by Eric Meyer
The two SEALs quickly became inseparable, unlikely pals from backgrounds that were often at loggerheads. Each knew how the other man ticked, so they could, and often did, rely on the other when their lives were on the line. Some comic in their regular bar said they made such a fine couple they should be married. He had a sufficiently long stay in hospital to rethink his ideas. They were both red-blooded hetero men, who just happened to enjoy a rare friendship, as well as something else.
They had a shared interest that took up most of their spare time. Angling. After they left the SEALs, they scrimped the money together to buy the Grand Banks. Their purpose was to pursue the doubtful thrill and pleasure of exploring the wildest, roughest waters around the Americas. Their best friend, John Raider, told them they were crazy.
"You put your lives on the line for your country all the time. It's dangerous work inside the most hostile of countries. When you take a vacation, you should find a way to relax."
"We do, Boss," Waite replied in his melodious Southern tones, "We go fishing."
"The last I heard, you were planning a trip to Cape Horn, off the southern tip of South America. Why would two sane men go to the wildest stretch of ocean in the world?"
They'd looked at each other in puzzlement.
"For the fishing," Al replied, "Of course."
He decided to give it up.
Waite found a sheet of spare canvas in a locker, bracing himself against the heaving deck while he threaded a cord through the eyelets, and then tied it around the gaping hole where the hatch had been.
"Waite, hold on tight. There's a big roller coming in!"
"I hear you, buddy."
He grabbed onto a nearby stanchion and watched the huge wave bearing down on them. Al gave him a wave from inside the wheelhouse, and he nodded. He couldn't spare a hand to wave an acknowledgement, not without being swept overboard. The wave hit the boat, and it was as if they were descending into the pit of hell, or maybe Neptune's locker, or wherever sunken vessels end up. Waite hung on grimly, feeling the powerful surge of the oceans attempt to prize his grip from the boat. He looked at the wheelhouse and grinned to himself. Al was peering through the spray-dashed windscreen, his teeth bared under an anxious expression.
Above the cabin, the flying bridge was empty. Battered by powerful winds and water falling on the structure in sheets, it was no place from which to navigate a small craft in these waters. The superstructure tilted more and more, as the enormous roller tried to force the boat onto its side. Over, over, it tilted more and more. Waite tried to force his body weight in the opposite direction to the roll to counter the force of the waves. Then he smiled; he was in a boat that weighed several tons, not a sailing dinghy.
They reached the point when the Grand Banks was about to exceed the maximum angle. They were one short step from capsize. It held it for long seconds, teetering between disaster and salvation. He watched and waited, feeling an icy detachment as the fates and nature combined to decide whether they would survive or die in the hostile ocean. Seconds, minutes elapsed as their storm-battered craft hung in the balance. It started to move, and at last began to roll back on an even keel. Waite laughed long and loud. He'd cheated the sea, cheated death, once again. He strolled back along the wildly pitching and heaving deck and entered the wheelhouse.
"Shut that damned door," Al bellowed, "How can I steer this damned boat with you letting the best the Atlantic can throw at us into my wheelhouse?"
"Next time, you go out on deck and fix the damage," he snarled, "It's time you did something useful instead of lounging around in the warm and dry."
"So who's going to steer the boat? This takes skill, not dumb-ox strength."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck you."
They grinned at each other. "You wanna beer?" Waite asked.
"Sure thing. I put some more in the cooler early on today."
"Right. I'll strip off these oilskins and grab a couple of Coors. You okay on the wheel?"
"Fine."
Waite stripped off his dripping waterproofs, hung them on a peg, and went down the ladder into the galley area. He plucked a six-pack from the cooler, returned to the wheelhouse, and passed one to Al. They sipped the beer in companionable silence while the boat continued pitching and swaying around the storm driven seas. If they noticed several times when more huge waves smashed into them, neither man commented. They had the boat, they had the beer, and they had each other. Besides, they were together. Fishing.
