by Nancy Holder
This will be our year…
He set her down on her feet and she molded herself against him. Skin on skin; there was nothing between them now. Their love had been destined, and in the rain, on the immense, rolling sea, they reveled in it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miguel’s primary operative met the secondary in the designated spot below decks on the Sea Majesty. They had never teamed up before, probably never would again, and neither knew the other’s real name. It was part of an intricate system of cut outs that created dead ends for law enforcement and criminal organizations looking for retaliation, and left Miguel untraceable by either.
“The jefe is really pissed off at the delay,” Two said. “I’ve only seen him this mad once before. Job got fouled up bad— target was wounded not killed, cops crawling everywhere. Blowback was considerable. The hitter who fouled it up never surfaced again.”
“We have to do something, and we have to do it now,” Number One said irritably.
Though they had individually made visual contact with their target and accessed the stateroom, neither had been able to get their hands or eyeballs on the jacket or what was supposed to be tucked away in the left-hand pocket. The original plan had been to pull a two-person bump-and-dip, and cleanly pick her pocket of its contents. No muss, no fuss. But so far the cop hadn’t worn the thing in public. As luck would have it she didn’t go out much on deck in the evenings, which was when she would be most likely to put it on.
“If he wants the merchandise by the time we land in Hilo,” One added, “that only gives us two more nights to make it happen. I’ve heard that story about the hitter who messed up. If we run out of time and come up empty, we’re never going to surface either. I say let’s just kill them both now and grab the damned thing.”
Two laughed out loud.
One scowled.
Two stopped laughing abruptly. “You can’t be serious.”
“We can throw the bodies overboard afterward. When the crew finally figures they’re missing it will look like an unfortunate accident at sea. That happens a lot more than these cruise ship companies let on.” One grinned. “Ask me how I know.”
“One at a time, that’s doable. But two…”
“I’ve done two before. No worries.”
“I don’t believe you. And when are we going to catch them alone long enough for a double hit? They’re always hanging out with that kid and her bodyguard. And the guard is strapped; I know because I bumped him and felt the piece on his hip.” Two made a face. “Jefe should have warned us about that.”
“How could he know?” One snapped back. “We’re the ones on board ship. It’s up to us to tie up all the loose ends. If we have a problem we need to work around it, or flatten it. Even if that means the cop chickie and her brand-new hubby got to go.”
“We still have forty-eight hours to get the jacket according to plan,” Two countered.
“Face facts, the plan is in the crapper. Time to improvise.”
Two said, “I contracted to do a simple B and E first. Or if the chance came up, maybe pick her pocket. That was the agreement. If we don’t get what we came for it’s going to go bad for us, no doubt, but you’re jumping ahead to the last-ditch play. We’re on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. We start dropping bodies all over the place and no matter how many go overboard there will be an investigation, guaranteed. The cops will quarantine the ship when it docks in Hilo. Our covers will be blown and there’ll be no place to run.”
“Mine’s solid. It’ll hold up. I’ll be fine.”
“Pul-eeease. A couple of forensic searches, they find and match your DNA or prints, and you’re hung out to dry… for the next twenty years.”
One did not seem convinced by this argument.
“We need to do some serious rethinking,” Two said. “Come up with an alternative that’s less risky. The cowboy option is always there if we have no other choice. Let’s go over this later tonight, after you cool down a bit. We’d better get back now or we’ll be missed.”
As Two turned for the companionway, a shuffling noise came from the far end, just under the stairway. Someone was coming up or going down. Or had been listening to their conversation.
Without a word—or a thought, apparently—One pulled out the ugly plastic pistol that had been hidden in a carry-on duffle. Packed in pieces, graphite barrel concealed in a collapsible leg of a camera tripod, it had made it through the ship’s metal detector and X-ray without being discovered.
Two held up both hands palms forward and mouthed the word, Wait!
But One paid no attention, digging into a side pocket, pulling out the pistol’s short, fat silencer and quickly screwing it on.
Things were going south in a hurry. One seemed determined to off someone, and it didn’t matter who. In desperation Two tried to grab the pistol away. One would have none of that, and shot a hard, quick elbow into Two’s cheek. As Two staggered back, momentarily stunned by the blow, One bolted down the companionway, then wheeled around the staircase with pistol raised in a two-handed grip. Two’s heart sank when the sound of three silenced shots— pfft, pfft, pfft—rolled down the narrow corridor. Two raced to see what had happened.
Rounding the stairwell Two looked down at the deck in disbelief. “Oh, my God, what have you done? What the hell have you done?”
“Shut up and help me get rid of the body,” One said.
“No way. This wasn’t part of the deal. No freaking way. This is on you, and only you.”
With that, Two bounded up the stairway and disappeared, leaving One staring at the corpse. Livid at the desertion, One reared back and kicked the body so hard its arms limply jerked, then realized that taking frustrations out that way would only make the bleeding worse and probably smear it all over the deck. Having already done a thorough search of the ship’s stores, One hurried down two flights of steps, entered a compartment and gathered up a plastic tarp and some bungee cords to wrap the body with. The bundling didn’t take long for a practiced hand. Muttering curses, One hoisted the cocooned body firefighter style over a shoulder. One had to lock knees to keep from buckling beneath the dead weight. It was a good thing the dumping ground was close by.
