Wayne wasn't looking up at the lodge, though I didn't think anyone inside had heard the silenced gunfire. The great room remained dark. The only light spilled from the windows of the enclosed porch at the northwest corner.
I resumed crawling, went under the walkway, which was elevated a few feet about the steep hillside, shimmied through the narrow gap between creosote-treated timber pilings, then back along the porch skirting until I was beneath the screened porch.
Once I reached the west side of the lodge, I figured I should be able to crawl the short span to the woods unseen. That was the only way to reach the shore, and the boat, without being seen, but getting through the dense forest, though-
Voices.
I sank as low to the ground as I could.
Russell was saying something, in a calm voice, that I couldn't make out. Then came a reply, and I recognized Travis: "…ain't what we were hired to do."
Their voices got softer, more conversational, and as much as I strained to hear, I couldn't.
I wondered how long it would take for Wayne to return to the lodge and report that he'd just killed a young Mexican, a member of the lodge staff-and a hostage. The first question would be how one of the hostages had escaped. There'd be a head count. They'd quickly realize I was missing, too.
Which would surely trigger further reprisals. More "lessons."
The ground was earthen and soft, but here and there were buried surprises, rocks and twigs that bruised my kneecaps. The narrow strip of lawn lay just ahead, and beyond it, the forest. The only way down to the water, the boats.
And then Travis's voice, whining, almost pleading: "-hundred million. Not five hundred million, man, come on, what are we doing here? Jesus, Russell, man, that's like a whole new level of, of-"
Russell murmured something lulling.
Travis spoke, but just a fragment floated through the air: "…your cellie from Lompoc."
Lompoc, I thought. That was a prison somewhere. A federal prison. Russell's cellmate from Lompoc prison, it had to be.
John Danziger: One of their employees got arrested in South America on a child recovery case he was working, charged with kidnapping under the international treaty agreements. Did a couple years in prison in the U.S.
Now Russell raised his voice. "No, Travis, you listen to me very carefully. All he cares about is getting the goddamned ninety-seven-point-five million dollars in his goddamned account in Liechtenstein by the close of business today. He gets that, he's cool, he's off the hook."
Who was "he"-Russell's prison cellmate?
Travis interrupted him, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.
My scalp prickled.
Ninety-seven-point-five million.
Off the hook.
Liechtenstein.
Close of business today.
So this wasn't just a clever heist dreamed up by a gang of ex-soldiers. They'd been hired.
I sat up, keeping my head just below the porch floor. I waited, listened harder, finally gave up. Then, my heart knocking, I rose slowly and raced toward the edge of the forest.
64
For a moment, hidden in a dense stand of pines, I looked back at the lodge.
A tall, lanky figure stared out the porch window: Russell.
Maybe he was simply impatient, wondering what was taking Wayne so long. He had a schedule to keep, after all.
I began scrambling down the steep hill toward the shore. Coniferous forest, especially virgin, primitive woods like this, could be like Amazonian jungle. I found myself climbing through hellish, thorny underbrush, thickets of ancient, moss-covered spruces and giant Douglas firs, tendrils of protruding tree roots. Twisted, gnarled pines with boughs so densely grown together I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of me. Branches whipped against my face. The forest canopy was so thick overhead that it blocked the stars.
As I stepped over a drift of leaves and pine needles, my foot struck something.
It swung forward and grasped my shin, and when I saw what it was, I had to stop myself from screaming.
A well-manicured hand. Through the blanket of leaves that had been strewn over Danziger's body I could make out the light blue sleeve of his alligator shirt.
Next to it was another drift of leaves: Alan Grogan.
And a third body concealed by leaves and twigs. With the toe of my shoe, I cleared away just enough to see a dark-skinned young man in jeans and sweatshirt. Josй, I knew at once. Pablo's friend. The first one they'd killed, when they first arrived: the gunshot we'd all heard at dinner. He'd probably seen them come ashore when he was cleaning out the boats.
