by Lyle Howard
Gabe never looked up at her, choosing instead to focus on the bloodstain beneath the table. “So you know where I went.”
Shayla moved slowly around the room, never losing focus from her target. “To get help from someone you trust—a very predictable move on your part.”
Gabe cocked his head. “I was striving for predictability.”
“Joke all you want, Gabriel, but your police contact doesn’t concern us.”
“And why not?” Gabe asked, raising his eyebrows.
Shayla knelt down, still facing Gabe, and picked up the set of keys he had placed on the floor. “Because your superior thinks you’re insane.”
Williams? Gabe’s heart beat a little faster. Had they killed him too?
“I told you we were thorough,” she said, launching into her rehearsed response. “After you interrupted his dinner, we had someone call him claiming to be your doctor. Our man told him you had refused to take your medication, and that you might become delusional without it. Needless to say, whatever you might have revealed to him about such a bizarre story, made a pretty strong case for your insanity. So you see? Your trip to Miami was nothing more than three hours out on the town. And now,” she said, with a malicious grin, “you’ve come back to me.”
Gabe was incensed. They had anticipated his every move. “If you knew I was going to run, why did you let me go in the first place?”
Shayla held out an opened palm. “Give me the phone.”
Gabe handed her the bodyguard’s cellular phone.
“You were never a threat to us.”
“What? You put some kind of tracking device in the phone?”
Shayla shook her head. “Nothing so James Bondish, Gabriel. We blocked your son’s number from this phone. You could never get through to him, could you?”
Gabe remained silent, stewing inside at his own stupidity. He could have kicked himself for not having tried to call from the landline in Strofsky’s Deli.
“So now the question is,” Shayla said, raising the gun a few feet from Gabe’s right temple, “what should we do with you?”
Gabe’s body stiffened, only his eyes shifted to the right. “Can’t live with me, can’t kill without me.”
“Crack wise, Gabriel, but I’d be crazy to let you live another five minutes. You’ve proven to us what I’ve thought about you all along: you can’t be trusted.”
“So what are you gonna do, shoot me like you did Eric over there? What happens to your plan to kill Nathan Waxman if I die before I’m supposed to? I’ll bet your boss won’t be too happy about that.”
Shayla shrugged. “August Bock trusts me implicitly. He’ll come up with another plan. He always does.”
Gabe shot up from his vulnerable position on the bed. “Wrong, lady,” he growled, slapping her weapon away from his face. “I’m the best chance you’ve got. Hell, with less than a day to go, I’m the only chance you’ve got. I’ve got the face everybody knows. No one can get closer to Waxman than I can! Isn’t that why you chose me in the first place? I’m your golden opportunity.”
He moved closer until he could feel the tip of the silencer pressed up against his chest. The two of them faced off in the center of the dingy motel room like a pair of prize fighters sizing each other up. Gabe could hear his own breathing, and he could swear she wasn’t breathing at all.
“Your son lost his $4 million inheritance the minute you stepped foot out of this room.”
Round and round they went … never letting their stares waver … neither one daring to blink. Gabe waited patiently for an opening.
“Your boss needs me. No matter what you’d really like to do, you can’t lay a finger on me.”
They continued to orbit each other in a macabre dance of killer and terminal victim.
“After I kill you, I plan on paying your son another visit.”
She was taunting him, daring him to make the first move so she could justify pulling the trigger. They both knew it.
“I told you before: you go near my son and I’ll kill you.”
The malevolent grin was back on her face. She was beginning to enjoy toying with her quarry. A simple pleasure she had never taken the time to indulge in before. “You’ll kill me?” she cackled. “And just how do you propose to do that? Come back from the grave?”
“You so much as drive into my son’s neighborhood, and I promise … that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Shayla showed her forearm. “Look, no goose bumps.”
“Well, maybe this’ll make your skin change texture…”
Gabe let loose with a right hand that Shayla dodged as easily as if the punch had been thrown underwater.
