All Through the Night Read Free

felt a thing. Just bounced up and bam and gone.
    When he jerked awake, the dream lingered so strong it was almost like he had left reality behind and entered the real dream.
    Wayne rolled from his mattress. The floor smelled of raw wood and cleanser. He padded into the bathroom, the project he had planned to start that morning. Then he dressed and entered the kitchen and boiled water in a battered pot. He preferred his coffee black, but the instant was so bitter he added milk to smooth out the bite. He sat on his front porch and pretended to study the night. Doing what every addict did when coming off a dry spell. Drawing out the exquisite agony, pretending he had the strength to resist.
    He finished his coffee and set the cup aside. He rose and stretched and looked around. Dawn was still at least a couple of hours away. He saw nothing but night. All the nearby houses were black. A pair of streetlights flickered off to his right, overlooking the parking lot fronting the community center. His truck was parked between them. Waiting. Beckoning.
    Wayne reentered his house and went to the closet in his bedroom. He pried out the three central floorboards and reached down inside the crawl space. Pulled out the black canvas bag. It clanked softly as he settled it on the closet floor. He unzipped it and used his flashlight to sort through the contents. Sniper rifle, night scope, trio of serious blades, plastic explosive and a cluster of detonators, silenced assassin’s pistol, lock picking set, wiretap system.
    All the gear required for a high old time.
    He pulled out the one item he was searching for. Rezipped the bag and settled it back in the hideaway. Fit the boards into place.
    Wayne jogged to the truck, gunned the motor, and headed out.
    Off to get himself a fix.

    Wayne hammered his way across the entire Florida peninsula. A hundred and sixty-three miles in two hours and a trace. Racing the dawn and winning. Almost regretting the absence of a cop to pull him over and keep him from his appointment with destiny.
    Lantern Island was an enclave for the super rich located just south of Naples. Owning a property there was a declaration of financial superiority. A private bridge exactly one hundred and sixty-seven feet long separated the resort from reality. Even at a quarter past dawn the guardhouse was manned and the gates electronically locked. Wayne did not need to check this out. He knew from long experience.
    He parked behind the strip mall a quarter mile away, on the highway linking the island to all the hourly wage peons who kept their myth neat and hedges trimmed. He jogged back to the bridge, slipped down the edge to the concrete embankment and did the hand-over-hand to the island. The pattern so familiar he could have done it in his sleep.
    He ran the cobblestone path rimming the golf course, flitting from palm tree to hedge to live oak. Never in the clear for very long, and even if he was, the homeowners would just assume he was another health nut out for his morning dose. Which, truth be known, was exactly the case.
    Lantern Island’s residential compound had been one of the first of its kind, established back in the late forties when lawns were still measured in acreage instead of inches. The island was shaped like an elongated T, with the guard station at the base. The golf course formed the central aisle. All the residences were walled and ornate, and all fronted the water.
    Wayne arrived at his destination and climbed a live oak so massive it probably pre-dated Florida’s first white settlers. The middle branches formed a protective cover so that from his top perch he could not be spied by any passing security guards. He settled into place and waited.
    An hour passed. Two. He checked his watch. A quarter past eight and the house was still silent. Maybe they had gone off somewhere. But that broke the pattern. The guy lived for his work and his family. And after more than two years of surveillance, Wayne knew