Thicker Than Water (A Leo Waterman Mystery)

by G. M. Ford

  “Collins,” Brett said.

  “Trevor Collins?”

  “Guy I used to get the boats from.”

  “You know the other one?” I asked.

  He squinted through the curtain of raindrops. “Never seen him before.”

  I figured Trevor Collins was along to drive the boat, which made the other guy Colombian muscle. I stepped over to the far rail, putting as much distance between the muscle and me as I could get.

  Above the static hiss of the rain, I thought I heard a clap of thunder. Then it happened again and a third time before I realized that what I was hearing were bursts of gunfire out in the street. Dread rolled down my spine like an icy ball bearing.

  The trio approaching us was about thirty yards away, still hazy through a steady curtain of rain, moving slowly and deliberately, making sure they kept Rebecca in front of them as they approached our position. Neither Collins nor the Colombian seemed concerned by the weapons fire behind them. Just another day at the office.

  I reached in my pocket, grabbed my phone, and started to call George.

  Another, longer burst of automatic weapon fire sounded from the street. Thing was, my left ear heard the burst of fire in real time. My right ear heard the same burst from the phone’s speaker half a second later. George hadn’t broken our last connection. The line was open, preventing me from making another call. I heard George scream and then another burst of gunfire.

  “Shit,” I said, and jammed the phone back into my pants.

  Collins finally looked back over his shoulder, wondering what the hell was going on on Marine View Drive. A metal-on-metal crash, an interval, and more gunfire and another earsplitting crash. The Colombian never twitched. From twenty yards away I could feel his shark eyes on me. Parts of me contracted like a dying star.

  Rebecca’s knees suddenly buckled. She would have gone down, but the big Colombian grabbed her around the waist, set her on his left hip, and kept walking without breaking stride or removing his right hand from the raincoat pocket.

  They were twenty feet away when I called out, “Leave her right there.”

  They stopped walking, but that was all. No move to set her down.

  “Everything’s just where you left it,” I said. “I just want the woman. Got no desire to spend the next twenty years looking over my shoulder, waiting for you guys to show up and blow my brains out.”

  The Colombian nodded his understanding. “That’s the smart money move,” he said in a flat, expressionless voice.

  “Just set her down right there,” I said again.

  He shook his big head resignedly. “Gotta see the product,” he said.

  He looked at Trevor Collins and nodded toward the boat. Collins put his back against the opposite railing and began to sidestep past us.

  “Check him for weapons,” I told Brett.

  For once in his life he kept his mouth shut and did as he was told, stiff-legging it across the dock, and patting Collins down like he’d seen cops do on TV.

  I kept both eyes glued to the Colombian and my trigger finger just outside the guard. I figured there was no way either of us would survive a shootout at this range, and I was hoping like hell he saw it that way too.

  “He’s clean,” Brett said.

  “Hurry up,” I prodded.

  Collins hustled over to Yachts of Fun and jumped aboard.

  “Just business,” the thug said.

  I told him I understood.

  A tense minute passed. Then I heard Collins’s voice. “It’s all there.”

  The big guy set Rebecca gently on the dock and began to move toward the boat. He inched along the rail slowly, never turning his back or taking his eyes from mine, until he ducked into the cabin and disappeared from view.

  Within seconds, Collins had reversed the thrusters and the boat started to float into the current. I got as much of me as I could behind the rail and watched through the scope as the big boat began to churn forward.

  “Get the skiff,” I whispered to Brett.

  I didn’t have to ask twice. At that point old Brett would have done just about anything to get off that frigging dock. The words were hardly out of my mouth when he was over the side and working his way down the rickety ladder.

  I crossed quickly to Rebecca. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. She had one arm curled across her forehead. The inside of the arm had enough needle tracks to start a trolley line.

  Out in the waterway, Collins fed diesel to the engines and the boat started to come up on plane. The Colombian stood sentry on the stern. He gave me a curt nod before stepping inside and sliding the door closed.

