Help him to murder Sausa? No. Not exactly. And was that precisely what he intended? His own mind was playing tricks on him, his thoughts twisting, eluding direct examination. He needed to protect Hanna — that was what he understood clearly. She certainly couldn’t depend on the national police. Only a couple years ago Ramón Sabillón had been removed from his post as head of the national police. It was part of an ongoing restructuring of the country’s security forces. The men in black helmets and vests at the cruise port, they were the de facto reality in Honduras: the military were officially in charge of all things related to citizen security. The last thing Hanna or he needed, or wanted, was to be captured by them.
He parked across the street from the small police station and watched through its front windows. He knew it was risky behavior. He understood better than most how the law could turn against him. He’d spent half a year in prison, engineered his own release, and now he was a fugitive. He’d been up against his own government, up against the man named Jeremy Staryles, a black ops agent. But it didn’t mean he distrusted all governments, all law enforcement officers. People were people. Systems could be exploited, people could rise above the corruption.
He jumped out of the Mitsubishi and hurried across the road for a better look. She wasn’t there anyway. No one was. The police station was abandoned, the front door locked.
He checked his watch as he trotted back to the pickup. One-thirty. The length of Roatán took at least forty-five minutes to travel. He’d have to step on it.
* * *
He bought another pay-as-you-go phone from the shops along the Town Center and dialed Hanna’s cell from memory. The automated voicemail picked up immediately; Hanna had no cell service, or the phone was destroyed.
He considered leaving a message but scrubbed the idea. It worried him that Hanna was with Marcotti. But even if Marcotti was involved in the trafficking, he’d be reluctant to do something rash in front of his family. At least, William hoped so.
And there was no reason to believe Marcotti knew who Hanna really was. She was smart, she’d kept her cover. She’d made the right choice not to run, not giving herself away.
As he blurred through the vinery along the French Cay, he noticed a motorcycle in his rear view mirror. It was a few vehicles behind him. The driver was wearing a black helmet and a large pack.
Carretera Principal stretched out in a straightaway. William gunned the engine and pulled into the opposite lane. The Mitsubishi handled well, but didn’t have much under the hood. He had to floor it to pass the car in front of him — and just in time — an oncoming truck blared its horn as William slipped back into the proper lane.
He checked the mirror again. The motorcycle stayed where it was, now another vehicle behind.
He lost sight of it as the road turned curvy.
He passed Blue Ocean Reef, a large hotel with rooms high enough to view the ocean on both sides of the island. Roatán narrowed to just a mile wide in through here. It was one of the last opulent establishments — after the hotel, the road plunged deeper into the bristling jungle, broken only by poorer homes and neighborhoods. He was getting to know the place.
The traffic slowed as he neared Oakridge and he reduced speed. This close to Calabash Bay, the traffic would soon be clogged with tourists. He expected another road block, too, and took an early turn to avoid it all.
William checked for the motorcyclist but didn’t see him.
In Jonesville, he parked near the anchorage called Hog Pen Bight. Several yachts and smaller boats bobbed in the turquoise water.
He left the Mitsubishi, tucking the keys up under the wheel well. Then he jogged around the moorings until he found the jet-ski rental place. He’d seen it when he’d been shopping at Tienda Emel with Hanna the day before.
He signed himself up for one of the water craft and a young man handed over a key attached to an orange buoy fob.
The jet-ski was tethered to the dock, William threw off the line and jumped aboard.
He’d never ridden one in his life — how hard could it be? The engine burbled to life and he dialed back the throttle. The thing leapt forward and he almost rammed into a boat.
He adjusted, cranked the steering, and spun out of the dock and into Hog Pen Bight.
Moments later, the wind was whipping through his hair, the salt water spraying in his face. He sped towards Calabash Bay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Boats surrounded the mouth of the bay. Large red buoys rolled with the waves, roped together, cordoning off about one square mile of water.
Royal Playa was hidden in the jungle beyond, and William saw a single local police boat near the shore. He imagined the Roatán cops scouring the resort, encountering some of his own handiwork. And, unless Hanna had taken it with her, Lazard’s storage drive was there. If they found that, the shit could really hit the fan.
A massive, 250-foot ship just drifted into port, towed by a powerful tugboat. It was a freight-hauler named Voyager, doubtlessly the ship to be sunk.
A man blasted a megaphone at an expectant crowd of hundreds on the shore. William piloted the jet-ski away from the gala. He found a spot to moor away from the crowd, tied off. As he climbed ashore he listened to the bombastic megaphone voice.
The ship was owned by Grantham Ltd, the speaker announced, a division of Seascape Marine, Inc. The line shipped to Belize City, Puerto Morelos, and Roatán. Now it would rest forever on the sand beneath the water of Calabash Bay.
The crowd erupted in a cheer.
William cut through a private property and emerged at the far end of a long beach, swarmed with spectators. He searched for Hanna, or Marcotti. It was likely that they weren’t even there, but stuck at the Royal Playa, giving their statements to the local police before DNIC arrived.
Sausa wasn’t hard to find.
On a deck stretching over the water, he proudly held the megaphone to his lips as he addressed the enthusiastic crowd. His wounded hand was bandaged.
“In a few minutes, with the Voyager berthed, lines will anchor the ship to make sure it stays upright while sinking. Then, the seacocks will open, filling her with water.”
