“Here,” he said, tossing sheets, blankets and two plastic-wrapped pillows to Bryn. “Make yourself useful.”
Bryn assumed they were to occupy the bunk beds that night, so she was content to make them up while he sat at the table and read whatever was inside the folder. Once she’d finished, she lay down on the bottom bunk. Scott looked up from his reading and said, “Don’t get comfortable.”
As if the quills would allow it. “Why not?”
“We’ve got a job to do.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Scott didn’t want to take Bryn with him, but he’d seen the eyes watching them from the other bunghole units as they’d made their way to number nine. If he left without her, he doubted she’d enjoy the time waiting for him to return. She was already turning out to be a huge liability. But then again, she had done an admirable job back there with the gun, except for not knowing how to use it properly and waiting until he’d gotten his head knocked around before bringing it into play. And the short encounter with Mouse had given him more of a potential lead into Fournier’s whereabouts than anything he’d accomplished thus far. Mouse wouldn’t have loosened up without Bryn’s obvious attachment to him.
That very attachment might be problematic though. He couldn’t decide whether he should encourage it or keep his distance. Professionally speaking, there were arguments both for and against. Personally speaking, he found he liked the idea far more than he probably should.
He finished reading Abel’s notes on the job. They were written in a combination of English and Yiddish, a special ‘code’ Abel developed to thwart snoopers. It was how Scott had ingratiated himself with Abel in the first place. The XIA knew about Abel’s code, knew his grandmother had been an Orthodox Jew. Scott had taken an immersion course in the language and pretended to have had a Jewish neighbor lady that babysat him as a kid. Abel’s one big weakness had been his beloved ‘Bubbe.’
It was strange to think of him as dead. The man had been a big part of Scott’s life for the last six months. Scott wasn’t mourning his loss—opportunistic sadists never impressed him much—but Abel had been a character. Any second now, Scott expected to hear those jangling spurs and that on-again off-again southern accent interspersed with the occasional “Oy!”
There were no decorations in this, one of Abel’s ‘satellite’ offices. Nothing personal, nothing revealing its former occupant’s personality except a utilitarian clock near the door. It was time to go.
“Alright, listen up,” he said. Bryn swung her legs around and sat up a little hunched over so her head didn’t hit the upper bunk. She rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand and gave him her full attention.
He took a breath and launched into his explanation before the nagging doubts made him nix the whole thing. “The job we got to do should be pretty simple, but there’s about a million things that could go wrong.”
“Is it legal?”
He stared at her until she flapped her hands and said, “Okay, okay. I get it. We’re going to break the law. Go on.”
The doubts weren’t just nagging now; they were setting off klaxon alarms. But he couldn’t just leave her here. And the job shouldn’t get messy. It was really a simple pick-up and delivery, other than the unusual form of transportation. “The most important thing for you to remember is to keep your mouth shut. You just follow along and do as I say and we’ll be fine.”
He stood, pulled the gun from its spot in his waistband and examined it. Mouse’s firearm was fully loaded, but looked like it could use a good cleaning. Not that he was complaining. He was just glad she hadn’t asked for it back.
He took Bryn back out to the boardwalk and they walked until he saw a white, jacked-up truck hauling two Wavecruisers on a double trailer. He waved at the driver, Fiske, who began backing the trailer onto the beach toward the ocean until waves lapped at the trailer tires. A few beach-goers stopped to watch, but most ignored it.
“Is he supposed to be doing that?” Bryn asked. She immediately corrected herself with, “No, don’t give me that look again. I’m sorry.” She made a zipping motion over her mouth.
The passenger in the truck got out and walked up to them. He was blonde, dressed in board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt with a black backpack over his shoulders. In a thick Australian accent, he asked, “Where’s Abel?”
“Dead,” Scott said.
“And you are?” The man’s age was indeterminate; Scott thought maybe forty to fifty years old, but his tanned skin was so damaged from sun exposure it was almost as leathery as the crocodile graft on the side of his face.
“Cougar.” Scott was the new Abel, but he wasn’t the boss of this operation. Neither, he was certain, was this man.
“Ahhh,” the man said. “I heard a’ you. The fighter. Got them claws, right?”
Scott didn’t hesitate to show them now; this was proving ground.
“Nice.” The man didn’t reach out for a handshake. “Dundee’s the name.” His eyes, flat and dead as his reptilian choice of donor, slid to Bryn. “Who’s the Sheila?”
“My apprentice.”
Dundee’s eyes came to life with sudden interest. “Sign me up for training duty.”
“Pincushion duty’s more like it,” Scott said.
Bryn pointed to her quills and said sternly, “I could put your eye out with one of these babies at twenty paces.”
Scott wanted to hide his head in his hands.
Dundee’s mouth hung open for a split second before he exploded in laughter that bent him double and had him clutching his midsection. It went on for some time before he finally slapped his thigh and wiped away a tear. “Hoo, that was a good one. I know a bit about porcupines, Beautiful, and they don’t shoot nothin’. If yer not interested in the Dundee, that’s fine by me. I can take no for an answer. What’s yer name?”