“That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got?”
Every muscle in Gabe’s upper body pleaded for him to lie down and take a nap, but his will was stronger. He lashed out with his left, which Shayla casually blocked with her right arm. Her satanic smile took on a yellowish hue from the tainted bathroom light. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Since I’m in a sporting mood, and I need the exercise,” she said mockingly as she threw her pistol onto the middle of the bed. “Here’s your chance. All you’ve got to do is go get it.”
Before Gabe could even wince, the heel of her left boot was in his mid-section. In his weakened condition, it felt like he had been hit with a jackhammer. He doubled over, coughing up blood and spitting bile. She stepped to her left, looking for her next point of attack. “Come on, sport. You’re not just going to stand there blowing air, are you? If I wanted to waste my time working out on a heavy bag, I could have gone to the gym.”
Gabe tried to stand erect, but his insides felt like they had been roasted with an acetylene torch. “Can’t … breathe…”
Shayla danced around on her tip-toes, every muscle in her fabulous body working together in perfect symmetry. “Come on, Gabe,” she taunted, bouncing from side to side gracefully. “It’s gut check time. You’re going to die regardless, but at least I’m giving you a fighting chance. Come on. Think about what I’m going to do to your boy.”
Gabe hugged his stomach. “How can I fight you? I can’t even catch my breath.”
“Itty-bitty pieces,” Shayla teased as she shadowboxed a circle around him. “I’ll cut him up while he’s still alive and screaming for mercy. One prepubescent limb at a time.”
Gabe grimaced, understanding fully these were not empty threats. “I think I’m going to pass out…”
Shayla’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare pass out on me!”
Gabe turned his back on her and surreptitiously slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. The shard of mirror was still there. He palmed it easily.
Shayla reached out and grabbed him by the right shoulder, preparing to spin him around to finish him off, but she was not as agile as she thought…
The murky light glinted off the jagged piece of glass as it slashed upward toward her face. The skin running from her chin all the way up to her right cheekbone cleaved open, like a razor tearing through tissue paper. Blood gushed out of the gaping wound as Shayla stumbled backward, holding her hands to her face to stem the crimson torrent. “You bastard … I’ll kill you!”
Gabe dove for the bed with Shayla in crazed pursuit. Blood was spraying and splattering everywhere. The bedspread and walls were quickly turned into abstract works of ghoulish art. Gabe got hold of the pistol by the muzzle and Shayla elbowed him on the side of his face, causing the gun to flip out of his hand and skid across the carpet. He was trying to claw his way off the bed, but Shayla was straddling him, the skin on her face splayed open like a freshly cleaned trout, pummeling his kidneys relentlessly. “A bullet is too easy for you! I’m going to rip your heart out with my bare hands!”
She might not have had the strength of a man, but what she lacked in muscle Shayla Rand more than made up for in precision and technique. Every punch felt like it ruptured his kidneys. Gabe’s fingers tore at the bed sheets as he gasped for every breath. The pain was excruciating, tr
aveling all the way down the back of his legs, making them nearly ineffectual. Ten more seconds and he knew he was a goner.
Just as Gabe thought he was about to meet his maker, the door to the room burst open on its hinges…
The weight was suddenly peeled off Gabe’s back.
“Let go of me!” Shayla screamed. “Look what he did to me! I’m going to kill him!”
Damon Washington was grabbing her around the waist, trying to hang on for dear life. “You’re not going to kill anyone…”
Her face was half cloaked behind a hideous mask of dripping blood and flapping flesh. “Let go of me, or I swear I’ll kill you too!”
Washington dragged her backward, lifting her off the floor and pulling her toward the bathroom. “Stop fighting me!”
Her screams were blood-curdling. “The bastard cut me!”
Gabe was hanging off the side of the bed, his upper torso bent toward the floor, arms dangling limply by his side. All he could make out was a muffled argument; his eyes weren’t seeing, his ears not hearing.
