don’t know you, pal, the diver said with an edge to his voice.

There was an accident here a while ago. Two men died and they’re still down there. Us locals are concerned about divers wanting souvenirs. Is that why you’re here? Graham’s question was blunt and his voice was firm. If you stay here, I’ll just call the cops and tell them the site is being jeopardized.

The diver stared at Graham. He seemed to be making a decision. He suddenly trained the shotgun on Graham. Just as quickly, he dropped the gun to his side. Still holding the gun, he moved to the console and pressed the starter button. The MerCruiser roared into life. The diver grabbed the wheel as he put the shotgun on the deck. He wheeled the boat around and revved the engine. The 24-footer buried its stern in the still water and the craft took off like a Ferrari.

A wave of frigid water slammed into the side of Graham’s boat and he was inundated. A wake followed and rocked Graham’s boat. He dropped to the bottom and held onto the gunwales hoping the boat would not turn over. As it was, the open craft was almost swamped by the water kicked up by the diver’s sharp turn.

Son of a bitch. As his boat steadied, Graham moved to the stern again and checked the Mercury 115 horsepower motor. He cranked up the throttle on the long tiller bar and turned toward the track of the diver’s boat, now half a kilometre away and throwing up a rooster tail as it sped across Georgian Bay toward the shore. For a moment, he considered chasing the cruiser and wrapping the shotgun around the guy’s neck. Then, he calmed himself; there was no way he could catch the SeaRay.

Graham shivered. He was wearing rain-proof coveralls and a life preserver but he had unzipped the front and his wool shirt was soaking. It was the end of April and unseasonably warm on the bay but the water was still around freezing. If he didn’t get to shore himself, Graham knew he was risking hypothermia. He took his boat to full speed and made his way to Shield Island, his home away from home.

Shield is one of the 30 Thousand Islands of Georgian Bay, a huge bay that probably should be counted as one of the Great Lakes. It spreads for 190 km north to south in Canada’s province of Ontario. Its average depth, near shore, is 150 feet.

As Graham was only 50 or so metres from the boathouse and its slipway, there was the shrieking sound of a powerful engine driving a boat at maximum speed. Graham turned to the bow and saw the diver’s boat heading directly for him. He shoved the tiller of his own boat to turn away but the SeaRay matched his turn.

Graham waited for the impact but, instead, the SeaRay was brought to a stop with a reversing of its twin props, sending another wave of water against the side of the Princecraft. It rocked violently, throwing Graham into the open well of the boat. He scrambled to his hands and knees and looked at the SeaRay. Incredibly, the pilot of the SeaRay, the diver still in his drysuit, was leveling his shotgun at Graham.

Graham fell, face-first, onto the bottom of his boat and curled into a ball as the load of shot peppered the side of his boat. If it wasn’t for a thick box seat in his open boat, he would have been hit by several of the pellets. Graham had no choice but to press himself as close as possible to the boat bottom. He waited for the second blast.

The SeaRay’s engine revved to a roar again and Graham felt his Princecraft rock once more as the SeaRay swept away from the scene. Graham slowly raised his head over the side of his boat and watched the larger craft speed away. His own had come to a stop in the water as he had inadvertently cut the throttle in diving for cover. He turned to see the shore of Shield Island only a few metres away.

Carde climbed back onto the seat at the stern and restarted the stalled outboard. He pulled the boat slowly into the alcove and brought it to a stop along the concrete pier. He pulled himself out of the craft and inspected the damage caused by the shotgun pellets. There were half a dozen holes punched in the aluminum. This was no birdshot, thought Graham. That shot was meant to kill.

He took a few minutes to open the garage-style door of the boathouse at the end of the short slipway and to pull the Princecraft onto and up the carbon fibre rails into the boathouse. He docked it behind the cottage’s SeaRay that shared the boathouse and closed the door to the bay.

