by Matt Lincoln
Chapter 31
Though I couldn’t see it yet, I could smell the scorched results of Parker and Bell’s successful detonation as I dropped feet-first from the side of the cargo ship. With both vessels crippled and the big ship secured, the only thing I needed to complete my royal flush of satisfaction was Cobra Jon in custody.
Once I was in the water and oriented toward the black runner, I made out a faint bubble of light in the distance moving away from me. So he had a waterproof flashlight like his divers, and I could pretty much guarantee his face mask had night vision too. He wouldn’t have risked his precious person on a blind swim.
I torpedoed toward the light, maintaining a streamlined body position as I powered through the water with strong dolphin kicks. Though I didn’t have a flashlight on me, I did have calcium flares that would operate underwater. For the moment, however, I didn’t need them.
As long as I kept a line of sight on the light blob that was Cobra Jon, I’d be able to avoid giving away my position with a flare. I had an advantage in that he didn’t know I was following him, and I wanted to keep it that way.
My body strained, flagging toward exhaustion as I pushed hard to increase my speed, but I kept it up. Slowly but surely, I was gaining on him. The distance between the black runner and the cargo ship wasn’t that far, but I suspected the gap had widened a bit through drift when they’d powered the engines off, and I’d have a lot of ground to cover.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been swimming when the water took on a lighter cast, and I saw the murky, glowing pool that had been beneath the black runner when we swam by earlier. The explosion hadn’t impacted the spotlight, but when I looked up, I could pick out jagged shapes of floating debris that said Bell and Parker had done sufficient damage. I’d also closed the distance even further because the moving blob ahead of me had become a vaguely defined human silhouette.
I was within ten yards of the spotlight when Cobra Jon stroked toward the center of the glow and bent down to swim for the bottom.
Opting to hide my presence from him for as long as possible, I turned into a downward course just outside the reaches of the spotlight and drove hard. Just as I caught a glimpse of the ocean floor below, my night vision sputtered for several seconds and then went dark. I’d passed the ten-meter depth, and there was nothing but blackness below me.
I kept moving, touched bottom, and found my feet quickly. A few pivots later, I made out the gleam of a flashlight illuminating parts of a wooden boat, resting at a drunken cant on the sandy bottom. The vessel was largely intact save for a large, jagged gash in the hull, below the water line on the port side.
Sweeting must have scraped across part of the reef and kept going without noticing that he was taking on water until it was too late.
I powered through the water toward the wreck, drawing the AAI along the way. The gleam of the flashlight winked from sight just as I made contact with the side of the boat, and I knew Cobra Jon was making his way below decks to trigger the chemical bomb.
Time was running out.
It was time to risk being seen. I pulled a flare and activated it, bathing the immediate area in a red glow. I made my way to the top deck, quickly located the hatch, and swam into the murk beneath.
A door at the back of the submerged cabin stood ajar, and light glowed behind it. I stroked over to it, tossed the flare through the gap, and then immediately grabbed the edge of the door and wrenched it wide open through the water, steadying the revolver in my other hand.
Cobra Jon had the flashlight tucked under an arm, his back to me as he tried to pry open a panel on the back wall with a crowbar. For the first time, I noticed that his black mamba walking stick was holstered to his back, sword-style, and I wondered why the hell he’d brought his cane for a swim.
Suddenly he turned away, alerted by the flare, and looked right at me. Sheer outrage flooded his face behind the mask.
He tried to lash out with the crowbar, but the gap between us was far too wide. Without flinching, I pulled the trigger on the AAI, firing a flechette in his direction. The projectile zoomed through the water and left a tight trail of expanding bubbles in its wake.
He tried to move, but the shot tore through his wetsuit and punched into his left arm. Blood streamed and clouded the water, and the snarl that escaped him was almost audible as he lifted his feet and kicked off the wall, aiming himself in my direction.
