Chapter Seventy-One

NICK CRAWLED. THE sound of the phone dinging became more distant, but never slowed, a one-note piano tune stuttering through the night. In time he stopped and gripped his shattered knee, bit down against the pain for long moments as Breecher stood by silently, only part of her silhouette visible against the glowing ocean. He could hear the waves now. Tiny, three- or four-inch-high slaps of white foam illuminated in the moonlight. He stopped in sight of the tree.

He’d picked it because it stood alone. A young pine with a wide base, separated from its brethren by ten feet on all sides. He liked that about it. That it didn’t fit in. He reached out, pointed, and lay his tired head on the ground.

“It’s there,” Nick said. “At the base, on this side. It’s not deep.”

Breecher paused, examined the tree at the edge of the forest, its roots half in and half out of the pale sand.

“When I dig it up, am I gonna need some other kind of goddamn password or code to open it?” she barked. Nick gave a little laugh despite the agony he was in.

“I guess you’ll find out,” he said.

She went to the tree, dropped to her knees, and started digging with her hands. When Nick tried to roll himself onto his side to take the weight off his leg, she popped up, grabbing the gun and training it on him.

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Stay back. Well back.”

“I will.” He nodded. “I will.”

He listened to her fingers digging in the sandy soil. The rustling of the duffel bag as she prized it from the grip of the earth.

Nick heard the zipper jangle and whizz as she pulled it.

He tucked his head beneath his arm and felt the explosion thump through the ground beneath him.