He began to lower his arms.
‘Get your hands up where I can see them,’ I snapped.
Groaning, he strained to lift his left arm. Playing the pity card. It didn’t wash with me. I pulled the trigger and the bullets struck the deck beside him. His left arm snapped up, his mouth in a tight grimace.
‘Don’t fucking try me again,’ I said.
But I’d made an error. By not shooting him instantly it gave him hope. He concluded something about me.
‘You’re not a murderer.’
‘Tell that to your people I’ve killed.’
‘I didn’t say you weren’t a killer, just not a murderer. I can see it in your face. In battle you’d gladly shoot me, but not like this. Not in cold blood.’
‘For you I’ll gladly make an exception.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He shook his head, believing he had the measure of me. His sneer made my stomach clench. An Apache attack chopper hove overhead, and he eyed it as if it were his guardian angel, sent to snatch him from certain death. ‘I surrender,’ he hollered, ‘I am your prisoner.’
I switched the selector switch over on the AR-15. Single shot. I put one through his right thigh, and firing at that range the damage was extreme: the bloody hole was the size of a soda can, as the analogy had promised. Viskhan collapsed, keening in agony but also in realisation that he’d assumed wrong about me and his would-be saviours in the helicopter which swept from view. While he squirmed to sit and grab at the horrendous wound in his leg, I descended the steps and stood feet away from him.
‘Trey told me you fancy yourself as a kickboxer.’ I sneered down, unimpressed. ‘Try kicking someone now, you bastard.’
‘Coward!’ he roared. The sclera of his eyes was scarlet, and spittle frothed from his lips as he aimed a bloody finger at me. ‘You shot me because you’re afraid to face me man to man. Even with only one good arm I’d have ripped your fucking head off!’
‘I’m the coward, huh? Who was the one I found sneaking away from the fight? Trust me, I’d have loved nothing more than proving you wrong. Actually, that’s untrue. Seeing you dead is all I want.’
‘Then get it over with. Shoot me like the coward you are!’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to shoot you again,’ I promised.
‘I won’t beg for my life.’
‘Good. You’ll be saving us both the time.’
I shouldered the weapon, and was happy when he averted his face, screwing up his features in anticipation.
I shot him in his other thigh.
Viskhan went crazy, flopping and screaming in agony, but mostly in outrage. He’d prepared for death, and I’d prolonged it. Ordinarily I took no satisfaction in torture, but Viskhan was the exception to my moral rule. In fact, I wasn’t done yet. Trey had told me how the sadist had regularly beaten her, how he’d kicked, punched and raped her… and many others. It was obvious who’d gotten most pleasure out of the torture chamber we’d discovered at the Chinese restaurant. So he was fond of beating up and raping the defenceless? When the bastard arrived in hell, I was determined he wouldn’t have a limb left with which to defend against the devil’s toasting fork. I aimed for his right shoulder, squeezed off a round. It only nicked him, but that was good enough, because the shock of a full-on impact might have sent him to oblivion. I wanted him conscious when I finally blew off his balls. I kicked his ankles apart, lined up.
A body crashed into mine. My shot went wild, skipping off the deck to who knew where.
My feet got caught under one of Viskhan’s knees and I went sideways, borne by my attacker along the platform from which the overturned skiff had recently been launched. For the briefest of times I thought I’d been tackled by a SEAL – otherwise why hadn’t Viskhan’s defender shot me dead rather than wrestle me away? – but then a disciplined Special Forces soldier wouldn’t have gone for the dramatic; they’d have got the job done. This attack felt more personal. Proof of that were the snarling curses spoken into my ear as the man struck me repeatedly with one hand while trying to wrench the AR-15 out of my grasp. I let it go, primarily so I could defend myself but also for the fact I knew the clip was empty: I’d been counting and saved that last round for Viskhan’s testicles. The raised end of the tender dock checked my fall, and at the same time I heard the clatter of my assault rifle as it hit the deck, then slid away, perhaps into the sea. I made a wild swipe with my elbow and struck my attacker. I followed it up with a headbutt and then forced my shoulder into him, shoving a few feet back, and only then got a look at his face.