You heard from John and Joe lately?" Waite asked Al.
He smiled. "I talked to them both just last week. Joe's doing okay; he's still running security for that Dragan character in New York, and anywhere else that guy's private jet takes them."
"He's still working for that crazy billionaire Ukrainian? We were lucky to get out of Ukraine alive the last time. One thing that Dragan is good for is getting people killed."
"You mean getting other people killed."
Waite smiled at Al. "Exactly. He's also got that CIA connection, which ain't exactly healthy. What about Raider?"
Al's smile broadened. "The boss? He's doing well. He took on a job working for some bigshot film director. I guess he's running around Sunset Boulevard in a Porsche, you know the way they live down there. It's all parties, booze, and babes."
Waite grinned. "Damn, that guy sure knows how to live. Sometimes I wish I was in his shoes."
"Me, too," Al said wistfully. He looked out the screen at the storm tossed waves and grinned as another big roller smashed over the prow of the boat, "It's time we got some bait in the water. Time’s a wasting."
* * *
Los Angeles, California
As he threaded the Porsche 911 through the streets of Los Angeles, the driver tried to filter out the noise of the man in the passenger seat. Jason Kennedy, current Hollywood darling, a director with a succession of box office successes to his name. The fact they were low-budget horror flicks, and with sufficient blood and gore to appeal to the masses, didn't dent Kennedy's ego one iota. They were an unlikely pair. The pudgy director wore designer casual clothing. Crumpled linen combat pants and a tailored cream silk shirt under his long, carefully styled hair tied in a ponytail behind his neck. If the clothes weren't enough of a statement, the Longines watch and what seemed like fifty pounds of gold chains and jewelry said it all.
In contrast, the driver wore his dark blonde hair surfer style, which meant he ran his fingers through it when he stepped out of the shower. His outfit was denim pants, a loose T-shirt, and an even looser cotton jacket. The kind of jacket a man would wear when they wished to conceal something underneath. Like the Sig Sauer P226 handgun he carried in a quick draw holster under the left armpit. The same gun he'd carried during his service as a lieutenant in the Navy SEALs.
"How does it feel to be guarding a Hollywood legend?" he asked, watching John Raider intently, "I'll bet you didn't expect to pick up a gig like this when you left the Navy."
He didn't take his eyes off the road and kept his voice even. "You're right. I never thought I'd pick up a gig like this."
"I'll bet your old pals would be green with envy if they knew the kind of bigshots you were mixing with."
He didn't reply. He was looking for the off ramp for the start of the long journey to Las Vegas. Kennedy was due to appear at some kind of promotional event for his latest bloodfest. For some reason, probably connected to his overinflated opinion of himself, he wanted to drive all the way in his shiny new German sports car. This meant Raider had to endure his inane conversation for the entire two hundred and seventy mile journey.
The director was quiet for a few minutes, and it looked like he may have fallen asleep. It was a forlorn hope, and his next utterance caught Raider's attention.
"I told you about the problem I was having, with this supplier?"
Supplier, in modern parlance, usually meant only one thing.
He stared at the director. "A problem with a supplier? I don't recall your saying
anything."
"It must have slipped my mind. You've heard of him, Pablo Cuevas?"
"Nope."
"Right. He's the guy who kind of keeps the film industry in certain things they can't, uh, source from elsewhere."
"What things?"
"Uh, coke, sometimes smack, and occasionally crack for people who use that kind of thing."
He felt like tossing the guy out on the street. With an effort he forced himself to be calm and keep driving. "Kennedy, tell me you're not carrying drugs in this car."
"Well, I may have slipped a couple in…"
He jammed on the brakes, and the tires smoked as he fishtailed the powerful car into the side of the highway.
"Hand 'em over."
"What?"
"Give 'em to me, you asswipe. All of them! If you think I intend to involve myself in the drugs trade, you're more wrong than you've ever been in your life. You want to carry drugs to Las Vegas, you walk."