In another few minutes, Carde entered the room he used as his office, den and sometimes bedroom in the luxurious cottage that stood at the end of the small island. The cottage belonged to his employer, Jackson Phillips, and Carde was, officially, the caretaker. He changed to dry clothes from the closet and put his wet shirt and jeans into a laundry bag. He bundled his coveralls into a second bag. He took the bags to the cottage mudroom and shoved the shirt and jeans into a dryer. He hung the coveralls on a wall hook. As he did, he heard a sound. A steel shotgun pellet had fallen onto the wood floor and was rolling across it. He saw a hole in the rubberized coveralls.

Carde picked up the pellet and studied it as he headed back to his den. It was 2-3/4-inch 00 buckshot. Getting hit with that would be the same as being shot with a 9 mm round from a Glock. ‘What the hell?’ Then he remembered he had threatened to call the cops on the mystery diver. Was the guy that paranoid?

CHAPTER TWO

Carde’s den, alias office, aka bedroom, was at the front of the cottage. It was a large room as were most of the rooms in the 6,000 square foot building. It was full of Carde’s stuff, ranging from guns in a locked unit, fishing rods and related gear in large cabinets against one wall, shelves loaded with books and magazines mostly dealing with hunting, fishing, guiding and cooking, a closet stuffed with clothes. One unique feature of the room was the Murphy bed that was built into one of the two windowless walls. The floor in front of the bed was the only bare spot because the bed was used frequently.

Graham marveled at the den every time he entered. His own cottage was about one tenth of the size of this one and barely deserving of the term ‘minimalist.’ It was 10 minutes away from Shield Island by boat and was at least on the water. Graham was spending less and less of his time at his own home.

Officially, Graham was the housekeeper and party chef at the big cottage. He had been hired by its owner Jackson Phillips some years ago after Graham, in his role as a short order cook at a roadside diner, served a meal to Phillips and his now-late wife Laurel. Laurel and Jackson told Carde the meal should be featured in the Michelin Guide. Jackson now relied on Graham for everything cottage-related and the two had become fast friends.

A second unique feature in Graham’s den was a large console set under one of the windows overlooking the front porch of the home. The console contained controls which would be a complete mystery to most visitors. Some were controls to run the fabulous electronics in the house but some were for four big drones which were hangered on the roof of the cottage. The drones were stationed at each corner of the building and were used, mainly, to patrol all approaches to Shield Island whenever the need arose. The rest of the digital controls were for the defence system that protected the cottage, boathouse and island at large. The protective measures were formidable thanks to Jackson’s background with Canada’s intelligence service and as founder of one of the world’s leading military software companies.

Carde made a mental note to use a drone to surveil the area where he had encountered the diver today. No doubt the man and his powerful boat would be back. The drones would be a safer way to keep tabs on the creep.

Carde’s den was across the hallway from Jackson Phillips’ office. The hallway led from the double front doors to the giant living area of the cottage. Phillips’ office was locked tight as it was every time the man was away from his home. Lately, he was away most of the time except for the odd weekend when Carde’s boss needed a break from the Toronto company he headed.

Jackson Phillips was, ultimately, the cause of Graham’s close call with death or injury earlier in the day. In the hectic 15 months that had just passed, Jackson had been coaxed out of his Cottage Country retirement to save the company he founded 15 years before. Jackson Phillips Inc. had been put in jeopardy by an executive who had stolen source code containing secrets of the military software firm. The COO had tried to peddle the code to Russian GRU or other military intelligence services, a sale that could have wrecked JPI by destroying its credibility among top tier clients through the world.

Jackson Phillips had defeated the effort by launching a new software development program that would make the stolen code outdated and irrelevant in the market. He then let the Russians unmask the software thief before stepping in to confront the GRU agents. The confrontation saw Jackson come out on top but the cost of his victory had been the temporary end to his retirement as he returned to be interim CEO of JPI.

The drama had not ended; the Russians had returned with a new mission. The same team that Jackson had beaten stayed in Canada and attacked JPI a second time. This time, the team set out to steal the new software as it was being developed but to do that they believed they had to kill Jackson Phillips. He was too formidable an enemy. To murder Phillips, the team leader, Captain Vasily Zaytsev planned to snipe Phillips through a bulletproof window at one end of the living room of the Shield Island Cottage.

