by Dane Hartman
Seeing that Harry had no intention of backing down, Vincent grumbled and lowered the speargun. He then went back to being a spectator.
Booth had by this point recuperated to the point where he was giving as good as he got. Neither of the combatants was making much headway mainly because they were both running out of energy. The punches were landing with negligible force, arms and legs were moving with such sluggish speed that it looked as though their bodies would soon shut down altogether.
Then Max, finding his second wind, let loose a fury of punches that thudded clumsily against Booth. Still, they carried a certain power to them and had the effect of driving Booth back against the wall of the pilothouse again. When Booth attempted to regain a more strategically viable position in the middle of the deck, Max sent a straight punch into his stomach. All at once Booth went down, because of the impact or because he’d lost his footing on a patch of water. He lay outstretched for a few seconds, stunned and indignant that he should be down at all. Then, with difficulty, he hoisted himself aloft again.
Slater now came forward, holding up his hands to keep the two contestants separated. “That’s it, that’s the end of it.”
“What the fuck do you mean, Slater, that’s it? I slipped.” Booth looked to Vincent to support his opinion. “You saw that, I just slipped. This asshole didn’t fucking knock me down.”
Max, not being content with Slater’s judgment of victory, stood there grinning, confident he could return Booth to the surface of the deck with no trouble at all. His ugly smirk dared Booth to come at him again.
No question about it, Harry thought, Max was an asshole. Now that the fight appeared over he could go back to despising him. It made him feel better.
“You men want to keep up, well, go ahead. But I’m raising anchor and getting on with the business of sailing south.”
“Forget it, Booth, we’ll have our chance later,” Vincent said.
Booth, his face smeared with sweat and blood that still dribbled out of his nostrils, regarded his antagonist darkly. Then he turned defiantly toward Slater and Harry, muttering, “Sure will have our chance later. Sure will.” It seemed that he was threatening not just Max but Harry and Slater as well. This did not surprise Harry. He was beginning to think that they would have to abandon the two mutinous crewmen in Mexico, let them find their way back on their own, because he could not see how they could be counted on once they started home. That is, if they started home.
Booth and Max got themselves cleaned up and then resumed work as though nothing had happened between them.
Slater was silent for the next hour afterward. He stood at the wheel, casting his dimming eyes toward the sea, staring straight into a setting sun that carved out a blood-red trail across the horizon. At last he spoke to Harry, though he never allowed his eyes to leave the Pacific.
“Wrong chemistry. Generally you get a better chemistry among a crew than we got here.”
“I’ll grant you that.”
“None of them alone’d be bad. Putting the three together!” He shook his head gravely. “But you never can tell, can you?”
Harry agreed that this was the case.
“Still you know that Booth he had a point.”
“Oh?”
“That meat loaf last night was shit.”
C H A P T E R
T h i r t e e n
The speedboat—a Cigarette—reached the target area at quarter past the hour. The sun had been gone from this part of the globe for several hours. The darkness was nearly total—the half-moon had already sunk below the horizon.
Milano finished what was left of his coffee and went up on deck. There waiting for him was Conrad, a humorless albino who’d once played bass for a Southern rock and roll band. He was strumming on a guitar now, serenading the Pacific with a song about a lost lover. Milano was tired of songs about lost lovers. Ever since Conrad had been recruited he’d been singing songs about the subject. All his lost lovers were male anyhow, which somehow disgusted Milano. But for what they were paying him Conrad was good. Once he managed to put down his guitar he could pick up a gun and put it to good use.
It wasn’t a gun that Conrad had to abandon his guitar for now though. Instead he opened up a briefcase and extracted from it an elaborate electronic device. Methodically he drew a long narrow antenna from it and then proceeded to drop it into the water. Into the control box he inserted a lead which was already connected to a small quartz clock. The time was 2:20.
Conrad and Milano now placed headphones over their ears and settled down on deck chairs to wait until they had their signal.
