by Jon Land
Maybe it was the ease with which he walked through the darkness outside the Biscayne Bay Marriot en route to the marina that made him vulnerable. It was inconceivable that another could take him within darkness, especially at close range, so when the shape whirled before him, a glimmer of steel preceding it, Selinas hesitated.
If it had been a normal, hand-held weapon, he still would have had a chance. But it was something else, something much different wielded by a huge shape that nudged against him as its weapon sliced forward.
Selinas felt it first as a hard smack to his chest, followed by a tearing sound he dimly realized was his own guts being spilled as he searched for the air needed to scream. The blood was already filling his mouth when he crumbled, coughing it out, dying then, almost dead as he began to drag himself forward.
Drew waited in the cabin of Jude the Obscure, the night waves softly lapping against the side of the boat. Beyond that sound there was only the loud din coming from a disco called Tugboat Annie’s, which overlooked the marina from the first level of a condominium complex.
Mace was twenty minutes late. Under the circumstances that was something he would never do. Unless something had gone wrong. Drew moved to the window that contained a view of the dock and, if he strained hard enough, the disco. He swung around only when the cabin door creaked open.
And Mace fell on him with his stomach falling out.
“Looks like I lost this time.”
Mace virtually coughed the words out, almost matter of factly. Blood followed after several of them.
Drew held part of him in his lap. Mace was trembling everywhere as his body clutched for life. Drew trembled, too, words denied him from the shock.
“Worse than I thought,” Mace said. “Worse than you thought. Different. Shiteaters used me. Wanted—” A hefty swallow, which brought him some air. “—me to kill you, too. Never would have. Would … have found you … and warned you off.” Mace’s eyes flashed life briefly and found Drew’s. “Want you to know that,” he said grasping Drew’s forearm tightly, each syllable becoming a chore for him.
“Not you,” Drew moaned. “No! You couldn’t be a part of this!”
“Not me. Selinas. Facade created by me. I’m not a … mercenary. I’m an … assassin. Money was better. Accepted this assignment so they wouldn’t give it to someone else. Would have found you … but you found me.” Mace seemed to smile and blood rushed out from between his lips. He grasped Drew’s forearm even tighter, as if it were his own life he was fighting to hold onto. “No time to explain who. They’re … too … close. Run. Get out.” He heaved for air. “The Timber Wolf …”
“A part of this, too?” Drew cringed.
“Not yet. Get to him. Tell him everything that’s … happened. Give him—” Mace’s words were lost as he spasmed.
“The Timber Wolf’s here? In Miami?”
Mace managed the semblance of a nod. “My right pants pocket. A … list. He’ll know what it means. He’ll know what to … do… .” He had spat out an address when a final spasm overtook him and his eyes locked open.
Holding his breath, Drew reached into his dead friend’s pocket and withdrew two sheets of paper, wrinkled and bloodied. He started to back away, terrified.
Mace was dead.
Mace, the man who had taken him easily at the mercenary camp three times running, had been killed by men who were close, by men who were—
Footsteps pounded the dock, then slowed. Drew heard voices whispering, exchanging information.
They were here.
The footsteps picked up again. The killers had found the trail of Mace’s blood they had been searching for.
Drew tried to make sense of it as he pressed his back against the wall. The bastards had tried to hire Mace, in the guise of a killer named Selinas, to kill him. But Mace had turned the tables and gone after his employers. Only he hadn’t been good enough.
What chance do I have against them?
The question made Drew shudder. Mace was the best and they had got him.
The men were approaching the boat now, easing closer by the second in the bloody trail. As far as they knew, though, they were seeking only Mace. So, Drew would have his chance, the opportunity to take the men by surprise just as they must have done to his friend.
The pool of blood was spreading under Mace’s corpse.
A weapon, he needed a weapon! A quick strike to stun and disable and then he could make his escape.
Drew’s eyes locked on the large fire extinguisher bracketed into the wall. He ripped it free as the first of the killers dropped onto the deck. Drew brought the fire extinguisher up over his shoulder, testing its weight. Heavier than he had expected. His strike would have to be perfect.