Undone by what I'd just seen, I kicked free of the dead hand, lurched forward, and tripped on a root; tumbled headfirst, then cracked my forehead against a craggy rock outcropping.
For a few seconds I breathed hard, allowed the pain to suffuse my body. When that didn't work, I bit my lip, tried to will the pain away.
Head throbbing, I scrambled to my feet. My face, scratched and scraped from the branches, stung.
The roar of the waves told me I was close now.
The terrain had become so steeply pitched that I couldn't keep myself from sliding downhill. Only by grabbing at the branch of a downed tree was I able to stop just before plummeting off a scrabbly ledge into the ocean.
There was no shore here; the ledge was far too narrow. But the water was shallow, and it was the only way to the dock. Slowly, I lowered my feet into the surf, braced for a cold shock, relieved to find it wasn't too bad.
I waded along the shoreline, careful not to let the water reach my waist. Buck's revolver was in my pocket, and I wanted to keep it in operational condition.
The shoreline wound past the trees to the small beachfront. The water had gotten steadily colder, or maybe it had been deceptively warm at first; my legs were getting numb. My pant legs chafed my crotch.
There, out in the open, I could be seen from the lodge. I looked up, saw no one.
Wayne was gone. I assumed he'd made his way back to the lodge while I was climbing through the woods.
The Zodiac floated in the water, hitched to the dock.
On the sand nearby lay Pablo's body.
The Zodiac was a classic military inflatable, a commando boat with a skin of leathery black synthetic rubber. The Army donates them to fire and police departments, and sometimes they turn up on the black market.
Around twenty feet long; probably seated fifteen people. Mounted on the black plywood transom board at the stern was a twenty-five-horsepower Yamaha outboard motor. A good, light engine, powerful enough but not too loud. A pair of aluminum oars rested in brackets: much quieter.
As I approached, though, I realized that the boat wasn't just tied up. It was locked. A cable connected the Zodiac to a steel horn cleat bolted to the dock. It was a strong cable, too-thick twisted-steel wire, coated in clear plastic, its ends looping through a sturdy brass padlock.
I tried to fight back the surge of desperation.
Was there was some way to get the cable off? Hoisting myself out of the water, I climbed onto the dock, then immediately lay flat on the splintery planks so I wouldn't be easily spotted from the lodge. I leaned over, tugged at the cleat to see if I could pry it loose.
A sulfurous smell rose like marsh gas, assaulted my nostrils. As I grappled with the cleat, the metal cold and slick in my hands, I heard the splash of the water, surging and boiling against the dock's wooden posts, dark and ominous.
But the steel cleat was too secure, and the cable was too sturdy. The boat wasn't going to move anywhere. I'd have to clamber back up the hill through the forest and look for a cable cutter. Maybe in the maintenance shed up the hill.
That meant exposure, more time. Could I risk it? If I had to…
Discouraged, I arose.
And felt a hand on my shoulder.
65
Even before I turned around I knew whose hand it was. I hadn't heard Wayne's approach: I'd been distracted, and the surf had ma
sked the heavy tread.
Now I found myself looking into the little black hole at the end of the sound suppressor threaded onto his black SIG-Sauer.
You don't put a silencer on a gun unless you mean to fire it.
"Boy, you're full of surprises, aren't you?" he said. "Nowhere to run, you know."
Buck's revolver was in my pocket, if I could get to it in time. But an unsilenced gunshot would draw notice from the lodge, attention I didn't want. The knife would be a better idea.
If I could pull it out without him seeing and killing me first.
I took a long, slow breath. "Who says I want to run?"
"Just put your hands up, Jake," he said, "and come back inside. I don't want to hurt you. I really don't."
He didn't know I'd seen him pull the trigger.
I reflexively glanced at Pablo's sprawled body, on the sand behind him.
His eyes remained locked on mine; he knew what I'd seen.
"Come on, now, let's go," he said. "Hands up, Jake, and you won't get hurt. I promise."
