The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  After a moment, he retrieved the first-aid kit and pulled off his pants. After cleaning and dressing the wound, he sat back down and stared at the body. Late thirties or maybe early forties, about six feet tall and muscular. But not overly so. There were flecks of paint on his hands but no watch, rings, or other jewelry. Plain brown shorts, now stained with blood, and no shoes.

  That was interesting, since he’d been wearing shoes earlier when they’d passed on the dock. Might mean a condo nearby. Or a boat. Getting up carefully, the mercenary then bent over the corpse. Ignoring the staring eyes, he went through the windbreaker pockets—no wallet, nothing. But in the shorts he found several keys on a float chain like sailors used in case they dropped it in the water. Also a cell phone and a few dollars in cash.

  Maybe a boat then.

  Straightening up, he cocked his head and listened. There were normal marina sounds: little waves slapping against hulls and the creak of rigging. But nothing else. Leaving the corpse as it lay, he took the keys, switched off the salon lights and let his eyes adjust before softly stepping up the companionway. At deck level he paused again and waited before going on. All was quiet.

  Retrieving the gun, he sat in the cockpit and stared down the dock.

  If the Americans had somehow stumbled on him they wouldn’t have sent one man. They would’ve cut off the water exit and surrounded the marina before sending in a Special Weapons and Tactics team.

  No, it wasn’t Washington.

  Who then? He massaged the bruise on his other thigh and thought about it. The Israelis certainly had the skill and resources to do it, but again, how would they have found him? Besides, they still weren’t sure he was alive after the Lebanese operation. Mossad hit teams also traveled in pairs, and this guy was alone.

  He looked at the weapon. A 9mm Beretta with an Osprey silencer. Good choice. He turned it over. The silencer would work with almost any pistol, and a 9mm, unlike most small-caliber silenced weapons, packed a lethal punch. The Sandman picked up the cell phone and tapped on the screen, lighting it up. “Contacts” was empty so he looked at the “Recents” menu. Two calls. Both 202 area codes.

  Washington, D.C.

  Dialing with his own phone he blocked the first number and called it.

  “Welcome to the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China . . . our normal hours of operation are—”

  He clicked it off. So.

  But how?

  He looked out over the water at the well-lit houses. Even Rama Buradi didn’t know his location. No one knew. But somehow they did. Then, idly turning the phone over in his hand and thinking about technology, he knew how they’d done it.

  The data cartridge. It had to be— it was the only thing he had with him from China. American DTCs had no tracking capability and why would they? But a paranoid place like China? Yes, he nodded, it was entirely possible that some sort of chip was embedded in that case. In that case . . .

  He sat up, fully alert now. In that case they knew exactly where he was! No one could’ve known when he’d come back to his boat so undoubtedly there were routine check-in times. Every two hours? Six hours? Who knew? So how much time did he have before a housekeeping call was missed, and what would happen next? The Chinese couldn’t very well call the Americans for help.

  Or could they?

  Terrorism plots, money laundering . . . there were any number of plausible stories that would enlist Washington’s help. And they would, he suddenly realized. The Chinese would rather see him dead than on the loose with their data cartridge. They’d get it back too—intact. Bribes, favors . . . there were lots of ways to do that and the Chinese were masters of the subtle approach.

  That thought overrode the pain in his legs and he stood up. If the assassin had a boat, it would be in a slip with a clear view of the Wanderer. Studying the available boats, he decided on three. Flicking the safety on, he tucked the pistol into his waistband and eased stiffly onto the dock.

  Limping slowly down the dock, the Sandman stopped next to a big cruiser on the left side. The lines were slack and covered with dark fungus, so it hadn’t been moved in a long while. Climbing over the side, he tried the key anyway on the cabin door and it didn’t fit. From the shadows, he stared across at a sailboat, a forty-two-foot Beneteau called Bluefin. No lights were showing and the slip next to it was empty, giving a clear view to the end of the dock and the Wanderer.