"But this is my car!"
"Tough. Don't fuck with me, Kennedy! Either we ditch the drugs, or I ditch you. Your choice."
Cars were slowing to gawp at the drama on the highway, something to break the monotony of their journeys. A car that may belong to a Hollywood star, or at least some bigshot; it was reality entertainment. He noticed cellphones held up as people took pictures. They didn't have much time before the cops arrived.
"What is it with you?" Kennedy snarled, "Are you telling me you've never broken the law?"
Raider thought about the Federal warrant he was running from, one of the reasons he'd had to ditch his career as a freelance photojournalist. There was also an outstanding warrant in Russia. Somehow he'd pissed them off so badly they wanted to send him to a resort in Siberia. They called it Camp Gulag. The last thing he needed was to run interference for some coke-crazed Hollywood director who spent every minute of every day feeding his ego. He'd had to take the job. When you're on the run, the offers dry up. Even so, he didn't want to add to his problems and come to the attention of the cops.
Five minutes later, they were driving along the freeway on the road to Las Vegas. The stash of cocaine had vanished in the Porsche's slipstream and was blowing across the desert, to spread harmlessly over a wide area. Maybe it would fertilize some of the cactus.
"You shouldn't have done that," Kennedy sounded petulant.
He didn't bother to answer. Then something his employer had said earlier came back to him.
"You were talking about this drug dealer. What about him?"
"Pablo Cuevas, right. We got into a bit of a disagreement a few days ago. He was, kind of, er, upset."
"Go on."
"He fixed up some friends of mine with coke for a party, and they didn't have the cash up front. He let them have the goods, on condition I'd cover his losses if they didn't pay up."
"I assume they didn't pay."
"Exactly." He nodded his head with some enthusiasm, "That's the trouble; people don't settle their debts, and it causes a ton of hassle for their friends."
"What happened when this Cuevas guy came to you for the money?"
Raider knew the answer. He just wanted this egotistical fool to confirm what he already knew.
"Well, obviously there was no way I was going to pay for a bunch of deadbeats. I told his man to beat it."
"And then?"
There was a long silence, and when Jason Kennedy finally spoke, his voice was more subdued.
"I got a threatening message, so I tried to reason with him, said I'd pay. He said it was too late. You see; Cuevas is some kind of a psycho. He told me when people try to screw him, he always deals with it the same way."
"And that way is?"
"He kills them." Kennedy's voice was hoarse, and Raider detected a slight tremble of fear.
He sighed with exasperation.
How did I ever get mixed up with this clown?
"So what you're telling me is that at any moment Pablo Cuevas' soldiers could attack us, and try to kill you."
"I guess." He'd lost much of the bombast from his voice, "John, look, I need you to do something about this. That's what you're paid for, to protect me. What do you suggest?"
Raider wasn't entirely certain it's what he'd signed up for, protecting some Hollywood sleaze ball from a drug dealer sleaze ball, but equally, he knew the problem had to be faced. And then he'd tell Jason Kennedy to look somewhere else for some poor sucker to listen to his inane chatter while he guarded him around Los Angeles.
"Have you tried to buy him off, offer him more money? That would be the easy way."
"I tried everything." Kennedy was wringing his hands now in despair. He was in mortal terror, "Pablo just wouldn't listen. I was kinda hoping you could come up with something."
"Like what?"
"Isn't that what you used to do? I mean, kill people."
He smiled. Somewhere along the line this idiot had got the wrong impression. He thought he was hiring a tame killer to drive him around in his shiny car, someone who could sort out his spats with Mexican drug dealers.
He shook his head. "We did all sorts in the Navy. However, I don't kill people, not anymore."
Although sometimes I feel like killing you to silence your stupid voice.
"What am I going to do, John?"
"You think this guy is serious?"
"Yeah, he's very serious."
