by Marvin Kaye
“Then we have no further business here.” Suydam adjusted his top hat. “You will bring me more artifacts?”
The sailors looked at each other. One said, “You see what can happen?”
Suydam licked his lips. “I can’t stop. I must know everything.”
The sailor nodded. All three slipped down dark streets before the sun could fully rise.
Suydam studied the quivering wreck that was once Paddy McGuire, and whispered, “It may take decades, eons, but, god help me, I will know these secrets.”
Then he, too, was gone.
RATIONALIST FEMME: PUNITIVE JUSTICE, by William E. Chambers
“Mr. Alvarez, eleven years ago two sisters disappeared on Long Island. Hannah Brant was fourteen. Naomi was nine. You lost Naomi. I’ve come for Hannah.”
“Si?” The raspy voice on the other end hesitated, “Who—”
“I am your judge, jury, and—unless you comply with my demands—your executioner, too.”
The voice rose sharply. “I don’t respond to threats, Señor.”
“Delivering Hannah is your only response if you wish to live.”
Kyla Quartrain was secure in her invisibility, aware her green-brown mottled camouflage scuba outfit would be visually disruptive enough to the human eye as to make the contours of her body inseparable from the upright palm trees, dense green leaves, and overall jungle foliage surrounding her.
And with scarlet rays morphing into violet streaks as dusk overpowered day, the incoming darkness provided the additional shelter needed to rock her desired objective with enough explosives to jolt Carlos Alvarez’s attitude of overconfidence into a mindset of fear.
Kyla accepted risk under any combat circumstance as a deadly factor. So she felt reassured by the two 9mm semi-automatics with built-in noise suppressors fastened to her hips in watertight holsters. The Sig-Sauers’s handle-fed twelve round ammo clips were accompanied by four more twelve-round magazines attached to the back of her utility belt. A retractable, hard rubber-coated grappling hook fixed to a nylon parachute cord that wound through a reel inside an intense, spring-operated, tube-shaped launcher was also clipped to the belt. Pressing unseen between her breasts beneath the diver’s outfit was a gold chain and medal bearing the astrological scales of Libra—her birth sign—which she relied on to save her life once in the past. The final accoutrement was a quiver slung across her back containing a collapsible 36-inch anodized aluminum blowgun and a series of poison-tipped and tranquilizer -laden darts.
Kyla focused the laser rangefinder of her Steiner Military Binoculars on the sleek white luxury yacht idling about a quarter mile offshore. The only visible occupants were two members of the crew she spied on board, though she knew there could be more below deck. Since the orgies never started before midnight, she believed the actions she was about to commit allowed time to be her ally in this quest. Donning a diving mask and snorkel, she trotted toward shore and slithered under the tepid sea, using wide circular strokes and kicks to propel herself unobtrusively toward the vessel. Nightfall was nearly complete by the time she began her hand-over-hand ascent up the yacht’s anchor chain.
Safely over the bow, Kyla extended her blowgun, inserted a tranquilizer dart then gently opened the impermeable Velcro flap of her right-hand holster and stealthily advanced toward the stern, where she had originally observed the two crew members. The scent of cigarette smoke indicated her course to be correct. Drawing closer, she heard a masculine voice talking Spanish while another laughed softly. Rounding the curve of the yacht’s rail, she saw the backs of two short men in white uniforms gazing toward the open sea, half-smoked butts glowing in each of their left hands. Drawing a deep breath, she pursed her lips, raised the blowgun and exhaled forcefully toward the man farthest from her. He flinched as the dart struck the back of his neck, then swatted it as one would a mosquito. There was barely enough time to slip another tranquilizer into the weapon before her victim staggered drunkenly backwards and slumped to his knees.
