“That’s some rough terrain,” Bogart announced, indicating the hiking symbol and horse. “I should probably take a horse instead.”
“You’re not getting me on one of those beasts,” Kirk remarked. “I’ll take the ATV.”
Beck folded the map and stuck it in his pocket. “We’ll grab more maps from the front desk,” he announced. “While Monroe and Gil search Zack’s bag of tricks, the rest of us will head to the security office. I can get a better look at their security system while we wait.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Monroe announced.
All six stood and headed inside.
Chapter Thirty-one
The ATV cruised along the moderately rocky path in the woods. Once Kirk reached flatter terrain, the four-wheeler picked up speed. The thrill of speed and power beneath him was one of the few things that made the hardened man smile. He decreased his speed as he entered another rocky area in a small canyon pass. Kirk stopped the ATV to take a better look at the rocky hillside surrounding the trail. His grip tightened on the handlebars as he considered continuing through the pass. He again hesitated. Kirk studied the terrain then eyed the tops of the ridges on either side. He felt his jacket for his shoulder holster then cursed softly under his breath. Being unarmed was worse than being naked.
“You’re being paranoid, you idiot,” he cursed softly to himself.
He finally gave in and proceeded through the pass. Without warning, he went faster and swerved to the right, riding part of the rocky incline, then came back down before swerving to the left. He reached the opposite end of the pass without incident. He was obviously suffering from paranoia after years of covert missions. It seemed silly to believe someone was always waiting to strike within some random kill box like the one he just successfully passed through. He gave the four-wheeler some gas, speeding up when he heard the distinct sound of rifle fire. He didn’t have to look up, having felt the bullet whiz past his head and striking the rocks just on the other side. If he hadn’t picked up speed at the precise moment he had, the bullet would have found its way into his head.
“I knew I wasn’t being paranoid,” he cried out as he drove faster over the last of the rocky terrain and onto the broad, flat path.
Several rifle blasts followed, hitting rocks behind him. He drove as fast as the ATV would allow for the conditions of the trail. Once he was sure he was clear of the attack, he slowed and whipped out his handheld radio.
“Yo, anyone copy?” he shouted into the radio above the engine of the ATV.
All he could hear was someone’s voice and static. He drove faster and headed up a path to get away from the rocky ravine. Once he reached a clearing, he tried the radio again.
“Anyone copy?” he again announced.
Bogart responded through the static, but it was unclear what he was saying.
“Bogart, if you can hear me,” he announced firm and loud. “Some fucker just took shots at me. Watch your twenty!”
He could no longer hear Bogart’s voice only static. The sound of rocks crashing against one another as they fell down behind him caught Kirk’s attention.
“You don’t need a shotgun, Kirk,” he snarled mimicking Corbin. “The precious, rich crybabies will piss in their pants if they see guns. Never mind my poor, hairy ass!”
He gave the ATV excessive gas, causing it to jet forward. He swerved to avoid a large rock in his path. The four-wheeler launched into the air, taking Kirk with it and crashing several feet away. Within minutes, a man dressed in camouflage appeared from the ravine with his rifle leveled and ready for action. The four-wheeler was on its side just beyond the large rock. Kirk’s black boot stuck out from beneath the vehicle, indicating he’d been pinned beneath it when it hit the ground. The man hurried toward the overturned ATV, rounded it, and aimed his rifle. It was an empty boot! The man turned around to scan the area. Kirk stood behind him and grinned with a sinister look in his eyes.
“Momma’s boys shouldn’t play with guns,” he announced as he punched the man in the face.
The man immediately dropped to the ground. Kirk snatched the rifle containing a hunting scope from him as he fell and looked it over. His eyes gleamed.