The team was lured into a trap at the cottage. A security team from JPI, an RCMP sergeant and Carde had supported Jackson. In a strange wrinkle, a Chinese assassin became involved on Phillips’ side; he had been assigned by his country’s security service to help protect Jackson Phillips who had become a popular prophet of technology for Chinese millennials.

The sniper team again was defeated with the capture or deaths of its four members. Captain Zaytsev had taken his shot but that failed. He, in turn, was tracked and chased by Thomas Yew, the Chinese assassin. Both Zaytsev and Yew had ended the chase across the frozen bay by running their snow machines onto thin ice. Their bodies and the specialized sniping rifles both carried were now at the body of the bay.

Graham and Jackson knew the rifles were worth small fortunes. One was the product of a small but elite arms factory on the outskirts of Moscow run by the GRU. It had new and innovative technology that would revolutionize military weaponry. The other rifle was a produce of China’s Ministry of State Security with its own advancements. Not only were the guns worth a great deal of money, they were extraordinarily important resources for leading militaries through the world. The rifles would provide a great deal of information about advances in weaponry being made by the Russians and Chinese. They also would provide models for the development of similar innovations by other nations including the United States, Britain, France, Canada and others allied nations.

Carde had been asked by Jackson Phillips to keep an eye on the area of the bay where Zaytsev and Yew had drowned. His trip by boat this day was his first look at the scene since the ice on the bay had retreated to a thin strip along the rocky shorelines. Graham was surprised by the interest of someone so quick off the mark. There were very few boats on the water so the few that were on the bay would attract attention. Certainly, a diver working alone at an accident scene was bound to stand out. It was quite a risk for someone to take, a risk that ought to have a major reward. Carde had threatened to throw a monkey wrench into that plan. He wondered what the diver would do next.

Carde picked up his cellphone and pressed Jackson’s number. Jackson answered as soon as he saw Carde’s number on his screen. Carde spent quite a while telling Jackson about the incident with the mysterious diver. He listened while Jackson suggested his next moves. They were the same as Graham had plotted.

Have you told Marion? There was a chuckle in Jackson’s voice despite the gravity of the reason for Graham’s call. Marion Hartz was Graham’s girlfriend and the other user of the Murphy bed in the den. She was also a Detective Sergeant of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and had been with Graham since the sniping attack on the cottage by the Russians. Marion had been one of the team that had trapped and dismantled the GRU team.

My next call, Graham said with a grin of his own. She’ll be up here in a flash because she is so, so dedicated.

To whom, the Mounties or you? Jackson laughed at his friend’s anticipation of his girlfriend’s arrival at the cottage.

CHAPTER THREE

Awww, crap, said DS Marion Hartz when she heard Graham’s voice on her phone. I’m heading your way. I wanted it to be a surprise.

I have one for you.

One what, big boy? she asked.

A surprise. Graham paused. But you go first.

I'm up here. About twenty klicks away from you, at the Beausoleil Hotel. I was going to drop in after the gig.

What gig?

Prince Harry and Meghan are here. I volunteered for VIP protection when I heard where they were going. See how much I love you.

Graham smiled. She was brightening his whole day. Until he remembered the reason for his call. He told her in a few brief sentences that glossed over the fact he came close to taking a shotgun load in his body.

Did you call the OPP? Marion was referring to the Ontario Provincial Police that patrolled the area of Georgian Bay that contained Shield Island.

No, not yet. We both know why the diver was in that area and it’s a national security thing. Isn’t that your bailiwick?

You’re right, smart guy. She suddenly perked up. Hey, now we have a reason for me to duck out of here early and come over there to investigate the hell out of your little boat trip. She paused for a moment. Everything’s copesetic here. All quiet on the …

Graham heard several loud bangs and a yell. It wasn’t Marion’s voice.

Marion. Marion. He yelled into the phone. What the hell is happening? Are you okay?

