But his landing behind the pile did the real damage. He felt, and heard, the sickening pop as he dislocated his left shoulder. He couldn’t suppress a moan. Keitel also kept firing and Scarne heard glass shattering and metal-twanging. This time Scarne moaned loudly, for effect, hoping they would assume his wounds were serious, maybe fatal. But all that the fusillade accomplished was to knock out three of the car’s tires and its headlights, plunging the area into blessed darkness.
Scarne drew his gun. He knew the odds weren’t good if he went up against the two killers. The Bersa held seven rounds. He had put his extra magazines in the center console for easy access, but it would be suicide to go back to the vehicle. Keitel and Garza had pump shotguns. He had a pistol. The effective killing distance of the respective weapons was about the same, but as Scarne knew from the throbbing of his legs, his assailants didn’t need to be all that accurate. If it wasn’t for the woodpile, Scarne would be dead with a hundred holes in him. Safety for Scarne meant heading up the trail he was on, away from the killers. They would be crazy to follow him. And they weren’t crazy. They were pros. They would carefully check around the car and woodpile to see if they had gotten him. They would listen for a while. But then they would go back to the car they presumably parked a short distance up the main road.
Scarne didn’t hesitate. He switched his gun into his almost-useless left hand. He reached down with his right, picked up a small piece of wood and threw it to his left. He was moving in the opposite direction before it even landed. When it did he heard shots. He plunged into the swampy woodland, and was relieved to find he could move almost silently. He was only a few yards from the road. He holstered the Bersa and put his good arm out to ward off collision with trees. It didn’t prevent branches from slashing his face, and he stumbled on roots. In some places the water was up to his knees.
He heard a shotgun boom. It was close, but no leaves rattled and no bark flew. They were shooting at other sounds. There were animals about. But Garza and Keitel would give that up soon, as pointless. It was so dark that Scarne decided to take a chance. He cut to the road and looked back. He couldn’t see the two men. Or even his car. Which meant they couldn’t see him. He broke into a run, eyes down at the barely-visible road. He almost missed the small cutoff where Keitel and Garza had left their car. It was parked about 20 feet in. He tried the door. It was locked. He looked down the road. He thought he saw light, and maybe a glint of water, perhaps 200 feet ahead.
Scarne remembered the silencer. That might be his only advantage. With agony in every movement, he slipped his left hand into his pocket and pulled it out and put it between his teeth. Then he put the gun in his left hand, which would barely close, and using his right clumsily screwed on the silencer. He was debating whether to head for the boat sounds, or wait and try to finish Keitel and Garza. Then the car chirped and its headlights flashed. He swung around and in the dim light saw Garza pushing the remote on a set of keys.
The two men, perhaps 10 feet apart, saw each other for only a second. Garza raised his shotgun but Scarne’s pistol coughed first. He heard a grunt. The shotgun boomed and Scarne was hurled back against the cars, his side burning with pain. He fired at the flash of the big gun, twice, and rolled off the side of the road. He wondered why he wasn’t dead, then realized Garza must have been using slugs. The heavy bullet had taken a chunk out of his side. A pellet spread would have splattered him all over the landscape. Where was Keitel? He crawled over to Garza, who was lying on his back staring up with one eye open. The other eye was a bloody crater.
Scarne lay prone next to the body and heard the footsteps of a man running and the metallic clack of a shotgun being pumped. Keitel presumably hadn’t heard Scarne’s silenced shots and was looking for a target at eye level. He would also be loath to fire without knowing where Garza was.
Scarne, head down so that his eyes wouldn’t give him away, listened to Keitel’s steps slow. He must see something lying in the road. Now! Scarne raised his gun and shot Keitel twice in mid-body. The man screamed and sank to his knees, jamming the shotgun into the dirt, where it went off and spayed bits of dirt and rock into Scarne’s face, momentarily blinding him. Now Keitel saw Garza’s bloody face and red hate boiled in his eyes. He raised his gun, his mouth open in the beginnings of a howl as he pumped another shell into the chamber. Scarne got to his knees and quickly put a bullet into the howl.
Keitel pitched forward on the body of his partner.