He could hear what sounded to him like two men approaching the cabin door.
A four-step descent separated the cabin from the deck. Drew would strike while the killers came down in single file, one after the other. He jammed his back against the wall adjacent to the steps and held the extinguisher by its nozzle and neck, something like a baseball bat.
The door opened slowly. The men would see Mace’s body immediately and focus all their attention on it. At least that was what Drew was counting on, for if they so much as gazed to their left his presence would be forfeit.
The killers started down the steps. Neither of them looked his way. Drew held his breath.
He struck when the first man was halfway down the final step and the second had another two stairs to go. Drew leaped out, angling his body for the best possible strike, and swung the extinguisher hard. There was a thud as it struck the lead man square in the chest, forcing him backward against the second. Both men gasped and tumbled. Drew hurdled up the steps and onto the deck.
A third man was leaping down from the dock, gun in hand. Drew crashed into him before his balance was firm. A whoooosh of air poured from the man’s mouth at impact and his pistol clamored to the deck. Then Drew was lunging from the gunwale up to the wharf, sprinting at full speed for the head of the marina where boats and jetskis were rented by a company called Sunsplash.
There was a spit followed by concrete exploding around him as he pulled himself onto the cement that connected the marina to the condominium complex and entrance to Tugboat Annie’s disco. He never looked back; there was no reason to. The disco was his only hope for survival now, his only sure way to escape the killers’ bullets. There was no one checking IDs at the door of the disco, so Drew passed right through unhindered into the crowd, determined to lose himself while keeping a sharp eye on the door.
It was only seconds later when two of the men appeared. Drew had not gotten a clear look at either of them on the boat, but he realized who they were immediately. They were substantially older than the rest of the patrons and were breathing hard, faces tautly determined as they surveyed those around them and began shouldering their way through the packed disco.
Drew turned away and shrank into the mass, heading for the dance floor. He needed a rear or side exit, and then saw the red flash of a sign across the floor to his right. Halfway there he veered from it and pushed toward the bar. He had seen only two men enter the disco. What about the third? Drew realized the third killer must have been left outside to watch the other exits.
Drew was effectively trapped inside. A boy who couldn’t have been more than seventeen turned awkwardly from the bar and sprayed him with beer, muttering an apology. The Timber Wolf’s address was not twenty minutes from here on one of the Bay Harbor islands. But to reach it, Drew had to escape.
And to escape he needed to create a diversion. Drew’s eyes swept the dance floor and focused on the white-suited DJ atop a raised dais who had just flipped a switch to “create some atmosphere,” releasing a thick, foglike substance from beneath the dance floor. The effect was gained simply by exposing dry ice to water. But if all the switches were flipped at once, the entire stuffy room would probably be enveloped by the fake smoke in seconds. People would be forced out. He w
ould have his cover. Yes, that was it!
Drew pushed his way toward the DJ, slanting across the far edge of the dance floor to better his angle. He hoped the killers were unsure enough of what he looked like to allow him to cover the distance without being noticed. Everything rested on what he was about to do. He climbed the steps to the dais from the rear, the way a patron with a request might.
“Hey,” the DJ started, “what are—”
Drew yanked him aside and flipped all five switches with “smoke” stenciled under them into position. A slight hissing sound followed, and clouds of white started pouring from beneath the dance floor, remaining thick as they climbed and spread.
The DJ was trying to grab him now. Drew twisted from his grip and knocked him away, lunging from the dais. The smoke was still rising, pooling, more like fog, and the patrons of Tugboat Alley’s were holding their ground uncertainly, flapping their hands to clear the air immediately before them. Many shoved their way toward the front door and Drew shoved with them. Halfway there, he started coughing from the slightly noxious fumes. A crowd had emerged through the main door before he did. Once outside he swung left, hoping to make his escape into the Marriot directly across from the disco. Then he saw a group of men running from behind the hotel toward Tugboat Annie’s. Another escape route was obviously mandated, but all three directions were blocked one way or another, and the fourth was Biscayne Bay.