There were more noises over the phone. Another shout, sounds of her phone being scraped against something, another loud bang. Marion. Graham’s voice grew frantic.

Graham… Marion’s voice was rushed but in control. I’m okay. I’m fine but… There was the sound of running and someone panting. I’m checking on Harry and Meg. Marion had her cell clipped to her vest so she could talk as she worked.

Carde could do nothing but hang on the edge as he waited for Marion to speak again.

Thank Christ, she said finally. She sounded like she had been the runner. She was catching her breath.

What happened?

Between gasps for breath and hurried conversations with others on her security detail, Marion filled Graham in.

Someone tried to shoot the prince and his wife. They couldn’t get them in their sights. Some of our people hustled the royals out of the way and we grabbed one of the shooters. We think there are two others and they may have gotten away.

Are you okay? Graham was still worried.

Yeah, fine. No holes … There was a hesitation as Marion remembered Graham’s own adventure that day. Just like you. We’re both lucky.

How’s the shooter?

He took one in the arm and one in the leg. But, he’ll live. Hopefully, he’ll also talk to us.

Looks like you’ll be tied up for a while. Why don’t I come over. I promise not to get in your way. Graham was already reaching for a jacket from his closet.

Let me think. Yeah, why the hell not? See you soon. Marion disconnected and Graham followed suit, dropping his phone into his jacket pocket.

It took him less than 25 minutes to get from Shield Island to Beausoleil Hotel in his pickup truck. The hotel was named for both the Beausoleil First Nation territory, occupied by the Chippewa on three large islands at the southern end of Georgian Bay, and Beausoleil Island, one of the larger islands on the Bay.

It was a classic Cottage Country lodge but covering a much bigger area than most. It sprawled over hectares of bayfront land. The hotel actually consisted of a large central lodge of more than 200 rooms and a huge, popular dining room. There was a smaller lodge built just a few years before, that held the hotel’s premium rooms. The whole place was built in the style of the 1920s, if that could be called a ‘style.’ Basically, the structures could be described as back woodsy or as ‘railway hotel’ style. Whatever it was called, the Beausoleil was the one of the better among traditional Georgian Bay accommodation.

Carde parked his pickup at the back of a lot about 50 metres from the gravelled driveway in front of the hotel. He had no choice. There were police vehicles everywhere at the front of the main building. Some were marked with the coat of arms of the RCM Police while others were OPP cars, vans and trucks. Several of the cars parked on the perimeter of the vehicles were owned by the local police department. Some of the vehicles still had their emergency lights illuminated so the place looked festive.

Carde trudged to the lodge. As he reached the middle of the pack of police vehicles, he was brought to a halt by a uniformed OPP officer.

Hey, where do you think you’re going?

Carde looked at the office and smiled. Hi. I’m going in to meet with Detective Sergeant Marion Hartz, officer.

Turn around and take off, the officer commanded.

DS Hartz, Carde repeated. She’s with the protective detail.

Don’t know her. Take off, press man.

I’m not media, pal. I…

As the police officer was fingering his utility belt searching for the right weapon, a female voice cut through the tension. Hey. Carde. Get your butt in here.

Carde and the officer turned their heads to see an attractive, tall woman in an RCMP parka and dark trousers standing on the lodge porch waving at them.

Sorry, sir, the OPP copy muttered and stood aside to let Carde continue.

Can’t hug you but I’m sure you’ll understand, said a smiling Marion Hartz as Graham climbed the few steps to the large porch of the main lodge. He reached out his hand and she took it. The two shook hands formally but their fingers lingered.

Marion led Carde into the lobby of the lodge before saying anything else. The lobby always impressed Carde who had visited the hotel dozens of times as a local of the area. Its ceiling soared above the wooden plank flooring covered with expensive carpets. The furniture was heavy and old, made to last. A long, mahogany reception desk ran for along one side of the room.