They didn’t have long to wait. Eight minutes later a red light began to blink on the panel of the device. Conrad rotated the antenna in the water, clockwise, then counter-clockwise. As he did so, the signal-strength meter fluctuated erratically. An expression of intense concentration came over Milano’s face as he strained to interpret the sounds coming over the radio. Conrad’s, by contrast, remained a perfect blank.
At last a smile gathered on Conrad’s lips. “I’ve got it.”
Milano listened a moment longer. “Yes, that’s it.”
Conrad fine-tuned the antenna to get it exact. “Eight miles, I’d say,” Conrad muttered. “Maybe nine. And ten degrees to our right.”
“Make it nine miles and ten degrees right,” Milano affirmed.
Removing the headphones, Milano strode over to the helm. The pilot watched him impassively, anticipating the instructions.
Milano told him the speed he wanted the Cigarette taken in at.
“Fifteen minutes we should be in position, right in their path.”
Milano had done these outings so often that he had the operation down to a science. He knew precisely how long these things required, how many minutes he should leave himself as insurance.
The thirty-foot powerboat assumed a southwesterly course that brought it to within three and a half miles of the Confrontation.
There the Cigarette stopped dead. Conrad brought up a signal beacon which he placed down on the bow. The beacon shot an amber light out on the water, which indicated that their craft was in distress. The Confrontation would be coming on them in another four minutes according to Milano’s calculations.
Milano’s calculations were right on the mark.
A pale yellow light on the northern horizon, followed shortly by the low rumble of Lehman-Ford diesel engines, heralded the immediate appearance of the Confrontation.
The Cigarette was so anchored that the larger boat would either have to stop or else alter its course if it was to avoid crashing directly into it.
As Milano hoped, the Confrontation began to slow, its motors dying to a muffled drone.
One man, then another, appeared on the port of the Confrontation, silhouettes in the glare of their deck lights.
“Ahoy there!” one of them called through a megaphone.
Milano popped into view in response. No one else was to be seen on the deck of the Cigarette.
“We need help!” Milano shouted back. “Out of fuel, food’s running low. You think you have a little extra gas to get us going?”
“You hold on there.”
“We’re appreciative of whatever you can do.”
Milano disappeared below deck for a moment. Conrad and the other two, Francis and the one who called himself Tennessee, were patiently whiling away the time until Milano issued them their orders. Close by their sides were the AKS rifles they relied on. The AKS was a recent Soviet addition to the burgeoning world of armaments, intended to replace that old favorite, the AK47 Kalashnikov. It had the advantage of being lighter and it fired a 5.54mm bullet with a hollow point and steel plug that slammed forward upon the bullet’s impacting with the result that the bullet mushroomed, causing a much larger wound. The AKS was first tried out by Soviet troops against Afghan insurgents, but like all rifles, it made no distinction among targets. The crew of a yacht died as easily as Afghanis did once they were visited by a 5.54mm bullet
.
The old man on the Confrontation was shouting back something now. Milano returned to the deck to see what he had decided.
“You got anything like a dinghy you can get over to us with? We have a few gallons we can give you. That should see you into port.”
“No problem. We’ll be over in a few minutes.”
Conrad and Francis would be entrusted with the initial—and Milano hoped the final—assault. Milano would wait on the Cigarette with Tennessee as backup in case anything went wrong. But things hardly ever went wrong.
Milano deposited two packs of sugar in his coffee and stirred it inattentively while he watched the dinghy ease itself across the becalmed swath of water that separated the Cigarette from the Kong & Halverson Island Gypsy.
Because of his impatience and the state of his nerves, the short journey seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. But finally the dinghy came flush with the hull of the yacht. Francis, with Conrad right behind him, took hold of the rope ladder thrown to him and began clambering up to the deck. The canvas bags containing their weapons were slung unobtrusively over their backs.
Now all that remained for Milano to do was settle back and wait for the rattle of gunfire.