Scarne slowly got to his feet and looked down at the two dead killers.
“Checkmate,” he said.
CHAPTER 52 – ‘WHAT DID YOU DO?’
Scarne was having trouble breathing. But he knew he was lucky to be breathing at all. If it wasn’t for the deer, he would have driven into their ambush. It was a miracle they hadn’t killed him anyway. His wounds weren’t mortal, but he couldn’t take much more damage. He was leaking blood and losing strength. But he hurt in so many places, it wasn’t that bad. The body couldn’t concentrate on one particular pain.
With only one round left in the Bersa, he needed more firepower. With a useless left arm, the pump shotguns would do him no good. He rolled Keitel off Garza and patted him down. Nothing. He tried the Cuban. Only the shotgun. The car! He went to the open trunk, and had just started rummaging around when he heard a large marine engine rumble to life. Scarne decided. He turned and sprinted down the road. One bullet would have to do. Or, rather, the fact that his opponents wouldn’t know there was only one.
He stumbled twice. Each time the breath whistled out between his teeth and it was a struggle to rise. They must have heard the shotguns. No matter. They would assume it was Garza and Keitel. He was counting on the element of surprise. If his exertion didn’t make him bleed out first.
He almost ran full tilt into a small shack that loomed out of the dark. Light drifted around the edges of the structure, which appeared to be nothing more than a fishing cabin. He heard voices and harsh guttural laughter from the water side of the shack, which was on a spit of land. He could hear boat sounds: the low coughing of an idling engine; wooden piles knocking; water sloshing; the almost lyrical twang of straining hawsers. He slid along one wall. More voices. Russian? And Ballantrae’s. He was arguing with someone but sounded slightly defensive.
Scarne went through the minor agony of removing the silencer. It had served its purpose but would slow the bullet; now accuracy and killing power were all that mattered. He edged his head around the corner of the shack. What he saw helped make up his mind, while at the same time greatly reducing his chances of survival. A large modern sport fishing yacht was tied up at a small dock under a bright light. There were five men arranged in a rough semicircle around Alana and Ballantrae. One of them was Boyko. Two others were just climbing onto the boat, straining with the weight of a large black metal cooler. They placed it against the gunwale near the rear of the boat. One of the men lifted its lid and looked in, grimacing. The boat was rocking and some water sloshed out of the cooler. The man looked at Alana and Ballantrae and smiled. But he closed the lid after a sharp rebuke from Boyko.
Scarne weighed his options. None were particularly promising. Two of Boyko’s men carried short-barreled automatic rifles. The others had pistols in their belts. He could rush the boat, kill the nearest man, take his weapon and try to shoot it out with the others. It was suicide. He might get one or two, but certainly would be cut down by the others and get Alana killed in the process.
Then, the decision was taken out of his hands. Boyko said something to the man standing by the tub, who put on a pair of heavy work gloves, visibly shuddered, and reached into the tub. It took him several minutes to get hold of whatever was in the tub, which appeared to slip from his grasp as he cursed loudly. Boyko laughed and said something that brought cackles from his men. Finally the other man wrestled a pinkish-grey eel-like creature above the lip of the tub, where it wriggled obscenely and started exuding slime, which dripped all over the deck.
“Jesus
Christ!”
It was Ballantrae. Alana’s hands went to her throat.
The man holding the creature struggled to maintain his balance in the slime at his feet. Scarne knew what it was. Noah Sealth had described a hagfish in great detail. Scarne also knew what was coming. Alana’s eyes were wide with terror. Insanely, he recalled how he went to Florida thinking he was on a wild goose chase. Well, now there was nothing for it.
Scarne stepped out and pointed the Bersa at the man with the hagfish.
“Put it back in the tub.”
Everyone froze and all heads turned his way.
Startled, the man with the hagfish slipped on the dripping slime. It was a classic pratfall and his back hit the cooler, which overturned and sent its contents across the deck. Scarne saw three other hagfish slither toward the stern. The man who fell lost his purchase on his captive and it came to rest on his chest. He screamed and twisted away as the prehistoric fish plopped to the deck and slid toward its companions, where they all wriggled madly gasping for oxygen in the ghastly pool of water and slime collecting in one corner. Everyone, including Scarne, watched the horrible tableau for a second before the other men brought up their weapons.