  The boat was clean and in good repair, so he could see no reason for the cans of paint in the cockpit. Unless a man needed an excuse to work outside for hours without attracting attention. That would also explain the stains on the dead assassin’s fingers.

  And the key fit.

  Quickly searching the boat, he found no other clues, just a shaving kit and a small bag of clean clothes. Locking the cabin, he stood on the dock beside the other boat thinking of his options. To leave without killing Sturgis was the easiest solution. He could disappear out into the Atlantic after clearing the breakwater right here. That was the reason he’d chosen the Salt Ponds over more sheltered marinas inland.

  But to let Sturgis go on living was a repugnant thought. The man was a pig and deserved the death the Sandman had planned. He didn’t like changing plans, especially plans that involved prior intelligence. But the ability to adapt was a key reason he was still alive and successful. Deciding then, the mercenary walked back to his boat, packed one of his bags with clean clothes, some canned food from the galley and both sets of IDs. The DTC he stared at for a long moment, then dropped overboard. The salt water would leak in immediately and destroy the electronics. Walking back to the Bluefin, he transferred his gear—just in case.

  The mercenary stepped back aboard Wanderer and stared down the channel toward the bay. He figured at least six, but no more than twelve, hours before the Chinese acted in response to their missing assassin. That might mean another hit team or it might mean American involvement. Either way, he had to leave.

  Now.

  Chapter 26

  “Mmnnnn . . .” Karen Shipman stretched, arms over her head and toes curled. Doug Truax rolled up on one elbow and watched, a smile on his face. Her body was as slender as he’d imagined but her breasts were much fuller. Not big, just full. Perfect, in fact. She saw his teeth gleam and smiled back.

  “What’re you so happy about?”

  “What do you think?”

  She stretched again. “I think it took you too long to make a move.”

  “I didn’t—you did.”

  “Oh yeah . . . well, someone has to be the man.”

  He grabbed her then and tickled, enjoying the warm, musky smell of her skin. She ended up on top, gripping his ribs with very strong legs and dangling her hair in his face. Halfheartedly thrashing, he gave up and they both laughed.

  Her seduction of him had been straightforward. She’d cooked him a meal and suggested he could use a shower. When he came out, his clothes were gone and she was lying in bed—naked.

  Well, Axe chuckled to himself, even I could take that hint. It was long overdue and her sexual appetite had gone a long way to easing his despondency over Stormy Kane.

  “What’s funny?” Karen breathed out, her lips brushing his cheek.

  “I was thinking of the last time I saw your toes curl.”

  She laughed, deep back in her throat, and raised her head high enough to look him in the eye. “Can you make them curl again?”

  So he did.

  The Sandman had rightly concluded that the Chinese were behind the attempted hit. He’d also been corr
ect about periodic reporting times but he was wrong about the frequency. He’d figured on at least six hours when, in fact, he had less than two.

  Apparently Beijing was extremely angry, vengeful, and paranoid—in that order—regarding the data cartridge. So when their contract killer missed his prearranged 2200 check-in, the case officer was to dutifully wait one hour, then inform his superior. This man, a deputy attaché named Xu Fengzhi, worked for Office of Cultural Affairs and was, like most of his kind, an intelligence officer. Colonel Xu Fengzhi in fact, worked for the Ministry of State Security– Office of Counterintelligence, and knew all about the mercenary. He was leading the team that had been deployed to find the mercenary and bring back the DTC.

  There was a tracking device in the cartridge. A tiny, flat track chip that gave a GPS location every eight hours. Certainly not foolproof against a moving target and, as they’d discovered, not completely consistent. But they’d inserted it with the idea of tracking a defecting jet fighter, not a man; consequently, they’d missed the Sandman in Jordan by hours. Sometimes the signal was too ambiguous to trace—they’d lost the signal entirely in the British Virgin Islands and hadn’t re-acquired it until the Sandman left the cartridge on his boat in Virginia. Two days of stationary data had allowed them to get a fix on the location in the Salt Ponds marina.