The destination was a spot on the aft corner of this deck where the view from behind was obscured, the sea was accessible via a lifeboat bay, and there were no video cameras. In other words, a handy blind spot.
One left the body concealed under the lifeboat and returned to duty, waiting anxiously for night to fall.
It rained on and off all day, and the ocean grew rougher. Passengers spent more time at the rails, which was a problem. One stayed calm. Outwardly.
After dark, One hurried back and dumped the corpse unceremoniously over the side. No splash could be heard over the steady grind of the vessel’s engines. With any luck, One thought, the body had been sucked down into the blades of the immense propeller and ground into so much fish food.
The unplanned murder had unavoidably delayed the main mission. There was no more time to waste. The person One had killed would be missed. Most definitely.
One marched to Two’s stateroom and knocked on the door. Two immediately yanked it open, pointing a gun that was the twin of One’s, right down to the fat silencer.
“Get out of here. Stay away from me. Or…”
One didn’t believe Two had the stones to shoot. Brushing the gun aside, One pushed into the room and closed the door. The quarters were very close, and there was no porthole.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Two said, lowering the weapon but keeping it in hand.
“It seems to me we’ve had this conversation before,” One said. “It goes nowhere. We have to move forward. The situation has escalated.”
“You escalated the situation. You made this a crisis.”
“We need a diversion. We’re going to have to set the ship on fire.”
Two’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “We’re on the ship, remember? We can’t set it on
fire.”
“Just enough of a blaze to get everyone to the lifeboats. In all the confusion, one person will turn up missing. The person I killed. Presumed fallen overboard in the crush.”
“The ship’s fire suppression system will activate,” Two protested. “They’ll never lower the lifeboats.”
“I know how to get around the system. And they don’t have to get into the boats. They just have to muster at their evacuation stations on the main deck.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“No, listen to me. You wanted an alternative, and this is it. The cop and her new hubby will have to evacuate their luxury suite to answer the call to prepare to abandon ship. They’ll leave the jacket behind. Easy pickings.”
“What if they don’t? What if she’s finally wearing it under her life jacket, where we can’t get at it? Wouldn’t that be the cherry on top?”
“That’s where you earn your pay. You wait in the stairwell for the fire alarm to go off. If the newlyweds step out of their stateroom with the coat, you shoot them both and then drag the bodies out of sight back inside.”
“Me?” The color drained from Two’s face.
“You’re a pro, aren’t you? This isn’t your first dance.”
“Of course… but …”
“But nothing. Can you start a fire on a ship big enough to cause a full-blown panic?”
Two went silent.
“I figured as much,” One said. “You don’t like the way this worked out? Then come up with a better idea. And do it quick.”
Two didn’t say a word, just stared down at the plastic pistol.
“I’m in charge now, and you’re gonna do what I say. No questions, no arguments.”
When the gun came up again, One was caught by surprise. They were standing very close and there was no room to retreat. Looking down the barrel, One said tightly, “This is going nowhere good. You know that.”
“Shut up,” Two said. “When I step aside you’re going to walk past me with your hands on your head. You’re going to walk straight into the bathroom and I’m going to close and lock the door behind you.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, think again… hard,” One said.
“I told you to shut up. Before you go through the door, put your right hand on top of your head and with your left slowly take out your piece and let it drop on the floor.”
One used two fingers to pull the weapon from concealment. It clattered like a cheap toy when it hit the deck. “You can’t seriously believe I’m going to give you a pass on this.”
“No, but the jefe will if I bring back the goods,” Two said, edging just a bit closer. “I think we both know what he’s going to do to you.”
One chose that moment to strike: left hand sweeping up in a blur, taking the silencer and pistol with it. The gun discharged with a pfft! The bullet slammed high into the door. One’s fingers closed around the silencer and held the muzzle pointed at the ceiling. Two’s finger was caught inside the trigger guard, wrist bent back at an awkward angle.
“Let go…”
One’s right hand closed over Two’s, covering it and the grip of the pistol. They struggled for control of the weapon, each grunting from the effort, glaring into each other’s eyes. Then One moved a thumb inside the trigger guard, holding it against Two’s trapped finger. Using the silencer for leverage One pushed the barrel closer to Two’s chest, until the muzzle angled back under Two’s chin.
“No… wait…”
“You lose,” One said with a smile.
The thumb mashed down and the pistol discharged between them. One felt the heat of the blast. Two stiffened, head to foot, eyes clamped shut. Blood drooled out from between clenched teeth. One squeezed down again, making the trapped finger fire two more insurance rounds under the chin and up into the head.
The body slumped in One’s grip, blood sheeting down over the chest from three wounds. One didn’t let it fall to the floor, instead shifted it under an arm and dragged it into the tiny bathroom. Cracking back the shower door, One dropped the corpse’s head and shoulders into the stall, right above the drain. Damn shower floor was maybe two by two. No way to get the whole body inside without folding it.