“Hold it!” Scarne shouted. “I’ll kill the first man that moves.”
They stopped, but Boyko, facing Scarne, smiled.
“You are a brave man,” he said, in excellent English. “But only one. We are five. I don’t doubt your ability with that popgun. You bested those two maniacs we left behind to kill you. I thank you for that. Saves me the trouble. You will notice we have four of these monstrous fish. Two of them were for Mr. Garza and Mr. Keitel.”
There was a curious look on Ballantrae’s face. He could add.
“Grotesque creatures,” Boyko went on blithely. “But a fitting payback for Maria Brutti, don’t you think? I have no love for the dagos but they will be very grateful for the gesture. What’s that saying, ‘What’s good for the goose is good for the gander?’ Maybe, now, things will get back to normal in Seattle.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Andriy?” Ballantrae’s voice had a wheedling edge of panic. “Kill him and let’s get moving.”
“Let the woman go,” Scarne said. “You’ve won.”
Boyko gave him an appraising look.
“She is not innocent.”
“She had nothing to do with Maria Brutti. And what happened afterward was not intentional.”
“Perhaps you would like to explain that distinction to the Brutti family. I would not. But it is of no consequence. I want to make a statement, for the Bruttis and myself. We are not to be trifled with. You East Coast people have no respect for us in Seattle. When word of this gets out – and I will make sure it does – it will be good for business. Call it a marketing ploy.”
“You won’t live to see that business. Here’s the deal. Your lives for her. I will see that she is punished. But not this way. You have Ballantrae. I don’t care what you do with him.”
Ballantrae’s mouth was working, but no sound came out. He started to move toward the boat’s ladder but two men blocked his path.
Boyko shrugged.
“The woman asked me to spare your life, but Victor wouldn’t hear of it. He knew you would follow her. If it’s any consolation, she was a very unwilling bait. You want to rescue her. There is something between you. That is a pity. I, too, am a romantic. But she is too dangerous. She knows too much. If she can, she will do everything in her power to avoid punishment. She will further entrance you. Even if you mean what you say, she will hire the best lawyers. Perhaps plead insanity, or childhood abuse. I have found out some things about her. The Bruttis want vengeance, not an interminable series of appeals through your appalling legal system. My way is better.”
“Don’t be a fool. She has undoubtedly made provisions. Ballantrae, too. It’s all on paper somewhere, or on disks.”
“He’s right. If anything happens to us, you will go down.” Ballantrae had finally found his voice, although it was none too steady.
The thrashing on the deck was getting louder. Boyko looked amused.
“Victor, a moment ago you wanted to kill him. And now he’s your new best friend?” He turned to Scarne. “Unfortunately for you, the Government now values my patriotism and is willing to overlook some misdeeds. But this is getting tiresome.” He looked pointedly at Scarne’s weapon. “That is a small gun. A Bersa, no? I have one myself. We heard many shots. You may have reloaded, but no matter. You can’t shoot all of us.”
“But I will shoot you, Andriy.” Scarne smiled coldly. He centered the barrel on Boyko’s face. He felt unafraid, detached.
The Ukrainian leaned back against the side of the boat and crossed his ankles, in a pose of resignation. And he smiled back.
“My friend, if you know who I am, you will also know that I did not rise to the position I have attained by being afraid to die. Nor will I live long by showing fear to my men.” He nodded and his men began to fan out. “Now do what you have to do. It will change nothing for the woman after you are dead.”
Scarne knew it was over. The bluff had failed. He turned toward Alana. She had not said a word the entire time. Now she saw the look in his eyes and said, “Do it. Please.”
The loud crack of the single shot refroze everyone. The wind had died. The smell of cordite was strong in the muggy nighttime air. Guns were raised as Scarne let his drop to his side. He would have been cut in half but for a sharp order from Boyko. One of the men said something quietly, almost reverently, that Scarne couldn’t understand.
“Mother of God, what did you do?” Ballantrae cried.
