Bluewater Jailbird: The Tenth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 10)

by Charles Dougherty

  "He told you about the passports, then?"

  The man didn't respond, didn't move, except for his eyelids, which slowly closed and opened. "I asked what you wanted done to her, after we take the passports."

  Lanjwani saw that the man's partner was on his feet, his hands on the desk, his body inclined toward Lanjwani. The standing man grinned, revealing teeth that were filed to points. A split tongue protruded momentarily. Lanjwani shook himself, and the standing man laughed, then, a rasping sound.

  Lanjwani had been so transfixed by the lizard-like stare of the seated man that he had not seen the other one get out of the chair.

  "You like my brother's tongue?" The bald man asked. There was no inflection in his voice. "If you don't answer, I make yours like it."

  "B-bring her here."

  The bald man stared at Lanjwani for a thirty-second eternity, his grinning partner licking his lips with his slit tongue.

  "He lied to our mother," the bald man said. "So she made an example of him to teach the rest of us. You understand?"

  Lanjwani nodded, knowing that his movement was jerky, unable to help it.

  "Good. The Sheik owns my mother." The bald man said this in a matter-of-fact tone. "She is still a beautiful woman, but past the age where he finds her attractive. But she does some things for him, special things, when he is displeased with people. You would like to meet her, perhaps?"

  Lanjwani shook his head. He jumped, startled by the gargling laugh that came from the standing man. "I thought not, but he is already unhappy with you, Mr. Lanjwani. He has plans for Ms. Chirac. Why do you want us to bring her here, once you have the passports?"

  "I need to ask her some questions, about how she and Berger became aware of us."

  The bald man stared, unblinking, into Lanjwani's eyes for another eternity. "We will help with that, my brother and I," he said. "And depending on what she says, we may take you back to Martinique with Ms. Chirac. You may meet my mother after all. We will see."

  Lanjwani looked down at the top of his desk and swallowed, hard. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked up, the two men were gone. He saw from the clock on his desk that it was 6:30.

  Chapter 26

  "Ms. Chirac?"

  Liz jumped, spinning toward the sound of the man's voice. She had been waiting for several minutes at the head of the public dock in the marina, the one that the water taxis used. The man who had spoken was slim, a couple of inches shorter than she was. He touched two fingers of his right hand to the brim of his straw hat, nodding slightly.

  "I apologize if I have startled you, madam," he said, the deference in his tone matching his gesture. "I am to take you to Mr. Lanjwani."

  Liz nodded, surprised by the polite approach. "Very well," she said.

  "Come with me, s'il vous plaît." He turned and began to walk along the seawall.

  Liz fell in beside him, matching his pace. After about 20 meters, he stopped abreast of a green and red Cigarette boat. Its three big engines rumbled softly, the water-cooled exhausts burbling in the quiet of the early evening.

  He gestured for her to step aboard and held out a hand to assist her. She grasped his firm, dry right hand in her own and stepped forward, surprised when she felt her back foot catch on something. She fell into the plush upholstery of the aft seat, not sure whether she had been pushed or whether she'd missed her footing.

  "Faites attention," the man said, stepping down into the boat and standing beside her. "Are you okay?"

  "Oui, merci," she said, looking up at him. She saw that he held her shoulder bag. She reached toward it, but he pulled it away and she realized that he'd tripped her as a distraction.

  "Va!" he barked, and Liz felt the boat surge forward. Reaching into the bag, he withdrew her pistol and shook his head. "You do not need," he said, sitting beside her, dropping the pistol into the front seat.

  "A girl can't be too careful," she said, smiling at him, batting her eyes. "Are you going to take care of me?"

  "Mais oui, but of course, we will."

  The boat had idled out of the marina by then. It began to pick up speed. "Beautiful evening for a boat ride," she said.

  "Oui," the man said, catching his straw hat as the boat came up on a plane. He took the hat off and put it down at his feet.

  In the waning light from the marina, Liz saw that his head was cleanly shaven. She could make out that there were tattoos on his scalp, but she couldn't tell what they were.

