by Pat McKee
A few hours. If only I could add to these few hours. If only I could reclaim time wasted, time wasted as if I had the luxury of living forever, to do those things I had wanted to do with my life. To love, to be loved, to think, to teach, to write, perhaps even to have children, to do something that would last beyond my time, but I had been denied the opportunity, and now, just as something meaningful in my life was within my reach, it was to be forever cut off from me.
I was not a fool trying to have something with Melissa, to love someone—even if to the cynical it was reckless. It may have been one of the few worthwhile things I have done. Facing death, it was not what I had accomplished in my life that came to the fore, giving me comfort, it was what I failed to do that caused regret, those things that in focus now appeared far more important than a law degree and an extravagant bank account. But those who said I had done no better than my father; those who said I would never rise beyond my breeding, they were wrong—even if they were only the voices in my head that daily I did battle with. My life had not been useless, even though there was so much left to do. I longed for another chance.
Time slowed. I was conscious of my every heartbeat hammering in my head. I would not waste any more thoughts on how I got here or why. It was clarifying to think that my fate was certain, that I was already dead, that any other outcome I could engineer would be better than that, so now all options were open to me. Before this moment I did not think I could kill another person. Now I knew I could. I could do anything to live another day, to have a chance, maybe with Melissa.
I would tell Anthony what he wanted to hear. I would tell him that I was going to convince Melissa to go along, that she wouldn’t survive cutting off her thumb, that if we were going to die, that dying quickly was preferable to dying slowly.
These were the words of a coward, not mine. I did not yet have a plan, but I knew working with Melissa was preferable to working alone, that if we were going to send a message to Placido for Anthony that we somehow may have a chance to get him to bring help. Placido must now be aware the scheme had gone wrong, that Melissa and I had not met him and Cabrini in our headlong flight from the island as planned. We just needed to connect with Placido to keep him from falling into Anthony’s trap, the one he was baiting with Melissa and me, and count on his love for his daughter, his natural genius, and Ariel to help us all out of it.
The sunlight reflecting off the boathouse yellowed and dimmed. Anthony and Brown strode in. Anthony flared his nostrils and stepped over the vomit.
“I see you have taken me seriously. What do you say?”
I tried to clear my throat but it was dry and foul. I could only croak.
“Yes.”
Anthony nodded to Brown, who produced a long thin blade. He held it in front of my face for a second, then slit the cable ties.
“You won’t be very persuasive with Melissa in the state you are in. The door on the other side of the bed goes to a bathroom. Go in there and clean up. Leave the door open.”
I tried to stand and nearly fell over, catching the back of the chair.
“You need to rub your arms and ankles to get the blood going again. You can’t walk yet.”
It was the first time I heard Brown speak. What a prince. I realized I would have to kill him. Only surprise would even the extraordinary tactical advantages that Brown possessed. The longer Brown considered me inept, the easier surprise would be. It wasn’t difficult for me to keep up the appearance.
After a few minutes of rubbing my arms and legs, I staggered to the bathroom. I did not look good. Cold water and a toothbrush did a lot to make me feel better, but I still looked very much the scruffy marina worker, hardly the persuasive litigator, and certainly not a likely object of Melissa’s affection.
“Alright Mr. McDaniel, you have about thirty minutes to secure Melissa’s cooperation, or I will send in Brown with the bolt cutters.” They led me to a room on the second floor and unlocked the door. I stepped in, and the door shut and locked behind me.
Melissa had been lying on a bed and sat up when I entered. She did not look much better than me. One side of her face was red and puffy from blows, her eyes bloodshot, and cheeks streaked. She stumbled toward me; we held each other, and Melissa sobbed. She was inconsolable. I could barely keep my composure myself, but I had to maintain some control. I stroked her head, her hair, her cheeks, kissed her face. For several long minutes all she could do was weep.
