Chapter 7

The port was in utter chaos.

The accident the team leader had referred to had been every boat in the harbor suddenly racing towards the docks, crashing into the ones already tied up, snapping the long spars of the outriggers and making every slot on the pier an untenable tangle of splintered bamboo.

Nothing bigger than a rowboat would be leaving for hours.

I had to find a way to beat Collins to Manila, but Boracay didn't have an airstrip. It might be possible to land a plane on a stretch of road, but not one that could get here on time.

There was a way, but ... I did some math and grimaced. I had been isolating myself and they weren't going to be happy, I just hoped he could do it.

I pulled out my phone and dialed.

"McNair charter boats," said a pleasant, lilting voice, "this is Betsie, how may I help you?"

"Betsie, it's Hunter."

"Well, well, well," said a much less pleasant voice, "would you look at who isn't dead."

"I know it's been a while..."

"A few weeks is a while, months is forever." Her voice softened, slightly. "You know how much he drinks when he doesn't know if you're alive."

"He drinks just as much when he does."

"But he's nowhere near as maudlin about it."

"Look, Betsie, I need to talk to him."

"Fine. Just sayin' email is damn near effortless."

There was a click as she put me on hold.

Sam McNair was my mentor. He had been the poor bastard assigned to ensure I knew all the ins and outs of being a tracker before they let me out on my own. He was the best I'd ever known and would still be in the field if he hadn't lost a leg – no, it wasn't on the job. He'd been pinned between two cars when an old lady mistook the gas pedal for the brake in a WalMart parking lot.

Twenty years of chasing after some of the most dangerous men in the world and he was benched by a poor old woman who had no idea she shouldn't be driving – at least she took the hint.

He'd been medically retired and now ran a charter boat service off the northern tip of Malaysia. Shit, I'd still take him at my back over just about any other tracker in the service, peg leg and all.

"Hunter," said his gruff voice, "why ain't you dead?"

"Look, I'm sorry I haven't been in touch, but I need a ride – a fast one."

"Where?"

That was Mac, he knew I wouldn't be calling for a favor if it wasn't important. He'd take care of what needed taking care of, then, when it was all over, he'd finish chewing my ass.

"Boracay to Manila bay. I have to beat some bastard getting there the more traditional way."

There was slight muffling as he put his hand over the receiver.

"Betsie, get off your ass and tell the twins to get The Thunder ready to go, we push off as soon as it's gassed up."

I had my first ray of hope. The Thunder was a large, highly modified twin hulled rocket that broke pretty much every law there was, including, it sometimes seemed, the ones having to do with physics. Mac liked to push it to its limits, subsequently, it spent most of its time in drydock.

"It's gonna take almost three hours to get to you, maybe another two for the run to Manila, depending on conditions. How much lead time does your target have?"

"Maybe an hour or two, it's gonna be close ... depends on how long it takes him to catch a flight out of Caticlan."

"I'll give you a call on the sat phone when I'm close."

"The docks are a mess. I'll meet you outside the port on whatever I can find that will float."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

After saying good bye, I went in search of a boat I could use to meet up with Mac and I didn't have to go far to find a fisherman who was doing some minor maintenance on his small craft. The twenty foot version of the bigger ferries wasn't very fast. I think he had stuffed a small motorcycle engine in a more or less watertight compartment in the bowels of the boat, that's what most of them did. They claimed they were "marinised" but I had no idea what that meant – they still looked like small motorcycle engines.

The boats were, however, remarkably stable and allowed even these relatively tiny craft to take their crews of two or three far enough out to sea to set tangle nets in deep water. The water looked calm enough today, but even rough seas were no problem, it just slowed them down even more – and I didn't need to be very far out.

I 'chartered' his services for the next couple hours, spending about five thousand pesos of the money I had tried to give Anna. While I normally like to conduct business with average locals cleanly, I did use my talents to ensure he would agree to my overly generous offer, whether he wanted to go out this afternoon or not.

We went out past the shallow water, but stayed close enough that I could still hit a cell tower, and dropped a few hand lines to pass the time. Fishing is conducive to quiet contemplation, which is usually a good thing – but not when you have something to worry about. I felt like I wanted to jump out of the small craft and run across the ocean to Manila It was just under three hours when my phone rang – though it seemed like much longer.

"Almost there," he said without any greeting, "Where are you?"

"A few clicks south of the jetty-port, just into deep water."

"Call me when you hear me."

We hung up and about ten minutes later I could hear Thunder's engines and by the time I had made the call I was pretty sure I saw him.

I stood and waved and he confirmed he had me.

The long craft slowed quickly has he neared. Two tiny brown beauties scampered out of the enclosed cockpit to toss me a line. Moments later I was clambering aboard.

He was accompanied by May and Bell, Malaysian identical twins who moved to the bench seat at the rear of the cockpit, while I took a seat next to the pilot. Mac made offhand introductions as his attention was on getting the big boat moving the right direction as quickly as possible.

Once out on open water he pushed the throttle nearly wide open as he studied the various gauges.

"That should keep the engines from blowing up before we get there," said, his eyes focused on the stretch of ocean before us, "so, what's the emergency?"

"Had one get by me, Mac. He got to woman traveling with me and..."

"He killed her?" His eyes studied me closely.

"No ... he..." I couldn't look at him. "I..."

I couldn't say it. I didn't have to, Mac could see it all over my face.

"Jesus. What's this guy's story?"

"It's Collins."

"What?"

I told him what I knew and how the past few days had unfolded.

"I fucked up, Mac, I fucked up bad. Now he's after Elenita."

"Shit." He tapped a couple gauges and eased the throttle forward just a touch. "Maybe I can get a little more outta her."

I sat back to try and gather as much focus as I could. Mac had the radio playing at a low volume. He found it hard to do anything without rock and roll in the background.

Wrong Side of Heaven from Five Finger Death Punch began, and as Ivan Moody screamed out his angst, he told my story.

What have I become?

What have I done?

Shit, I'd known I was on the wrong side of heaven for a long time, but now I wasn't even sure I was still on the righteous side of hell.