by Mark Allen
Whoever, whatever was out there stalking them, it was worse than cops or rival gangs.
Much worse.
Just then, something passed by, whooshing with great speed, barely sensed, not fully heard nor seen. A cold gust shimmied over him, freezing him in his tracks. He knew it was not simply the night weather.
Rudy had just been touched by the wings of Evil.
And was that a faint hint of laughter, already fading away?
Trembling with an all - consuming fear and dread the likes of which he had not felt since early on in his first tour in Iraq, Rudy briefly considered turning tail and running. But the thought left him as quickly as it had come. His pride and discipline would not allow him to do something so cowardly. He also knew if he ran, El Gecko would pursue him as long as they were both alive.
Rudy gulped, gripped his weapon tighter, and took a step forward. He was not at all certain he would survive the night. He was not certain that any of them would.
Aboard the dilapidated Sulu Sea, Donnie stepped back from the quarterdeck as Johnnie and El Gecko arrived atop the gangplank. He hoped the deck had not rusted through.
“Good morning, sir, “ Donnie said.
“Buenos dias,” his boss said back. “Everything ready?”
“Yes sir.”
“What’s up, Donnie?” Johnnie interjected.
Donnie nodded. “Mr. Wolf. Lovely to see you again.”
Johnnie grinned yellowed teeth and pointed towards Donnie with both stubby index fingers. “You too, dude.”
Donnie nodded silently to Arthur, who nodded back. “This way, gentlemen.” Donnie led them aft to an open hatch in the deck, with a metal ladder heading down below.
It was dark down there.
Donnie slung his weapon over his shoulder and took the lead, walking down the ladder first, his hands gripped loosely around the rails on each side, ready to grab if his boot slipped on the steel step. When he got to the bottom of the ladder he stepped back and looked upwards expectantly.
One by one, the rest of the men each descended the ladder into the bowels of the ship. Jorge was the last one to descend. Almost as watchful for danger as Rudy, Jorge kept his gun trained upwards as he walked down the ladder to the steel plate at the bottom.
Once they were all standing there, waiting, Donnie simply turned around and began walking. They followed silently, single file. At the far bulkhead of each watertight compartment, they had to step through an open hatch to continue their journey. Doing so required picking up their feet and striding forward while simultaneously ducking their heads to keep from scraping their knees or knocking themselves out on the metal flanges.
After several episodes squeezing through hatches, they stepped into a compartment much larger and better lit than the rest. Several tables scattered around, with attached seating, bolted to the deck in rows. Light glared downward from several battery-powered spotlights erected at strategic locations around the room. Though the room was better lit than the passageway compartments, it was not, by any means, lit well. The harsh lights, with no scrims or diffusion, created areas awash in bright whiteness surrounded by black pools of shadow and darkness. A dark, abandoned food service area could barely be detected in the distance going aft.
“What is this place?” Arthur asked.
“The old mess decks,” Donnie answered.
Rudy inspected the shipping containers where T-Ball should have been. Halted by the blackness, Rudy again pulled his small flashlight out, hit the button on the end, and felt comfort when the small white LED light burst forth.
Holding the flashlight in his fist with the light coming out near the bottom of his hand, he played the intense white LED light across the containers. Painted a dull blue that had faded over time and was peeling from years of sun, salt water air, repeated cycles of heat and cold, the containers in front of him all displayed heavy beads of moisture, condensation from the dank night air and low temperature. The light danced across the metal. Further down the side of the ground- level container, something dark red wet had been sprayed across the side.
Curious, Rudy moved closer until he caught the unmistakable coppery smell he knew all too intimately. The light refract off the rusty spray, and recognized the splatter for what it was – a splash of thick blood, still fresh, not coagulating in the night air. He paused in his tracks. Immediately tense, his jaw clenched tight just as his thumb flicked the safety off his weapon. His index finger snaked up to caress the trigger. He moved the flashlight slowly down towards the ground.
