The Manuscript Read Free

room, where a pregnant woman sat on the sofa reading a magazine by the soft amber light of a table lamp. In the office at the far end of the house, a man’s head shook almost imperceptibly through the partially-closed blinds as he pored over a stack of paperwork atop a cherry-wood desk. The walls were decorated with nautical equipment – an ancient sextant, a barometer, several shark jaws, a rusted harpoon tip. The seated figure was absorbed in his task, so he didn’t register the movement a few yards outside the window.
    Sarasota, Florida was a peaceful retirement community, largely inhabited by those life had rewarded with reasonable prosperity and a love of the water. Crime was predominately limited to vacant home burglaries and the occasional stolen car. The well-heeled paid a premium to live along the bay; the exclusive waterfront neighborhoods were considered safe and inviting.
     
    The muffled report of a silenced rifle caused a flock of seabirds to alight from the marsh grass at the water’s edge, as two of the small window panes in the office shattered and the man’s head exploded in a spray of bloody emulsion. The pregnant woman looked up from her reading and called the man’s name over the dusky, soulful singing. Outside, the black-clad assassin hastily jogged in a crouch back to the dock and the waiting inflatable.
    By the time screaming shattered the night’s tranquility, the darkened shape of the Zodiac was thirty yards from shore, making its way to a sleek cigarette boat a quarter mile away. When the trio was alongside the high speed cruiser, the passengers climbed aboard. The pilot of the dinghy methodically slashed its vinyl hull with a razor-sharp combat knife. The captain nodded to the two new arrivals, gesturing with his head at a pile of heavy anchor chain. The men quickly passed it over the side, and within moments, five hundred pounds of rusting metal sat in the center portion of the sinking tender while it plunged to the muddy bottom of the channel.
    The captain eased the throttles forward, and a deep burble emanated from the custom-designed exhausts of the blacked-out Scarab as the low profile hull slowly glided north towards Tampa. Sirens echoed over the water as the cruiser distanced itself from the rendezvous point; within a few minutes, it tied up at a private residence on the far shore and the engines fell silent. The three men quickly disembarked and the leader gave a curt wave to the captain, who, after checking the dock ties to ensure they were secure, popped a cold beer and cast a fishing line into the coal-black water.
     
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    Six men sat in the smoky room, the piles of chips moving back and forth between them as cards were dealt and hands were won and lost. Cigars lay smouldering in glass ashtrays next to half-drunk beers and cloudy shot glasses. The chatter was convivial, punctuated by an occasional exclamation of triumph or dismay, or a hand slapping the table to underscore the fickle nature of Lady Luck’s charms. The men interacted easily, familiarity bred from years of attending the weekly ritual, playing the odds and testing their skill against one another. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, the wicker blades more for token ventilation. The wall mounted air conditioning unit hummed as it battled to keep the heat at bay.
    The game had been underway for four hours and a few of the participants were tiring; the combination of alcohol and the hour was catching up with them. A whippet-thin man with a goatee and carefully primped dyed brown hair stubbed out his cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air as he pushed back his chair. The remaining men protested as he waved them off – for this week, at least, he was done. He weaved unsteadily to the exit and opened the door to a blast of loud Salsa music intruding from the rowdy depths of the attached nightclub. Bodies moved together in a seductive rhythm on the dance floor as he brushed past the long bar. The