The companion exclaimed something unintelligible, then rushed toward his fallen comrade but—either glimpsing or sensing a foreign presence—stopped short and pivoted rigidly toward Kyla, who immediately regretted the fear-induced tightness on the elderly man’s face and released it with another burst from the blowgun. She caught the slender casualty when he started to slump, laid him gently down on the deck, and heard the man mutter ‘Madre de Dios’ before consciousness quit his eyes. Patting both men down, Kyla found no weapons and determined she would assure their safety once she ascertained the situation below deck. She believed poverty coerced decent people into situations they would rather avoid, and while these two worked for despicable forces they were probably victims of abominable economic circumstances. Although resolute about completing this mission, she was equally determined to uphold her moral code. If humanly possible no innocent life would be sacrificed.
Kyla reloaded the blowgun, held it ready in her left hand, then drew the 9mm from her right holster, quietly edged down the teak staircase and surveyed the dimly-lit corridor below deck. Carefully peering through each cabin door, she found them all luxuriously furnished but devoid of people. A thorough sweep of the engine room cleared her mind of worry about any more possible innocent casualties.
A glance at her Luminox diving watch indicated three hours to go before the party launches would arrive with under-aged youths of both sexes and the usually over-aged males who would pay exorbitantly for their near-pubescent services. That left plenty of time to tie the ropes she found in the engine room from the rail to the unconscious pair and lower them one at a time over the side. Once they dangled in position, she jumped overboard and maneuvered them into the motorized dinghy trailing the yacht’s stern. Then she dove below and positioned the timing device to detonate the explosives she had attached to the hull the night before, and resurfaced to pilot the boat back to shore.
Kyla deposited the still-groggy men onto the beach and set the outboard engine on automatic. Then she launched the dinghy seaward and trekked back to her prearranged vantage point. Blending into the jungle’s coverage, she adjusted the night-range binoculars, watched the horizon, and waited. An eternity of minutes passed before a shimmering black and orange ball billowed skyward and a roar shattered the tropical calm. Piercing overhead shrieks drew her attention to erratic shadows darting across treetops, while the undergrowth alongside her rustled frantically with unseen creatures. When oil and smoke fumes drifted inland burning her eyes and stinging her nostrils, she knew it was time to move on to phase two.
Kyla dropped her snorkel into a canvas backpack set in a wire basket on her rented bicycle’s rear fender, withdrew night goggles, then mounted the English Racer and threw it into low gear for the two mile trip back to a hilltop cabin that served as one of her leased safe houses. The goggles removed any challenge to avoiding the ruts on the seldom-traveled dirt road she had carefully chosen. So she banished boredom by reflecting on her personal moral code and the human and spiritual forces that led her to adopt it.
Personally, Kyla believed Thomas Jefferson summed up God’s existence succinctly when he—with the editing aid of Benjamin Franklin—noted in the preamble to the Declaration of Independence that the truth of the Creator’s existence was self-evident. Rational thinking would lead you to conclude you can’t have clocks without a clockmaker nor the conception of an endless universe teeming with varied forms of life without a conceiver. Considering herself a rationalist by birth—raised by parental Deists who believed the Creator’s will could be determined through reason and logic—she was skeptical of any rigid ideology—religious or political—that belittled scientific scrutiny or feared judgmental inquiry. Kyla felt the motives of authoritarian figures were always questionable because in her life’s experience whenever ideology overpowered reason morality seemed to work against its own ends.
And in the case of politicized government, ethics as defi
ned by the average decent citizen is oftentimes non-existent, which caused her to reflect upon the first time she saw her older brother Dennis, in dress blue Navy Seal uniform, and how proud she was to take a photo of him.
The last time she saw Dennis he introduced her to a fellow Seal, Larry Fahey. Although both men only had five days military leave, she spent every possible moment with them. After the second day, Dennis caught the drift and managed to find time away from his best friend and his sister. She consummated her love for Larry in a Manhattan hotel room on the final night of leave and celebrated their blissful union with room service of hamburgers and champagne. Afterwards, Larry presented a gold Claddagh ring engraved with two hands holding a heart and told her, “This symbolizes our love and loyalty. When I return, I’ll replace it with an even better band of gold.”