The white beam finally illuminated the twisted mound of old clothing and dark flesh that was T-Ball’s corpse. Rudy frowned at the tangled wreck. He was no stranger to death in all its grotesque, vicious presentations. Yet he could hardly believe this mangled pile of flesh and bone had ever been a living being.
At the cars, Aldo and Mongo relaxed, chatting to ward off boredom. These meetings could last minutes, or hours. One never knew. Aldo smoked his expensive Turkish cigarettes. Mongo stoked a fifty-two ring, seven inch cigar, an “El Presidente”.
“How long to smoke one of those things?” Aldo asked.
Mongo took the cigar out of his mouth, glanced at it, appraising. “About an hour, hour and a half,” he replied. “That’s assuming I smoke it all in one sitting.”
“Oh?”
“I can always cut off the lit end, stick the remainder in my pocket, and light up again some other time.”
Aldo held up his thin, brown cigarette. “I’m done in five minutes. Efficient, yes?”
Mongo shrugged, unconcerned, then shoved his beloved cigar back into the corner of his mouth. He inhaled, the smoldering end of his dark cigar glowing a luminous orange, then dying back down as he blew smoke out between his teeth.
Glancing up at Aldo from his cigar, Mongo half-saw, half felt a blur with an accompanying gust of wind sweep past, moving left to right between them.
He gasped, caught off guard, as he heard the faintest hint of a sadistic laugh. He looked at Aldo, confused. “What was that?”
Aldo did not answer. He stared back blankly, eyes wide and unbelieving, mouth agape, expensive brown Turkish cigarette falling from his lower lip. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
He glanced down at himself to see four distinct red stains spread across the shirt covering his abdomen, blend together, become one. Blood spilled downward and over his belt, then cascaded in rivulets down his legs. Then his abdomen gaped open, its contents heaving out of him, spilling heavy and red onto the concrete, splattering everywhere, wet steam immediately rising in the cool air.
Mongo stepped back, eyes big as saucers. His cigar, forgotten, fell from his mouth. Aldo’s dead body collapsed in a wet heap just a few feet in front of him. Mongo stopped when he backed into the car behind him.
The jolt brought him around. He drew his handgun, looked around wildly. Adrenaline injected into his bloodstream, rushed throughout his body, surged by a rapidly rising pulse. He already had a round in the chamber, so he cocked the hammer back.
Feeling fear for his life, Mongo promptly forgot the protocol Rudy had so carefully set up and painstakingly practiced with him and the rest of the security team. Mongo was to key the radio and sound the alarm. Let Rudy know his location, and that Aldo was down. Have Donnie and Jorge get El Gecko the hell off the boat.
None of that entered Mongo’s mind. His only priority was his own survival. Gasping for breath, gun held out in front of him, his eyes scanned the blackness.
The night had returned to quiet peace. No sound out of place. No revving cars. No helicopters overhead. No attacking gunmen. Only the sound of his own breathing. In his near panic, the ensuing silence frightened him even more.
He glanced back over at Aldo. He needed to confirm the reality that Aldo was indeed dead, and that he had indeed seen what knew he had seen. Aldo’s remains lay in a tangled heap on the ground between the cars. Most of the steam had finished rising as the blood and intestines cooled against the cold
pavement.
At least Mongo wasn’t taking leave of his senses.
A quiet rustle to his left. The barest hint of movement.
Close.
Mongo turned in one swift, precise motion. He did not see anything, only felt a great impact at the wrist of his gun hand. Astonished, he looked at his gun, which had magically dropped and clattered on the ground. What was that dark brown thing attached and wrapped around the handgrip of the gun?
Oh yes. Of course.
It was his hand, neatly severed, index finger still around the trigger.
Mongo’s gaze drifted upwards from the ground to his right arm, which now somehow ended at the end of his forearm, and squirted hot red blood into the air.
None of this made any sense to him. His hand had been there just a second ago, right?
His brain started to register pain. Mongo instinctively grabbed his arm with his remaining hand, clamped down on it in a viselike grip, trying to stop the unfettered flow of blood out of his body.