He was annoyed Kennedy hadn't said any of this before, because right now both their lives were in danger. At least if he'd had some warning, he could have taken precautions. As it was, they were driving in a flimsy little car, albeit one of the hottest things on wheels, and with only a 9mm handgun for protection.
He was still thinking about a solution to the problem when the crash came. He'd noticed the car coming up behind, a long white limo with smoked windows, but hadn't perceived it as a threat. Why should he, the streets of Los Angeles and Hollywood were sometimes bumper-to-bumper with limos, and most had smoked glass. This one vehicle pulled out to overtake, and as they were alongside, the front wheels jerked toward them, and the steel wing collided with the Porsche.
The impact wrenched the steering wheel out of his hands, and the car began sliding off the road toward an irrigation ditch. He grabbed hold of the wheel and fought to regain control. At the same time, his foot played the accelerator and brake to try leveling the car back on course. In vain, and the limo was still coming at them. He cursed Kennedy and cursed his psycho drug dealer. The hit was taking place sooner than the film director had realized. Like right now.
The car leveled, and he stabbed on the gas to squeeze out from the danger spot at the side of the limo. It wasn't working. Something had happened to the car, as if the rear wheels had sustained massive damage from the impact. Instead of a powerful surge from the race-tuned engine, the only response was a grinding, grating noise from the rear. Then the limo struck again.
There was no way to avoid going off the road. In desperation, he tried to steer them across the irrigation ditch into the rough scrub at the side of the road. The front wheels made it, but he didn't have enough power for the jump. The rear wheels dropped neatly into the ditch, and the car came to a halt. It was so sudden and violent they were both thrown against the seat belts, and he felt the breath squeezed out of his lungs at the force of the impact. They'd stopped, but their troubles weren't over.
"Get out, get out!" he shouted.
The limo was slowing to a stop fifty yards further up the highway, and their next move would be inevitable as if it had been written down in the Hitman's Manual. All he had to fight with was his 9mm automatic, which was of limited use against heavy ordnance. Drug dealers tended to use more exotic weaponry, Mac 10s, Uzis, and occasionally M-16s if they wanted more firepower. Kalashnikovs were popular, and on occasion, .50 calibers if they felt the need. As soon as they stopped, they'd be on them like rats at a bone. There was only one place to be when the rats piled out of that limo, as far away as possible.
"I can't," Kennedy squealed, "I th
ink I must have broken something. I can't move."
He glanced at the man in the passenger seat and realized the only thing he'd broken was his nerve. He reached down and unfastened the seat belt, kicked open the door, and propelled him out onto the sand. He followed him through the passenger door, which kept them out of sight of the men scrambling out of the limo, and started to drag him.
The first shot spat into the sand a few feet away. They were firing blind just trying to prevent them getting away, and he ignored it. He shouted at his employer.
"Kennedy, either get on your feet and start running, or I'll leave you here to die."
"No! For Christ's sake, you have to help me."
"You have to help yourself. Get up. We have to make a run for it, or you'll die here."
Shakily, the director scrambled to his feet and started to run; Raider kept hold of the sleeve of his designer shirt as he dragged him along. More shots whistled past them, much too close. He risked a quick glance back. There were four men, all running toward them.
He almost smiled. They were typical Mexican hoods, like extras from some cheap B movie. Tight jeans, Cuban boots, slicked-back hair, and ghetto slogans on their T-shirts. But there was nothing funny about the weaponry they carried. In the split second his gaze fell on them, he'd seen an AK-47 and two Mac 10s. The fourth man carried a handgun. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and hampered by a slow-witted fool who'd lost his cojones.
As they raced and stumbled across the uneven ground, he scanned around for somewhere they could go to take cover. They were running up a low hill, and when they crested the top of the rise, he saw only a few hundred yards ahead of him the answer to his prayers. A small town, a very small town, but a town meant people. Landline telephones for sure. Out in the desert there was rarely any cellphone signal.
"I can't make it!" Kennedy screamed, "You have to stop them. Call the law, do something."