Melissa’s sobs were the cover I needed. I whispered in her ear. I hoped Anthony could not hear me for Melissa’s weeping, that he would see my whispering to her as merely following orders, for we were certainly being monitored, anything audible overheard.
“Melissa, you must go along with me. What I say out loud will be for Anthony to hear. We need to get a warning to Placido. Is there a way to do that without Anthony knowing?”
Melissa drew in a long shuddering breath, nodded almost imperceptibly.
“If we can keep Placido from falling into Anthony’s trap, we have a chance. As soon as you feel you can, let’s sit on the bed and talk.” After several long sobs and deep breaths Melissa pulled away and we sat.
“Melissa, we need to think about ourselves. Anthony has told me if we cooperate he will go easy on us. It’s Placido he wants.”
At this Melissa let out a wail and hammered my chest. I remembered once more that this woman was a great actress.
“No, no, no! I cannot lure my father here, not to be killed by Anthony, not for you, not for me. I won’t do it. I will not.”
“He says he doesn’t want to harm Placido. He wants to convince him to forget his scheme to give away the patents the Milano Corporation has spent so much of its capital developing. It’s a disservice to their father’s memory. You must understand. If we can get Placido here and get this resolved, we can all go home and forget this happened. And Placido tells me he has a plan to help me beat the murder charges.” I paused considering whether what I would next say would mean something to her. I was about to die. There was no reason for me to hold anything back. “If we can do this, you and I have a chance.” It was the only sincere thing I had said.
Melissa looked in my eyes for several seconds, looked away, then nodded.
“Did Anthony say that to you? All he has been doing with me is threatening, telling me I’m going to die. And when that didn’t work, he hit me. Why should I believe that he’s changed his mind?”
“I think he figured out that threats only stiffen your resolve. But I’m afraid if we hold out much longer, he and his sidekick may get desperate. I don’t trust him to do the right thing if he’s backed in a corner. First thing we need to do is get in touch with Placido and tell him we need his help.”
“What assurance do we have that Anthony is telling the truth?”
“None. But what is our alternative?”
Melissa took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. After a minute of internal struggle that played out on her face, she turned to me.
“Paul, you’ve risked everything for me. Even though all I know about Anthony tells me not to trust him, I have to follow your instincts on this. I trust you. I don’t see an alternative. Let’s do it.”
Apparently listening to our every word just outside the door, Anthony returned before I had a chance to acknowledge Melissa.
“Melissa, you need to clean up so you will be presentable when your father arrives. Mr. McDaniel and I will step out.”
Anthony closed the door behind us and broke into a grin.
“Mr. McDaniel, you are such an excellent liar. Where did you learn that, law school? I was almost convinced myself.” Anthony handed me a handwritten note. “Have her send this to Placido. Once she sends the message, I will give you two some time to your selves.”
Anthony and I went back in the room and waited for Melissa to emerge from the bathroom. I handed her the note. Anthony gave her
cell phone back. She typed while Anthony watched over her shoulder:
Father, Anthony caught us trying to take the boat. He is holding us both under house arrest, unharmed. I overheard Anthony talking with his head pilot. Tonight Anthony and Brown will be flying to Miami and will be gone for a day. They have disabled the boats. We have no way to get off the island. You MUST come and get us. Melissa.
Anthony walked out. The lock clicked.
I leaned close to Melissa’s ear, barely a whisper.
“Did you warn Placido?”
She nodded; then, barely audible, responded.
“Capitals. Ariel will know.”
“Brilliant.”
A half hour later, when darkness had fallen, I heard the Gulfstream take off and roar low overhead on its decoy flight to Miami, conspicuous to anyone watching the island to see, the trap now set. Sleepless, lying close, whispering, Melissa and I played out every possibility, every option, yet came up with no fixed plan, deciding to react when we felt an opportunity, comforting each other as only two facing the unknown can do. The light of morning came all too soon.
The door burst open without a knock, Brown, leering at Melissa. She covered with a sheet. It was getting a lot easier to think about killing him.