He heard a mewling sound, like a soft growl of a cat, off to one side, approaching swiftly. He turned to his left. His eyes grew wide once again.
Then Mongo’s brain simply checked out.
The last thing Mongo ever saw in this world was an expensive suit, dark and immaculate, an open mouth filled with razor sharp teeth, long nose, alabaster skin, and black, evil, deep-set, hate-filled eyes. After that, he felt a brief and terrible rending of flesh at his throat, and then he was floating downward, downward, ever downward.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mongo was dead by the time his massive body hit the ground. Blood pooled out from his jagged neck and around his head.
The vampire stood over his two latest kills, scanning his handiwork, grinning with smug satisfaction. He had managed to take them both out without either one of them raising the alarm. Of course, with the big man, the vampire had sliced through his throat, rending vocal chords asunder, his sharp nails going through human flesh, muscle and sinew, like a warm knife through butter. He dabbed the blood from his fingers with a linen handkerchief.
“Mongo. Rudy. Come in.” The harried voice on the radio sounded tinny, far away.
“Mongo, come in.” A pause. “Mongo. Come in.” The voice sounded urgent. Pleading.
The vampire stepped away from the carnage. His eyes flickered up to the hulking, decrepit freighter tied to the dock. Drugs, he thought with disgust.
Repulsive.
He was a demon of bloody vengeance this night, and they were going to get what they deserved.
Rudy tried Mongo one more time as he squatted beside T-Balls ragged remains. When he got no response, he switched his radio to the reserve frequency, the one they had all agreed would only be used in case of catastrophic emergencies.
“Mongo. Mongo. Come in. Abort. Abort.”
No answer. He stood up, in combat mode and ready to engage the enemy.
“Donnie. Rudy. Come in”
Static.
“Donnie. Rudy. Come in!”
More static.
Radio communication from outside to inside the ship was useless Assuming Mongo and Aldo were dead, Rudy moved towards the gangway. He would have to go get them himself. Expecting to die at any moment, Rudy broke into a dead run, crossing the concrete towards the gangway as fast as he could. Surprisingly, no gunfire erupted, no bullets whizzing past his head, chewing the concrete around his feet...
Something big slammed into him from the side, unseen, tripping up his feet. Rudy’s momentum sent him sprawling, skidding across the pavement. His head bounced off the concrete a couple of times, skinning his forehead, rendering him unconscious.
Spare the brave, the vampire thought as he shot up the gangway, nothing but a black blur.
Inside the belly of the freighter, no one knew anything was amiss outside. Standing on one side of a dining table, across from Jorge and El Gecko, Johnnie nodded to Arthur at his side. Arthur lifted the black briefcase he had been carrying, placed it on the metal table. He flicked the spring-loaded tabs open, then opened the lid. He then turned the open case around, careful not to make any sudden movements. He pushed the open case towards El Gecko until the contents appeared directly under the light.
Leaning forward, El Gecko smiled. Inside the case sat a small flash drive, held in place by foam buffers filling the inside of the briefcase. A shallow cutout held the drive. He glanced up at Johnnie, who smiled from ear to ear like an idiot, and to Arthur, whose face wore no discernable expression.
He took a step back, glanced to his right, and nodded to Jorge.
Jorge stepped forward, leaned down and reached underneath the dining table. He searched for a moment, then stood up and produced a sleek laptop computer from somewhere under the table. He opened the top, booted up the computer.
Jorge looked at Johnnie. “May I?”
“Please. Be my guest.”
Jorge reached out, a measured movement to not agitate any itchy trigger fingers in the room. He plucked the flash drive out of the briefcase, and plugged it into a USB port on the side of his computer. The drive engaged automatically, lighting up iridescent green at its tip. Jorge immediately began typing. El Gecko and Donnie kept a close watch on Johnnie and Arthur. They stood perfectly still.
Seconds passed. “Are we happy?” Johnnie asked, an overgrown child.
Jorge continued to study his computer screen.