“What are you trying to do,” Washington grunted, “ruin everything?”
“I don’t give a damn about anything else!” Rand seethed, a firestorm in her eyes. “That asshole cut my face!”
Washington didn’t know how he was managing to control her. His fists were locked together around her waist, but it was like trying to harness a wild animal. “You’ve got to calm down! We’ve got to get you some medical attention.”
Blood was running down her neck and onto her leather top. There was no sign of pain on her face, only anger and total revulsion. Just as quickly, her body suddenly relaxed in Washington’s grasp. “You’re right,” she coughed. “I need a doctor right away.”
“I’m going to let you go then,” Washington huffed. “Are you going to stay calm?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m okay.”
“Are you positive?”
“Yes.”
Washington released his grip, and she sprang for the gun lying in the middle of the room. Shayla dove to the floor and, in one swift acrobatic move, had the pistol and rolled to her feet, pointing the silencer at Gabe’s prone and inert body.
“Shayla don’t!” Washington screamed.
She put her free hand up to her face, feeling the horrible damage the blade of glass had caused. “I warned August from the beginning that he was going to be trouble.”
Washington held up his hands and like a referee, moved between her and Gabe. “We all knew this wouldn’t be an easy target, Shayla, but he is our best bet. Please! We need him alive.”
“But he cut me. How am I supposed to do my job now? Shayla Rand, the woman of a thousand faces, and oh, by the way, she’s got a fifteen centimeter scar running from her eye to her mouth?”
Washington motioned for her to calm down. “We’ll get you the finest plastic surgeon in the entire world, Shayla. You will be as beautiful as ever … I promise.”
She put both hands up to the gun. “I still want him dead.”
Washington checked once more to make sure he was still standing between Shayla and her target. “He will be dead … tomorrow night. Don’t do anything crazy here and everyone will get what they deserve.”
The flow of blood from the repulsive gash on her face was showing no sign of letting up. The rest of the skin on her face was turning a sickly ashen shade. “But it won’t be the same.”
Washington held open his hands trying to look diplomatic. “Sure it will … and we’ll both be right there on the water to see all the fireworks.”
Gabe made a groggy grumbling sound and the shard of bloody mirror plopped out of his open hand.
“We’re so close to wrapping this whole thing up,” Washington said, “don’t let your temper screw this up for everyone.”
Shayla touched her torn skin again. “I want this mended tonight.”
Washington let out a sigh of relief. “Sure. I can arrange that.”
Shayla lowered her gun. “What are you going to do about this mess?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything here.”
“Where should I go?” Shayla asked, walking into the bathroom and coming out with a wet washcloth pressed against her mutilated face.
“Go to the emergency room at Jackson Medical Center. I’ll give our doctor a call and tell him to meet you there.”
Shayla looked skeptical. “He’s not a plastic surgeon. I need a plastic surgeon!”
“Calm down. When I tell him what we want, I’m sure he’ll pull some strings and get you the best plastic surgeon they’ve got on staff to stitch you up. I promise you’ll be ready to go by tomorrow night.”
Shayla moved slowly toward the door leading outside and paused in the doorway. “I want you to know something, Damon.”
Washington turned to face her. “What’s that?”
She never looked back, but the icy calmness was back in her voice. “I want you to know that if something should go wrong tomorrow night, not only will I hunt Gabe and his child down to the ends of the earth,” she said, most assuredly. “I’ll kill you too for stopping me tonight.”
Let justice be done, though the heavens fall!
-Earl of Mansfield
25
Gold Coast Marina
6:45 P.M. One hour to live
For the first time in his life, Nathan Waxman hated being the center of attention. All he wanted to do was leave. To the west, beyond the heavy stand of pine and oak trees that lined the far side of the Intracoastal Waterway, the day’s colors were draining out of the sky. It couldn’t have been a more artistic sunset; an orange fireball settling below the horizon, the stars twinkling to life to take its place—as serene a moment in time as Waxman could imagine … a stark contrast to the all of the bustling activity taking place at the marina.