  I brought the AX9 to my shoulder and shot out the overhead light, sending glass and metal debris showering down on the end of the dock. Turned out it was probably a good idea, because a second later the first incoming round arrived, and any thought that these guys were smart enough to wait for us to get back on shore before they whacked us was gone. Apparently, I’d seriously overrated my enemy.

  Whatever they were firing must have been about three million caliber. Something in the howitzer family of weapons. The first incoming took out a whole section of dock railing, reducing it to splinters in the nanosecond before the sound of the shot arrived. Took me a second to realize what had happened. Those crazy bastards were shooting at us with a rocket launcher.

  I raced to Rebecca, scooped her into my arms, and sprinted toward the missing section of railing. The subsequent incoming round passed about six inches above my right shoulder. Sounded like a flock of Canada geese on the wing. If I’d loaded Rebecca into my arms facing the other way, the round would have taken her head off. I watched the rocket hit the water about halfway across the channel, sending a fountain of spray powering into the night sky. The hundred yards of moldering dock beneath my feet shook from the impact.

  I veered toward the missing section of railing, pulled down a final gulp of air, and launched both of us out into the darkness. I was five feet from the edge of the dock, hanging in midair with Rebecca cradled in my arms, when it occurred to me that I had no idea what was waiting for me in the water below; images of old, splintered pilings just below the surface raced through my brain in the split-second before we hit the water. Last thing I heard was the sound of the skiff’s outboard motor sputtering to life.

  Even to a man already soaked to the skin, the frigid water was a shock to the system. My muscles spasmed. My knees involuntarily drew close to my chest as I sunk to the bottom of the channel, hugging Rebecca to my chest, trying desperately not to swallow any of the carcinogenic water.

  And then my feet hit the muddy bottom and I used what little power I could still summon from my legs to push off, sending us upward, until what seemed like a week later, my head breached the surface, and I could gulp another breath and shift Rebecca so that we were parallel and our heads were at the same height.

  Brett and the Boston Whaler were about ten feet away.

  “Get her,” I yelled, kicking my legs, trying to keep both of our heads above the surface. “Come get her!”

  He used his hands to propel the dingy from under the dock. That’s when Rebecca’s autonomic nervous system jolted her into consciousness and she began to swim for her life. Her frenzied thrashing pushed my face below the waterline; I held my breath and lifted her upward for all I was worth.

  After what seemed like an hour and a half, I felt her weight begin to lessen and knew Brett had ahold of her, so I let go and kicked my way to the surface, where I grabbed the side of the dingy with one hand and Rebecca’s belt with the other. We got her over the side in two tries, but I didn’t have enough muscle power left to force myself that high, so I swam around to the stern and launched the top half of me up onto the transom. The outboard belched exhaust fumes into my face as I inched my way on board.

  Having rolled Rebecca into the bottom of the boat, Brett reached back and grabbed me by the shoulders. Together we hauled the last three feet of me on board the skiff. Between labo
red breaths, I could hear the sound of footsteps thundering along the dock. Lots of heavy footsteps coming our way.

  “Go, go,” I shouted to Brett. “Get us the hell out of here,”

  No hesitation this time either. He threw himself behind the wheel, jammed the throttle lever all the way forward, sending the boat roaring out into the channel.

  Rebecca babbled incoherently and rolled from side to side fighting off dream demons, as I crawled to the rear of the dingy and brought the rifle to bear on the dock.

  “Go, go,” I still chanted as I brought my eye up to the night vision scope. Even with night vision, the figures running toward the end of the dock were muddy and indistinct. Before I was able to steady my weapon, muzzle flashes lit up the night, and the water around the speeding boat began to boil.

  I aimed and squeezed the trigger. Looked like I was shooting fireflies. Each round glowed phosphorous green as it arced in their direction. Joey Ortega was right. I wasn’t much of a marksman, but when you could see where the rounds were going, it was easy to make adjustments.

  I raised my aiming point two feet and let go another burst. My second attempt sent our pursuers flat-bellied onto the deck, as the AR began chewing up the locale. I kept my finger on the trigger until the magazine ran dry, ejected the empty clip, and slapped another into the breach.

