Viskhan kept his back to Cahill and StJohn. He refused to look at them. Instead he stared out over the bay, the dancing lights swimming in and out of focus. His eyes watered, but it was through fury. He could feel a deep tremor at his core, as agitated as boiling water about to spill from him in an eruption of scalding violence. He gripped the railing, both hands digging into the wood until his manicured fingernails dug tiny crescents in the veneer. Containing his rage was one of the hardest fights he’d ever taken on. Overhead a helicopter clattered inland, the sound echoing between tall tower blocks. Viskhan averted his face, should anyone on board have access to a camera with a telescopic lens. He took the motion as a cue to turn and regard his men.
Cahill and StJohn stared at him without comment. They’d said their bit; now that they’d aired their complaints they awaited a response.
He exhaled heavily.
‘When was the last time either of you slept?’ he asked.
As amiable as it was, his question came out of left field. The two PMCs shared a glance.
‘I have pushed you too hard,’ Viskhan went on, ‘expected too much of you. My selfishness has caused you undue work and stress.’ He held up a palm to Cahill. ‘You warned me about following a personal vendetta, Sean, and your argument was valid. In chasing Hunter you have lost men, good men we could have used tomorrow. Now I have put at risk the successful completion of our operation…’
Again the mercenaries looked at each other. This was unlike the Mikhail Viskhan they both knew. Being humble and reasonable were not aspects of his nature. It was only a prelude to his next words.
‘Have I slept? Have I pushed you any harder than I have pushed myself? I pay you to work for me. Is it unreasonable or selfish of me to demand a good return on my investment?’ Viskhan’s eyes had stopped watering; hot and dry, they now looked as hard as marbles. ‘You, Sean, you argued that punishing Hunter was merely about soothing my bruised ego! How do you feel about that when you’ve lost your men to him? How does your fucking ego feel? Do you want your hands around his fucking throat as badly as I do? No! Don’t answer yet. I am not finished.’
He stalked towards them. Dan StJohn shifted marginally, but Cahill held his ground. He merely stood, hands hanging loosely at his sides, taking the berating. Viskhan halted directly in front of him and stared him in the face. ‘My personal vendetta,’ he stated, ‘was about avoiding this!’ He swept up a hand to indicate the nearest helicopter, in truth meaning the entire raised alert state that Miami was under. ‘Trey ran to Hunter, seeking his protection. What do you think she might have said to him to gain his sympathy: that she was an abused wife? She would have made me out to be a monster, and what better way than to paint me as a demented terrorist?’
StJohn’s eyebrows rose and fell at the irony, but Viskhan didn’t look at him; all his attention was on his closest ally.
‘You say I’ve risked our main operation,’ Viskhan snarled, ‘when it is your ineptitude in killing one man and a wayward whore that has risked everything!’
‘Hey,’ StJohn said. ‘Steady on there, Mikhail.’
Viskhan spun on him, a finger jabbing perilously close to StJohn’s face. ‘You do not speak unless spoken to.’
The mercenary rolled his neck, staring not at the warning finger but at its wielder’s face. His right hand was mere inches from the butt of his pistol: he could draw it and follow through with his suggestion of shooting Viskhan dead in less than a second. Out of the corner of his eye, StJohn caught the warning shake of Cahill’s head. He sniffed, as if he couldn’t give a shit. But he held his peace, and allowed his hand to relax. Instead it was Cahill that spoke.
‘I was tasked with killing Hunter and Trey, and I accept that I’ve failed, but not through lack of trying. When you first set me the task, neither of us knew what kind of man we were up against, or that he had a team of his own to back him up. If we had I’m sure we both would have followed a different path. We clearly underestimated our enemy, proof of which is in the loss of some good men, and yes, this.’ Now it was Cahill’s turn to gesture at the circling choppers. But then he shrugged. ‘This police activity is inconvenient. But I’m confident they won’t find you here. And when I’ve thought about it, it doesn’t preclude your operation from going ahead: it isn’t too late to re-jig the parameters of the attack. We could feint at South Beach, and while the country is watching, hit them harder at our original target.’
StJohn frowned hard at Cahill’s announcement. Viskhan wondered if the PMCs had discussed a different course prior to arriving. But Viskhan didn’t care for the Brit’s dissatisfaction. And, he had to admit, Cahill made a good point.