Sean Cahill’s rage was almost palpable as he spat out a curse, and then he was coming at me once more, his fists flashing for my face. He drove each punch with fury, but they were poorly guided and struck my forearms and shoulders instead of the intended target. All the while he swore repeatedly, promising to beat me to death. His attack wasn’t backed by a rational mind, and I guessed why. There was a firearm holstered at his hip, but he hadn’t shot me. He’d come upon me torturing his friend and, incensed at Viskhan’s treatment, had given in to his base instincts. His mistake.
I struck back, driven by equal rage, but mine was cold and contained. My right fist rammed into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him, and before he could pull in another breath the web between my left thumb and index finger was in his windpipe, forcing back his head. He slashed at me with the side of his hand. It glanced off the top of my skull but was a strong enough blow that I saw sparks. I planted a kick in his abdomen and he staggered back, and this time he got caught up on his fallen pal, and fell over on his backside. The cabin wall behind supported his shoulders. He looked first at me – who was charging in – then at Viskhan, and finally down at the pistol on his hip. Sudden clarity struck him and he grabbed at the gun, got it halfway out of its holster. I jumped over the Chechen, both heels coming down on Cahill with all my weight behind them. Bones could have been broken, I’m unsure, but there was definitely soft tissue damage. The shocking impact had taken his mind away from shooting me, but only for a second or two. By then I had grabbed at his gun, clenching my hand around his. We struggled for control and I softened him up a bit more, ramming my right knee into his face more times than I could keep count.
Cahill, for all he’d allowed his anger to control him, was tough and a dangerous fighter. Most men would have wilted under the pounding my knee gave his head, but he fought on, even forcing upright once more and trying to bite out my throat. He got his teeth on my skin, his jaw working to drive them deeper, and my only recourse was to grasp and squeeze his balls. He was so infuriated it took longer to release his bite than I’d expected and by then there was blood pouring down my shirtfront. Even as his mouth writhed open in a deep-throated groan, I gave his testicles an extra ounce of crushing force and a wicked twist before releasing him.
He was suffering, but not yet ready to fold. He kicked at my thigh and the pain in my leg was sharp and deep, my mobility compromised. He wasn’t so steady on his feet either. I kind of hobbled with him sideways, still grasping his gun hand, and we came up against the jamb of the cabin door. He struck with a left punch to my ear, then clawed at my eyes. I battered my forehead into his face. And then he had his left arm around my neck, and had partially clambered onto my back and jostled to sink in a chokehold. Slamming him backwards against the doorjamb didn’t shake him off, but partly through the fact I wouldn’t relinquish my grip on his gun. But I did throw it high, so that his right arm was extended over my shoulder. I wrenched down, locking his elbow so he’d no escape, then without warning allowed my numb leg to collapse down to a knee. The judo move somersaulted him over me, but with his left arm wrapped around my neck it was never going to be a clean throw. He dragged me down to the deck with him, and we were almost cheek to cheek, lying like an inverted V to each other. I’d lost my grip on his pistol and was in a poor position to protect myself. We both scrambled, rolling to our knees and lunging. Both Cahill’s hands were empty.
Our heads
clashed and I saw more stars, and then I was slightly atop him and bore my weight down to flatten him on the deck. He fought free, scooting sideways, but forcing him down was only ever a feint. I buried the tip of my right elbow between his shoulder blades and, still on his knees, he cramped over, his shoulders rounding as the shock rode the length of his spinal column. I wrapped my right arm round his neck and squeezed. On our knees, I’d no leverage to sink in a finishing choke and he strained to loosen my hold.
‘You’re fucking good… I knew we were alike, that you were… almost my equal,’ he wheezed out, ‘but I’m still going to kill you for what you did to Mikhail.’
He was showing gruff respect for his opponent, and I had no clue where the need to do so came from. For my part I’d no respect for the piece of shit. He was barely a wafer-thin step up the evolutionary ladder from the pond scum Mikhail Viskhan was. ‘You should be more concerned with what I’m going to do to you,’ I hissed into his ear, ‘instead of your girlfriend.’