  "You have the passports?" he asked.

  "Yes, but only for Lanjwani. That was our agree — "

  Her ears ringing from the slap, she shook her head.

  "Arrêtez!" he said, leaning toward the man at the wheel and raising his voice.

  Liz felt the boat slow abruptly. As it settled in the water, the bald man put his left hand behind her head and grabbed a handful of her hair, turning her to face him. He gripped her chin painfully in his right hand and shook her head until she thought he would break her neck.

  She screamed and clawed at his face, reminding herself to fight like a girl. He released his grip long enough to slap her again, then grabbed a fistful of her polo shirt.

  "Scream all you want, bitch. There is no one to hear you out here. You might as well practice. You are going to spend the evening screaming, if you do not do as I wish."

  Liz sobbed, sniffling, and nodded as much as his grip on her hair would permit. "O-okay." She sobbed again. "What do you want?"

  "I asked a question. Do you have the passports?"

  "Yes."

  "They are not in your bag."

  "No."

  He raised his other hand to her shirt and ripped it open. Gripping her around her throat with his left hand, he ran his free hand over her upper torso. She steeled herself as he reached her bra, but his hand didn't pause.

  He found the travel-document pouch hanging just under her breasts and grabbed it, jerking it repeatedly until the cord cut into her neck and parted. He shoved her away and said, "Cover yourself, whore."

  She sniffled, cowering, and pulled her shirt together as she watched him unzip the pouch.

  "There is only one," he said.

  "Yes. A sign of good faith; Lanjwani has done nothing to earn my trust. Quite the opposite, now."

  "Where are the others?"

  "With my friends. If I'm not back by a certain time, they'll be given to the police."

  Her eyes having adjusted to the moonlight, Liz could see the muscles jumping in his jaw. She brushed her hair back out of her eyes and registered that the tracking device had been dislodged. She reached behind her, feeling around.

  He hit her again. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

  She sobbed and wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand. "I was looking for my ponytail holder."

  "You stupid whore, worried about your hair. Maybe I cut it off, take your scalp and make the wig for me. You like my hair?" He grinned and ran a hand over his smooth scalp. "I think you are lying about the passports. Maybe my brother and I take the rest of your clothes and see? You like that?"

  "You can obviously do whatever you want to me. I'm helpless, but you're wasting time. There's only one way you're going to get those passports. You'd better take me to Lanjwani before it's too late."

  "I will take you to Lanjwani, and before this evening ends, you will have your friends bring the passports. You will beg them to bring the passports, after my brother is through with you. And I think I will like wearing this wig made from your scalp." He leaned over the front seat and yelled, "Va!"

  The man at the wheel opened the throttles and the boat roared away into the night.

  ****

  "Stay back," Marie cautioned. "They must not see that we are following."

  "Okay to use radar?" the man at the electronics console in the forward cabin asked, speaking into the microphone on his headset.

  "No, not now," Marie replied. "Too much chance they have a detector."

  "There are many radar si
gnals here," the man said. "They would not — "

  "No," Marie repeated. "If there are so many signals, there will be interference anyway. Use the tracker. You have the signal?"

  "Yes," the man said. "Three kilometers, 260 degrees magnetic. Speed just picked up to 20 knots; they're out in the open part of Rodney Bay."

  "Call the range and bearing every thirty seconds," Marie said.

  "Roger, ma'am."

  "Helm, keep us at this distance from the target. Don't get too close."

  "Roger ma'am."

  "Target, two point seven kilometers, speed zero, bearing 260," the first man announced.

  Before Marie could say anything, she had to brace herself against the deceleration as the boat stopped. "What's happening?" she asked.

  "He's dead in the water," the man at the instruments said.

  "Want me to close until we have a visual?" the helmsman asked.

  "No. Let's give them a little time; see what they do."

  A minute passed, and Marie heard, "Target is moving; accelerating, 15 knots."