I'd barely heard him talk before. The man who'd just killed Pablo had a surprisingly gentle manner. His piping voice was almost melodious.
And he knew my name, which was interesting.
I'd killed once before and thought I'd never have to do it again.
I didn't want to.
Don't make me do this.
"Jake. You see, you really don't have a choice."
"No, I really don't."
"All right," he said. "Now we're talking."
I bowed my head as if considering my options, and my right hand felt unseen for my back pocket, very slowly pulling out the knife.
Pablo had died because I couldn't bring myself to kill for the second time in my life.
It really was that simple. Not just that I'd misjudged Wayne, though I had. But that I couldn't do it.
I could now.
Nodding, I thumbed the trigger button and felt it jolt in my hand as the blade ejected.
And then I lunged at him.
The man who'd just killed Pablo. I saw him as if through fog.
My heart raced. A quick upward swipe against his throat, and his mouth gaped in surprise, exposing the tiny jagged teeth of some feral woodland creature.
His knees buckled, and he toppled backwards. The dock shook. His pistol clattered, slid almost to the edge of the dock.
Now I had the knife against his throat, my knees on his chest. The blade caught the moonlight. It glinted and sparkled. Blood ran from a gash just below his neckline.
"You know what this knife can do," I said. "Answer a couple of questions, and I'll let you go."
He blinked a few times, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, his right hand start to move. I pressed the blade against the skin. "Don't."
"What do you want to know?"
"What happens after you get your money?"
He was blinking rapidly: nervous. His eyes shifted up and to his right, then back. "I can hardly breathe, you know. Your knee-"
"What happens to us?"
"Don't worry, Jake," he said. "We're not leaving anyone behind."
I studied his face, saw the very beginning of a smile, no more.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I said, though I knew.
He didn't answer. I slid the blade lightly against his throat. A fresh line of blood appeared.
"Hey!"
"Who hired you?"
"You did."
I slid the blade again, a bit harder this time.
"You don't get it, do you? We're just employees like you. Just doing a job. Come on, Jake. Seriously, now. There's no need for violence."
I gritted my teeth; my hand trembled. He probably thought I was frightened.
I wasn't, not anymore. "Tell that to the kid on the beach over there."
"I saw that. It's a shame."
"I saw it, too," I said. "Watched you put three bullets into him. One more question, Wayne. What did you say to him at the very end?"
Now he was unable to stop his smile. "I told him to dance the cucaracha."
Tears blurred my vision.
Wayne took a deep, labored breath. "He looked like a puppet, didn't you think?"
Blood roared in my ears, and I was in the dark tunnel, speeding along, no exit.
This time I slashed without holding back, and a geyser spewed from his neck, spilling over his camo shirt and vest. He made a choking, gagging sound. His right hand grasped the air, the fingers twitching.
With both hands, I gave his body a hard shove. It made a great splash.
66
The adrenaline began to ebb from my bloodstream, leaving me rubber-limbed, feeling played out.
I stood, though my knees were barely able to support me. Wiped the blood off the knife, then retracted the blade and slipped it into my back pocket. I fought off a wave of nausea. Then I remembered Wayne's SIG-Sauer, picked it up from the edge of the dock, slipped it into my waistband.
Tried to summon the strength to climb back up the hill, through the tangled underbrush, to go to the toolshed and try to find a pair of bolt cutters.
And then, from somewhere up the hill, came a high-pitched cry.
A female cry, quickly stifled.
Coming out of the eastern side of the lodge, the area where Verne took his smoking breaks, were the silhouettes of two people, one shoving the other.
It was Verne, and he had a woman with him.
I raced up the wooden steps, right out in the open, no longer caring whether Russell or anyone else was watching.
As I approached, I heard scuffling. For a few seconds I couldn't comprehend what was happening, why Verne was kneeling on top of Ali, pinioning her down, why something had been stuffed into her mouth and her skirt was pulled up and her soft vulnerable flesh was exposed, but the moment, the very second I understood, my brain stopped working.
