Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn)

  PRAISE FOR MATTHEW FITZSIMMONS

  PRAISE FOR DEBRIS LINE

  “Matthew FitzSimmons writes the kind of thrillers I love to read: smart, character-driven, and brimming with creative action sequences. If you’re not yet a fan of FitzSimmons’s Gibson Vaughn series, strap in, because you soon will be. Debris Line is tense, twisty, and always ten steps ahead. Don’t miss it.”

  —Chris Holm, Anthony Award–winning author of The Killing Kind

  “Matt FitzSimmons continues his amazing literary feat of creating an ensemble cast of troubled heroes and shooting them through page-turning thrillers with his latest, Debris Line, continuing the fast-paced adventures of Gibson Vaughn and his crew as they battle to stay alive and find some measure of justice in this unforgiving world. The Gibson Vaughn Series is on its way to being a classic franchise of thriller fiction, with a unique voice and an unusual approach that keep the stories as appealing as they are entertaining. Highly recommended.”

  —James Grady, author of Six Days of the Condor

  “Debris Line doesn’t waste a word or miss a twist. It’s always smart, always entertaining, and populated top to bottom with fascinating and unforgettable characters.”

  —Lou Berney, author of November Road

  PRAISE FOR COLD HARBOR

  “In FitzSimmons’s action-packed third Gibson Vaughn thriller . . . fans of deep, dark government conspiracies will keep turning the pages to see how it all turns out.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Cold Harbor interweaves two classic American tropes: the solitary prisoner, imprisoned for who knows what; and the American loner, determined to rectify the injustices perpetrated on him. It’s a page-turner that keeps the reader wondering—and looking forward to Gibson Vaughn #4.”

  —Criminal Element

  “There are so many layers and twists to Cold Harbor . . . FitzSimmons masterfully fits together the myriad pieces of Gibson Vaughn’s past like a high-quality Springbok puzzle.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  PRAISE FOR POISONFEATHER

  An Amazon Best Book of the Month: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense category

  “FitzSimmons’s complicated hero leaps off the page with intensity and good intentions, while a byzantine plot hums along, ensnaring characters into a tightening web of greed, betrayal, and violent death.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[FitzSimmons] has knocked it out of the park, as they say. The characters’ layers are being peeled back further and further, allowing readers to really root for the good guys! FitzSimmons has put together a great plot that doesn’t let you rest for even a minute.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  PRAISE FOR THE SHORT DROP

  “. . . FitzSimmons has come up with a doozy of a sociopath.”

  —Washington Post

  “This live-wire debut begins with a promising lead in the long-ago disappearance of the vice president’s daughter, then doubles down with tangled conspiracies, duplicitous politicians, and a disgraced hacker hankering for redemption . . . Hang on and enjoy the ride.”

  —People

  “Writing with swift efficiency, FitzSimmons shows why the stakes are high, the heroes suitably tarnished, and the bad guys a pleasure to foil . . .”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “With a complex plot, layered on top of unexpected emotional depth, The Short Drop is a wonderful surprise on every level . . . This is much more than a solid debut, it’s proof that FitzSimmons has what it takes . . .”

  —Amazon.com, An Amazon Best Book of December 2015

  “Beyond exceptional. Matthew FitzSimmons is the real deal.”

  —Andrew Peterson, author of the bestselling Nathan McBride series

  “The Short Drop is an adrenaline-fueled thriller that has it all—political intrigue, murder, and suspense. Matthew FitzSimmons weaves a clever plot and deftly leads the reader on a rapid ride to an explosive end.”

  —Robert Dugoni, bestselling author of My Sister’s Grave

  ALSO BY MATTHEW FITZSIMMONS

  The Short Drop

  Poisonfeather

  Cold Harbor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Planetarium Station Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503951648 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503951642 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781503901124 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1503901122 (paperback)

  Cover design by Rex Bonomelli

  First edition

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  MAP

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When building sandcastles on the beach, we can ignore the waves but should watch the tide.

  —Edsger W. Dijkstra, The Tide, Not the Waves

  CHAPTER ONE

  João Luna steered the Alexandria south and west into open waters. At his back, the towns of the Algarve that lit the horizon dimmed and faded from view as the trawler churned its way out into the Atlantic. The Alexandria had been in his family for thirty years. A modest boat—she wouldn’t win any beauty contests—but solidly built and reliable. Twelve meters from bow to stern with a crew of five. João had grown up on board, fishing the sardines that swam in immense schools along the coast of Portugal. At night, the sardines rose to the surface to feed on plankton, and ordinarily, the crew would have already begun to prepare the nets. But not tonight. Tonight, the crew of the Alexandria had another job ahead of them.