There were at least 25 police officers in the lobby but the place still looked empty. Some of the officers were in uniform but most were in plainclothes. They were detectives and forensic experts. The man who seemed in charge was in uniform but it was laden with medals and rank bars. Obviously, this dressed-to-the-nines senior officer had been on the guest list for a visit of the royal couple.

That’s our commissioner, Marion whispered to Carde and they pulled up near the reception desk. The desk was manned by three staff members but they certainly weren’t booking in guests. They stood, looking intimidated by the throng of police men and women.

Carde spoke in a normal voice. Well, Sergeant, can you tell me what’s going on?

Marion pointed to chairs in a secluded corner of the lobby and they moved to that area. Marion raised her own voice and filled him in.

Prince Harry and Meghan, his wife, had intended to spend the coming weekend at the Beausoleil. They needed a break after a week of ceremonial duties in New York and Toronto during their current North American trip. Harry had addressed the United Nations a few days before while Meghan, nee Markle, had visited children’s shelters and, in Toronto, had spent time with her former neighbours and friends. Media had thronged to their events and there were members of the media corralled on the hotel property, guarded by OPP constables.

The reporters and photographers would be very unhappy when they found out the royals had been taken to a nearby helipad and choppered back to Toronto for safekeeping.

The royals, Marion explained, were being escorted into their large suite in the smaller lodge when three men had driven a van across the snow-covered lawn from the driveway. They had piled out of the van and opened fire with two rifles and a shotgun. The rounds came nowhere near the royal couple but an RCMP constable had been slightly wounded by a shotgun pellet.

The Mounties’ protective detail and members of the OPP had returned fire immediately and one of the men was hit. The other two turned tail and ran, leaving the van behind.

Thank god they didn’t use the van as a bomb, said Marion.

Thank Gitchi Manitou, they didn’t have machine guns, said Graham, summoning the Great Spirit of the local Ojibwe.

Marion smiled indulgently. You don’t have a drop of First Nations blood, she chided him.

No, but you have to love the name, Graham grinned back.

Anyway, the one we shot …

Graham held up a hand and frowned. ‘We shot’… you didn’t plug this guy, did you?

No such luck. Graham looked relieved.

He’s in hospital in Parry Sound. I have to go and see him in a little while but I hear he’s in surgery getting the bullets removed.

Why you? asked Graham

Sorry, I didn’t tell you. I’m sharing lead on the investigation with Detective Sergeant Calvin Lightstone. He’s already heading up here from H.Q. in Toronto.

Carde’s face paled visibly. You have to be kidding, he blurted out.

Graham’s response was understandable. During the previous incident where Russian agents had attacked Jackson’s cottage and tried to kill the man himself, Sergeant Lightstone had delayed involvement by his RCMP squad claiming the needed paperwork had not come through. His actions had jeopardized a carefully laid trap and put lives in risk.

Jackson Phillips had made his anger and disappointment known to senior Mounties and to Lightstone himself. Apparently, Jackson’s feelings were being disregarded. Instead of being relegated to filing documents in some backroom at RCMP Toronto, Lightstone was still being assigned to high profile and possibly complex investigations.

Marion studied Graham’s face before speaking again. Listen to me, Graham. I’m asking you not to complain, not to say one negative word about Cal. This is the way it will be and I’m going to live with it. You got me?

Graham sat back in his soft chair. Shit, Marion. That’s what this is. He paused and took another look into her blazing eyes. Hell. Okay, I’ll be good. Whatever I say wouldn’t matter anyway. But, if you want me to take someone out, he grinned ruefully, … just ask.

Marion grimaced but relented and said, You’ll be the first to know, my love.

Carde returned to business. What about the guys who got away. Who is looking for them?

Marion laughed. We have so many cops on their tail, there’s nobody left on patrol… There was a buzzing noise. She reached into her blazer and pulled out her customized phone. It’s in ‘walkie-talkie’ mode," she said. She gave her name and a code number to the caller. She listened for 30 seconds.

They got away. Crap. We have about a hundred people chasing them along with dogs and cats and donkeys for all I know. And they got away. Her face was a picture of dismay.