Dundee’s joviality didn’t fool Scott for an instant. He knew the guy’s reputation from sources within the XBestia and the XIA. There were a lot of disturbed xenofreaks out there, but this one was a genuine psychopath. He was surprised Lupus would send one of his most vicious lieutenants for a job that was supposed to be easy. Scott would have been happy to have never crossed Dundee’s path, much less expose Bryn to him. He hoped she wouldn’t use her real name, and was pleased when she said, “Porky.”
Dundee shook his head once to object. “Doesn’t do you justice.”
Eager to stay on track and put the job behind him, Scott said, “Let’s do this.”
Dundee strode off to help Fiske unwinch the Wavecruisers from the trailer. Bryn grasped Scott’s arm and said urgently, “Do you know who that is?”
“Yeah,” he said and the word ‘duh’ was implied.
Bryn went on like he hadn’t responded. “I saw him on the news. It’s that guy who shot up all those people! He’s, like, crazy!”
Scott stepped around to block her from Dundee’s view. He gripped her upper arms and hissed, “Shut up. Jesus, this was a bad idea. Look—go back to Bluto’s-”
Dundee interrupted him with a sharp whistle. Scott turned and immediately saw the problem. An all-terrain police vehicle had driven onto the boardwalk in the distance, something that never happened around here anymore. It occurred to him that Mouse had taken Ellie to the nearest precinct—the cruiser was probably looking for Nosferatu and his crew.
Fiske jumped in the truck and pulled forward, leaving the two Wavecruisers bobbing in the mild Coney Island surf. Dundee, standing thigh deep in the water, pushed his cruiser to face perpendicular to the shore. Scott said, “Come on,” and pulled Bryn by the hand to the other one. It was a warm enough day, but the water was cold and he was soon soaked up to his waist. He’d never ridden this kind of water craft in his life, but he followed Dundee’s example and wrestled the cruiser around. With Bryn’s help from the other side, he pushed it out past the waves. He climbed on and stared at the control panel as Dundee started his engine with a gurgling roar.
Bryn straddled the seat be
hind him and reached around to a compartment in front of the cushion. She pulled out a plastic key on a lanyard, attached it to Scott’s wrist and stuck the key in the ignition. In his ear, she said, “Push the red button and turn the key at the same time.”
The waves had pushed them back toward shore and they were almost parallel to the beach again. Bryn hopped off and straightened the cruiser out. As she was getting back on, he scooted back, pulled the lanyard from his wrist, and gestured that she should drive. With a wide grin that lit up her face, she took the handlebars.
Dundee on the other cruiser was idling in deeper water. Through the wind in his ears, Scott heard Dundee’s challenging whoop as they shot past and Bryn sent a wall of spray in his direction. Scott held onto her leather jacket at the waist and leaned to one side to avoid her quills. Every dip and bump threatened to poke out one of his eyes or throw him from the cruiser altogether, but he decided after the first two minutes that someday he’d own one of these babies. Dundee caught up and maneuvered himself in the lead so Bryn could follow.
They headed out into the open ocean.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Bryn had only ridden a Wavecruiser once before, as a passenger, but Scott didn’t know that and even her limited experience was obviously more than his. The cruisers weren’t difficult to drive, especially these heavier, three-seater SUV-types. She’d ridden on the back of Maria’s cousin Jorge’s cruiser last summer on a lake in Connecticut.
Right away she realized there was a big difference between the chop on a lake and the swells in the ocean. While chop might produce a rhythmic bounce against the cruiser’s hull, navigating the swells was like riding up hills and down valleys. Luckily, the swells today weren’t huge, but after about half an hour of subtle highs and lows, they did make her regret eating that hotdog.
They weren’t the only ones on the water by a long shot, but up ahead, she saw a white boat that Dundee seemed to be aiming for. Bryn didn’t know how big it was, but if pressed, she’d feel comfortable calling it a yacht. As it came into better focus, she spotted several people in skimpy attire lounging around on its deck with drinks in their hands. The name on the side of the boat was Le Gros Poisson, which, she knew from high school French class, meant The Big Fish.
Dundee slowed up and she followed suit. Now she could hear laughter and music floating across the water. She doubted they were there to join the party.
Dundee whistled and waved and almost immediately two men manned the winches at the side of the yacht to lower a hot pink inflatable recreational boat. It was big—big enough to support its cargo—a plain wooden crate about the size of a baby’s crib. Bryn eyed it suspiciously. It was probably full of enough drugs to put her in prison for the rest of her life for just being on the same ocean with it. As Dundee unfastened the winch lines she kept expecting something bad to happen, like for the Coast Guard to arrive, guns blazing. But the sea was calm, and the partiers seemed oblivious as Dundee fed a rope through the tow loop at the front of the inflatable. He tossed one end to Scott, who in turn tied it to the back of their Wavecruiser.
Bryn followed Dundee back to the beach, towing the cargo behind her with her heart in her throat the entire way. Gone was the enjoyment of the ride; she’d had fun skimming the waves on the way there, but solemnly coasted those same waves on the way back. Scott didn’t say a word the whole trip. It never occurred to her to ask what was in the crate. She didn’t want to know.
