Chapter 11

On another part of the island, another small luxury craft was pulling into the bay. The sleek white lines of the cruiser looked at home amongst the white sand and palm fringes of the small bay and the crew of two tried to ignore their passengers who were deep in conversation on the deck.

Mr Lake/O'Malley was looking down at an object on the deck of the boat. Lovingly he picked it up and held the blade to the light so that the evening sun reflected off of the silver, making lights dance over the deck of the boat. He gently touched the edge of the blade with his thumb feeling the metal honed to perfection. This was a blade to be proud of and he slipped it back into the sheath and handed it to Hutch/Hunt.

'A present from the guys at station 33. Phil told me to tell you "go for it".'

Hunt looked up, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun. 'Phil?'

'I'm sorry. It's so good to see you again I keep forgetting that you don't have all your memories. Phil was your number 3 on the engine. He felt it real hard when your sister was killed.'

'Well tell …. Phil….that I'll not let him down. Or my sister. I need to do this and I can't thank you enough for setting this up.'

Lake/O'Malley shrugged. 'It's the least I can do. My friend who owns the island says it's your for the duration. His only stipulation was that there be no guns. He didn't want the noise of gunshots attracting the cops to the place.'

The blond man nodded and stood, perfectly balanced on the rocking boat. Wearing black cut off shorts and a green shirt open at the front he showed the fading bruises across his abdomen as he reached up and slipped his arms through the knife sheath. The blade was about four inches longer than legal, making it about eight inches in all and the sheath fit down the centre of his spine perfectly, the leather straps fitting under his arms. Carefully Hunt adjusted the straps, wriggled his shoulders to get the feel of the thing and reached up and behind him to grab the hilt of the blade. He pulled it clear of the sheath and sliced it down through the air. It felt good and he grunted.

'I think I can handle not having a gun.'

Lake/O'Malley smiled back. 'That's my boy. You're a real fuckin' boy scout! Now all you need is to go and find Quade. Make it count Ray. Make every second count huh?'

'I wanna put my hand around his throat and watch his eyes pop. I wanna hear him beg me for mercy and then I want him to beg some more. I need to do this…..for my sister and for my sanity.'

Lake/O'Malley stood up and shook the other man's hand. 'Then get to it. There aint no time like the present and from what my friend said, Quade is likely to be here already. Just be careful huh? I lost ya once man. I don't wanna go back and explain to the guys again. Besides I couldn't afford another memorial service.'

'You had a memorial service? For me?'

'No for Mickey Mouse! Course for you, ya moron' Lake/O'Malley said grinning and taking no account of his own advice to his other men. In a second Hunt's bonhomie had broken and the words sliced into him. No-one called Ray Hunt a moron and lived.

Without thinking about his actions, Hunt drove Lake/O'Malley to the deck of the boat, straddling the man and holding the blade of the huge knife to Lake's throat.

'Mind your fuckin' language' Hunt snarled. His face registered anger and yet his eyes showed nothing but calm. It was the icy, cold, empty calm that showed when the owner of the body had gone walkabout. No-one was home behind those eyes except vengeance and anger – a deadly combination.

Lake/O'Malley was taken off guard and was suddenly looking up into the eyes of the monster he'd helped to create. He licked dry lips and tried to force them into a comforting smile but instead they quivered in fear. 'Hey bro. It's me. It's your Pal. Don't take this out on me, there's a fuckin' rapist on that island that deserves your attention. Go take it out on him huh? Ray? Are you listening to me?'

Slowly the voice penetrated the blond's thoughts and he took the flat blade of the knife away from the smaller man's throat. It had felt so good and so right. It had felt like he held Lake/O'Malley's life in his hands and he had the power to decide whether his adversary lived or died. The feeling both empowered hunt and at the same time terrified him. He was certain, to the core of his being that he'd never had those feelings before and they scared him despite the anger flowing through his veins. Like a marionette drawn up by strings Hunt got up off his knees and allowed Lake/O'Malley to get up too. Hunt neither apologised nor looked at the other man, but whether that was from anger or something else, Hunt didn't want to analyse. Instead, he sheathed the knife, grabbed a bag he'd prepared and stepped off the boat and onto the jetty.

'Tell the boys I'll be back at the station when the jobs done' Hunt said as he scanned the horizon of the island.

'Sure thing. We'll come back to the jetty each evening at 6. We'll wait half an hour and then go, with or without you. Clear?'

Hunt shrugged. 'Clear.' Without a backwards glance, the blond shouldered his bag, settled the sheath against his spine and walked away from the small wooden jetty towards the tree lined head of the beach.

It was growing dark as he walked and the lengthening shadows accentuated the dips and hollows in the sand. Cicadas pierced the evening air with their harsh calls and the evening breeze whispered through the palm fronds and set up competition with the waves sighing against the shore. On a different night than this Hunt felt he would have enjoyed the peace and solitude of the island. Something deep down inside him, something he hadn't acknowledged whilst he'd been in the hospital told him that in his previous life he'd enjoyed the outdoors. Maybe that made sense. O'Malley said he came from Seattle – from the coast. Did that mean he was naturally on outdoors kind of person?

