by Tripp Ellis
"Just relax." I said, trying to calm Archer down. "A guy like Vladimir will get what's coming to him.”
Archer's eyes brimmed. "It's not fair. These creeps always get away with it. They get the best lawyers, they bribe judges, they pay off jurors…”
She broke down, sobbing. Her chest heaved with jerks, and rivers of tears streamed down her cheeks.
I crawled in bed beside her, slung my arm around her shoulder, and tried to comfort her. Archer was at an emotional breaking point, and Vladimir walking away scot-free was the last straw.
"Don't worry. You'll be back on the street in no time, putting away bad guys."
She wiped her eyes and sniffled. "Look at me. I'm a mess. You must think I'm so weak?”
"I think you're very brave. You've been through a lot. Why don't you cut yourself some slack?"
She hugged me tight.
“You win some, you lose some. But you live to fight another day. There will be other opportunities, I assure you.”
She wiped her eyes. “I promise, this is the last time I cry.”
"Doubtful, but if you say so.”
She smacked my chest playfully. ”I’m really not a crier, though it would appear otherwise.”
“We need to get you out of the house. Have a little fun in the sun. You’ve been cooped up in here for a week. That’s enough to make anybody go mental. How about we go for a ride in the boat?”
“Um, No. I don’t want to go anywhere near the water.”
“You know what they say about falling off the horse.”
“Yeah, well, horses don’t have razor-sharp teeth.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay. Fine. We’ll get back out on the water on your timetable. How about we go to Tsunami Jack’s for lunch? Grab a few daiquiris. But not too many,” I cautioned, her margarita experience coming to mind.
“Shut up.”
“Then maybe you can operate some heavy machinery—if you think you’re healthy enough for sexual activity.”
She gave me a look.
“If you’re not up to it, I totally understand.”
It had been a week since we bumped uglies, and I was feeling a little overstocked. My troops were begging to be deployed.
“I can assure you. I’m more than healthy enough.”
She leaned in and kissed me with her full lips. “Thank you, for taking care of me,” she whispered in my ear. “I know this wasn’t in our original contract. I promise, I will give you bonus compensation.”
“Sounds good to me.”
One thing led to another, and we didn’t make it to Tsunami Jack’s for lunch. It was happy hour by the time we got there. And Archer was definitely healthy enough. Though, we did have to approach the situation delicately.
That evening, I called JD and caught him up to speed. “You up for something a little crazy?”
38
I swore this was something I was never going to do again. But here I was. Ready to do it. Sure, I made all kinds of justifications in my mind. It was an extenuating circumstance, I told myself. He deserved it, I said. I was righting a wrong.
It was all bullshit.
I wanted to kill the man, plain and simple.
He was a scumbag.
Still, in the back of my mind, I knew that this was exactly the kind of thing that had purchased me a one-way ticket to hell. I was supposed to be redeeming myself. But I was digging a deeper hole.
Fuck it!
In that moment, I didn’t care.
I was angry.
If I was going to hell for serving up justice, so be it. The Big Man upstairs wasn’t doing anything about it. The world was full of atrocities. Injustice. Evildoers. Despicable people. And many of them went through life without suffering any repercussions.
Where is the fairness in that?
Going to hell would be a small price to pay to get a guy like Vladimir Kazakov off the streets.
I had waited patiently for the opportune moment to arrive.
It was here.
Vladimir’s yacht was docked at the Coconut Key Yacht Club, resupplying. Crew personnel shuffled back and forth, carrying food, water, and supplies. It was after midnight, and goons stood on the dock with machine guns. I recognized the baldheaded thug that I’d encountered at Bumper.
I grabbed a box from the back of the supply truck, hefted it on my shoulder, and walked down the dock amid the rest of the crew personnel. I wore a baseball cap, and made sure to keep the box blocking my face as I passed the machine gun wielding goons. I stepped aboard at the stern, walked down the passageway along the port side, then spiraled down the stairway to the crew quarters and stowage areas.
I set the box down, then spun around and marched back up the steps to the passageway. Instead of heading aft, I moved forward.
I peered through a window, into the salon—it was empty.
I continued forward and climbed a staircase to the second deck. Flattening my back against the bulkhead, I peered into the upper deck salon. Vladimir enjoyed a drink with a luscious blonde who was clearly only there because of money.
I slid my pistol from its holster and screwed on a suppressor to the end of the barrel.
Ice rattled in Vladimir’s glass as he finished his drink. He handed the empty glass to his companion. “Fix me another, would you?”
She took his glass and stood up from the sofa and sauntered her high heels across the deck to the bar. Vladimir’s eyes followed her pert assets. She had a sway that was hypnotic.
She reached the bar and scrunched up her face and pouted. She whined, “Baby, we’re out.”
“Be a doll and go downstairs. There’s another bottle in the main bar.”
“Sure thing, babe.”
I ducked away from the portal and flattened my back against the bulkhead as she sauntered in my direction. I was on the forward side of the hatch. She stepped into the passageway, and turned aft without seeing me.