  The contractor was a specialist they’d used on two other occasions. A former Royal Dutch Marine, he’d found the boat empty and decided that the best way to watch a boat was on a boat. So the embassy had purchased the Beneteau and the assassin had settled down to wait. In fact, he was to check in every four hours until a sighting was made, then he was to confirm it and retrieve the DTC by any means necessary. Both the Chinese colonel and the contractor had understood that the Sandman was to be eliminated.

  Now, with the check-in an hour overdue, Colonel Fengzhi was forced to conclude that the Dutchman had failed. Sighing, knowing what he had to do and dreading it, he picked up the phone and dialed a number that was answered on the second ring.

  “FBI Critical Incident Response Group. How may I direct your call?”

  The chimes on her cell phone woke them both. Axe yawned, pulled his arm out from under her neck and turned over.

  “Shipman,” she managed to answer, then listened.

  He was just dozing off again, trying not to think about another lover calling her at . . . 1130. Is that all it was? Plenty of time to go back to sleep. He reached for her and found a warm buttock. Plenty of time for—

  “You’ve gotta be shitting me!”

  He smiled. She rarely swore and he knew she’d picked up that expression from him but he didn’t smile when she swatted his hand away and poked him. Hard.

  “No—I understand. I’ll get dressed and be right there.” He sat up and stared at her dark outline. “I . . . I’m not exactly sure where he is . . . Yes, I’ll find him and let him know. Thanks.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We are,” she said and slipped out of bed. For a brief instant he saw her naked, beautiful silhouette in the weak moonlight. “C’mon.”

  Fumbling for his pants and socks, Axe muttered something about government bullshit and she flipped on the bedside lamp. “Not bullshit this time—that was Abbot.”

  “So what?”

  “So,” Karen pulled a white cable-knit sweater over her head and buttoned her jeans. “The Fibbies got a call, get this, from the Chinese embassy. They claim our mercenary is a deranged madman who destroyed State property and is planning a mass act of terror right here in Virginia.”

  “Why would they tell us that? What do they care?”

  “Ah,” she said, gathering up her keys and various pieces of plastic IDs, “that’s the same question the FBI is asking—privately. Publicly, they have to act. And they are.”

  Axe was fully awake now and tugged on his shoes as the implication of that statement set in. “You mean . . . we know where he is?”

  “The Coast Guard and the FBI Special Ops Unit in Norfolk are both on the way to get him at the Salt Ponds Marina.” She turned at the door and held it open. “Right here in Hampton Roads.”

  Wanderer was a half mile short of Plumtree Island at 1130, about to turn into Back River, when the Sandman saw the lights. Switching on the autopilot, he tugged on the M949 night-vision goggles that’d he’d purchased right here in Newport News. Made by ANVIS, especially for aviators, they were only Generation II goggles but more than adequate for his needs.

  Staring toward the flashing red lights off the starboard side, he twiddled the focusing knobs and a small speedboat jumped into view. Enclosed glass cabin festooned with antennas . . . a Coast Guard Response Boat, without a doubt. He raised the goggles and watched. There was a Coastie station over near Cape Charles on the western shore and they could be out after anything.

  Spinning the wheel, he lowered the goggles and brought the Wanderer around to the middle of the Back River, called the Gut. Looking back over his shoulder, he’d almost decided it was a false alarm, when the boat visibly altered course directly toward him.

  Swearing softly, the Sandman figured him to be about eight miles away—maybe fifteen minutes—and he instantly spun the wheel hard to starboard, bringing the Wanderer all the way around heading southeast into the bay. He switched the autopilot back on and dropped down into the main salon for his diving gear.

  Already dressed in the black wetsuit, he slipped on the booties and dive knife, then carried the BCD up to the cockpit. Returning to the salon, he then pulled the assassin’s stiffening body up the ladder and dumped it next to the gear. On his last trip down, the mercenary opened all the hatches and retrieved the flare detonator, thanking his stars he hadn’t delayed making the thing.