Drew looked down at the docks. Three jetskis owned by Sunsplash rentals had been lined up on the dock immediately beneath him. A trio of people were hovering over them, obviously having arranged for a night rental. A fourth, the proprietor perhaps, was working one of the jetskis forward into the water.
Drew threw himself into motion, leaping down to the dock and rushing for the jetskis. The proprietor had just gotten the first into the water when Drew shoved him aside and jumped in near it. Seconds later he had climbed atop the jetski and was feeling for the starter. He twisted it and the engine caught immediately as the proprietor struggled to his feet and his customers cursed at Drew. It had been years since he had ridden one of these surprisingly fast and easily maneuverable water scooters. Nothing to it at slow speeds, but fast took a bit of skill.
Drew let out the throttle all the way from the start, splashing water in his wake as he surged through the marina area. From the Port of Miami, cabin lights in the huge cruise liners seemed to flicker, as if to laugh at his flight.
He was swinging out of the marina when a glance to the rear revealed the killers rushing down the dock, guns ready. Drew started to weave, cutting across his own wakes with the tip of the jetski rising like a bucking horse. Bullets smacked water about him, farther and farther off the mark as he drove the jetski into Biscayne Bay, taking from the small engine all it could give.
A small island dotted the sea before him, and Drew turned right toward the collection of bridges that linked Miami Beach to the rest of civilization.
Chapter 13
DREW LOOKED UP at the intercom buzzer once again, but he didn’t press it. The black iron fence surrounding the home on West Broadview Drive in Bay Harbor intimidated him, seemed to warn him not to request entry from its occupant.
From Peter Wayman … the Timber Wolf.
The night before Drew had ridden the jetski to the Miami Yacht Club and ditched it there. His clothes drenched, he climbed back on land and considered briefly returning to his room at the Ocean Palm. The men who had killed Mace, however, might have tracked him there by now. If he showed his face in the vicinity, he could be walking into a trap. Instead, he had spent the night on the move, letting the warm air dry his clothes as he sat beneath trees and finally on the beach off Fifth Street where he dozed until the first of the morning’s sunbathers arrived on the scene.
His money, fortunately, had dried as well, which allowed him to breakfast on a pair of hotdogs and a Coke purchased from a beach vendor. The morning was comfortably cool and he walked a ways in the hope of steaming the wrinkles from his clothes before grabbing a bus that ran the length of Collins Avenue. He climbed out at 96th Street, stiff again, and loosened up by walking the last few miles onto Bay Harbor toward West Broadview, which he reached drenched in hot sweat.
He knew the walking was just an excuse, an excuse to put off his approach to the Timber Wolf, a stranger who had no reason to believe and even less to help him. But Drew clung to the hope that he would because he was the Timber Wolf, a true champion of the innocent, a man beside whom even Mace had paled by comparison.
The little that Drew actually knew about the Timber Wolf had been pried out of Mace during quiet night hours in the mercenary camp. His real name was Peter Wayman, proclaimed the Timber Wolf for his ability to stalk and kill those who had taken innocent American lives abroad. The Timber Wolf’s skills were purely retaliatory. Never was he summoned until an atrocity had been committed. Mace claimed that he had once been the most feared man in the world by the terror network, and, all things considered, the most deadly, dangerous man anywhere.
Once …
Then he had quit, dropped out. It was just after Corsica, one of the landmarks of his career, which had seen him at his legendary best. No one knew why, not even Mace. His services were still requested but no longer offered. The best had taken himself out of the game for reasons only he knew.
But he remained the Timber Wolf. Mace had sent Drew here because he must have known that, known that Wayman was the one man alive who might be able to get him out of this with the help of Mace’s bloodied sheets of paper, which contained thirty addresses scattered all over the country.
Drew started to raise his finger for the buzzer.
The house beyond the gate was brown wood with inlays of brick, modern in structure with a large carport in place of a garage. A Mercedes was parked beneath it, shining and bright. The yard was not large but well sculptured.