67
I was in that strange and familiar place where my pulse pounded steadily and the anger shot through my veins like high-octane fuel. I was possessed by a single-minded purpose. I was in a trance, in a tunnel. The whole world had collapsed to just him and me.
Verne looked up, startled, as I rushed up to him, but it wasn't easy for him to move. Not with his pants pulled down that way, his discolored white jockey shorts down around his knees, his engorged phallus a beet-red upturned thumb sprouting from a mop of mossy brown pubic hair. Not while he was struggling to hold Ali down with both hands and feet.
She was writhing and bucking against him, trying to free herself with all her strength, but her hands were roped together, and she was far overmatched in any case. Her face was red from exertion. Her cries were muffled by the panties he'd stuffed in her mouth.
Then, scowling at me, still kneeling on Ali's thighs, he lifted his right arm, swung it behind him to grab for his holster, entangled in his trousers.
I had Buck's gun in my pocket and Wayne's pistol in my waistband, but in my adrenaline haze I'd forgotten about both of them. I reared back and drop-kicked him, hard, in the throat. Something in there crunched and gave way.
Verne made an oooof sound, then emitted an enraged, animal-like growl. He wobbled, knocked off-balance, but quickly righted himself, got back up on his knees and tried to stand as he grabbed his pants to hitch them up.
Ali twisted away. Her face was scratched and her lipstick was smeared and her eyes leaked tears. Her blouse was ripped, exposing her bra.
He seemed to have given up on his gun, for the moment. Instead, as he propelled himself up from a squatting position, he grabbed my foot, twisted it, and slammed his other fist into my solar plexus. I doubled over, staggered backwards, the wind knocked out of me.
My entire world had one single purpose: inflicting a very personal violence on that monster.
Back on his knees, he had his revolver out now and was aiming at me. He shuddered and twitched, his gun hand shaking. His eyes danced. The meth might have speeded up his reaction time, but it had also fried his nervous
system; he couldn't hold the gun steady.
I grabbed his gun hand at the wrist with one hand, twisted the gun in my other, and jerked it backwards. His finger had gotten stuck in the trigger guard, as I expected it would, and as I wrenched the gun out of his grip, his trigger finger bent way out of joint, obviously broken.
Then, flinging his gun out of the way, I slammed my elbow into his face. He went uhhhh, toppled backwards. He groaned, struggled up to a sitting position, gasping for air.
I flashed on that image of Ali trapped beneath his knees and arms, her nakedness exposed, her beauty and vulnerability, and what little restraint I had was gone.
Grabbing his sleeves from behind, I slammed the entire weight of my body against the back of his head, lifting my feet off the ground, throwing all my weight into it, forcing his head down. His throat gurgled. His neck bent all the way forward until his chin nuzzled his chest, and I felt his head jolt forward, then he made a short, sharp gasp as his neck audibly snapped.
For a few seconds, I lay on top of him. Then I rolled off him, heart racing, panting and heaving.
I rose, went over to Ali, lying exhausted on the lawn, and knelt and pulled out the gag. I threw my arms around her, squeezed hard. Her face was hot and wet against my shirt.
I held her for almost a minute. She'd begun to sob. I held her tight and waited. When her sobs slowed, I let go, took out the knife, and slashed through the ropes to free her hands.
68
We need to get him out of here," I said, picking up the rope I'd just cut off her and jamming them in my pocket. "And we've got to get ourselves out of here, too. Before someone comes looking for him."
"Landry," she said, rising slowly. Her voice shook. "What you just did-"
"Later," I said. "Come on, help me." Verne's little stainless-steel revolver lay on the grass. I grabbed it, and slipped it under my belt.
I grabbed Verne's legs, and she took his arms. She looked dazed but kept moving. He was lighter than Buck had been, but still Ali struggled. Her strength had been sapped.
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