  Unsheathing the machete from under the wheel he rolled the corpse on its back. Prying open the mouth with his foot, he took careful aim then chopped down hard till the blade stuck. Leveraging it back and forth, he felt the jawbone break. Using his hands, Sandman pulled and twisted until the jaw came away. Flinging the grisly object overboard, he sat back to catch his breath. No dental records, at least.

  Glancing back he now estimated the Coastie about five miles distant. Time enough. Correcting the Wanderer’s course a bit closer to shore, he caught another flash. There! Coming around York Pointe about seven miles away was a set of lights from another boat.

  No doubt now.

  Staring a moment, he opened the access hatch to the engine compartment. Lowering the body down by its armpits, he ignored the shattered head and dropped the corpse on the deck next to the extra five-gallon fuel tank. When the detonator package was dropped down the diesel vent, it would fall directly into the scavenge tank. The flare would detonate both the fumes and the twelve-gauge shells, causing a massive and catastrophic explosion in the engine bay that would destroy the rest of the boat. The body, if found, would be nearly impossible to identify and they would assume Kane was dead.

  Hopefully.

  Pulling himself back up, he shut the cockpit hatch and looked aft. Nothing. Donning the goggles, he slowly swept back and forth across the bay and . . . there. The boat from Cape Charles was three miles off his stern to the west. Looking north, he found the other boat a bit farther . . . perhaps five miles. Both without lights. Interesting. Who, he wondered told them to go “midnight”—to run without lights?

  Tilting his head back, the Sandman methodically scanned the sky off the bow. There was the usual commercial traffic, but nothing obvious from the south, where, he reasoned, any air support would come from. Little Creek Amphibious Base and what, he wondered? Not conventional police. They wouldn’t have had the clout to set an operation in motion this fast. Had to be the FBI and, if so, they’d use a Special Operations unit with tactical helicopters.

  If they were there he couldn’t see them. Usually their exhaust showed up very well but it didn’t matter. Removing the NVGs, he dropped them into a mesh
diving bag and zipped that into a waterproof case along with the remaining Irish and Lebanese identification documents. The Tobin and Tyler IDs he left in the salon—if found, they’d give credence to his ‘death.’

  Throttling full forward, the mercenary felt Wanderer surge ahead and he turned the scuba tank’s airflow valve on. Flipping the BCD over his head, he dropped it into place, adjusted the regulators and buckled up.

  Clipping the waterproof case to his harness and slipping into the fins, the Sandman sat on the cockpit cushions and wiped his mask. Pulling it down so it dangled around his neck, he took a long look off the starboard side and twisted the compass heading ring on his dive watch to 200 degrees. About a mile and half of the closest shoreline was the Grandview Nature Preserve and just south of it was a row of brightly lit condos. Not a difficult navigation problem but it was still over a mile’s swim to shore.

  Taking a last look around, the Sandman picked up the detonator and removed the cap. In one smooth movement he pulled the tab, dropped it into the starboard scavenge port and dove over the side.

  Closing his eyes as he hit the water, the mercenary began powerful dolphin kicks down and away from the boat. Clearing his ears for the first time, he figured he’d gone at least fifteen feet down and maybe twenty yards laterally. Continuing to kick, he let the regulator fall from his mouth and pulled the mask up from his neck. Sweeping the trailing regulator back up, Kane flipped onto his back and forced the compressed air up into the mask to clear it.

  Suddenly, the dark water turned bright orange and for few seconds the sea lit up all around him. Immediately rolling away, he kicked straight up for the surface, knowing that the shock wave would radiate down from the explosion. The flash died rapidly to a reddish glow and darkness closed in again. Neck craned back, he watched his little silver bubbles begin splitting apart and he stopped. Maybe ten feet under, he thought, and looked back at the dying light. And thirty yards away.

  Not far enough.