  The ocean was unusually calm. Hard to imagine a storm was on the way. But the maritime forecast promised gale-force winds and heavy rains in a few hours. I
t wasn’t the season for such weather, but the seasons no longer meant what they once had. João knew better than to flout the forecast. He meant to be done and on the way home before the worst of it hit. In stories, the sea often mirrored the emotions of sailors. João knew that was only the poetic license of writers who had never worked a day on the water. The ocean didn’t give a good goddamn for the concerns of men like him.

  The accursed device beeped. The black box with its sleek modern contours looked out of place on the old wooden console. João glared at it but adjusted course, keeping the blinking red dot in the screen’s crosshairs. The device filled him with an unfamiliar dread. He would have thrown it into the ocean had he dared. Had his father not explained why that was impossible.

  The device beeped again. They had to be close now.

  João had dreamed of captaining the Alexandria since he was a young boy. Since that first night when his father took him out with the crew. He couldn’t have been more than seven. His father stood him on a crate so João could take the wheel. Feeling the hum of the engine, the camaraderie among the crew, all other ambitions had died in him that night. School became a meaningless torture. None of its lessons applied to fishing, not even the vocational training that his father insisted upon. All that had ever made sense to João was the ocean, and all the education he would ever need came from his father and the men who crewed the Alexandria.

  The way he’d imagined his life unfolding, he would work beside his father on the Alexandria. Perhaps meet a woman, court her as best he knew how, and marry. A small home. A son or daughter to follow in his footsteps. Years from now, his father would retire, and João would carry on in his place. It would have been a good life. The diagnosis had changed all that.

  It was still hard to accept, because his father looked as healthy as ever. The doctor warned, however, that cold nights on the deck of a fishing trawler would accelerate his decline. Always a decisive man who kept his own counsel, João’s father had retired suddenly and without fanfare. João had learned the news over a glass of port. He’d never cared for the taste but, sensing the importance of the moment, drank it seriously.

  I’m finished, his father had said simply. You are captain now.

  I’m not ready.

  Perhaps not, but life is ready for you.

  And like that, at nineteen, João found himself the captain of the Alexandria. His life’s ambition realized, and he didn’t want it. Not under these circumstances. But he’d done as his father asked and become captain. That had been six weeks ago. There had never been any question of the crew following him. João had worked on the Alexandria for more than a decade and knew every inch of her. Things had gone on as they always had. He had simply done what his father had always done. Until yesterday morning.

  His father had met him unannounced on the docks at Olhão, where the Alexandria berthed. It had given João a bad feeling. He’d feared that his father’s health had taken a turn for the worse. They had walked to their favored café at the old fish market. That was where his father had told him about the debt.

  Seven years earlier, the family had almost lost everything. Poor hauls, lower market prices, and unforeseen expenses had pushed his father to the brink of bankruptcy. Then the engine of the Alexandria had failed. João remembered it well. His father had been as withdrawn and somber as João had ever seen him. What João didn’t know was that Baltasar Alves had come to his father with a proposition: he would finance the overhaul of the Alexandria and replace the engine. The trawler would remain in João’s family, but four nights a year she would belong to Baltasar Alves, their new patron. The Alexandria and its captain.

  Tonight was one of those nights, and his father had come to the docks that morning to pass the responsibility on to his son. And to entrust him with the black box that was charting the Alexandria’s course. At first, João had been angry at his father for getting them involved with a man like Baltasar Alves, angry that his father had concealed the truth all these years. But then João saw shame in his father’s face and fell silent. His father was an honorable man; João saw he had only done what had to be done to take care of his family. How could João do any less? He took the device and asked what needed to be done.

  On the console, the device began beeping incessantly. João cut the engines and scanned the ocean. To starboard, a blue light strobed in the darkness. He brought the Alexandria alongside, and the crew used hooked poles to bring the mysterious packages onboard. Each was perhaps two meters wide, two meters tall, four meters long, and bound in heavy plastic—impossible to tell what might be inside. João was curious to open one and find out, but his father had warned him above all else never to tamper with Baltasar Alves’s cargo.

  Instead, João ordered the crew to stow the packages in the hold. He wondered how many other boat captains were working for Alves this night. He hoped not many. If the stories were true, then once a man was in Baltasar Alves’s debt, he never left it. João pushed the thought aside and went to help the crew. It would raise suspicions with the maritime police if they returned to Olhão entirely empty-handed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The streets were all but deserted at this hour. Like the pale, peaceful face of an old drunk sleeping off a night of poor choices. After the night’s last tourists had staggered home from the nightclubs but before the morning’s first tourists stumbled out of bed to stake claim to a rectangle of sand. Before the sun climbed to its perch in the cloudless Mediterranean sky. When the street cleaners emerged to sweep up the broken glass and wash away the blood and the vomit and the urine. A dull reset before the good times rolled again.