My words galvanised him to reach for my face, where he tried to dig his nails into my eyeballs. As he pushed forward, I snapped my hips up, cleared my lower legs so I could throw them out from under my backside, and I rolled with him. I never let go of the hold around his neck, and he lunged into me, thinking I was off balance. That was his undoing, because I planted my heels in the angle made by his thighs and upper body and forced away. Cahill’s body was stretched out. Before he could scramble for position I locked my legs around his waist and threw my head and shoulders back. The edge of my radius bone dug into his throat, cutting off his air. He struggled, his fingers still clawing for my face. He fought back to his knees, kneed my butt ineffectively, swung punches into my ribs, but I was going nowhere. I arched my spine, exerting crushing pressure on his windpipe, and was rewarded by a shrill squawk as the last of his air escaped his throat. As he weakened, I grabbed my right fist with my left, and rocked my shoulders side to side, sawing my forearm deeper.
Cahill passed out.
I kicked free. Stood up, gasping and bleeding.
Sprawled face down, Cahill spasmed. His hands grasped at the slick deck. He forced his head up to glare in hatred at me. Blood stood in shivering beads on his moustache, some of it mine.
Earlier I’d told Viskhan I wished I’d stamped on his throat that time I knocked him down in the posh hotel’s washroom.
‘I won’t make the same mistake twice,’ I told Cahill.
I brought down my heel on the nape of his skull.
‘That’s for Mack,’ I told his corpse.
Then I turned back to Viskhan. I’d still to finish punishing him on behalf of Trey and who knew how many other women he’d abused, and for the innocents murdered and hurt today at Miami Beach and at Mar-a-Lago.
Viskhan had somehow gotten seated, wedged in the corner formed by the cabin wall and tender station deck. He was a bloody wreck, with barely enough strength to support his injured right arm. And yet he’d found Cahill’s dropped pistol, and there was still enough mad determination in him to aim it at my heart.
‘You have ruined everything,’ he said. ‘You and my whore of a wife.’
‘Yes I have,’ I answered, ‘and I can’t tell you how pleased I am. You’re fucked, Viskhan.’
‘Go to hell,’ he snarled, and began to squeeze the trigger.
The bullet never left the gun.
Beside me Rink let loose with an AR-15 on full auto, and didn’t release the trigger until the magazine ran dry. It would be hard work identifying Viskhan’s remains once Rink was done.
My buddy looked at me. Then down at Cahill. ‘I guess that’s them all,’ he announced.
‘StJohn?’
‘Speared like a frog on a gig.’ He made a jab of his thumb back the way he’d come from, and I understood that it was StJohn’s corpse he’d taken the assault rifle from.
‘That’s them all then,’ I agreed.
As it was, the Navy SEALs still had some mopping up to do. There was the occasional gunshot, and plenty of shouting and commands to be heard. During the violent minute or two I’d been engaged with Viskhan and Cahill I’d almost forgotten the Nephilim was currently under siege. As clarity settled in my mind once more, I was suddenly aware of the roaring of the overhead choppers, and of the riot of activity on board. I eyed the skiff, but discarded the idea of setting sail in it, and our speedboat would have been commandeered by now or drifted away. There was no way we could leave safely at any rate. So I did the only sensible thing. I went down on my knees, held my open hands above my head. After a second, Rink hurled the smoking AR-15 in the sea, and knelt beside me.
And it wasn’t a moment too soon.
Navy SEALs challenged us from both sides, guns unwavering as they hollered throaty commands.
‘Relax, fellas,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘We’re with the good guys.’
We were still treated like potential threats. Roughly forced down and patted head to toe for weapons, the only cache confiscated from us was my dagger and Rink’s KA-BAR. Plastic ties were fastened to our wrists behind our backs and none too gently. I didn’t begrudge the rough treatment; under the circumstances the SEALs were doing what we’d done to others in the past. But then we were hauled back onto our knees and one SEAL in full combat fatigues grabbed my chin and pulled my head back. For one heart-stopping second I thought the SEAL wanted payback for the deaths of the innocents on the beach, and for the Coast Guards murdered in the first salvo of the battle. I braced for a blade swiping across my throat. And was thankful instead when he held a laminated card directly alongside my face. A second SEAL loomed over me, comparing my face to the one on the card. ‘It’s him,’ he confirmed.