El Gecko glanced at Jorge. Behind him, Donnie’s grip on his AK – 47 tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly. Tension rose in the room.
“Well?” El Gecko asked. “Are we happy?”
Jorge finally looked up from his screen. “Oh yeah. We’re happy.”
The tension dissipated immediately. Even Donnie smiled faintly. Johnnie held his hands out wide beside himself. “Told you, man. You can always trust me to honor my word.”
El Gecko extended his hand. “In this business, one must to be careful.”
Johnnie pumped his hand. “Well, you can always count me as a friend.”
El Gecko shrugged, unapologetic. “Friends are friends, but business is business.”
“And speaking of business, friend, I just paid you four million dollars.” He pushed his ridiculous sunglasses up on his greasy nose. “Where’s my merchandise?”
El Gecko snapped his fingers in the air. Donnie walked over to a work light and moved the toggle switch. The light snapped on, illuminating a series of crates, each covered with nondescript blankets and covers. Donnie pulled the covers back on one. He opened the hinged top, reached inside, and pulled out a large, black weapon. Vaguely resembling an M-16, but much larger and heavier, it looked like something from a science fiction movie.
“What the hell is that?” Jorge asked.
“That,” Johnnie replied, “is the AA-12. The world’s most advanced automatic shotgun, and the world’s most dangerous and deadly troop - carried weapon.” Donnie pitched one over to Johnnie, who caught it with an ease that surprised Jorge.
“What the hell you gonna do? Start a war?”
Johnnie’s dopey grin faded. “Something like that.”
Donnie tossed him a large circular canister, about eighteen inches in diameter by four inches thick, with what looked like a notch cut out at the top. Johnnie caught the preloaded twenty round ammo canister with one hand. With practiced ease, he slapped it into place on the bottom of the weapon, and expertly chambered a round.
El Gecko stepped in. “Two hundred units, just like you asked,” he said. “Plus both the twenty – round and the thirty – two round drum loaders as requested.” Behind him, Donnie proceeded to uncover the other crates. “Plus the more conventional small arms, ammo, grenades.”
Jorje felt a tickle of fear shoot up his spine.
Up on deck, the vampire moved smoothly through the darkness, his sensitive ears picking up the tiny, muffled voices from below. He moved aft. The voices got a bit stronger. He moved aft again, following the gathering sounds, until he found himself standing at the top
of the ladder on the aft cargo hold.
And as he drifted downward into the hold, ephemeral as a wisp of smoke, his nose picked up their blood. Now, following his nose as well as his ears, the vampire strode confidently through the passageway. He lifted his legs and ducked his head, passing through the hatches without hesitation. Glancing at his watch, he noticed time was becoming a factor.
He strode faster.
Jorge looked around and did not like what he saw. This was supposed to have been a routine purchase of heroin for Johnnie’s contacts up north, not an arms deal.
Neither Donnie not El Gecko seemed at all concerned that Johnnie Wolf, a known wild card and unpredictable man, suddenly was armed with a very dangerous weapon and twenty live rounds. Johnnie laughed like a kid on Christmas morning, dancing around in sheer, unbridled glee.
Jorge’s hand discreetly moved to the small of his back, where he kept his gun.
“Know what this bitch can do, Jorge?” Johnnie asked. When Jorge shook his head, El Gecko grinned, then glanced at Johnnie. “It can fire a standard double ought buck shotgun shell, or an armor piercing round, or custom, high explosive anti- personnel rounds. This thing, when it’s on full auto, can fire up to three hundred rounds per minute.”
Johnnie laughed. El Gecko joined in. Arthur too. Even Donnie grinned in the shadows. Sweat started beading across Jorge’s upper lip.
Johnnie took a step forward. “I could start a war with anybody. Another drug cartel member?” El Gecko shook his head no in an exaggerated fashion. “With a small Central American republic?” He shrugged. El Gecko shrugged in return.
Then Johnnie lowered the weapon until it pointed straight at Jorge. Jorge pulled his gun, aimed at Johnnie.