  Gibson Vaughn’s favorite time of day.

  The morning before the morning. Alone with his thoughts.

  Mercifully, he never remembered his dreams—hard memories of home—but he felt them in his body when he woke. Sore muscles and knots in his back like cigar burns. By six a.m., when he could no longer pretend that he might doze off again, he took a long run down to the beach. When he’d first arrived in Portugal, Jenn Charles would join him. They’d run side by side, talking and shooting the shit. That had tapered off after a few weeks, and they hadn’t run together in months. He missed her company.

  For the last six months, home had been a small house on the outskirts of Albufeira, a beach-resort town in the Algarve region of Portugal. Jenn had the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The smallest of the three. Gibson went by it quietly, carrying his shoes. There was no need. Her door was open, bed unslept in. Probably out with her boyfriend, or whatever it was they called each other. She wasn’t saying, and Gibson wasn’t about to ask.

  Dan Hendricks’s bedroom door was closed, but Gibson didn’t bother to knock. Hendricks had settled into a comfortable routine and wouldn’t be up before noon. Just in time for his afternoon siesta. Besides, Hendricks took a dim view of running unless he was being shot at.

  The house was owned by an old associate of George Abe’s named Baltasar Alves—the criminal boss who ran things in the Algarve. He owed George a debt. The exact nature of the debt, Gibson didn’t know, but whatever it was had been enough for Alves to grant them all sanctuary. No small thing, given they’d fled the United States under a cloud. Gibson and Jenn were both wanted by the FBI in connection with the events at Dulles International Airport. And as far as they knew, Titus Eskridge, the head of the private military contractor Cold Harbor, was still out there with a score to settle. So far there hadn’t been any strings attached to Alves’s hospitality, but Gibson was wary of the benevolence of criminals. However, the problem with not having any options was that it didn’t give you an option.

  Out on the front steps, Gibson laced up his shoes by the light of a streetlamp. Setting off at an easy jog, he picked up his pace quickly. He couldn’t help himself. It had taken months to rebuild his stamina, and it felt good to be able to push himself and for his body to respond. The CIA had held him for eighteen months in a windowless cell. It had taken its toll on his mind as well as his b
ody, and he was only now beginning to feel like his old self.

  He charted a winding route through town. Past the traditional white homes capped by orange clay-tile roofs. Thirty years ago, Albufeira had been a sleepy Portuguese fishing town. Legend had it that Paul McCartney had written the lyrics for “Yesterday” while on vacation here in 1965. Even then, it was the perfect place to hide out when the world was looking for you. Gibson could still see the outline of that way of life beneath the garish bars, restaurants, and nightclubs that had built up like plaque on porcelain teeth. As best as Gibson could tell, Portugal and Spain now served as the Florida of Europe. Northern Europeans owned vacation homes here, and each year millions of tourists flocked south to the Algarve region to enjoy their holidays in the sun.

  The crush of tourists had made hiding in plain sight that much easier. August was high season, and Albufeira was currently overrun with sunburned visitors from Germany, France, Holland, and the British Isles. The menus were printed in languages other than Portuguese, and everyone who worked in the tourist trade spoke some English. Irish pubs served a traditional breakfast while musicians strummed guitars and sang “Molly Malone.” English pubs served pints of Carling and Strongbow and advertised Premier League matches on curbside chalkboards. The perfect vacation for people who wanted to travel without all the unpleasantness of experiencing anything new.

  Gibson understood the appeal of southern Portugal. He’d spent time at Pendleton and knew that San Diego liked to boast about its perfect weather. It had nothing on southern Portugal. Up until last night’s storm, it had rained only once since June. There was hardly ever even a wisp of a cloud in the sky. It was a seductive way of life. After six months, they’d all gotten comfortable here. Maybe too comfortable. Gibson understood that. It had been a difficult few years for all of them. The search for Suzanne Lombard had extracted a heavy price, and for two years they’d all absorbed the repercussions.

  They had deserved the rest. Needed it. They were beat up—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Still, Gibson couldn’t help but fret. There was a point after which rest turned to rust. Instincts honed over years lost their edge. It was okay to pretend they were civilians for a while, so long as they knew that, in the end, they weren’t. They were fugitives. How long could they afford to stick their heads in the sand? They were all but penniless and needed work. They needed a plan for the day when Baltasar Alves decided his debt was paid. But whenever Gibson raised the subject, Jenn shut him down. Somewhere along the line he’d become the nagging killjoy putting a damper on the endless party. He didn’t relish the role, but sooner or later the universe would present them with the bill. They would need a way to pay.