“Thanks, I needed one of these,” he announced then kneeled alongside the barely moving man. The man groaned. Kirk punched him again. “What else did you bring me?” he asked and searched the man’s pockets for weapons. He removed a semiautomatic and nodded his approval. “Needed one of these too.” He continued his search then eyed the unconscious man. “No handcuffs, zip ties, or ropes, huh? I guess you didn’t intend to take any prisoners.” He sat back on his feet and sighed while shaking his head. “It’s unfortunate for you I’m not Zack. Kill first; ask questions later. Me? I love a good, old-fashioned interrogation.”
Moments later, the man in camouflage woke and stared at an upside version of Kirk where he crouched only a few feet away. He cleaned dirt out from under his fingernails with his Bowie knife then eyed the man who was hanging from a tree branch by his ankle with his belt and the rifle shoulder strap.
“Finally,” Kirk announced and replaced his Bowie knife to his boot sheath. “Since I’m a little pressed for time, why don’t you tell me what I want to know the first time I ask, and we’ll all be around to celebrate another day.”
“Fuck you,” the man scoffed.
Kirk groaned softly then leaned forward and punched the man in the face just hard enough to get his attention. “That’s not an appropriate answer, and I didn’t even ask a question yet.” He returned to a more comfortable position. “And for the record, I’m not considered a patient man, so keep that in mind in case I accidentally kill you.”
†
Bogart rode a large, stocky black horse along the trail in the woods. He stopped the horse and listened to the faint sounds of rifle fire. The shots seemed to echo from every direction, so it was impossible to tell which way they came. He listened a moment longer, but there were no further sounds. Bogart patted the horse’s muscular neck as it lightly pranced in place, ready to continue onward.
“I’m telling you, Buttons,” he announced to the horse. “There was a time I’d hear gunshots and run away from them as fast as I could. I hate that I suddenly feel the urge to run toward them. You know what I mean?” He leaned down in the saddle and eyed the horse, who seemed to be looking back at him. “Who the hell names a horse Buttons?” He straightened in the saddle and nudged the horse to continue along the trail at a fast walk. The horse only had one walking speed. “I’m going to call you Othello,” he announced proudly. “He’s about your size. It’s fitting. Othello it is.”
They rode a few minutes in silence before his handheld radio crackled. Bogart snatched the radio and listened a moment.
“Someone calling? Over,” he announced into the radio. The static continued although it sounded as if someone was speaking. He could almost make out his name. “Kirk? Is that you? Did you hear those shots?”
The crackling got worse. Bogart groaned and replaced the radio. “You’d think mobsters could afford better equipment,” he informed the horse then looked around. “What a crazy ass place this is. We should just grab Pinto and run for home. Sort it all out later.”
The horse snickered almost as if responding to the remark. Bogart again eyed the horse.
“No, you misunderstood,” he informed the horse. “Pinto is a girl. She’s not a horse. That’s a completely different kind of pinto.” He sank into his thoughts a moment. “She’s quite a looker though. I’ll never understand why she settled for Beck. He was probably cool at one time, but he can be a bit of a tight ass. Sometimes a whining little bitch too.” The horse sneezed. “Yeah, he’s okay, I suppose.” He again leaned forward in the saddle and looked at the horse’s face. “What about you? You have a nice little filly waiting in your paddock?”
The horse suddenly stopped and its head raised high in the air. His muscles tightened beneath the saddle. Bogart watched the horse’s ears turn in several directio
ns like radar. He followed the direction the horse’s ears turned. Bogart appeared concerned as he gently leaned toward the horse’s neck. He gently patted the horse and spoke softly while casting looks around the woods.
“Gunshots, radio static, and now you’ve got the willies?” Bogart announced softly to the horse. “Othello, I’d say we have a situation.”
The horse suddenly snorted loudly, causing his entire body to rise and fall. Bogart sat deep in the saddle, preparing for any sudden reactions from the horse.
“You aren’t just faking me out over a deer or some shit, are you?” he asked while scanning the area for any sign of movement.
The horse stared into the woods before them and seemed to lock on whatever it was that caused its nervous reaction.
“So spookesville is that way,” Bogart announced gently although he still didn’t see anything. “Then that means we go this way.”
