Robert Ludlum's the Bourne Evolution - Brian Freeman Page 0,114
patch on the front of the hat read: Cut Bait.
“Guess we better haul ass and get you out there,” Teeling said.
*
BY the time Bourne saw the lush green island rising out of the water ahead of them, it was nearly sunset. The small piece of rock was shaped like a question mark, surrounded by miles of empty ocean. Through the binoculars, he saw a strip of white sand and dense foliage covering the shallow hillside. The roof and upper floor of a large estate barely cleared the tree line. A sleek yacht was docked at the pier that stretched from the beach into the deeper water.
Bourne handed the binoculars to Teeling. “Is that the boat?”
“That’s the one. Looks like they’ve unloaded some of those crates you were talking about. I don’t think we want to stay out here in plain sight for very long.”
“All right, let’s head around to the far side. Move in as close as you can, but don’t draw attention to yourself.”
“Not my first rodeo, Bourne,” Teeling replied with a wink as he revved the boat’s engine. The wind made his long gray hair fly. “Seems like you’re going up against an army. You want some backup in there?”
“I don’t want to mess up your retirement, Teeling.”
“Well, I appreciate that, although to be honest, there are days when I do miss the game. Tell you what, I’ll find a quiet spot on the horizon to drop a line. You need a round-trip ticket, you let me know, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Teeling navigated the catamaran westward until the beach disappeared from view, and then he steered closer, making the small island loom larger in front of them. The water got choppier, and the boat rose and fell like a bucking bronco with the waves. On this side, the island looked like a lonely patch of wilderness looming out of the ocean. Bourne saw trees crowded together and whitecaps breaking on the rocks at the shore. No one was visible.
As the catamaran neared to within a hundred yards of the island, Bourne slipped off the boat into the cool ocean water. He’d changed into a black neoprene wet suit, and he had his gun, knife, and shoes secured inside a waterproof pouch in the zippered jacket. He waited as the boat passed him and veered toward the open sea, and then he swam for the island with measured strokes. The late-evening shadows and cresting waves kept him out of sight. He reached the rocky beach within a few minutes, but he lingered off the coast before emerging from the water, in case a welcoming party was prepared to meet him.
However, the isolated beach seemed quiet. Too quiet.
He was sure that Miles Priest would maintain surveillance on any craft drawing near to the island, particularly if a meeting of the tech cabal was underway. He would have expected the catamaran to draw guards to the beach, even if the craft made no attempt to land. Instead, there was no one. He was alone.
Bourne shouldered his way out of the water. He retrieved his gun from inside the jacket and felt better with it in his hand. He looked up and down the thin, ragged coastline, which ended in a green wall of Caribbean pines, mahogany, and palm trees. Surf slapped on the shore, and a light, humid breeze blew across his wet skin. Birds chattered loudly over his head, as if agitated.
Something felt wrong.
Not far away, he saw a break in the trees that marked a trail leading inland. He spotted a flash of color near the path, and when he looked more closely, he recognized red stripes on the tough rubber frame of a Zodiac that had been dragged from the water and hidden inside the brush. He wasn’t the first visitor on the island. Bourne kept low as he jogged for the trees where the boat had been stowed. He thought about disabling it with his knife, but he decided to leave it intact, in case he needed to use the craft for his own escape.
He continued deeper into the trees, but he hadn’t gone twenty feet before he spotted a body sprawled across the sandy path.
He stopped, listening for other movement. He spun, slowly, with his gun arm outstretched. When he was convinced he was alone, he approached the body and saw a muscular black man in the beige uniform of a security guard. The man’s gun holster was empty, and his throat had been cut in a deep red