I exhaled a relieved breath.
It was my opportunity to strike.
I waited until she descended the steps, then I rounded the corner and stormed the salon. My weapon was in the firing position, and I took aim at Vladimir.
He sat on the couch, fiddling with his phone. He didn’t see me for the first few steps. When he looked up, his eyes rounded with horror.
I wanted him to see who the angel of death was. But that was my undoing. In the moment I hesitated, one of his goons had stepped into the salon.
The bang of gunfire filled my ears, and bullets snapped in my direction.
Glass shattered, and wood splintered as the bullets pelted the cabinetry and mirror behind the bar.
I hit the deck and scampered behind a couch as a torrent of bullets screamed at me.
Vladimir sprang to his feet and scurried out of the salon. He dashed into the master stateroom and sealed the hatch behind him.
I popped up, aiming my weapon over the couch. My finger squeezed the trigger, sending 9mm slugs across the salon. The bullets hammered into the goon, spraying a geyser of blood from his chest. He fell back against the bulkhead and slid to the floor, blood pooling around his body.
More of Vladimir’s thugs were on their way. I heard them shouting to each other on the deck below, their heavy footsteps trampling closer.
This was a bad position to be in. I was about to get flanked.
39
I dashed across the salon into the starboard side passageway.
Two goons raced up the steps, and blasted a few rounds at me. Bullets snapped through the air, inches from my skin. The goons managed to get off a few haphazard shots, but they didn’t hit shit. It takes a trained professional to hit a moving target while on the run—these guys were street criminals.
I returned fire.
Blood erupted as I peppered them with bullets. Their bodies crashed to the stairs.
Most gun battles occur within a few feet, and 90% of the shots miss. I may have been outnumbered, but I was playing with a considerably better k
ill ratio.
Another goon rounded the corner and entered through the port-side hatch.
I spun around and squeezed off two more rounds that crossed the salon. The bullets nicked him in the arm, and the impact spun him around. He had an uzi machine-gun and he sprayed a hailstorm of bullets as his finger clenched the trigger.
I ducked behind the bulkhead for cover as the projectiles tore through the fiberglass hull.
I spun around and fired two more shots, tapping the goon in the chest. He staggered back to the hatch, then tumbled over the gunwale.
I heard a splash into the water below.
The yacht’s standard crew took cover, sheltering below deck. The ones on the dock, loading supplies, took off running. They were just hired hands, and weren't about to get into this fight.
Another goon charged up the starboard stairs. Muzzle flash flickered as he sprayed bullets at me.
I ducked back into the salon and crouched down behind the couch where Vladimir had been sitting. I looked through the windows of the salon.
I couldn’t see the goon, and I assumed he was down low, crawling against the deck toward the hatch of the salon.
I inched aft toward the sky lounge, moving around the end of the couch. I hovered below the arm rest.
Behind me, the sky lounge contained another sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table. It was open-air, and would have been too vulnerable a position. I'd be an easy target from the upper sundeck.
The goon slung his weapon through the starboard hatch and opened fire. Bullets strafed the top of the couch, sending stuffing floating into the air.
I flattened myself against the deck, then angled the barrel of my pistol around the back of the couch and opened fire.
I caught the goon in his kneecap.
The joint exploded, sending a mix of bone and blood splattering against the bulkhead.
He screamed in agony as he dropped to his good knee.
Another quick shot put a bullet through his head.
He flopped to the deck, chunks of his skull and brain oozing down the bulkhead behind him.
Another thug angled his weapon around the port-side hatch and sent another flurry of bullets at me.
I crawled around the back of the couch as bullets plowed through the cushion. They exited the back of the couch, missing me by inches as I flattened against the deck.
I glanced at the glass windows on the starboard side. In the reflection, I could see the goon as he darted behind the bar.
I grabbed a piece of debris and heaved it across the salon, clattering against the deck by the starboard hatch.
The goon popped up like a prairie dog, angling his weapon over the top of the bar, firing in the direction of the noise.
I sprang into action and squeezed off two more rounds, sending him crashing back against the liquor bottles. The glass shelving broke, and the bottles crashed down, smashing against the deck.
I pressed the mag release button, dropped the magazine out, and slapped another one in. I pulled the slide back, charging a round, then sprang to my feet.
I had my eye on the hatch to the master stateroom. My target was beyond that door.
But just as I took a step, I heard another goon behind me. He had jumped down from the sundeck and landed in the sky lounge.
I spun around and fired before he could get a shot off. He tumbled back and smashed the glass coffee table, sending shards of glass clattering across the deck. It was the bald guy from the club.
I couldn't be sure, but I think he was the last of Vladimir's goons.
I turn around and stormed toward the master stateroom. Glass and debris crunched underneath my feet. I knew Vladimir would be waiting on the other side with some heavy artillery.
But I had something special in mind for him.
I stood aside and fired a couple rounds into the locking mechanism.
Just as I had anticipated, Vladimir was waiting on the other side, locked and loaded.
Kaboom!