Gold Coast Marina housed some of the most opulent sailing and motorized vessels in the southern United States. Everything from majestic three-mast windjammers to economical 16-foot runabouts all moored here. Twenty-four long wooden docks stretched out from the shore, some berthing only one enormous yacht, others harboring five or six smaller vessels that took up that same amount of dock space. Security was never very tight here, and, on a clear Saturday evening such as this, curious people often strolled the docks after a hearty dinner at one of the nearby restaurants.
But not tonight…
Gold Coast Marina had been turned into a madhouse of glaring lights and screaming people. The police had cordoned off the entire property, but it did no good. Protesters who believed that Nathan Waxman had gotten away with murder picketed around the barricades, screaming their disapproval, waving their signs, on some of which were scrawled “Visit Miami Beach and get away with murder!” and “I voted for a murderer!”
The press was having a field day with these people. Every local television station as well as a few of the national news networks were carrying the event live. Even tourists who had no idea who Nathan Waxman was were drawn into the media feeding frenzy.
This was Nathan Waxman’s first public appearance since his acquittal of his wife’s murder and, whether he liked it or not, the entire world was tuned in. He needed this vacation more than wanted it, and the stress of the trial was evident on his face. He no longer bore the boyish good looks that voted him into office six years earlier; now his face was pale and lined, and his hair was peppered with premature gray.
He stood on the starboard deck of his yacht, Mystique, one sneaker propped up on the railing, smiling and waving out at the crowd. Like any accomplished politician, he acknowledged his well-wishers while ignoring the rest of the angry hecklers.
Behind him, the window to the bridge slid open. “We’ll be ready to shove off in about another half hour,” Tyler Kennedy said, his weathered face peeking through the opening. “The last of the provisions are being loaded onboard. You think you can keep that shit-kickin’ smile on your puss ‘till then?”
Waxman never glanced back at the
only traveling companion he’d have on this trip. “The smile is rented. It’s my arm that I’m worried about. It feels like it’s about to snap off.”
Kennedy chuckled under his breath. “Love to stay and keep you company, but I gotta make sure the beer’s iced up. The devils in the details, ya’ know?”
“None of your imported suds I hope.”
“Hey, if we’re gonna share the same vessel for two weeks, you had better stay on my good side. You can drink that piss you call beer, and I’ll drink the good stuff. Just keep your paws off my stash.”
Waxman switched hands. “Good thing this is my boat or I’d probably die of dehydration.”
“No chance of that,” Kennedy said, sliding the window shut. “I promised my goddaughter I’d bring you back in one piece.”
* * * * * *
At a private fuel dock just over a mile away, dressed completely in dark colors, Shayla Rand waited. With a five inch strip of white gauze taped to half her face, she stood at the helm while Damon Washington continued to pump marine-grade fuel into the sleek black cigarette’s twin tanks. The powerboat bobbed gently in the oily water, drinking up the fuel like a thirsty camel. Overhead, a helicopter swept low over the water heading north, the same direction Shayla was facing.
She pulled out her night-vision binoculars and followed the helicopter’s flight up river. “More police,” she said calmly.
Washington continued his pressure on the pump handle. “Fast too. I got to fly one of those beauties once. You think Bock’s Ranger is fast? Whoa, you ain’t seen nothing! That puppy right there can spin on a dime, and climbs like a space shuttle. You blink and it’s adios muchacho.”
The helicopter was little more than a dot on the horizon now. Shayla set down the binoculars and checked her wristwatch. “How many do you think will be out there?”
Washington shrugged nonchalantly as he watched the numbers click away on the pump. “Don’t worry your pretty little … uh…”
Shayla turned her disfigured face toward him. Even though the remark was clearly unintentional, she was still livid.