“What a strange marriage proposal.” Kyla felt her throat suddenly tighten as she remembered how she had laughed back then when he slipped the ring on her wedding finger. “Is this how you American Irish operate?”
Fighting back sadness, she recalled the way he rolled the tray away from the bed and said, “I’ll show you how we operate…”
Kyla willed her melancholy away, Larry and Dennis were killed in the line of duty less than a month after that special night. The Quartrain family had been notified that Dennis’s death was due to a training accident. An inquiry about Larry brought the same answer. Kyla assuaged her grief by determining to follow the path of these two men she so loved and admired. They were dedicated to fighting America’s enemies and she silently pledged to do the same. She took to gymnastics, weight training, and yoga with the same zeal she pursued her Master’s Degree in Criminology, and upon graduating John Jay College, enlisted in the Navy. She planned to serve her country through the military first, then pursue a career in law enforcement to defend society at large.
While women were not represented in the Seal units, her natural ability with weapons and the ease with which she embraced hand-to-hand combat training qualified her for Special Ops covert assignments. After demonstrating exceptional ability in several spying operations, Kyla received top secret clearance and discovered the harsh truth about Dennis and Larry’s fate. They had been killed by gunfire while on a clandestine raid against a notorious drug lord in the Cayman Islands. This knowledge became especially bitter when she found that the government she now championed sacrificed her older brother and her future husband so that an equally evil narcotics kingpin could replace the one they helped take down.
This new ally was willing to smuggle guns to the enemies of left wing anti-American factions in various Caribbean locations. The knowledge that she lost her loved ones to such a nefarious scheme was enough to shatter the idea of fighting for genuine justice through any organized government agency. Although disillusioned by political realities, Kyla grudgingly acknowledged that sometimes one evil had to be employed against another for the greater good. Hadn’t FDR reluctantly partnered with Stalin to fight Hitler? So officially accepting her discharge when it came due, she still remained in an elite Special Ops Reserve Division because it allowed her the privilege of choosing only the assignments she approved of and rejecting all others. Although retained on salary with bonuses added for each undertaking she chose—her downtime was plentiful—and the pay sufficient to allow her to fulfill the self-imposed moral obligation she righteously felt she owed to the memory of the men who she loved. Now with the freedom to pick her own private battles, she vowed to deliver punitive justice to the type of people Larry and Dennis died fighting against.
It was that sense of obligation that led her to this resort island paradise bordering Mexico and Central America, which was aptly titled Poseidon’s Trident because it catered to three of the Seven Deadly Sins: Lust, Greed, and Gluttony. Lust was satiated in any and all forms through the services of youths. Less publicized entertainments were rumored available to profligate customers with sadistic or even murderous tendencies, since undocumented orphans abound in third world countries, rendering human capital cheap. Greed was catered to at gaming tables, slot machines, and betting parlors featuring bare knuckle Ultimate Fighting contests. Gluttony’s role thrived through the overabundance of food, drink, and drugs.
Kyla brought the bike into her two-room cabin, braced it under the entrance knob, and shot the door’s bolt. She raised the window shade and looked over the downward slope of the hill, noting a small orange glow on the otherwise dark horizon. Delving into her backpack, she snapped open her disposable cell phone and entered the military code and password which connected her to a stealth satellite signal that accommodated internet and phone communications anywhere in the world. Next she attached the acoustic coupler of a portable voice changer to the charging slot in back of the handset, adjusted the voice pitch from female to male, punched in the required digits, and waited. Within seconds a raspy male voice muttered, “Si?”
“Tonight your yacht. Tomorrow your life...” Kyla heard the hiss of his breath, “unless you deliver Hannah to me.”
“Why do you want Hannah?”
Kyla’s only answer was a loud impatient sigh.
“What if she doesn’t wish to leave me?”
“Then you’d best make a will.”
A short spell of silence was followed by, “Tell me what I must do.”
