The Target

by Roger Weston

  Fear touched him as he realized he’d wasted time in life—and now his life was all out of time.

  “That’s right,” Jake said. “Hundreds of souls simply disappeared, their lives cut short by you. Your mother must be so proud.”

  The Gitano shook his head impatiently. “No, sir. The little people exist only to be controlled by the elite, by great men of history and destiny like Balboa, like Stalin, and like the Gitano. These men are the players. All the rest are simply pawns.”

  Now Jake was sure that Alamar was deranged. “Hundreds of souls simply disappeared,” Jake said. “Another favorite cargo was hashish from your Islamic fundamentalist Moroccan contacts, and the profits built several mosques in Tangiers. You might have become one of the richest men in Spain, but you didn’t keep a low profile. That, combined with rumors of mass murder at sea, forced the police to turn up the heat on you, and they clamped down on other crime groups as well.

  “The Italians gave you a choice: you could get out of Spain or they would solve the problem so the police didn’t have to. Rumor says that when you left the country you were carrying nothing but a concealed weapon, a bag with $290,000 in cash, and a bill-counting machine. The police thought you fled to Southern Chile. They weren’t too far off.”

  The Gitano’s shiny dark eyes were menacing, but he remained calm. After a few moments he said, “And where did you learn these things?”

  “Wrong question,” Jake said. “The real question is how you plan to escape now that the Royal Navy is approaching.”

  Alamar smiled at that. “Surely, you must be joking. We are monitoring the seas from a temporary radar station that we’ve set up.”

  Jake said nothing. His bluff was an act of desperation, and it hadn’t worked.

  Leading with his saw-off shotgun, the Gitano stepped toward him, moving within a few feet to point-blank range. From that distance, Jake figured the Gitano could shoot him, and he wasn’t likely to miss. It was hard for him to breathe because he knew the Gitano would do it.

  “Who is your source?” the Gitano said, his pit-bull eyes showing as much compassion chunks of coal.

  “I can’t say.” Jake raised his hands and noticed how badly they were shaking.

  “You will say—or I will blow you away right now.”

  “Alright,” Jake said, his voice quavering, “but if I tell you, then what?”

  “Then I’ll let you do hard labor now, and I’ll leave you behind when I leave the island.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “You’ll have to take your chances. I want to know your source. Tell me now, or die now.”

  “Alright. I can tell you this. My source doesn’t matter. What matters is where they got the information. Who’s the real source? That’s the question. A Coast Guard investigator who helped seize one of your ships that was smuggling heroin into Southern California. He’s been in touch with the Spanish Organized Crime Task Force commander.

  “My source was referred to an Israeli ship captain who, along with his entire crew, was thrown overboard by Gitano pirates, three hundred miles off the coast of Somalia. Because he’d heard rumors and connected the dots, he wisely stowed an emergency locator beacon in his pant leg in hopes that his body could be recovered for his family to have a proper burial and find closure. He was surprised to be thrown overboard alive. He was even more surprised to be rescued within hours.

  “The sergeant with the Spanish Organized Crime Division had also been in contact with an anonymous businessman in Italy who knew about the Gitano and also happened to be a police informer.”

  Alamar’s face was dark. His calm, deadly eyes were locked on Jake. “Your source. Tell me your source or you will die.”

  Jake was still holding up his shaking hands. Now he felt his knees shaking. He couldn’t believe he was ever stupid enough to get himself into a situation like this. At that moment, he wished that he’d listened to Ava, but he quickly rejected the thought. He must not live by fear.

  In a fast movement, he jerked his right shoulder back and swept his right leg back. Pivoting on that momentum and equilibrium, he reached out and grabbed the Gitano’s wrist with his left hand, pushing the weapon to his right.