It was late afternoon when the coast came into view. They were far enough off shore for Bryn to see a few stragglers enjoying the last of the sunshine before the neighborhood got too dark to be safe. She also saw a dune buggy that seemed to be keeping up with their progress as they hugged the coastline.
“Is that who’s picking up the cargo?” she asked.
“Nope,” Scott said.
“Then who are they?”
“Cops, maybe. Bad guys, probably.” He sounded resigned. “How much electrigas do we have?”
“Enough to make it to shore.”
Dundee slowed until they caught up to him. “Friends o’ yers?” he called.
“Not me,” Scott replied.
They’d almost reached their launch point. Bryn saw the white truck with its double trailer waiting for them, saw the driver get out and stand on the sand with what could only be a rifle in his hands. There was no way they’d get there before the dune buggy, not at the speed they were maintaining to keep the cargo steady. She glanced back and reassessed their ETA when she noticed the cargo was still upright, but it was moving. The box was shaking and swaying and there was some kind of noise, like a miniature donkey braying, coming from inside.
She opened her mouth to alert Scott, but his attention was fixed on dry land. The dune buggy had arrived and four armed men wearing ski masks and black vests poured out of it. She looked back at the cargo again. The ocean swells were increasing as they closed in on the shore. The box was lashed down, but seemed to be listing alarmingly to one side.
“Scott!” she cried.
He finally turned and noticed the precariously tilted inflatable, but the scene on the beach was just as critical. Facing down the barrels of four guns convinced the driver of the white truck to surrender. One man stayed to guard him while the other three splashed into the surf, weapons at the ready. Bryn saw Dundee reach behind his head and tug at something partially protruding from his backpack.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“All they want is the cargo,” Scott said. “Don’t resist.”
“Tell Dundee that.”
The Aussie had pulled a weapon from his backpack and wore a demented grin on his face.
“I would not recommend it!” The closest of the armed men shouted from behind the sight of his weapon, which was trained on Dundee. “You’re outgunned.”
As soon as he spoke, Bryn recognized his voice. She’d seen and heard him speak several times at the same rallies as her father. He was the commander of the Animal Rights Army, a militant, partisan group of vegans that had taken credit for a string of terrorist acts, from torching a pig farmer’s house to releasing into the wild a thousand-plus turkeys slated for Thanksgiving tables. Despite his violent occupation, he’d always been nice to her.
“Kareem?” she called.
It was not her intention to distract him, but when he responded to his name by turning his head towards her, Dundee opened fire. Bryn only had time to see Kareem take a hit that knocked him backwards before Scott shoved her out of the way for the second time that day. She was taken completely unawares and fell awkwardly face-first into the water.
He’d shoved her—saved her—by placing the Wavecruiser between her and the gunfight.
Expecting a bullet in the back at any moment, she swam down in the murky water until her fingers touched sand. The muted sounds of shouting and gunfire reached her as she tried to gain even more distance by swimming underwater towards the inflatable. When she thought her lungs would explode, she surfaced to quickly catch her breath before diving once more.
By the time she made it to shelter on the far side of the inflatable, the gunfire had stopped. She heard nothing but the waves and the plaintive cries of the crated animal. She was desperate to find out what happened to Scott, but too afraid to look. The question of whether the ARA soldiers had fired in her direction was answered when she noticed the inflatable was sinking rapidly. The noises from the crate increased in volume as water began flooding it. She tried to touch bottom, but it was just out of reach. There was no way she alone could prevent the poor creature trapped in the crate from drowning.
Suddenly, the inflatable began moving away from her toward the shore. Someone was hauling it in. She knew she risked getting shot, but the pitiful cries from inside the crate spurred her to push from behind. When she got her feet under her, she had more leverage. Soon the waves carried the cargo into shallower water until it scraped bottom.
Bryn took a steadying breath and stepped out with her hands raised hig
h.
Chapter Thirty
After shoving Bryn, Scott had dived off the Wavecruiser on the opposite side, towards Dundee. Before he even hit the water, he saw a bloom of red appear on the shoulder of the xeno’s shirt. He’d swum under Dundee’s cruiser, prepared to haul him to the surface when he fell, but that never happened. Instead, Dundee turned the cruiser and hunkered down behind the seat with his knees on the running board. With the break in the gunfire the attackers began dragging their injured lead man to safety between the truck and the jeep.
Treading water, Scott had seen Bryn surface for air, relieved that she was safe and heading for cover behind the inflatable. Dundee, bleeding heavily and in obvious pain, seemed to finally realize the odds were not in his favor. He sent Scott a black look and muttered, “It’s no good to them dead.”
When he’d swung his semi-automatic rifle in the direction of the inflatable, Scott realized his intention: kill the cargo. But Bryn was there. Scott reacted without thought, hoisting himself up out of the water with one hand on the running board and punching Dundee in the injured shoulder with the other. Scott wasn’t fast enough to prevent the shot that hit the inflatable, but with a low moan, Dundee slumped over the seat.
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