“OK, you two love birds. You need to get dressed. In five minutes I want you visible on the veranda, sipping coffee like nothing is wrong. Placido needs to see you so he knows just where to come.”
Nineteen
We brought our coffee to the veranda as instructed, a vignette of unharmed hostages, tantalizing bait with a deadly hook. If I didn’t know Anthony planned to kill me, I could’ve enjoyed it more; the sun yet low over the ocean, the morning was still, cool, tranquil. I tried to remain outwardly calm as my every sense was on a hair trigger, searching for the opportunity Melissa and I needed. I looked for signs of Anthony or Brown but saw nothing and no one. I knew they had to be lurking nearby, waiting for Placido to show.
Through the night as Melissa and I had plotted, whispering our thoughts, it became evident to me her initial response to my suggestion was no act; she’d rather die than be a part of luring her father to his death. It was only after Melissa was sure she was able to warn Placido of the trap that she was willing to participate in my scheme. This sentiment only added further complexity to the enigma that was Melissa: it was difficult to reconcile the thought that she’d be willing to collude with someone who sought to steal the fruit of her father’s life’s work with the idea that she would have no part otherwise in harming him. Maybe there was some benign explanation for the photo in Cabrini’s office. Maybe. But there was no question in my mind that Melissa was willing to die rather than have anything to do with Anthony’s plans to eliminate her father, and however laudable the sentiment, it was my desire to figure out a way for everyone to walk away from this debacle, then sort out who was on the home team. A million thoughts ran through my mind as we sat on the veranda, waiting, most of them focused on how I could see the sun rise the next morning.
Cabrini’s boat rounded the point sheltering the harbor, running fast, directly toward the dock, unmolested. I saw two helmets, two life jackets, two figures in the front seats. Melissa stood, and I grabbed her hand to stop her from running toward the water. The boat slowed only feet from the dock, the trailing wake washing the transom, lifting the stern, submerging the bow, then silence. No one in the boat moved, as if they were waiting for something to happen, for us to run to the boat. I knew Brown would not allow it.
A bright streak smoked across the field from the woods behind the house. The boat exploded in an orange fireball. Melissa shrieked and buried her face in her hands. The shockwave and heat knocked us backward, forced us to turn away. Flaming debris dropped in the yard, hunks of shiny aluminum, splintered yellow fiberglass, shredded graphite. An empty helmet, shattered, smoldering, and pieces of an unattached life jacket fell feet from where we stood. Melissa took in deep gasps of breath, minutes passed before she could speak.
“Father! Hector! Anthony lied, he lied.”
“No, I didn’t lie to you Melissa.” Anthony and Brown appeared on the veranda taking in the destruction, the dock now in flames as well. “Your boyfriend did. Just to save himself a little pain. As soon as I figure out how and where to dispose of you, both of you will be joining Placido and Cabrini. I was certain I spotted two helmets in the boat before I gave Brown the order to fire the RPG. A very effective weapon. It appears my brilliant little brother wasn’t so smart after all. Pity.”
Melissa lunged for Anthony. Brown stepped between them, threw her down, and wrapped her wrists behind her in cable ties in a single motion. While Brown was bent over Melissa, I aimed a kick at his face. He parried the blow with one hand, dashed me to the ground, and with the other, cracked me in the head with his pistol. In seconds he tied my wrists and ankles. Brown half dragged, half shoved us to separate rooms; threw Melissa on the floor in hers, locking the door behind her; then pushed me in mine, and I crashed to the floor, the door closed and locked behind me. Whatever plan we had to escape, it was over before it started, our only hope to get out alive blown to pieces on Anthony’s dock.
It took me several minutes to focus, the blow from the pistol clouding my head and obscuring my vision. Something seemed to emerge from the haze and shadow behind the closing door. I shook my head, more focus. A person. Now more focus, and the person moved. The figure of Agent Grey appeared, Uzi over his shoulder, a hallucination from the blow to my head, an unspoken wish fulfilled from my desperation.