The thunderous roar of a shotgun blasted, shredding the hatch and knocking it from the hinges.
Vladimir had done my work for me.
In his case, he had fired too soon. Gun smoke filled the compartment, and the sharp smell of gunpowder wafted to my nostrils. I pulled a fragmentation grenade from my cargo pocket. I tossed it into the stateroom, then dove for cover behind the couch.
An instant later the grenade detonated, spraying blistering bits of shrapnel in all directions. Bulkheads rumbled, and the deck quaked.
Vladimir’s screams filled the air.
The deafening blast left me with a high pitch ringing in my ears. A milky haze filled the compartment.
I climbed my to feet and advanced toward the stateroom, cautiously. When I peered in, I saw Vladimir's mutilated body on the deck.
He was still alive, and blood gurgled in his lungs.
I stepped into the compartment and hovered over him. His eyes fixed on me as his body twitched and convulsed. He could barely choke out a few words with his esophagus filled with blood. He managed to say, "See you in hell,” before dying.
He was probably right.
40
I darted out of the master stateroom, raced through the salon, and headed forward in the outer passageway. The crew were all sheltering below deck. There was no one in the area.
I dove off the bow into the water below and pulled myself down to the bottom where I had stashed the Dräger, a pair of fins, and a mask.
It was a military issue Dräger LAR V closed-circuit oxygen rebreather that Jack had acquired from his source. It was the preferred diving apparatus for stealth units. Low noise, no bubbles, compact and streamlined. The perfect way to move in and out of a harbor undetected.
The water was near black, but a small waterproof tactical flashlight helped me find my rig. I donned the gear, cleared the mask, and swam out of the marina, heading for the open ocean.
JD waited for me in the Slick’n Salty about a mile offshore. I climbed onto the swim platform, and scaled the transom. JD helped with my gear. “How’d it go?”
“How did what go?” I replied with a grin.
“Good answer.”
He tossed me a towel, and I dried off. I peeled out of my clothes, and changed into a fresh set. I stuffed a few rocks in the pocket of my cargo shorts, and stuffed the shirt inside and tossed them into the water. There were traces of gunpowder and blood spatter on my clothing. It had most likely been washed away during my swim, but why take a chance?
It was never a good idea to keep a weapon around that had been involved in a crime, so I dismantled the pistol and sent it to Davy Jones locker as well.
JD had a fishing line in the water. He had pulled almost a dozen yellowtail snapper out of the sea while he was waiting. I took it over and reeled in the line as he climbed to the bridge and cranked up the engines.
It was a clear night, the stars flickered overhead.
Once the line was clear, JD brought the boat on plane and we moved to another reef a few miles away and fished some more.
Jack grabbed a few beers from the galley, and we cast our lines and acted like nothing had happened.
It wasn’t long before I got a call from Sheriff Daniels. “Thought you might like to know Vladimir Kazakov isn’t breathing anymore.”
“What happened?” I asked, innocently.
“Somebody took him out. It’s a bloodbath. Professional job.”
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Feds are crawling around the scene now.”
“Any leads?”
“The security camera footage from the marina wasn’t very useful. There was birdshit on the lens. The crew is saying it was a team of guys. They don’t know how the hit squad accessed the boat. They were like phantoms, the crew said. I’m guessing a rival organization?”
“Could be,” I said.
“Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.”
“Thanks for the heads up. Do y
ou need us for anything?”
“No. There’s already too many running around this crime scene.” Daniels paused. “Where are you right now?”
My heart stammered slightly. “Fishing snapper with Jack.”
“Catching anything?”
“Mostly yellowtail.”
“Save some for me.”
“You got it.” I hung up the phone.
“Think he knows?” Jack asked.
“He suspects,” I said. “I think he just wanted to call and find out where we were and make sure we had an alibi.”
“It’s a weak one,” JD said.
“Trust me, nobody’s gonna look too hard into this,” I said, hopeful.
We took smiling selfies with large yellowtail dangling from hooks. It would a least prove we were out on the water, and the geo-tags would confirm our location.
The next day, the news reported that Vladimir had been killed by a rival syndicate. And that was the last I heard about the incident.
Archer knew better than to ask questions, but I think she suspected. She was relieved to hear of Vladimir’s demise, but the incident had left her scarred—and not just physically.
Her recovery was progressing well, and she was regaining strength in the leg, though there was still some residual numbness. She had been working hard with physical therapy, but she was mostly behind a desk now. And that was driving her crazy.
She wasn’t sleeping well, and would frequently wake up in the middle of the night screaming, in a cold sweat. She didn’t like to talk about the event, and kept it all in. The stress of it all seemed to make her more emotional, and she broke down frequently.
I could relate to what she was going through. Anybody who’d ever been in a life and death situation had to deal with the aftermath at some point. She was seeing a therapist, and going to support groups.
I tried to be there for her as much as I could.
Our Friends with Benefits was progressing into something more, even though neither of us spoke about it. So, I was a little surprised when she told me she might be leaving Coconut Key.