Scarne walked toward Alana, who had crumpled to the deck. A gunman moved to block him but backed away at a gesture from his chief. Scarne bent down. Her eyes followed him. There was a small, almost delicate, hole in her blouse above her left breast. She was still alive, barely, a testament to her iron will. Her mouth moved slightly. Then it was still. Her pupils began to expand. The very last thing that Alana Loeb saw on earth was the first man she loved. Scarne felt someone take the gun from his hand. Boyko checked the magazine.
“So, that’s how it was,” he said.
Ballantrae looked at Alana’s body. There was triumph in his face.
“So, you hated her too, Jake. She could do that to a man. Didn’t figure it out to the very end, did you? I caught on a lot faster. You fucking sap.”
Scarne was very tired. It was Boyko who broke the silence.
“You are a fool, Victor. The man had one bullet left. He spared the woman a painful death. It’s your bad luck he didn’t have another to use on you. Although I doubt he would have bothered.”
He barked an order. One of his men moved behind Ballantrae and pinned his arms. Another grabbed Scarne. He hardly felt the pain in his shoulder.
“Andriy, we can work this out.” Ballantrae’s legs were buckling. “I have your money.”
“Please, Victor, kindly shut up. For the very first – and, God willing, the last – time, I can say this is not about the money.” He looked at the terrible writhing mess on the deck. A cruel grin cracked his face. “They appear to be fading, although with such creatures, who can tell.” As if on cue, the hagfish began making sucking, smacking sounds. “In any event, they undoubtedly need nutrients.” He looked at Ballantrae and sighed. “So many eels, so few orifices in a man. Well, we shall have to make do.”
Boyko turned to Scarne. “You deserve better than what awaits this piece of trash.” He spoke rapidly to the other men. Scarne’s hands were quickly and efficiently bound behind his back and two of the gunmen roughly pulled him off the boat and prodded him down the dock with automatic rifles. He glanced back to see the others stripping the screaming Ballantrae and forcing him into a fishing chair. Scarne thought wildly that he had been right. Victor’s hairy legs would look ridiculous in golf shorts.
“What are you doing? Oh, God no! Jake, do something! Please, please. Help me!”
Boyko’s men marc
hed Scarne down the shore around a small bend where encroaching foliage almost reached the water. Behind them an inhuman shriek pierced the night. One of his captors said something and both men laughed. Scarne tripped on a root of some sort and pitched onto his face. One of the men reached down, effortlessly pulled him to his feet by his collar and pushed him forward. The screams on the boat diminished with distance and finally, after a few chilling wails, stopped entirely. Normal tropical nighttime sounds slowly began to fill the void as animals and insects again went about their business. Death sounds were nothing new to them. Scarne looked at the small waves breaking on the shore.
“Kneel.”
Scarne sank to his knees in a small depression filled with mud and water. Dozens of tiny fiddler crabs scurried a few feet away from him then stopped. In the moonlight their claws, waving in unison, seemed to be bidding him goodbye. But for his bound hands he would have waved back. So he just laughed. The two gunman exchanged glances.
A huge bug landed on his face and began lapping. Sweat? Probably blood. He could feel warm rivulets running down his flanks. He wondered which perforation they were seeping from. He looked at the foliage to his left, only a few feet away. He would never make it, and even if he did, he was in no condition to fight the thick roots that made up the bulk of the shoreline. And then there was the matter of his arms being tied. Idly, he wondered what kind of mangroves they were, white, black or red? Alana had taught him how to tell them apart by their leaves. Funny pillow talk. Florida has lost most of its mangrove forests, she told him. The trees are considered endangered species.
“Lot of that going around,” he said aloud.
“Shut up.”
One of the men stood directly behind him, so close Scarne could smell him, a not-too-unpleasant odor of diesel fuel, sweat and fish, with a whiff of sun block. Funny how one’s senses sharpen at a time like this – and are obviously a bit more forgiving. The other man moved in front, his weapon held languidly in the crook of his arm. Scarne recognized it as a Vepr (in English, “wild boar”) the Ukrainian-designed version of the ubiquitous Russian AK-47.
Two Jakes Page 39