That accomplished, One took the hand sprayer from the wall and turned on the cold water, sluicing the steady flow of blood down the drain. It took about five minutes for the bleeding to stop. One felt no pity for Two, no remorse for the act. What had started out as a simple contract job had become a fight for survival. And One was a survivor.
Wiping the floor with a towel to remove any trace of footprints, One exited the bathroom and closed the door, making sure the latch clicked and held solidly. If the seas got rough they could make the corpse roll around inside and conceivably the momentum could knock the door open. With the bathroom door shut, any crew member looking into the room during the fire alarm would think it deserted and move along.
On hands and knees, One found all four shell casings and pocketed them. Standing on the room’s lone chair, One extracted the slug from the door with a pen knife. The tidying up wasn’t an attempt to conceal what had happened. There were three slugs still embedded in Two’s brain. But it was a way to muddy the waters, introduce some confusion into the crime scene—which could add precious minutes to an escape plan.
One turned the stateroom’s air conditioning and fan up to max, then gathered up Two’s gun, unscrewed the silencer, and put it all in a pocket. The other gun went back into its hiding place under One’s clothes. After doing a quick wipe down/smear of all surfaces that could hold a fingerprint with the towel, One took Two’s room key from the little fold-down table, opened the door, hung up the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and backed out of the room, checking that the corridor was clear before locking the door.
The room key, shell casings, and pistol went down two of the corridor’s widely spaced trash chutes.
After what seemed like an eternity, One was back on track and in control.
Time to light up the Majesty.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tess called to say she was working late. JT could hear the tiredness in her voice when she added that when she got home, they should walk the neighborhood again in search of Princess Mochi. None of the animal shelters could confirm the arrival of a chihuahua in the last twenty-four hours, which, when you considered the animal population of Manhattan, was both a lucky break and a disappointment. Ever since Hollywood celebrities had started carrying chihuahuas around like purses, the breed had become very popular. JT would have assumed any number of yipping little bulgy-eyed dogs would have been acquired in the day. But the lack of inventory also meant he had no false leads to waste time on tonight.
On the other hand, even though Mochi was chipped, there was always a chance that a shelter without working equipment would have picked her up, or that a rescue society was behind on their intake procedures and she was in gen pop, only the workers didn’t yet know it.
Pacing like a father with a daughter out after curfew, JT decided he’d graded enough biochem projects for one night and done enough unproductive phoning and net-surfing. Tess liked to say that nothing beat a face-to-face interview when breaking a case. That meant going back out on the streets.
For mid-May, it was cooler tonight, so he put on his jacket and filled a plastic bag with doggie treats. Princess Mochi had a wide assortment of snacks (of course), all of it very high-end (of course). An image of Tess’s encounter with the large street dog filled his mind and he decided to bring the ol’ tranq gun. It had been a long time since he’d had to use it, but the familiar heft and shape of it were comforting. He and Tess had gone through a lot worse than finding a missing dog and come out the other end just fine. Just like Tess’s black pump had so very not.
Still, he couldn’t deny that his anxiety was threatening to blow off the charts. Princess Mochi might be a miniature Cujo—the rabid dog of Stephen King’s inventive mind—but despite all the peeing, barfing, and shoe-destroying, and the endless,
unceasing yipping—oh, dear God, the yipping—actually, because of that, he liked her. Why take such an annoying little creature to heart?
It didn’t matter. He had. His worry extended past placating Tess’s pissed-off cop brother. He wanted her to be okay. She was so little; if she ran into the streets, no car would ever see her. If she scampered off into Central Park, a squirrel would store her away in its acorn stash for the winter. Ever since Vincent had resumed a normal life—normal for him, anyway—and he, JT, had acquired a girlfriend who could drop him with one karate chop, his finely tuned protective instinct had had no target. No one to protect. Then Princess Mochi had whirred into his life like a bundle of joy dropped by a drone. He couldn’t stop envisioning her hurt, or worse. On his watch.
In his workout satchel, he placed the tranq gun, her leash, copies of their reward poster, and some printed-out photos of her. He also had her pic—okay, twenty—on his phone. He had more visual documentation of someone else’s puppy than his own parents had of him.
He went outside. “Mochi,” he called. “Princess Mochi.”
A quartet of young guys in hoodies approached. “Mochi,” one of them sang out. “Hey, man, we sellin’ Mochi tonight. Get you higher than the Statue of Liberty.” The four broke into laughter.
They didn’t faze JT. He showed them a photograph of Mochi and said, “Have you seen this dog?”
“Is that your mama?” the tallest one said. “She must be a good cook, yo, because look at her and look at you!”
Another said, “Hey, there’s a reward? Yeah, I seen her.” Off JT’s look, he nodded. “Swear it.”
“If you really see her, email the address on the poster,” JT said. No way did he want these comedians to call his cell at two in the morning just for kicks.
The shortest, youngest one looked at JT sweetly and said, “I hope you find her, mister.”
The kid’s sincerity triggered JT’s vulnerability and he felt a little shaky. There’s hope for you, he thought; aloud, he replied, “Thanks.”
