Owen Able : Assassin

Chapter 1

A white Jeep Wrangler rolled along the stretch of gray beach at Gordon’s Bay. Low tide unveiled a hidden world—tide pools teeming with tiny marine creatures between clusters of rock rising from the depths. Deep tire tracks followed the Jeep onto damp sand where the tide had retreated an hour earlier, until it rolled to a slow halt a few meters from the water’s edge. Judge Gray opened the door and stepped onto the sand: beige khaki pants tucked into knee-high black rubber boots, a checkered flannel shirt, and a beige canvas vest and hat. Age spots on his brow and cheeks, silvery hair, and the deep lines in his face suggested a man well past retirement.

It was a stormy winter afternoon, thick clouds smothering the last rays of the sun. Strong gusts kicked up dry sand, layering pale ripples over the darker, damp stretch below. The beach lay bare with no soul in sight. Why would anyone be on the beach in winter if not a tourist or someone finding comfort in discomfort?

Judge Gray held onto his hat, fighting against the wind that threatened to pluck it from his head. Head down, leaning forward against the wind, he closed the car door, then tightened the fisherman’s hat strap under his chin. A long fishing pole was fixed to the roof rack—a relic no one would use anymore.

When it’s low tide and the water’s murky and foaming with anger, that’s when you cast your line. That’s when the fish bite. His father’s voice rang in his head.

Judge Gray reached up, unclipped the rubber straps, and freed the rod from its hooks—still in pristine condition. He moved to the rear, rod in hand, opened the hatch, and pulled out his tackle box. He set it on the sand, closed the hatch, then picked it up again and headed toward a cluster of rocks. He moved with care across the uneven terrain, wading deeper until he found the right spot. Perched on a flat rock, Judge Gray fixed his gaze on the horizon. Wind hurled cold spray against his face with every gust. The ocean rumbled and growled. He sat in wordless awe, feeling its power and the salt on his lips.

What would food be without salt? he thought.

“When you boil potatoes, make sure the water in the pot tastes like the ocean,” his mother used to say.

He cracked open a few volcano barnacles in a tide pool behind him, pried the meat free, and worked it onto the hook at the end of his line. Judge Gray cast out—far and deep. The reel hissed as the line cut through the wind, then the sound fell away. A heartbeat later, the lead struck water. He thumbed the catch, stopping the spool, and settled back onto his perch. He pulled a flask of Old Brown Sherry from his vest pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a swig.

His eyes narrowed. “Aah,” he growled, his face creasing. He ran his eyes over the heaving surface.

Peace… Beauty.

The water level rose with every passing minute, its dark line creeping higher up the rock beneath him.

He checked the time on his wrist and peered over his shoulder.

Tide’s coming in. Time to grab a snack.

* * *

Judge Gray reached his car—tackle box and fishing rod in hand. The once-damp sand lay white and dry where he had parked the Jeep. He set the rod back onto the roof hooks and stepped around to the rear. As he opened the hatch, an arm curled around his neck from behind, the grip crushing.

His eyes bulged—his mouth dragging at air. The tackle box slipped from his hand, landing with a dull thud in the sand beside his feet. He squirmed and clawed at the arm around his neck, but the grip held. The world turned dark as he slipped into unconsciousness. Judge Gray’s body went limp in rubber-clad arms. A man in a black wetsuit laid Judge Gray down on the sand before rolling him onto his back beneath the Jeep. From a black canvas bag strapped around his waist, the man removed a syringe and needle. He grabbed Judge Gray’s right thumb and injected a clear liquid into the flesh beneath his thumbnail.

* * *

Time passed. The tide came in fast. Water washed over the Jeep’s tires, wheels sinking into the wet sand.

Judge Gray’s eyes fluttered open—confusion setting in. He scanned his surroundings. Nothing but darkness, wet and cold—his hearing damped by the pressure around his ears. Water washed over his body and lapped against his chin. He tried to move—limbs glued to the wet sand. Panic set in as he understood he lay pinned beneath the undercarriage. He thrashed his head from side to side, then ripped it free from the wet sand. His forehead slammed into the undercarriage with a thud. Out of options, he screamed as the Jeep sank lower; the water rising.

Judge Gray’s screams became a gargle as the water covered his mouth and nose.

Then silence.