Slater Bodkin and Vincent appeared to welcome their guests on board. Two cans brimming full of gas rested at their feet.
Conrad nodded in greeting, Francis offered a smile that revealed a lot of gum and little teeth.
“Tell me, how’d you go and get yourself stuck out in the middle of the ocean like this?” There was no sarcasm in Slater’s voice, he was just plain interested.
“Don’t really know,” Conrad said. “I know it sounds crazy but we strayed out farther than we expected. And something may be the matter with one of the tanks. Maybe sprung a leak.”
Slater shook his head, wondering at such ignorance of the rudiments of sailing.
“Well,” he said, gesturing toward the cans, “this should see you into the shore. By my reckoning there’s a town about twenty miles due east of where we are now. You should be able to fuel up there with what you need.”
Conrad nodded affably. “That’s most kind of you. If you hadn’t come along we might have been stuck out here for another day or two.”
Francis regarded his companion uneasily. In an operation like this the object was to take the initiative and move fast. This desultory, meaningless conversation they were having only served to delay matters. Francis could not comprehend why Conrad was procrastinating in this manner. What he didn’t realize was that Conrad was merely improvising a strategy on the spot. Something was troubling him, and he hoped to discover what it was before striking too precipitously.
“You don’t mind if I use your head for a minute, do you?” Conrad addressed Slater.
“Go right ahead.” Slater indicated the entrance to the cabin below deck. “Straight down and to your left.”
Francis was not good with words. He hailed from Bolivia, but it wasn’t a problem of not knowing English. His Spanish was halting at best. So he set his body up against the gunwales and smiled his toothless grin at Slater, eyeing his canvas bag much too often. He was growing itchy, figuratively and literally. He kept on grinning stupidly and scratching his face and under his sweat-soaked arms.
The albino meanwhile descended down into the cabin. No lights shown through from any of the staterooms. He assumed that the other crew members were asleep. Though it meant trusting Francis to act on his own without first alerting him to his plan, Conrad decided to seize the opportunity. He intended to eliminate all the opposition below deck in hope that Francis would do the same above.
To avoid the possibility of inadvertent discovery, he stepped inside the head, shut the door, and unzipped his canvas bag. From it he withdrew his AKS with its fresh clip.
Slipping quietly from the head, he approached the door to the master stateroom and cocked his ear to it. There was nothing to be heard. He threw open the door. Darkness greeted him. His rifle was targeted on the shadowy forms of the twin beds. But he refrained from firing for the simple reason that no one was occupying either bed.
He cursed, spun around, keeping the AKS extended. Two more doors remained to be opened, each leading to an aft stateroom.
When he was a child, Conrad had once heard a story about someone confronted with three doors. He didn’t remember much of the story, but he did recall something about there being a treasure behind one of the doors, maybe two of them, but behind the third there were venomous snakes ready to spring. He wasn’t exactly sure what the moral of this story was, but he had a strange feeling that he had become that character faced with the choices. And he couldn’t help wondering which door would bring him luck and which the opposite.
He strained to hear what was going on on deck, but he heard nothing. Francis had not uttered a word to signal his presence.
Conrad knew he would have to act quickly now before the old skipper or his mate came down to see what was taking him so long.
No sense in deliberating as to whether the door on the left or the one on the right was the more auspicious choice. He chose the right.
And for his trouble got only more darkness.
And silence.
One door left, all other options used up.
Francis couldn’t understand the reason for the delay. He feared that Conrad had fallen into a trap. He saw a hand reach out and muffle Conrad’s mouth while a knife swept across his jugular.
“Cigarette?” he asked. He wanted something to do with his hand besides put it to work scratching his fiery skin.
Vincent nodded, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Salem’s. He gave a cigarette to Francis and lit it for him. This distracted Francis long enough for Slater to seize hold of the canvas bag looped over his shoulder and to pull on it.