I squeezed off another shot that missed him by half an inch before he plowed into me, driving me back against the door. My gun arm snagged on a jagged section of deck board, and the AAI slipped from my gloved hand.
Instead of engaging me, Cobra Jon kept moving, streaking back out through the hatch toward open water.
I didn’t have time to light another flare and retrieve the weapon. I jerked my arm free and kicked after him, surfacing from below decks in time to see him making a beeline for the surface. I pushed hard and closed in on him as we entered the dull green glow cast by the spotlight overhead until I was close enough to reach out and grab his ankle.
He jerked as his forward momentum halted, and then bent his head to glare down at me with pure hatred.
I held tight to his ankle one-handed and stretched for my KA-Bar with the other. Just as I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, Cobra Jon wrenched his captive foot up and doubled at the waist, his hand slapping my face mask as he scrabbled for my mouthpiece.
I ducked my head and slashed the blade blindly through the water in a wide arc, catching nothing but drag resistance.
When I raised my face to him again, he’d drawn his walking stick. Only this time I realized was a long blade protruding from the bottom end of the cane, and he was plunging it down toward my outstretched arm.
At least now I knew why he kept the cane around.
I had to let go of him before he could skewer my forearm. The blade sliced through the back of my glove instead, gashing my hand deep enough to burn and throb as the wound flooded with saltwater.
Once again, the son of a bitch refused to stick around and fight, and he started stroking straight upward again.
I was right on his heels, but he broke the surface first. When I came up, he was pulling for the smoldering husk of the black runner, and the rope ladder that dangled crookedly over the side to trail out into the water.
He was fast, I’d give him that. What I wouldn’t give him was the chance to escape or to retrieve a different, deadlier weapon.
I pulled my mouthpiece out and slammed the KA-Bar back into my belt, freeing both hands to swim after him. He was still struggling up the ladder when I reached it, grabbed the nearest rung, and pulled as hard as I could. There was a ripping sound from somewhere above as one of the ropes gave way and the ladder dropped further, throwing him off-balance.
He clung to it one-handed, yanked one of his flippers off, and threw it at me like an awkward frisbee.
“A little childish, don’t you think?” I shouted as I swatted the makeshift projectile from the air.
He was busy throwing the other one. Without the flippers slowing him down, he scrambled up the precarious ladder with renewed speed.
I ditched my own footwear and power-climbed after him.
Cobra Jon vaulted over the deck railing on the black runner seconds ahead of me, but he failed to rip the rest of the failing ladder away and drop me back into the water. He’d probably calculated that he didn’t have time for that, so he’d go for a more substantial weapon instead.
I wouldn’t give him the chance.
Two rungs later, I gripped the railing and pulled myself up, swinging my legs over in a single fluid motion. I barely had time to take stock of the destruction: the blackened deck flooring, the smoldering forward cabin, the mangled remains of a man who’d presumably been piloting the craft blasted onto the raised platform that overlooked the deck. I spotted Cobra Jon running for an aft hatch and sprinted after him.
He was reaching for the handle when I tackled him into the wall.
With a roar of outrage, he tensed and drove a knee into my stomach. I let out a gasp, and he stomped hard on my foot and shoved me back. Though I only stumbled a few inches, it was enough for him to squirm out and stumble back as he tried to orient his cane for an attack.
I pulled my seven-inch blade free and ducked under his swing. As I sprang up and lunged at him, he sliced a palm karate-style against my forearm, knocking my swipe at his chest away. My blade only dragged along his side without causing any damage.
“I’m going to kill you slowly, Agent Marston,” he spat as he swung the cane again.
Instead of dodging the blow, I stepped forward, and the wooden stick slapped my side. Then my hand was at his throat. I squeezed hard, reaching back to wrench the walking stick away from him and toss it across the deck.
“You shouldn’t play with knives,” I told him dryly. “Somebody might get hurt.”