Drew steeled his courage and pressed the buzzer. Seconds passed and it seemed no one was going to answer, so he buzzed again and then a third time.
“Yes?” came a voice out of the intercom speaker. A man’s voice. It had to be the Timber Wolf.
Drew swallowed hard. “Mr. Wayman?”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me. A friend of yours sent me.”
“I asked who you were.”
“My name is Drew Jordan. I don’t expect that to mean anything to you. That friend of yours sent me here for help.”
“He sent you to the wrong place,” the voice said coldly.
“No,” Drew begged. “Please. That friend of yours, they killed him and now they’re after me. Just let me come in and talk to you. You’ll understand.”
There was a pause, then a high-pitched buzz as the steel gate unlocked itself mechanically.
“Walk straight up the driveway,” the voice instructed through the box. “Keep your hands where I can see them and don’t so much as step one foot off the cement. Clear?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Drew stepped inside the gate and did exactly as he was told, approaching a small raised porch before the front door. He saw the door open slowly and kept walking until he was inside the house, feeling the refreshing cool of the air-conditioned atmosphere, embarrassed all at once by his sweat-soaked shirt. It was dark inside. His eyes were having trouble adjusting. He was barely a yard past the doorway.
Peter Wayman kicked the door closed but left the lights off. Drew swung quickly and saw the huge pistol in his hand.
“You shouldn’t move that fast,” the Timber Wolf warned him.
“I’m sorry. I mean, well, it’s just that I’ve been through a lot. It’s all crazy.” Drew paused. “I don’t know where to start.”
“How about with the name of that friend of mine who sent you.”
“His name is—was—Mace. He’s dead. They killed him because he tried to help me.” Drew eyed the Timber Wolf as best he could in the half light.
“I don’t know anyone named Mace.”
Drew
felt like he’d been jabbed in the gut. “He said he worked with you. I’ve got something he told me to give you.” Drew produced the pages but the Timber Wolf ignored them.
“Lots of people have worked with me through the years and a lot of them are dead. None of them were friends.”
But Drew held fast. “There’s this mercenary camp in Georgia. That’s where I met Mace. He told me all kinds of stories about you, said thirty of us wouldn’t have stood a chance against you.”
“Yeah. A few years ago maybe.” Wayman stepped forward. Just a little. Drew noted the large revolver in his hand again. The Timber Wolf’s eyes were ice. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Drew Jordan.”
“Well, Drew Jordan, you don’t look much like a mercenary to me.”
“No,” Drew said, despite himself his voice almost a whine. “I’m not, not really. I went to the camp first to write a story about the experience. I went back a few times because I liked it.” He gulped air. “Mace took me under his wing, taught me how to develop an edge. He sent me here because he thought you could help.” Drew realized he was trembling, the sweat still coming in buckets. “I came here because I’ve got nowhere else to go. Mace isn’t the only one who died. There are others, one from my hand and a few more they’ve tried to pin on me. But it wasn’t my fault. I was set up and then—”
“Hold on. Slow down.” Wayman seemed intrigued now as he sized up the young man before him. “I don’t know why, Drew Jordan, but I’m going to listen to what you have to say. Believe me, it goes against my better nature.”
“Thank you. You don’t know how much I—”
“I know your clock’s running and you’d better grab my interest fast. Here, let’s go into the living room.”
Wayman hit a light switch and the foyer was immediately aglow with soft light. He holstered his cannon-size pistol and instructed Drew toward the sunken living room just off to the left, keeping Drew in front of him and reasonably out of striking range at all times. Drew moved stiffly, his motions sluggish as if terrified of making one move too fast for the man behind him. Retired or not, the Timber Wolf remained a chilling figure, ominous not so much in appearance as aura. A feeling radiated from him like an animal in the moments before it lunges into an attack, an undercurrent of suppressed tension and strength. The two men faced each other from matching chairs set ten feet apart and Drew felt as if the pistol were still poised on him.