  Brett slalomed the boat back and forth across the channel, trying to make us harder to hit. Before I could loose another burst, a halogen-white muzzle flash the size of a trash can lit up the dock, and the Boston Whaler shuddered violently as the whole bow of the boat disappeared in a scream of tortured metal.

  By the time I recovered my wits, the boat was beginning to sink. From where I sat, it looked as if we surely were on our way to the bottom.

  “Back here! Everybody back here,” Brett shouted.

  I grabbed Rebecca and slid past him, half carrying, half dragging her to the extreme rear of the skiff. By the time I got both of us as far aft as we could get, the boat had taken on the better part of a foot of water and our speed was down to nothing. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, our combined weight began to lift the nose just enough so that we were no longer plowing water. I ducked a hail of small-caliber rounds buzzing by. As the bow cleared the surface, the accumulated water in the boat sloshed toward the stern, leaving us hip deep as the boat labored across the channel.

  We were three-quarters of the way across the waterway. The thirty-horsepower outboard began to smoke from the strain as we slogged toward the far shore. A flash of movement pulled my eyes to the left.

  I guess Collins saw that his pals’ plans for us had gone awry and had decided to help them out. Yachts of Fun had turned around and was on plane, screaming toward us at something like twenty knots. No way we were going to make it to shore before she cut us in half and ground us to fish bait.

  “The controller,” Brett yelled. “Gimme the controller!”

  I fished the yacht controller from my pocket and handed it to him.

  “Take the wheel,” he screamed.

  I levered myself onto the seat next to him and took the helm.

  Rebecca was on her hands and knees, trying to struggle to her feet. I reached over and pushed her back to the bottom of the boat as another round screamed overhead. I watched in terror as it plowed into the far bank, sending a geyser of stone and dirt spiraling high into the air.

  When I looked up again, Brett was madly pushing buttons on the controller. I snapped my eyes to the left just in time to see Yachts of Fun turn sharply to port, sending a wall of spray high into the air as it veered into the middle of the channel.

  And then the red light on the yacht controller went out.

  “He figured it out,” Brett yelled and pitched the controller over the side.

  I snapped my eyes forward. We were no more than forty yards from the south bank of the waterway. Our maneuver with the controller might have bought us the time we needed. From the look of it, Yachts of Fun had given up the chase.

  “Not enough water in here for him,” Brett screamed.

  As we approached the shore, I kept the throttle pegged.

  Twenty yards from shore. Then ten.

  “Hang on,” I shouted.

  Brett threw himself into what remained of the bow in the instant before we plowed headlong into the bank. The impact sent him sprawling out onto the muddy slope and flipped me completely over the steering console. I landed on a pile of life jackets in the middle of the boat. I groaned, grabbed Rebecca under the arms and started pulling her up the bank, hoping like hell I didn’t take one in the back of the head as we struggled up the slope. She was trying to walk with me, but her legs were like linguini. Coupla steps, fall down, and slide back. Coupla more steps and slide back. My leg muscles screamed from the effort.

  We got to the top and I realized nobody was shooting at us anymore. I checked the opposite shore. Looked like a body lying out at the end of the dock. Otherwise it was deserted. I was contemplating the possibility that I’d actually hit somebody when two sets of headlights went roaring up Marine View Drive. I couldn’t make out the first, but the second vehicle was a big black Hummer. My breath froze in my chest. So much for plan A. Somehow or other, they’d broken out of the yard, and were on their way over here to finish what they’d started.

  I pushed myself to my feet and looked around.

  No George. No car.

  Brett struggled to the top of the rise. The front of him was crusted with mud and gravel. His nose was bleeding again. His mouth hung open as he swiveled his head in nearly a circle. Took his fear-addled brain a second to figure it out.

  “Where’s the car?” he wheezed.

  I shook my head and pointed to the Emerald Queen riv-erboat. “Take her over that way,” I said. “Get some cover.”