Slater, despite his advanced years, was strong enough to throw Francis off balance. In this brief interval Francis couldn’t think of a proper response. Should he act outraged or try to get at his weapon?
“Let’s see what you’ve got in there,” Slater was saying, his voice deceptively soothing.
Vincent stepped within a foot of him, his eyes menacing.
Francis was stupid, that was something he himself would admit, but he was shrewd. He hadn’t gotten this far without learning a few crucial lessons. So he decided to let the two men think they had the advantage.
“Señor wishes to see inside?” He maintained his moronic smile and hoisted the bag from his shoulder, setting it down on the deck. “Please go ahead, look.”
When Vincent bent down to open it, Slater’s eyes followed him. At that precise moment Francis slipped out his Bolo machete, a twenty-three-inch instrument with a steel blade that he kept sheathed inside his jacket.
Slater’s eye caught the glint the blade made in the deck lights and instinctively ducked aside. Vincent turned to face him just as Francis brought the machete down. The blade sliced through the air, striking Vincent across the right shoulder but at such an angle that it slid across the bone rather than hacking into it. Nonetheless, it did succeed in tearing a great gash in Vincent’s skin. Blood welled up instantly and soon covered Vincent’s entire arm. “You fuck!” was Vincent’s assessment of Francis’ personality.
Francis, disturbed that he had managed to inflict such little damage, raised his machete again. Vincent and Slater had both backed off, but there was so little room on deck that they were virtually trapped.
But in the midst of his motion Francis abruptly stopped. The machete sailed out of his hands and thudded to the deck. Slater and Vincent studied him with immense curiosity as he stood there swaying back and forth, his hands busy trying to work the knife out of his back. It had come hurtling into him from the stern of the boat. It was a capable delivery. The knife had sunk in a few inches above his left kidney and almost to the hilt. There wasn’t a great deal of blood yet because the knife was staunching the wound. But to Francis the most important thing in the world right now was to extricate th
e knife and return then to the business at hand. But it was difficult to get at the knife and all he was doing was enlarging the wound. And each time he tugged at the knife the pain it produced in him was so intense that he felt in danger of losing consciousness.
Now Max sauntered forward, abandoning his hiding place behind one of the bulkheads. He took his time. The pride he took in his marksmanship was evident on his face. He walked up to Francis with the air of someone who expected to engage in polite conversation and very deferentially said, “Let me do that.” He then gently removed Francis’ struggling hands from the bloody knife and pulled it straight out—all in one motion. He wasn’t gentle. Francis gasped in pain and screamed out to his mother and God, both of whom had abandoned him long ago. Max, to shut him up, plunged the knife back into him—but in a different location this time just to add a little variety to the affair.
Francis no longer could summon the energy to scream. Rather he grunted with the onset of this new agony and sunk to his knees, his eyes rolling up in their sockets, showing the whites to the black sky. A stench rose up from him as his sphincter muscle involuntarily loosened. With one final shudder he toppled over, smacking his brow against the deck.
The albino meanwhile had yet to make a move. The AKS was still in his hands, but he felt himself paralyzed. He couldn’t understand it, this had never happened to him before. He wanted to be back on board the Cigarette, playing his guitar.
He could not bring himself to open the door to the one remaining aft stateroom. Instead he opened fire, tearing a series of gaping holes in the door. Then he rushed in, expecting to find a body or two writhing on the floor. This did not turn out to be the case. No one was in this stateroom either.
In his disappointment he failed to notice the two men who emerged from out of the laundry room and utility closet respectively. But the sound of Booth’s footsteps succeeded in alerting him. Booth was just naturally clumsy and loud. Nothing subtle about the man at all. It had been Booth’s intention to slip up behind Conrad and perforate some vital part with the ten-inch combat knife he carried. This was Booth’s nature. He liked to get close to his victims and dispatch them with a blade or hatchet or, failing that, his bare hands which were big, thick, and calloused. But now he had no chance to take Conrad by surprise.
