Page 146 of The List

And armed.

“Nice try, Walker,” he yelled. “Amazing, I think we’re in the same place where your father met his maker too. How fitting.”

He switched off the running lights and the spotlight.

No sense being an easy target.

He heard the roar of an approaching boat.

JACKS SAW THE SKIFF ANDDEFLORIO DISAPPEAR INTO THE SHORELINE.He assumed both were in a creek. Barnard had earlier briefed him on the local geography. He remembered De Florio’s stern instruction to stay close. He also remembered the hole in Milo Richey’s head. So he pressed the boat’s throttle forward, increased his speed, and followed.

JON TURNED AND SAW THE DEEPVOF THE OUTBOARD SHOOTINGstraight for him. He realized screaming would be useless and cursed himself for not having more lights on. He reached for the spotlight and tried to twirl it around and warn Jacks of his presence.

No time.

BRENT WATCHED AS THE SECOND BOAT SLAMMED INTO THE STERN,apparently splintering the metal fuel tanks in De Florio’s boat. The detonation was instant and horrific, gas from the other boat shortly following in another equally huge explosion that sent a blinding wave of intense heat across his face. The two boats burst into red-orange flames, scorching fireballs mushrooming up into the pouring rain. A second later the flames caught hold on the adjacent foliage and added to the inferno. In the next second both boats disintegrated, along with their occupants, searing fire turning night into day.

He and Hank shielded their faces from the heat and the flaming shrapnel thrown out by the explosion. The repercussions continued for another minute. Then the rain slowly overtook the flames licking skyward.

“Holy crap,” Hank said.

Brent stared too.

And smiled.

Strange, considering he just witnessed the fiery death of two men. But one of them had been directly responsible for his father’s murder. Perhaps where he was standing right now had been the place De Florio stood that August morning nearly two years before. The place where he’d waited for his Priority to arrive. Like his father did every Friday morning, living his life as a file predicted.

Then he was “processed.”

Cold and impersonal.

Something to help the company’s bottom line, with not a singlethought given to any of the people left behind. Now the man who’d spearheaded that murderous effort was dead.

And Brent felt nothing but delight.

Five words suddenly sprang to mind.

They formed clearly in his brain and he reveled in their justice. De Florio was right a few minutes ago when he’d uttered,How fitting.

“That was for you, Dad.”