  The Gitano fired—but Jake had shifted left and shoved the gun to the right. The blast blew one of the Gitano’s thugs backward, causing the mobster to land on his back. Jake continued to spin left until he was standing side by side with the Gitano, both of them holding onto the shotgun. The second gunman aimed at Jake, but because he was so close to the Gitano, the man hesitated for fear of shooting his boss. That gave Jake the extra second that he needed. Just as he knocked the Gitano off balance, he shoved a finger into the shotgun’s big trigger guard and squeezed the second trigger. Just as the gunman fired his pistol at Jake, a blast exploded out of the end of the double-barreled shotgun. While the gunman missed his single shot a Jake, who was a moving target, the twelve-gauge blast spread out and took down the henchman as a cloud of birdshot tore into him.

  Just as he’d practiced the move a hundred times before with his step father, Jake pulled the shooting hand back to his chest as he reached under and locked onto the weapon so that the shooter couldn’t turn it back on him. Using the leverage he now had on the gun, he twisted his hips to the left and spun the shotgun barrel back toward the shooter, who lost his grip. Using his ulna bone like a club, Jake chopped down on the shooter’s forearms as he ripped the shotgun free. As a thank you gift, Jake slammed the stock of the shotgun into the shooter’s pit-bull eye, knocking him to the floor where he rolled around in a semi-conscious state of delirium.

  Jake took aim at the dog team, blasting the first attack dog to leap at him. The second dog took to heals and bolted out the door at the other end of the lounge.

  Taking the steps three-at-a-time, Jake bounded up to the top deck. He gathered up his rope where he’d left it. He heard men yelling and dogs barking. He heard feet pounding up the stairwell. He pushed the button on his expandable grappling hook, causing the hooks to snap out. Slinging the metal claws over the railing, he slipped on his special gloves and repelled down the side of the ship to the main deck, where half a dozen painters moved away to give him room. He doubled-tugged his rope, which retracted the grappling hooks, and the metal fitting at the end of his rope slammed on the deck next to him as he rapidly coiled the slack.

  After double-checking that the waterproof bag strapped under his shirt was sealed shut, he snagged his grappling hook to the three-inch docking ropes coiled around the big cleats on the inside of the rail. As he saw the beams of flashlights dancing toward the nearest corner, he dove overboard and fell into the darkness. When the rope caught, his gloves allowed him to slide a few feet without burning his gloved hands. He slammed into the side of the ship and hung in the darkness, steadying himself so that he didn’t swing. Hanging by one arm and clinging to the rope with his thighs, he drew his Glock and aimed up at the rail, but the dog handlers ran on by and never looked over the side of the ship.

  Jake put the gun away and swung over to the big net rungs beneath the camo tarp. Then with a double pull on his rope, he collapsed and recovered his grappling hook. Back on the platform he’d visited while boarding, he pulled on his drysuit while he did deep breathing exercises to increase his lung capacity. He continued down the netting, worried only that the vials in the waterproof bag under his shirt had been broken. If that happened, he would earn the scorn of millions as a reward for his suffering.

  Someone up above shined a light down on him.

  “Over here.”

  All of a sudden, the flash of gunfire lit up the space between the camo tarp and the ship’s hull. Jake let go of the rope and dropped thirty feet down into the water. He splashed into the water and writhed under the sting that followed.

  He plunged into the ice cold black water and swam down to his scuba gear, which was tied to the netting where it hung beneath the surface, anchored by ropes and sandbags. With a quick pull at hi
s slipknot, he allowed his weight belt to pull him and his gear downward ten or fifteen feet before he pulled on his gear and swam away from the ship. The tenderness he felt humbled him. Swimming, he kicked with only one leg. He was thrilled to still be alive and in possession of an antidote that could potentially heal millions in the future. He laughed, blowing extra air out of his mouth piece. This was a great discovery—even if it was just stolen goods. Having it in his possession lifted his spirit, and at that moment, nothing else seemed important.

  Except maybe for the minor issues of another attack on his crew and the Gitano’s plan to exterminate half of the passengers on the stolen cruise ship now that the painting was done.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jake had just surfaced near the beach north of the whaling station when he heard the helicopter and the machine guns. He heard screams and bursts of automatic gunfire. Gritting his teeth, he slogged up on the beach and dropped his scuba gear in the sand.