Whatever it did mean, Hunt didn't need to be an Eagle Scout to know that first order of business would be to find a shelter and get some sleep. Doc Isaac had been right when he'd told Hunt that his body hadn't finished healing yet; that really he shouldn't be doing anything like this until he'd had at least another two weeks of recovery. Now Hunt's body ached. His ribs felt as though they'd healed closed around his lungs so that he breathed heavily as he walked through the powder soft sand. The hours on the treadmill in the gym hadn't readied him for this and he needed to rest. Today had been a big day and if he was going to survive and get back to his former life, he was going to need to rest up.

As the blond man pushed on further into the interior of the island, his eyes cast about him. The place was rich in palm trees and one of those tall trees had recently fallen, it's trunk now at a drunken angle close to the ground.

Hunt checked it for critters and found none. Without analysing his actions, he set to ripping the palm fronds from the top of the tree and then he placed them along the trunk making a rudimentary shelter for himself. It took a good hour of work to create an area big enough for him to lie under, and another half an hour to gather enough dried leaves to put down over the sand as a sleeping platform. Hot, tired and in pain, Hunt made one final effort to gather dry kindling, took a flint and steel from a small box in his bag and lit a small fire in front of the shelter. With warmth and a bed beneath him, the blond sat for a while in the dark, looking deep into the flames of the fire. It felt right to be out here. It felt right to be looking for the guy who's raped his sister. It even felt right that he was bringing justice to the scenario but even as Hunt stared into the flickering fire, a tiny doubt crept up on him. Justice was one thing, but killing?

The blond man reached into his bag and brought out a power bar and a small metal box that Isaac had given him. The doctor had warned him he'd be stiff and sore and had said he'd prepared a shot of something to help him through that first night. Now Hunt stared at the needle and shivered. He hated them; hated needles and shots and had no idea where that feeling came from. For a long moment he wondered whether just to ignore the meds. Sure, he felt sore and aching, but that was to be expected, right? But would he be in good enough shape to hunt Quade tomorrow? That was the sixty four million dollar question. That's what all this was about and he had only one chance. Without further thought, Hunt bared his upper arm, took the top off the syringe with his teeth and plunged the needle into his muscle, driving the plunger home with a sigh. He immediately felt better. Whatever was in the shot flowed though his veins like molton metal. He felt tired but once again his resolve had hardened and he could feel the righteous anger surging towards the surface again.

He was going to do this. He was going to find Quade and make him pay….and he may just stretch out the experience and have a little fun at the slimy rapists expense first.

With those thoughts warming him, Hunt settled down under his palm frond shelter. He took off the spine sheath and placed the knife where he could easily reach it. He pillowed his head on the bag he carried, closed his eyes and within seconds sleep overcame him and he gave his body over to relaxation and dreams.

On the other side of the island, Quade stumbled ashore and sank to his knees on the white sandy beach. He'd been swimming for over an hour and he was exhausted, cold and wracked with pains in his chest. Slowly he tried to take deep breaths but the pains in the fourth rib doubled him over and he vomited sea water onto the sand in front of him before crawling away further up the beach and into the shelter of the trees.

It had been a difficult swim. There was a rip tide and he'd swum against it for almost an hour without getting very far at all. Eventually he saw the breakers across the small reef ahead of him and made another determined effort to swim for the shore.

Quade had no idea that the coral reef was so close to the surface that as he swam over it the coral scraped at his chest and arms. Blood flowed and the sea water bit at his cuts but the pain was what spurred him on. With every stroke of his leaden arms he imagined ploughing his fist into Ray Hunt's face. The thought of revenge for his poor dead baby brother drove the curly haired man on and finally, having crossed the reef, he allowed the smaller waves to push him into the beach.

Those last few yards he swam half heartedly. The strength he'd garnered in the gym all those hours ago had been leached away by the journey to the island and now all he wanted was to lie down somewhere that didn't rock, close his eyes, and sleep.

With his stomach feeling raw and with his arms and legs almost too tired to answer his commands, Quade reached for small metal box Isaac had given him. He recalled the words the doctor had given him before he'd set off from the hospital that morning.

'Take this tonight Ethan. It's the last of your vitamin shots and I added some pain killer too. You're going to need all your strength when you find your target so just take the shot before you sleep.'

'I'm no medic. I can't give myself a shot Doc.'

'Just aim for the muscle in your upper arm. It's easy. Push the needle in draw the plunger back and so long as there's no blood entering the barrel you're clear to inject.'

Quade did just that. He pushed the needle into his arm with a hiss, pulled back and then depressed the plunger all the way. Whatever was in the shot was powerful. Immediately he felt better, stronger, more powerful and his resolve returned full force.

The dark haired man struggled to his feet, walked a few yards into the trees, found a hollow in the sand and sank down into it. He glanced around making sure he wouldn't be spotted too easily and then, with his curly head pillowed in the crook of his arm and his left hand resting on the hilt of one of the knives, Ethan Quade closed his eyes and allowed sleep to wash over him in a great, dark tide.