He sharply turned the horse around and headed along a different path. The horse seemed to be in more of a hurry than just a few minutes ago.
“Don’t make me look bad,” Bogart remarked to the horse. “I’m good at doing that on my own.”
The sound of the horse’s hooves snapping twigs and scraping rocks was almost deafening. Bogart groaned and rolled his eyes.
“Can you walk a little quieter?” he demanded. “I don’t need you giving away our position. Bad guys carry guns and they ain’t afraid to shoot horses.” The horse snickered. “Yeah, even the pretty ones. Sorry, amigos.”
After several minutes of riding in a large circle around the area of concern, the horse again stopped looking ahead and slightly to the right. Bogart scanned the area. A man in camouflage stood near a large tree while holding a rifle cradled in his arms. He spoke into his handheld radio.
“Now that’s interesting,” Bogart remarked softly to the horse. “Suppose he’s looking for these two good-looking studs?”
Bogart removed his radio, turned the volume down, and began switching channels while watching the man in the distance. He finally found the proper channel and listened a moment.
“He didn’t show,” the man spoke into the handheld radio. “What do you want me to do? Over.”
Another voice then came over the radio with some static. “Hold your position. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
Bogart gently patted the horse while leaning on his neck. “You certainly pissed off someone, Othello,” he informed the horse. “We can do this the old-fashioned way and turn back, or we can do this the brass balls way and take out the prick.”
The horse snickered softly. Bogart eyed the horse with surprise. “That’s mighty tough talk for a fella who ain’t got any.” He sighed softly and watched the man in the distance. “Fine, we’ll do it your way.”
A few minutes had passed as the man with the rifle waited impatiently by the tree, nearly invisible to anyone passing on the main trail. The crunching of branches and leaves announced someone approaching from behind. The man turned with his rifle aimed and hesitated to see the black horse trotting along the smaller path not far from him without its rider. The man frowned and raised his handheld radio.
“The idiot must’ve fallen off the horse,” he reported and approached the horse as it trotted along the path.
The man reached the horse and attempted to grab its reins from the side to stop it. Bogart suddenly flipped over the horse’s saddle from the opposite side, using the horse’s body to hide his, and kicked the man in the face. The man hit the ground hard, losing his rifle. Bogart landed on his feet on the other side of the horse and lunged for the discarded weapon. He grabbed the rifle and aimed it at the fallen man. He waited a minute, but the man didn’t get up. Bogart cast a look at the horse. The horse snorted and threw its head in the air.
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” he demanded. “I’m not the littlest ninja of this boyband. I’m sure you kick harder.”
Bogart anxiously approached the man while keeping the rifle trained on him. He stared at the way the man laid on the ground with his eyes open and his head in an unnatural position. Bogart suddenly gasped and jumped back a step closer to the horse.
“Oh, hell,” he cried out. “He’s dead!”
The horse sneezed.
Bogart glared at the horse and waved his hand erratically. “You think I did it on purpose? That’s just mean, Othello.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Gil walked along the white sandy beach while Darth ran along the surf, playfully chasing the waves. Monroe whizzed by on his water bike further out in the ocean. He waved to Gil before disappearing. Gil frowned and shook his head.
“Why do I get the feeling he’s enjoying his assignment?” he muttered to himself. He then watched Darth playing in the waves. “Oh, Darth. You too?”
Gil looked down at his moderately dressy shoes now filling with sand. He sighed then removed his shoes and socks. He scrunched his toes in the sand and considered the sensation. Gil frowned.
“I’ve got to learn to relax,” he muttered. “Take a lesson from the dog.”
“You could probably start by not talking to yourself,” a woman remarked from a few feet behind him.
Gil turned and looked toward the woods, although not particularly startled by the woman’s presence. Valerie walked onto the beach not far from him. She wore a light sundress, a moderately floppy hat, and carried her sandals. Gil watched the woman with little emotion as she approached. She observed his serious look and almost laughed.