The authorities were wrongly concentrating their attention on South Beach, and would respond with all their might against an imagined attack on their turf. While they were thus engaged they would be unprepared for the actual attack fifty-five or so nautical miles to the north.
‘Trey might have grown aware of our plan to launch an attack, but she could never have grasped the specifics,’ Cahill went on. ‘Actually, when I think about it, her blabbing to the cops might have actually worked to our favour. Even the fact that Jeff Borden was taken in by the cops helps, as he is a coward and will by now have admitted to his part in smuggling weapons into Miami. Add to that the fact we’ve conducted a number of running gun battles here already, and the local cops will be anticipating much worse at any minute. What might’ve appeared as a complete fuck-up on my part might just prove to be beneficial.’
A begrudging nod was forced from Viskhan. He stepped back from Cahill, and a smile dawned on his features. ‘You know, you always did have the ability to put a spin on things. It reminds me of why I value your support, Sean.’
‘It’s why you always pay me so well for my support.’ Cahill glanced at StJohn, offering a surreptitious wink. ‘Speaking of which, I still expect full payment for my team, considering they lost their lives in your service.’
Viskhan waved aside his concern. ‘What, you are going to send money to their widows and children? You are growing soft in your old age, Sean.’
‘Not soft,’ StJohn put in, ‘just fucking sensible. We want everything that was promised to us. In fact, how’s about sending across an advance to my account right now?’
‘Did I not ask that you kept silent until spoken to? Ha! Forget it, I can be a reasonable man, no?’ Viskhan shrugged expansively. He dug in his back pocket for his wallet and held it up before him. He snapped it open and counted off a short stack of hundred dollar bills. All the while StJohn eyed him sourly. Viskhan held out the bundle of notes.
‘One thousand dollars,’ he announced.
‘A grand? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Don’t insult me, Mikhail.’
‘Oh,’ said Viskhan, and alongside him Cahill gave a little wince. ‘You misunderstand. This is not an advance on your fee.’
Without warning Viskhan turned side-on, his right leg chambering at the knee, and he whipped a foot into the side of StJohn’s head. The mercenary staggered at the blow, and had to throw out a hand to steady himself. His mouth hung open in disbelief as he blinked at his boss. ‘Wh… what the fuck was that for?’
‘A return on my thousand bucks,’ said Viskhan. ‘For the private sparring session.’ In disdain he threw the cluster of notes on the floor at StJohn’s feet. ‘Would you like to earn some more pocket cash?’
Viskhan looked unaffected; StJohn’s gaze was murderous. His hand began a slow creep towards his holstered pistol. Before things got further out of hand, Cahill interjected between them. He grasped StJohn’s wrist, stopping him from drawing his pistol, while concealing the action with his body. ‘Let it go,’ he said sotto voce.
‘I have to stand here and let the prick kick me like I’m a fuckin’ mongrel?’ StJohn snarled.
Cahill didn’t release any pressure from his friend’s wrist. ‘Let it go,’ he said again, and this time it sounded more like a warning than good advice.
Behind Cahill,
Viskhan chuckled. ‘Stop whimpering like a girl, Dan: you just made more money than most pro boxers do going the full twelve rounds.’
StJohn shook loose from Cahill, but his pistol remained in its holster. He touched the side of his head. His skin was hot, tender beneath his fingertips. What with his recent bruising encounter with Jared Rington, and now this, his head felt twice its normal size. He glared at Viskhan, who again showed no concern for his discomfort. Glancing down, he saw the scattered bank notes. He kicked at them in revulsion and strode away. Viskhan watched him go. He turned and appraised Cahill, wearing a smug grin. ‘Dan is very touchy these days,’ he said in a singsong tone. ‘Have I done something to upset him?’
‘Man, Mikhail, you didn’t have to kick him in the head. For Christ’s sake, I’m having enough trouble holding everything together without you pissing off my best man.’
‘I couldn’t help myself. But what do you expect? I’ve struggled to stop from killing him since you told me he suggested that you murder me and take over.’
Cahill darted a glance after the retreating mercenary. StJohn was well out of earshot. ‘He has no idea I told you, Mikhail. I’d rather he stays ignorant to the fact and continues thinking he has my confidence. That way he will keep on fighting for me. Don’t worry, I would never let him harm you.’