Kyla’s normally brown hair was now strikingly blond and her hazel eyes bright green via contact lenses. Leaving her rental car in a parking lot several blocks away, she approached the Trident Casino on foot. She wore a smart gray pants suit that accentuated her curves and pretended not to notice the leers thrown her way by the tuxedoed gaming dealers working the tables or their casually attired male customers. She approached a muscular, dark-skinned man in a white suit whose spiral corded earpiece indicated he was a member of the casino’s security detail, and uttered previously agreed-to code words, “Can you tell me who I might see about a job?”
The man ushered her to an elevator that opened into Carlos Alvarez’s office, where he sat behind a huge mahogany desk chomping an unlit cigar. Three tough-looking Hispanic men in seemingly mandatory white suits flanked the room strategically. Alvarez stared at Kyla a moment before gesturing toward a cushioned leather armchair. When she sat down, he said, “Who sent you?
“I don’t know,’’ she shrugged.
When half of a yellow-toothed grin appeared below his pencil thin mustache the white suits laughed scornfully. The one to the right of Alvarez spoke. “Señorita, you think my boss—he believes that? He’s an imbecile?”
“I was awakened last night by a call from a man who said he would pay me three thousand dollars to come to this casino and ask for a job. I told him I was American and planning to go home and didn’t want a job. He explained I would be repeating a code that would allow me to meet you and that I was to leave here with a woman. He promised me another three thousand after he collected the woman from me. It sounded phony, so I hung up on him.”
Alvarez’s loose jowls jigged as he shook his head. “And then, Señorita…”
“He called back and told me to look under my door where I found an envelope with thirty crisp hundred dollar bills. I can use the money—”
“If you need money you can always work for me.” Alvarez’s guttural laugh revealed more stained teeth and was echoed by his guards. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“The money’s in my jacket pocket. I can—”
“Place your hands on my desk.” He motioned to the man on his right. “Check her pockets.” The bodyguard produced an envelope from her right hand pocket and Alvarez counted the money. He shoved the envelope across the desk to her and said, “You’re in grave danger, Muchacha.”
“Why?” Kyla swallowed hard and stiffened. “I’m just delivering a message—doing an errand.”
“You’ll do an errand, all right!” Alvarez flung the cigar into an onyx pedestal ashtray next to his desk
, then stood up. “You will tell me who this man is and where we can find him!”
“I don’t know…” Kyla’s eyes widened. “He told me you might ask and—”
Alvarez’s brandy and cigar-breath made her flinch as he leaned forward. “Do you think I’ll just hand over one of my employees after my life has been threatened and my yacht bombed! I have you now. He’ll see me on my terms or you’ll live in a hell that Dante himself could not even imagine!”
“Señor Alvarez…Please… He told me that you might not cooperate and said I should—”
“Cooperate!” Alvarez’s egg-shaped body undulated as he shouted, “You should know what—”
“Explain that he would listen to our conversation and respond accordingly.”
“Listen?”
Kyla’s lifted her pant leg and revealed the power pack strapped to her calf. “I’m wearing a wire. He left it outside my door with written instructions on how to use it.”
Alvarez swayed side to side, then slumped like a deflating balloon into his swivel chair and dropped his face into his hands. Silence enveloped the office only to be broken by the tremors in his voice when he finally lifted his head revealing suddenly mottled jowls and half whispered, “Domingo…”
The bodyguard on his right said, “Yes, Boss?”
“What do you think we should do?”
A trace of frown crossed Domingo’s rugged features as he answered, “Hannah’s expendable.”
Hannah Brant’s arm felt rigid as Kyla gripped it and escorted her hastily toward the car. The lovely young woman, clad in a colorful shift and high heels, obeyed silently when ordered to accompany this stranger, yet her blue eyes seemed glazed and her smile strangely serene. When they reached the parking lot, she asked, “Que pasa, Señorita?”
“Please get in the car. And do speak English.”