The figure bent down and put his finger to my mouth and pointed around the room at what he must have discerned as microphones. If this was a hallucination, I was going to go with it.
Grey cut the cable ties on my wrists and ankles, and this time I was careful to rub the blood back into them before I attempted to stand. By the time I stood Grey had jimmied the door lock. He motioned me still, peered into the hall, inched the door closed.
Grey handed me a 9mm Beretta. I nodded, checked the chamber for a round, and flicked off the safety. He signaled me to follow.
We crept through the hall toward voices, behind Anthony and Brown in the main room of the plantation house, still viewing their handiwork out the windows, the boat sunk, and the dock was in flames.
“Such an unfortunate accident, we must inform the authorities.” Anthony chuckled at his cleverness, and Brown grunted his approval.
“No need Milano, I’ll do it for you.” Brown flinched in our direction at the sound of Grey’s voice, but Grey cut him off, “Don’t. I’ll kill you where you stand. Hands over your heads. Drop the pistol and kick it across the room. Both of you lie face down on the floor. Keep your hands over your heads. NOW.” Anthony complied, Brown turning toward us, checking his adversaries, looking at Grey’s weapon, dropping to his knees, spreading his bulk on the floor. “Paul, hand me your weapon. Walk up behind the big guy, pull one of those ties out of his back pocket, and wrap it around his wrists.”
I straddled Brown’s waist, grabbed a tie that hung from his back pocket, stepped toward his head, bent down to wrap the tie around his wrist.
Brown struck, pulling me down in front of him. He rolled, drew a handgun from an ankle holster, and leveled it at Grey. By the time Brown had pulled me down, Grey had jerked Anthony up by the neck and held him as a shield.
“So it seems we have a little standoff.” Brown rose to his feet and lifted me in one motion, keeping me between him and Grey. “You drop your gun or I waste you and your friend. I want the Uzi, Glock, and the one stashed in your ankle holster. Make a funny move, and I start with you.”
Grey placed his weapons one by one on the table behind him and stepped away.
“The two of you lay face down on the floor, hands behind your backs. Mr. Hero, you face the door.” I lay down. Brown kicked me in the head. “You face the window.”
I expected Grey to make a move, b
ut he did as instructed. I followed his lead and did as I was told, now turned away, not able to see him.
I still expected Grey to make a move. I tensed, ready to jump, but I heard the zip ties tighten.
Brown stomped his foot on my hands with enough of his weight to knock my breath out, fixing my wrists to the small of my back. He lifted his boot off my back, stepped within an inch of my nose, straddled over me. Within a second he’d have the zip ties around my wrists.
I spun away from Brown’s foot and launched a kick up between his legs, catching him as he reached in his pocket, exposed, surprised, incapacitated, but only for an instant. In that instant I dove over Grey to the table with his weapons, grabbing at the Glock. Brown, fully extended, grasped my heel and dragged me back. I strained toward the gun, but even in his impaired state, with little purchase on my foot, Brown steadily pulled me back. I fell from the table, Brown on top of me, pushing my shoulder to the floor to square my face for the blow, pulling his blade from behind him, and cocking his fist by his ear to plant the steel in my throat.
The room exploded. The back of Brown’s head disappeared in a spray of bone, brains, and blood, and he fell face down on me without a twitch. I scrambled from underneath him, pushing his blood-soaked corpse away, looking for the source of Brown’s demise, my rescue. Grey still lay face down on the floor.
Rebecca stood on the other side of the room, feet apart, two hands in front of her holding the largest revolver I’d ever seen.
“Don’t move, Milano, or you’ll get what Brown got.”
“You needn’t be concerned about me. Brown was doing what he was paid to do. I’m not so stupid.”
Rebecca turned to me.
“Look, I had this under control. There was no need to risk getting killed.”
“How was I to know that?”
Rebecca motioned to Grey, who tried to roll over with his arms still tied behind his back.