  He jogged on the hard-packed sand, weaving and halting as the wind gusts shoved him and his leg offered little resistance. When the sand played out, he hustled over snow. When he rounded the point, he dropped to a knee and opened fire on the helicopter, but it was already out of range and soaring away to the north.

  Jake struggled to stand. Then he worked up to a forced jog, and the whaling station hove into view. The wind blew harder and colder now, and the seals barked along the shore. Above those sounds, Jake heard the screams of a woman. Jake ran past the whale boat propellers half buried in the sand and past the rusted tank farm.

  Ava was sitting in the snow whaling in a fit of rage almost in concert with the wind.

  “I hate him!” she screamed. “I hate his guts.”

  Jake saw a few sailors standing outside their sleeping quarters. He walked up to them and realized two of them were also bleeding. Fortunately, their wounds looked superficial. “Is anyone badly hurt?”

  Ava shot a glance at him. “Are you happy, Jake, you backstabber? Get him!”

  Braulio stepped toward Jake.

  “We got seven bodies in there, man.”

  “Oh, no.” Jake put his hand on his forehead.

  Four sailors surrounded him, bloodlust in their eyes. “Where the hell have you been?” Braulio said. “Looks like Ava was right. You sold us out and fingered our building.”

  “That’s right!” Ava Shrieked. “He’s a traitor, a backstabbing scum.”

  Jake turned to Ava. “That’s a lie. Get yourself together. Show some dignity.”

  She pointed at him. “How else, with all these buildings, did the helicopter know exactly where we were sleeping?”

  “She’s right,” Braulio said, “sliding a knife out of its sheath. “You’re the liar. Nice that you show up right after the helicopter leaves.”

  Jake eyed the hunting knife. “I said you’re wrong, and I don’t have time to argue.” He pulled out his Smith & Wesson handgun. “You want to fight? I don’t recommend it.”

  They backed off. Jake controlled his fury and left them alone. He could understand their anger and their confusion. He could not understand why Ava was lying about him.

  He staggered over to the station store. Len was leaning against the door frame. He was staring at the ground as if he was trying read something there. Jake said, “Are there more casualties over here?”

  Jackson didn’t even acknowledge him.

  “Is everyone alright in there?”

  Jackson slid down against the door frame until he was sitting. Without ever looking at Jake, he said, “It’s the sailors.”

  Rushing as best he could through the ghost town, Jake wished he had Pace’s cane. Jake saw Talia standing in the dark by the old factory, holding onto the corner of the building so the wind wouldn’t blow her off balance.

  Talia hugged him. “Where have you been? I thought you were dead.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Be careful. I know what Ava said isn’t true. I know it’s not. I believe in you.” He looked into her eyes, and for a moment, he felt the power and love that could only be found in words of belief.

  She turned and disappeared around a corner.

  Jake went to Ava to ask her why she lied about him, but she gave him a scorching look.

  “You murderer!” she shrieked. “You sold us out to save yourself. I hope you die!”

  Jake had been lied about before, but he pitied liars. They were sad and truly pitiful. “Let me take you inside,” he said, somehow coaching himself to pity her.

  “Leave me alone,” she wailed. “It should have been me.”

  Jake was speechless. He wouldn’t argue that point with her, but still, he was surprised at the depth of her grief. She hadn’t even known the sailors. Whatever issues Ava had, Jake had to admit that deep down she seemed to care about people. She cared so much that she would rather she died than the sailors. Jake would never have guessed.

  He went to the station store to get the first-aid kit from the supplies. Len Jackson hadn’t moved an inch. The first aid kit was missing. Jake stepped outside to where Len still sat by the door staring at nothing.

  “Have you seen the first-aid kit?” Jake said.

  Len gave him a sharp glare. “Don’t waste your time.”

  “Why not? We’ve got a couple of wounded sailors.”

  “You mean dead men.”

  “No, I mean a couple are wounded.”