  I reached into my belt, pulled out the 9 mm, and handed it to him.

  “The boat,” I said. “Get her to the boat.”

  Brett liked the idea of getting to cover. That was right up his alley. He pocketed the nine, lifted Rebecca into his arms, and staggered toward the deserted riverboat on the near shore. I could tell by the way his legs quaked and quivered that he wasn’t going to be able to get her there on his own.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket. The noise coming from the phone’s speaker sounded like George was strapped to the wing of a 747 during takeoff. “George,” I screamed. “Answer me, goddamn it! George. Do you hear me, George?”

  Nothing. Just more of that screeching wall of sound.

  I pushed the End button over and over, hoping to break the connection so I could call 911 and get some help because the minute Junior’s troops got over to this side, we were going to be dead. But nothing happened. The screeching and squawking continued unabated. I cursed again, pocketed the phone, and looked around.

  Out in the waterway, Yachts of Fun was a half mile away, rocketing past the Hylebos Bridge, heading out into the darkness of Puget Sound at full throttle.

  I was still deciding what to do next when my peripheral vision picked up the shower of sparks, a great yellow rooster tail of molten metal fanning up into the night sky like a thousand Fourth of July sparklers. “What the…,” I whispered.

  I was still collecting my lower jaw when the Tahoe came fishtailing around the corner, three of the tires completely gone, running on the rims. Even from two hundred feet away, I could hear the rims shredding the asphalt and the big engine screaming as the car bore down on me like a crippled rhinoceros.

  I dropped to one knee, thumbed off the safety on the AX9 and put my eye to the scope. I couldn’t quite make out who was driving, but from the size of the passenger, I knew it had to be Norman riding shotgun. I eased my finger from the trigger, scrambled to my feet, and waved frantically.

  The car slid back and forth across the road, shaking its rear end like one of Joey Ortega’s dancers as the one remaining rear tire alternately gained and lost traction.

  George locked up the brakes and plowed to a halt about fift
y feet in front of me. The relentless rain hissed and spattered as it came into contact with overheated metal.

  I raced to the driver’s door and jerked it open. George’s face was white with fear.

  “They seen us, Leo,” he yelled. “Caught us chaining the gate.”

  I pulled him out of the car. Pointed at the retreating figures of Brett and Rebecca, barely visible through the curtain of water. “That way,” I shouted. “Go that way!”

  Norman stumbled around the front of the car, his left arm bloody and hanging limp by his side. I pointed at Brett and Rebecca again. “Normy,” I shouted. “Help him get her to the boat.”

  He took off running in long, slow-motion strides. Looked like Frankenstein doing the hundred-yard dash.

  George was frozen in place. His eyes looked like pin-wheels. He held his hands in front of his body, his fingers still clenched around an imaginary steering wheel.

  “Go,” I yelled.

  He looked at me as if I was speaking Turkish, then shook himself from his stupor and went skittering off after the others.

  That’s when the first of the pursuit cars came roaring around the corner.

  I brought the AX9 to my shoulder and pulled the trigger. The automatic spewed a glowing arc of tracers. The car’s windshield instantly disappeared; the car drifted lazily to the right. I watched as the Lexus blasted off the edge of the embankment, hovered in midair for a long moment, its wheels spinning, and then belly flopped into the Hylebos Waterway, where it sank nose first into the dark waters.

  Having witnessed its predecessor’s fate, the Hummer wasn’t taking any chances. I heard the screech of tires and watched as three figures threw themselves from the car and ran for cover. One guy ran to the right, the other two to the left. Koontz and Ng were easy to spot, their comic book profiles unmistakable as they hustled over and put portions of the bank between us. I ducked behind the Tahoe, ejected the empty magazine, and slapped in another.

  When I peeked around the fender, the blood began to eddy in my veins. Koontz and Ng were lying on their bellies pointing what looked like a rocket launcher my way. My survival mechanism sent me crawling backward, keeping my car between us, trying to put as much distance between the Tahoe and me as I could get.