The process was repeated with Rink, and this time it was a foregone conclusion that he too would be positively identified.
‘On your feet, Hunter,’ the first SEAL snapped gruffly. He helped me up, dragging me by an elbow. ‘You’re coming with us.’
Beside me Rink was also assisted to stand. We exchanged the briefest of glances, and I caught the arching of Rink’s eyebrow. Then we were escorted off the Nephilim and onto the RIB for a short ride to where the Chinook hovered over the sea. We were pushed up into the arms of the helicopter crew, but this time with less roughness.
There could only be two reasons why the SEALs carried identifying photographs of us, and I didn’t think it was the first. We hadn’t been identified for arrest; Walter Hayes Conrad could be a conniving weasel, but this time he had come through for us.
46
‘To Mack,’ said Rink, and raised a glass. Me, Raul Velasquez and Harvey Lucas also picked up our shots of bourbon.
‘Mack.’ Our chorus came as a salute as we clinked glasses and then knocked back our drinks. Rink sloshed more bourbon into each glass. We were arranged around a table on the raised deck at the back of Rink’s condo. The bourbon wasn’t the only bottle getting our attention, but for the sake of the toast we’d chosen our dead friend’s tipple of choice. Our gathering was in his memory, a celebration of his life; the sad goodbyes were due to come in the following days.
When the police released his body, McTeer’s wife claimed it and had him repatriated to New York, where he’d be interred in the family plot. We were scheduled to fly up to attend his funeral in a few days, but after we had gone through a series of interrogations and debriefing sessions, we had been allowed to return to Tampa. Happily, Velasquez was also released and had travelled with us home. Harvey had also stuck around: it was pointless going back to Little Rock only to have to follow us to New York a few days later. We’d all convened at Rink’s place at Temple Terrace, holding the impromptu memorial for our fallen brother, and the beer and liquor had flowed. I didn’t normally overindulge, but I made the exception as we engaged in several rounds of toasting McTeer’s memory. But my sombre mood meant that the alcohol had little effect on me. I’d feel the effects the following morning, but as we replayed the events down in Miami and afterwards, I was sober in body and mind.
That we were at liberty to imbibe was not so much a miracle as it was the result of political and governmental machinations. When we had been snatched from the Nephilim by the SEAL team we’d been taken to a temporary staging post at Palm Beach County Airport, also known as Lantana, where we’d been deposited in a secure office within a hangar. The airport was growing used to military and federal operations conducted there since the inauguration of Donald Trump as POTUS – for three consecutive weekends the previous February the airport had been shut down while Trump held a summit with visiting Chinese politicians. The Secret Service had shut the airport down again, this time mid-week, while we were their guests of honour. Yes, we were treated with respect and with gratitude. If not for our timely intervention the attack on Mar-a-Lago would have been much worse, and the fact that we’d taken out the heavy machine-gunners and sent the mortar teams into disarray gave the Navy SEALs the opportunity to board and take control of the super-yacht without resorting to extreme measures. For all intents and purposes, to the watching world, Mar-a-Lago had been saved by the arrival of the Special Forces, and nobody need know otherwise. In return for our sworn silence about our part in the battle to take the yacht we were exonerated of all our crimes – including those in the days leading up to the attack on the presidential retreat – in a secret deal rubber-stamped by Mr Trump himself. We agreed to keep silent, but only after making some demands of our own. Velasquez must be released without charge; Harvey Lucas must be exonerated for his involvement in the fight at the RV site; and Trey Shaw must be given a new identity and protected from anyone who might attempt to avenge her dead husband. Donald Trump didn’t attend the parlay in person – he was represented by the Director of National Intelligence – but agreed to our terms and afterwards and off the record he did extend his gratitude for our patriotic service to the country – no less saving his Southern White House from being reduced to rubble – through Walter Conrad. If not for the deaths of so many innocent people, McTeer prime among them, it would have been a satisfactory end to a potentially more serious incident.
Marked for Death Page 28