  Marie felt the jerk as the helmsman put their engines in gear. He was easing the throttles forward when the man at the instruments said, "Dead stop. 2.5 kilometers, 260 degrees."

  She lurched forward again as the helmsman took the engines out of gear. "What's — "

  "Lost the tracker signal," the man at the instrument console interrupted.

  "Helm, close on the last position at displacement speed — no bow wave, please."

  "Roger, ma'am."

  Marie stood, bracing herself against the dash and scanning the water ahead with a pair of stabilized night vision glasses.

  "Got a visual, Marie?" the helmsman asked.

  "No. It's a mess; too much reflection from the waves for the NVGs." She put the night vision glasses down and picked up a pair of 7x50 binoculars. After thirty seconds of sweeping the horizon ahead of them, she sat down. "No good. Too many little boats out there. Go ahead with the radar. Let me know when you're up."

  "Roger," the man at the console said.

  "While you're waiting, give us the range and bearing on the last known location, please."

  "Roger. One point one kilometers, 265 degrees. No tracker signal."

  "Keep closing," she said.

  "Roger that," the helmsman said.

  "Radar is up. Several possibles, but there's too much sea-clutter to refine anything."

  "Hold the course and speed, helm. Radar, keep an eye on the possibles. Mark them all, but let's rule out the slowest ones and any stop-starts. You know how fishing boats behave. Our target is going somewhere. Probably stopped to dump the tracker, but he'll be on his way, now. Give me an update after two minutes."

  "Roger that, Marie."

  Counting off the seconds to herself, Marie continued to sweep the horizon. She kept a running plot of their estimated position in her mind. They were about two kilometers west of the last position they had for the tracker when she picked up the two quick flashes of the light on the rock called Barrel of Beef. She had just verified the light by checking the five second interval between the sets of double flashes when the man at the console broke the silence.

  "Okay, Marie, I've got two possibles. One's a big target, westbound at 20 knots, 15 kilometers out. The other looks more promising; he just cut inside Barrel of Beef, hugging the coast at 35 knots, headed south."

  "That has to be ours," Marie said. "Follow him, helm. Run dark. Radar, let us know when we're within a kilometer. He's probably running dark, as well. We don't want to hit him."

  "Roger," she heard over her earphones as the boat surged forward.

  "Helm, radar. Watch out, Jean-Luc. We got what looks like a lot of small fishing boats bobbing around ahead of us. You're closing fast."

  "I have their lights," Jean-Luc said. "Marie, I need to slow down or get farther offshore, or both. Listen to the radio chatter from the fishing boats — they're complaining about our target tearing through the middle of their fleet."

  "Yes. Slow down and turn on our nav lights," Marie said. "The target won't see us because of all the other traffic, but if we go through these guys like he did, they'll complain, and he might have his VHF on."

  "Roger that."

  As the boat slowed to below planing speed, the man watching the radar scope announced, "Lost the target. He just merged with a big stationary return. Probably an anchored ship. Range is six kilometers, bearing is 209 degrees. That's just off Tapion Rock, south of the entrance channel to Castries."

  "That will take us about 20 minutes, unless I push it," Jean-Luc said.

  "Okay," Marie said. "push it, but be careful not to upset the fishermen. It is better that we are a few minutes late than that we raise the alarm."

  "Roger."

  "Radar, keep a watch. Let us know if the target separates from the ship."

  "Roger."

  ****

  As the Cigarette boat bumped against the old tires that cushioned the side of the freighter, Liz felt the man sitting next to her shift in his seat. Without getting up, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, twisting it in his left hand. She rewarded him with a whimper, watching his partner tie the boat to the foot of the pilot ladder welded to the side of the rusty vessel.

  Having secured the boat, the man who had been at the wheel scrambled up the ladder and stood at the top, leering down at Liz. The man next to her stood and jerked her to her feet. He grinned at her. She heard a snap, and he brandished a switchblade knife in his right hand, waving it under her nose.

  "You climb," he said. "I am behind you, and I will cut you if you try anything. You understand?"