He struggled and lashed out with fists and feet, but I maintained my grip and circled around his body so I was behind him, then reached over his shoulder and locked him in a chokehold. His gasps dwindled to wheezing shivers and his flailing limbs slowed as his air supply ran out.
Just before he hit unconscious, I bent my head close to him. “If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it by now,” I said, “but I don’t want you to die. I want you to pay.”
Then I increased the pressure just a fraction, and he went limp.
My body was screaming for a breather, but I couldn’t stop yet. He had to be secured first. I refused to leave him even the slightest chance to get away, whether it was a legal loophole or an actual escape attempt.
I flipped him over with a foot, unstrapped his dive tank, and then zip-cuffed him with his hands behind his back. I added another set just below the first, and then pushed his splayed legs together and cuffed his ankles for good measure. Once that was done, I dragged him over to the starboard side railing, currently facing the direction of the cargo ship, and thought about tying him to the rail while I was at it. That would probably be overkill, though.
Finally, I stripped off my own tank and dropped it on the deck.
I removed my gloves to inspect the wound on the back of my hand. The bleeding had slowed somewhat, thanks to the saltwater, and the long, ragged gash was painful but not critical. He hadn’t cut any tendons, at least. I stood there for a moment as I flexed my slashed hand and looked around, idly wondering whether there was anything on this boat that I could use to bind the wound. That was highly unlikely, so I’d just bleed until I could rendezvous with the rest of the team.
However we were going to make that happen.
We hadn’t planned on being this separated, and I had no way, short of dogpaddling with a hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight, to drag Cobra Jon’s unconscious ass back to either the cargo ship or the Ghost. Radio contact was out, too, since the blast had destroyed the black runner’s control room in the forward cabin.
My gaze fell on the snake’s head staff lying on the deck a few yards away, its blade still exposed. I walked over, picked it up, and carried it back to where Cobra Jon lay as I inspected the weapon a bit more closely. The blade hadn’t been present when I glimpsed it underwater the first time, I was sure of it. That meant there had to be some kind of mechanism that allowed him to keep it hidden.
I ran a thumb along the length of the wood until I encountered a slight skip in the smooth surface. An almost imperceptible line, thinner than a pencil sketch, traced the circumference of the staff about six inches above the point where it joined the blade. I gave it an experimental twist, thinking that the blade portion might screw into the handle, but it didn’t budge.
When I turned my inspection to the head of the staff, I discovered a tiny button beneath the snake’s jaw. I pressed it, and the walking stick separated at the joint I’d found.
“What a fun little toy,” I said with a smirk as I bent to scoop the bladed section off the deck. There was a slot in the bottom of the upper portion, and the blade slipped inside cleanly, closing with a faint click as the quick-release mechanism engaged.
I grinned and weighed the staff in my hand, appreciating its heft.
“I’m keeping this,” I said to the unconscious gang leader. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Cobra Jon didn’t answer, so I decided that he didn’t mind at all.
I turned my thoughts back to contacting my team and decided that for now, my best bet was to set off some flares and hope at least one of them was in a position to see them. Just as I reached for the flare pouch, I saw a light coming from the cargo ship’s location, brightening steadily. I couldn’t make out what was behind the glow, but the source of the light was definitely approaching the black runner.
As I stood at the rail trying to make it out, I heard the buzz of a small engine, then a few minutes later, a voice rising above it.
“Ethan!” The shout that echoed across the water belonged to Holm. “Goddamn it, Ethan, where are you? Ethan!”
Yes. He must’ve launched one of the cargo ship’s lifeboats, and he wouldn’t have done that unless Birn and Griezmann were safe and they’d already searched and secured the ship. I hadn’t exactly had time to tell anyone that I was going to swim after Cobra Jon.
I snatched a flare and ignited it, and then held it above my head to wave it back and forth.
“There!” I heard Holm shout, and the approaching light swelled a lot faster.
Still holding the flare high, I leaned back against the railing to wait.
This was going to be a sweet trip home.