  “No, you mean dead. Maybe they ain’t dead yet, but mark my words, we’re all dead—every one of us. I’ve seen it in Bosnia and the Sudan. They’ll just keep killing us off until there’s none left. Kill us today, kill us tomorrow—what’s the damn difference? We all die. A week from now the scavenger birds will take over.”

  “There’s work to do,” Jake said.

  “Don’t you get it, Sands? When a man’s time comes, he can’t run from it.”

  “I need your help,” Jake said. “You survived through Bosnia, Somalia, and Sudan. You know how to survive as well as anyone.”

  Len looked up at Jake. “What do you know about it? Do you know that I left men to die of their wounds so that I could go and get more video footage and photographs for my employers? I photographed starving children and left them there in search of even more lurid pictures. Do you know what it’s like to carry that around? Do know I was cut loose by the ungreatful bastards for so-called mental health issues? Is that what you think, too?” Len stood up. He clenched his fists and flared out his arms. “You think I’ve got mental issues—is that right, you backstabbing rat?”

  Jake raised his open palm, warning Len with his eyes.

  “Look, there’s two wounded sailors over there right now. Why don’t you get the first aid kit and go help them?”

  Len was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded and went inside after the first aid kit.

  Jake ran over to the tank farm and went from tank to tank. Beneath a pile of rusted metal, he found the jamming device that Strom Pace had told him about. He carried it to the blacksmith’s shop and smashed it against an ice-covered forge. From a pile of scrap metal, he got on the Satphone that he’d recovered from the captain’s quarters of their wrecked ship, and he called the Argentinean Coastal Patrol. He updated them on the situation and his fears that hundreds of innocent cruise passengers were about to be killed.

  He knew that Len Jackson was telling the truth. The helicopter would return—and somehow they knew which buildings to fire on. Jake thought about Ava’s outburst and wondered if her grief could possibly be caused by a terrible guilt. He hoped he was wrong about her, but cowards had done worse than betray their shipmates. H couldn’t help wondering if she was scapegoating him to keep the focus off of herself. It did seem as if guilt and fear were eating her alive from within. Extreme guilt and fear could drive a person over the edge.

  He looked at the old blacksmith’s anvil and thought of Len Jackson. Len was not exaggerating. Once the killing began, there was no end to it. Throughout history, the weak had never fared well against the viol
ent. Those who ignored history did not change the inevitable. There were hundreds of people onboard that cruise ship who were doomed as long as the Gitano lived. As soon as the ship was fully painted and ready to sail to Asia, the survivors would be shot and dumped at sea. They passively painted because they hoped that if they complied, they would be spared. Victims had always thought this even though it often didn’t work out. Victims were appeasers, spawned in the lions of fear and tested in the fires of terror. Perhaps only the compliant ones had been spared to paint the ship. Paralyzed with dread and worry, their time was about up.

  From what Jake could tell, the painting was about done. The killing would start very soon. And the helicopter would soon return to the whaling station for another pass—or maybe next time they’d send in a death team. Time was short.

  Jake strapped on his snow shoes and started out of the station. He gazed into the darkness at the vague shape of the rising mountain. It was only 4,000 feet, but to him at that moment, he felt like he was faced with climbing Mount Everest. He hadn’t even begun climbing, and he was weak and light-headed. Warm blood soaked his leg inside his drysuit, yet his fingers and toes were numb. Each step made him cringe from the sting of chaffing on the bullet wound.

  Ava ran out of the darkness and cut him off. Hysterical, she threw herself at Jake. “Don’t you leave. You can’t leave, you bastard. This is all your fault.” She threw fists and clung to him.

  He seized her arms and held her away. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Her facial expression captured the pure hatred of a pale-faced demon.

  She was practically foaming at the mouth. She tried to scratch at his face her curved fingers, but he held her arms back. “If you leave, it proves you’re trying to hide from your guilt.” She looked back toward where she’d come from. “He’s leaving. You can’t let him get away with it!”