  She nodded, her head constrained by his grip. "Yes."

  He shoved her toward the ladder and released her hair. She put a hand on each rail of the ladder and mounted the first step, feeling his chest against the back of her legs as he grabbed the ladder with his left hand. She flinched when she felt the point of the knife prick her right buttock.

  "Go," he ordered, prodding her.

  When she reached the top step, the other man grabbed her hair and pulled her up, holding her at arm's length, his eyes roving over her body, lingering on the curve of her breasts above her bra. Seeing that she noticed, he grinned at her and licked his lips. Her stomach rolled when she saw that his tongue was split, like a serpent's. He laughed, a rasping, gurgling sound, and pulled her away from the ladder, making room for the other man.

  The man with the knife wrapped his left hand around her right elbow, and Snake-tongue, as she thought of him, dropped his hand from her hair to fondle her breast.

  "Not yet, Henri," the man with the knife said. "Later, I think, yes?"

  Snake-tongue laughed again and took her other elbow.

  "My brother likes you, Ms. Chirac," the man with the knife said. "He cannot talk to say it, but I can tell. He shows you later, maybe."

  Laughing at that, they frog-marched her across the deck to a narrow set of steps that led up to the bridge. Snake-tongue went up first, half-dragging her, and the other man followed, his grip like a vice around her right elbow.

  They hustled her through the empty, dimly lit wheelhouse and through a door in the bulkhead at the back. Lanjwani sat at a rough, wooden desk, watching her from hooded eyes.

  "Give me the passports, Ms. Chirac," he said.

  "Where is Dani Berger?" she asked, jerking her arms free and sitting unbidden in the straight chair across from him.

  Lanjwani nodded, glancing at the man with the knife. Liz braced herself, rolling with the man's backhand punch to the side of her head. In spite of her effort to minimize the impact, she felt her vision blur.

  "You do not ask the questions," the man with the knife said. "She only had this one." He tossed the passport on the desk in front of Lanjwani.

  "Where are the others, Ms. Chirac?"

  "They are in safekeeping for the moment, but if I don't join my friends soon, they'll be turned over to the DHS."

  "DHS?" Lanjwani asked.

&n
bsp; "The U.S. Department of Homeland Security. We have some contacts there who will find them interesting, I think."

  "You work for them? You and Ms. Berger?"

  "No. We are independent."

  "I see. And why did you involve yourselves in our business?"

  "You killed a man on the beach and told the police that Dani did it."

  "I think you aren't telling me everything, Ms. Chirac. I could let these two men encourage you to be more open with me. Should I do that?"

  "Time is passing, Lanjwani. You don't have much left, if you want the passports. What you do to me won't change what happens to you, once the time runs out."

  "We can make you call your friends; these men would enjoy doing it."

  "They won't respond to a call. They have to see me, and Dani. Then you will get the passports. Only then."

  "If that is true, we are at a standoff. I am sorry for what is about to happen to you."

  "Not as sorry as you're going to be," Liz said.

  "Jacques, please begin," Lanjwani said.

  The man with the knife grabbed Liz by the hair and jerked her to her feet. She felt something cold slide down her spine, and her shirt and bra fell away. She centered herself. The man with the knife would be her first target. Then she would take Snake-tongue before Lanjwani could clear the desk. She didn't like the odds; she would have preferred to wait for Marie, but she was out of options.

  There was a shadowy movement behind her and to her left. She focused on the man with the knife and put all her weight behind the folded knuckles of her right hand, twisting and driving it up into his left armpit. She felt his grip on her hair go slack and knew she'd hit the bundle of nerves on the underside of his arm. The force of her follow-through sent him sprawling against the bulkhead, stunned.

  She turned to Snake-tongue, but he was face-down on the deck, blood pooling under his face. A black-haired, dark-skinned woman about her own size put her right foot on his shoulder and used both hands to wrest a commando knife from the back of his neck. Liz took in the black neoprene wetsuit and the woman's dripping hair before she turned to Lanjwani.