“You really are wound tight,” she remarked while grinning.
“Have we met?” Gil asked.
“Not officially,” she replied, “but I’m sure you’ve heard about me.”
“Oh?”
“I’m Valerie.”
Gil raised his brow in question, indicating that he knew who she was.
“Yeah, that Valerie,” she replied.
“Sal’s former girlfriend.”
“I don’t know what he’s told you about me,” she announced with a moderately humored smile, “but I assure you, I’m not nearly that bad.”
“Did you break all the windows in his Mercedes?” Gil asked with little reaction.
She fidgeted slightly. “I suppose that part is true,” Valerie replied. “We had a bad break-up.”
“Did you threaten to kill him after he had his security guards remove you from his house when you broke in?” Gil continued his interrogation.
Valerie again fidgeted from the line of questioning. “That was a long time ago.”
“That was last year,” Gil casually replied.
She groaned with defeat. “Haven’t you ever made any mistakes?”
“I’ve made plenty of mistakes,” Gil informed her. “I just don’t expect anyone to forgive those mistakes as if they’d never happened.”
“I’m not asking him to act like nothing ever happened,” she interjected.
“I’m also not going to talk him on your behalf.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she huffed.
“Why are you here, Valerie?” Gil finally asked.
“For a wedding,” she replied with some surprise then laughed. “Why else?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” Gil remarked. “I heard you and the mother-of-the-groom had a falling-out.”
“Everyone fights from time-to-time.”
“I heard you had no intentions of attending the wedding until last month when you started dating Dr. Sherman,” Gil announced. Despite the accusation, he didn’t alter his tone. “Could it be you’re only here in a desperate attempt to make Sal jealous? You’re secretly hoping he’ll want you back.”
“No, that’s not true,” she scoffed and became angry. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m sorry I bothered stopping when I saw you out here alone.”
“Stopping?” he questioned then managed a soft laugh. “You followed me from the resort. If you were looking for a bleeding heart to plead your case, you should have gone after Bogart. He’s a sucker for
women, a romantic at heart, and Sal likes him for some odd reason.”
“Good to know,” she scoffed then walked away.
Gil watched her leave then shook his head. “There’s another notch for your bedpost, Bogart,” he muttered then chuckled softly in his throat. “You’re welcome.”
The faint echo of rifle fire caught Gil’s attention. It sounded as if it came from deep within the woods. Gil listened and counted the shots. He listened after the last shot was fired then noted the time on his watch. He removed his hand radio.
“Anyone copy?”
There was no response, not even static. Gil switched frequencies and still didn’t get any sound.
“Useless piece of shit,” he muttered. He removed his cell phone, eyed the lack of signal, and then groaned with disgust. “I hate paradise.”
Darth looked toward the woods and snarled. Gil looked from the dog to the woods. Sunlight glistened off something shiny. Gil’s eyes widened slightly. As he threw himself to the sand, the ground exploded near him from the nearly silent gunshot. Gil rolled twice to avoid the two shots that followed. Darth ran across the beach for the woods, alarming Gil.
“Ah, hell,” he gasped while swiftly removing his Bowie knife from his boot sheath.
Gil sprang to his feet when no other shots followed, uncertain if Darth became the new target for the nearly silent gunfire. He ran for the woods as Darth’s snarls turned vicious. The dog had a man dressed in camouflage on the ground while tearing into his lower arm, keeping him from using the gun containing a silencer. As Gil ran for them, the man grabbed the gun from his right hand with his left and aimed it at Darth. Gil flipped his knife in his hand, catching it by the tip, and threw it. The knife embedded deep into the man’s neck. He dropped the gun, gasped several times, and finally lay motionless. Darth released the man’s arm, sniffed him, and then ran back to Gil. Gil patted the dog affectionately then approached the dead man with little emotion. He crouched alongside the unfamiliar man, studied him a moment, and then searched his pockets, removing weapons. Gil was alerted to Monroe’s water bike speeding past on the nearby beach.
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