Without warning, Viskhan leaned in and placed a kiss on Cahill’s cheek. Mildly startled by the gesture, Cahill took a step back, his fingers going to the spot caressed by Viskhan’s lips. Viskhan laughed at his friend. ‘Worry not, Sean. That was not a kiss from Judas. I trust I will never receive a Judas kiss from you?’
Lowering his fingers, Cahill didn’t know what to do with his hands. He made do with digging them in his trouser pockets. ‘I swore to you, Mikhail, that I’d never betray you.’
‘Hmm, you did. And I trust your word, and apologise for doubting you earlier. It’s such a shame my wife doesn’t share your loyalty.’ Viskhan again peered heavenward. The nearest police helicopter was about a mile away; more concerning was the relative closeness of a coast guard patrol. It sped by a hundred yards away, churning the water to froth in its wake. Viskhan stepped further away from the rail, but didn’t duck for cover. The super-yacht he was aboard was familiar to those waters, the property of Fedor Stepanov, a Russian magnate who invested much of his wealth in the Miami-Dade shipping industry, and who was known to throw lavish parties on his boat when entertaining guests. Nobody would expect a Chechen rebel to find refuge with his supposed greatest enemies.
34
I managed to grab a few hours of much needed sleep. The previous night we’d made our plan, prepped what weapons we had and also eaten a room service meal, Harvey and me hiding in the bathroom while Rink and Trey played at being a couple for the waiter’s sake; if the four of us had been present when the food was delivered it might have raised an eyebrow and some awkward questions from the hotel management. Sated on food and coffee, I took the bed fully clothed while my friends continued plotting and was unconscious in seconds. As dawn broke on the 4th of July Rink woke me – time had passed almost instantaneously to me – and I sat up, gave myself a mental shake and stood. My sleep had seemed brief, but I felt a hundred times better than I had before sprawling on the bed. Without any preamble, Rink handed me the carryall we’d appropriated from Monk and Hussein. I tucked the Glock taken from Dan StJohn in the small of my back: at the restaurant I’d used eight rounds, which left nine in the clip. Rink had a similar pistol elongated by the addition of a suppressor tucked into his jeans – courtesy of Harvey, who hadn’t relinquished his grip on it even after he’d taken the plunge into the swimming pool. We both had knives. But for the coming assault we’d be relying more on the machine pistols in the bag.
Harvey had one of the MAC-10s primed and ready to go, too, should the unlikely happen and Viskhan’s people discover Trey’s hideout a second time. None of us shared any heartfelt goodbyes. Emotion couldn’t play a part in what we planned. Unless you counted righteous fury: we all had enough of that to go around.
Rink drove the Chrysler, I sat in the front passenger seat – the carryall was in the trunk. There were a lot of cops around, and I was a fugitive. But the cops were looking for me accompanied by Trey, not a brooding Asian American dude. We managed to make it all the way out of Coral Gables, into downtown Miami and onto the MacArthur Causeway without being pulled over. Next stop, Watson Island. Adjacent to us a string of cruise liners were moored at Dodge Island: they looked as if a row of tower blocks had toppled and lay partly submerged in the azure sea.
We made a brief stop at Watson Island, checking the moored boats at both a marina and a private yacht club. To be fair, neither of us seriously expected to find the boat we were looking for as neither port was large enough to accommodate it, but we weren’t to know that without looking. Back in the car we continued on the causeway, passing Terminal Island, and could see the Miami Beach Marina before we were even off the bridge. From the marina was direct access to the Atlantic through Government Cut, a channel between the southern tip of Miami Beach and the exclusive Fisher Island, the domain of billionaires. There were half a dozen super-yachts moored at berths outside the marina itself, the large boats needing the extra space to manoeuvre when putting back to sea. As we swept over the last section of the causeway, I stared at each yacht in turn, wondering if Viskhan was hiding aboard one of them, as Trey had surmised. Occasionally, she’d said, she’d accompanied him to parties aboard the yachts of various playboys and celebrities. Viskhan had thrown some of those parties; he wasn’t averse to chartering multi-million-dollar boats to impress certain business clients.
‘D’you see it?’ Rink asked.