Time for some backwoods tracking, said Carde, brightening. Let’s blow this pop stand. Marion looked at her boyfriend with raised eyebrows. He grabbed her hand as he jumped to his feet. Risking the scrutiny of 25 other cops, Carde pulled Marion out of her chair and hurried across the lobby floor holding her hand. As they passed the RCMP commissioner and a group of acolytes, their hands separated but they were almost running by the time they reached the front porch of the main lodge.

Show me, Carde demanded in a take-charge voice. Marion pointed to the smaller lodge and the two headed in that direction. Damn. My rifle is still in the truck. He pointed at the far parking lot.

Marion reached down and under her pant leg. From an ankle holster, she pulled out a small revolver and handed it to Carde. At least you’ll have this. We don’t have time to get your gun and you don’t want to carry a long gun through this bunch. She was right; there were dozens of armed police still milling around the property. They might still shoot first if they saw a stranger carrying a rifle.

CHAPTER FOUR

Carde went, first, to the white van near the second lodge. A forensic team was working on the vehicle. Marion asked what they had found. A middle-aged man in white, plastic coveralls moved away from the cab of the van to talk to her and Carde.

"The driver was about five feet ten judging from where the seat and steering wheel were set.

We found a thread on the seat back that leads us to believe he was wearing a black balaclava or hoodie.

Balaclava, said Marion. We saw that much.

Apart from that, the man said, we have nothing.

Can I? Carde moved to the cab of the van as the forensic chief nodded. He peered in. He motioned toward the man and pointed to the floor of the van. ‘Can you?"

The man followed Carde’s pointing finger and leaned in. He took a set of tweezers out of his breast pocket and reached in. When the tweezers were withdrawn, they held a tiny clump of what looked like dirt with a pine needle sticking out of it.

Christ. I didn’t expect that. said Carde with wonder in his voice.

What? asked the forensics officer. The mud? He squinted at the dirt held in the tweezers.

No, not the mud. That’s a needle from a Pitch Pine. It’s rare. You see it in the Thousand Islands on the St. Lawrence but not in the Thirty Thousand Islands here. At least not often.

So, what does that mean? Marion looked at Graham in puzzlement.

It means I know where your fugitives might be. At least if they went back to wherever they had this van.

It was rented in Parry Sound three days ago, Marion said. We checked the plates first thing.

Okay, I know where they might have been, said Graham. And it sure as hell wasn’t Parry Sound."

Marion glanced at her wristwatch. Listen, Graham, I have to go up to Parry Sound hospital to see the wounded shooter. Tell my guys where to go and they’ll check it out.

Carde looked off to one side as he considered the situation. He turned back to Marion. I think I had better go along. There’s a couple of things I have to check. Then I can point them to the right place.

Marion doubted her boyfriend’s plans. Come on, Carde, you’re bullshitting. You want in on the action, don’t you?

Graham adopted a look of innocence. Me. I’m a coward. I’ll just point.

Marion looked again at her watch. No time. Just don’t get killed. Talk to that guy. Marion pointed to a man in plainclothes standing a few feet away. She yelled at him. Jesse. Do what this guy says. She tapped a hand on Graham’s chest. He knows where the shooters might be. Then she left at a trot.

Jesse Meldrake, a corporal with the Mounted Police, and Carde spent a minute or two getting acquainted and another minute agreeing on a plan. He and Graham would take Carde’s pickup truck to the location Carde wanted to explore. Four Mounties would follow in two cars but would hang back until they were called in by Jesse. In this way, the shooters might not be panicked into using their guns or going on the run again.

Graham had kept Marion’s revolver. The small gun was digging into his body where it was tucked into the back of his belt but he didn’t want to produce the weapon with Jesse sitting beside him in the truck. It wasn’t the time to be waving a gun around in front of the keyed-up cops.

Carde could see the police cars behind him. Thankfully, they didn’t have their emergency flashers on. He drove the pickup at a good speed along the gravel road along the shore. After ten minutes, he turned