Chapter 32
It was going on four in the morning when Holm and I got back to the agency with Cobra Jon stuffed unceremoniously in the back seat. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness, spitting threats whenever he was awake, and I couldn’t wait to be divested of the poisonous bastard. Parker and Bell had stayed behind at their own office, and I’d sent Birn and Griezmann directly home from the Navy yard with a promise that they would receive no grief from the director for not immediately filling out their paperwork.
If Director Ramsey even hinted that she expected any of us to write a single word of after-action report tonight, I’d shove my badge up her ass. Figuratively, of course.
I’d let Holm drive back to the office so I could place calls to the director, and to Tessa. I’d assured them both that everyone was fine, mission accomplished, but I’d refrained from giving many details, even though Diane had pressed for them. I was too damned tired to talk that much.
The first stop was holding, where I informed the guards that our prisoner needed medical attention, but he was absolutely not to be placed in the med ward. The on-call doc could see him behind bars, with armed guards shoving weapons at various vital organs so they could shoot him if he breathed wrong.
Everyone knew who he was, so no one had a problem with the instructions.
Once we’d left Cobra Jon in not-so-friendly hands, we headed for the main agency building and went straight to the conference room. The door was slightly open, a wedge of light spilling into the semi-dark corridor, and the sounds of a movie at low volume drifted through the opening.
I nudged the door aside with a foot and peered into the room. Tessa and Diane were seated across from each other at the far end of the conference table near the television, a large, mostly empty bowl of popcorn and several candy wrappers strewn across the surface between them.
However, neither of them was actually watching the movie. They were both facing the door, and they scrambled from their chairs when the door opened fully. Tessa practically ran the length of the room, while Diane moved at a more sedate pace, a bemused smile on her lips.
“Ethan, thank God,” Tessa breathed as she threw her arms around me. “Are you really okay?”
I hugged her back. “Of course I am.”
She shivered briefly before she drew away and turned a beaming smile in Holm’s direction. “Robbie,” she said. “You’re okay, too.”
He quirked a g
rin. “What, no hug?”
Laughing, she stepped over and hugged him.
I refrained from glaring.
“Okay, put a cork in the love fest,” Diane said jokingly as she drew up and leaned in the doorway, regarding us with a cautious gaze. “So just to recap, Jon Calabar is currently alive and in a holding cell, and you have… how did you put it? A metric shit-ton of evidence.”
I nodded. “Thirty kilos is close enough to a metric shit-ton, right?” I asked. “That’s how much his divers recovered before our CGIS friends blew their ride. We’ve also got the smuggling boat, a nice fat cargo ship full of damning stuff, and… what else, Robbie?”
“Five gang members we left tied on the ship for the Coast Guard to pick up, all of whom are willing to testify against Cobra Jon in exchange for us not killing them,” he chimed in with a smile. “Think that’ll do it, Director?”
“Yes, I do,” she said with a highly satisfied expression. “Fantastic work, gentlemen.”
Holm offered a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you,” he intoned.
“Diane,” Tessa said suddenly, turning toward the other woman, “thank you so much for letting me stay here and for staying with me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I was alone tonight.”
“You’re very welcome. It was a pleasure,” the director said with a smile. “Now, I think I’ll turn you over to Ethan because I really need to go home.”
“I second the going-home motion,” Holm said as he stifled a yawn.
I was about to voice my agreement when my phone buzzed in my pocket. For a moment, I debated not even looking at it, because I couldn’t imagine anything good coming from a phone call at this hour, but I dragged the device out with a frown and glanced at the screen.
It showed as the line coming from the lab.
I sighed and gave everyone an apologetic look. “Guess I’d better take this,” I said, moving a few paces away before I answered. If there had been some kind of screw-up with anything our techs had processed, it could torpedo the whole operation. Cobra Jon’s lawyers were known for getting gang charges dismissed with even the slightest flaw or loophole.