We were seeking a particular yacht, the one Viskhan was fondest of. Trey said we couldn’t miss it. The other boats were huge, sumptuous affairs, but the one that Viskhan favoured outshone them all. It was eighty-two yards long, could accommodate twelve guests in six lavish staterooms, as many as twenty-six crew members, and was equipped with a cinema, dining room, a passenger elevator through three decks and a gymnasium. It also had a tender garage and launching dock and, its most striking features, a helipad and chopper. Only one of the moored luxury yachts had a helipad that I could tell, but it wasn’t the boat were looking for – this one was an older converted naval minesweeper more akin to an expedition boat than the toy of the mega-rich. We were on the lookout for a sleek, futuristic craft, not something left over from the Cold War.
‘It’s not there,’ I said, ‘but we have to check out the others. If we have no luck, we’re going to have to put Harvey on the case. Think he can discover the Nephilim’s whereabouts from the port authority or elsewhere?’
‘If they’ve logged a course, I guess. But what are the odds they’d come clean about their destination when it’s being piloted by a wanted terrorist?’
‘What kind of guy loans a boat worth tens of millions of dollars to Viskhan anyway?’ Trey had told us that Fedor Stepanov had recently flown to conduct business in the Far East, and offered the use of the yacht to her husband while he was away
‘Someone with more to lose than money. You heard what Trey said: Viskhan regularly supplied Stepanov with girls, and the younger the better.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Shame that paedophilic bastard won’t be aboard his yacht when we find it. I wouldn’t mind sparing a bullet meant for Viskhan on him.’
‘He’ll get his comeuppance.’ First, though, he meant, we should concentrate on Viskhan and his buddies.
Rink drove us along the approach route to the marina. Luxury condo- and apartment-blocks towered over the masts of more conventional sailing boats. Entrance to the marina was restricted to members only, and the rule enforced by a guard post: it smacked of elitism, the barrier-controlled gate there to keep out the unwashed hoi polloi. We weren’t deterred by gates or rent-a-guards.
‘What say we go for a poke around?’ Rink suggested. ‘Maybe somebody on the marina knows where to find the Nephilim.’
/> ‘Hold on. Do you see that?’
Rink followed my gesture. A banner was strung between poles, fluttering in the warm morning breeze. It advertised a regatta event scheduled for later that day; apparently a flotilla of pleasure craft and boats were putting to sea off South Beach to mark the national holiday. It coincided timing-wise with the planned celebratory parade down Ocean Drive and accompanying fair on Lummus Park. Where better to hide a yacht than alongside hundreds of other boats?
We shared a wondering glance: was the Nephilim already there, sitting off shore where Viskhan had a commanding view of the coming attack? Without consultation, Rink spun the car about and headed for the historic Art Deco District. Finding a parking spot proved tricky, but Rink muscled the Chrysler into a spot that didn’t look big enough to contain the dimensions of the car. We got out, making sure our shirts covered the guns in our belts, and took a wander through the adjoining streets onto Ocean Drive. The preparations for the day’s celebration were underway, with tents being erected as temporary market stalls and fun attractions, and mobile food and drink concession stands situated at regular intervals at kerbside, but as yet the crowds hadn’t begun gathering. The cops were out in numbers. I was surprised that the parade hadn’t been called off, but maybe it was too late in the day to change the arrangements, or the Chief of Police had only taken our warning with a pinch of salt. Those officers I could see were alert, but they were watching for possible terrorists, not two guys out apparently enjoying their vacation. In their minds they’d be watching for people with browner skin than mine – clichéd, yes, but the truth. Despite that, I diverted to a store selling beachwear and bought a baseball cap and sunglasses to blend in with similarly attired vacationers in town: Rink had fetched his own shades from the rental.
Unlike many of those cops, we allowed our attention to range further than checking out the usual suspects. Unfortunately terrorists came in all shapes, sizes and skin colours, and it was less their outward appearance that I was looking for than any suspicious body language or activity that was out of context with the surroundings. The main problem was, by the time any of us – the cops included – spotted anything untoward it would probably be too late. In recent years the tactic of choice of many terrorists was to drive a vehicle into a packed crowd, mow down as many innocent bystanders as they could before their rolling battering ram was brought to a halt, sometimes beneath a hail of police bullets. There was little to nothing Rink or I could do to halt such an attack. Ocean Drive was a long thoroughfare, and adjacent to it Lummus Park stretched a good distance too. The odds of being in the right place at the right time to halt a suicide run by a mobile terrorist would be akin to winning the lottery.
Marked for Death Page 22