The crowd ripped with fresh applause and Sausa turned to watch the tugboat detach from the ship. He resumed, “We’ve made it completely safe for scuba divers. Hatch covers weighing several tons have been welded on to the ship’s frame to make it stronger. It took fifty truckloads of debris, removed over several weeks, to clean this baby up. Electrical, insulation, charred furniture, anything which could harm the environment. What’s left will be pure adventure.”
The crowd roared more approval.
William moved closer to the deck where Sausa presided.
“At Grantham, we’re all about giving back to the community. We’re dedicated to making Roatán one of the preeminent destinations in the world for diving, for cruising, or for just spending quality time with your family and friends . . .”
The arrogance of this guy. William boggled at how brazen the man was, given all that had happened. Two nights ago Sausa had had a drugged teenage girl tied to his bed. Last night he’d killed a colleague in cold blood. This afternoon he was standing in front of a group of locals and tourists and pitching his business while police presumably stared at bits of Arnold Sterling’s brain littering the floor of his bungalow.
William saw two of Sausa’s guards posted below the deck and ducked behind a cluster of tourists. His heart pounded faster.
“I have a special announcement to make,” Sausa said. Something in the man’s tone curdled William’s stomach. He continued to sift through the onlookers, listening for what he hoped he wasn’t about to hear.
Sausa’s voice carried out over the bay where it rolled back in an echo. “We all know that Honduras can be a dangerous place. I know it can be difficult to talk about. Because it’s a wonderful place, too. But like any paradise, there can be a snake in the garden. That’s why I’ve been a part of a local crime-watch group for several
years. And why I believe the people of Roatán, and its esteemed visitors, deserve to be protected.”
William could hardly believe what he was hearing. He moved away from the deck now, trudging through the sand, amongst the eager spectators. He was nearing the center of the mass, and the road that led away from the beach, when he spied Marcotti and his family.
They were at the far end of the gathering, faces turned upward to Sausa. Not back at the resort after all. Standing there like it was any other day on their marvelous vacation. Marcotti looked exalted, a witness to the rousing speech of a war hero.
“Just last night, violence erupted at the Royal Playa resort,” Sausa boomed. “A colleague of mine and his family were staying there.”
The crowd murmured and looked around. Someone spotted Marcotti and pointed.
“Our friends are okay,” Sausa said, “but we’ve decided that enough is enough.”
The crowd cheered the sentiment.
“That’s why I have proposed, to the mayor of Roatán, a private police force. Not to replace the police of Roatán, who are very dedicated, but to augment them.”
William caught sight of Officer Conchella. She watched the proceedings with her arms crossed, face slack, appearing not to share Marcotti’s enthusiasm.
He spotted a second officer near the parking area. And then he froze.
Beyond the second officer, a man stood holding a black helmet.
The man moved out of sight before William could get a better look.
There was scattered applause as the mayor came up into the stage beside Sausa. The two men shook hands. “Mr. Clive Booth,” Sausa said, dripping with deference, “This is a historic day for Roatán.”
That was Mayor Booth’s cue to take the mike. “Thank you, David. Yes it is. It is historic.” He enunciated like an experienced orator, but his words were canned and he looked apprehensive, even from a distance. William wondered how full his pockets were with Sausa’s money. Or if Booth knew where Sausa’s “police” were recruited from, and the hidden cost. If Booth knew his own cousin was helping to supply them all with guns.
Out on the water, the last shore lines were fastened to Voyager. Several smaller boats circled the giant ship. They were just about ready to sink it.
The mayor’s eyes swept the crowd. “Our national police force is very strong, but also very busy dealing with the complications of our beloved nation. General Pacheco relies too heavily on military personnel to fill positions in domestic security and other state institutions. And they all but ignore our Bay Islands! We need attention too, so we’re happy to be working with Seňor Sausa on this. As mayor, I gratefully accept the offer.”
He seemed reluctant to embellish further, and changed topics. “Now, we’re all in for a treat. For the next several hours you’ll get to witness this other historic event — the sinking of the Voyager!”
The crowd, who had glazed over a bit during the talk about police, came back to life. Volunteers along the shoreline beckoned them forward. The procession moved down to the water’s edge, fanning out, everyone angling for the best view.
The queue for the deck quickly filled, with Marcotti and his brood at the front of the line. As they ascended, William dialed Hanna’s cell phone again. This time it rang.
“Hello?” Her voice was crackling, but she was there.
“Where are you?” William watched Sausa and Booth greet the VIP guests as they ascended to the deck. He waited for Hanna to respond, but the line only beeped. The call had been dropped.
Sausa’s men stayed below the deck, weapons concealed. There was Sausa, smiling beside the mayor and shaking hands with tourists and local business people while his militia surrounded. Local police were present — Conchella and one other, at least — but no one could touch Sausa on his protected pedestal.
William considered taking out his gun and shooting Sausa right there. To hell with the consequences. One shot from the crowd, and William wouldn’t miss.
But, there were women and children. Sausa’s guards wouldn’t exercise discretion as they retaliated.
He dialed Hanna again, keeping out of sight from Sausa’s men as he walked among boats grounded at the small harbor off the beach.
Straight to voice mail another time. He wanted to smash the phone against one of the boat hulls. He wanted to push through the crowd and strangle Sausa from his place on high. Grab the megaphone and explain to everyone where Sausa was getting his men from, and what he was giving them in return.
Instead, he walked toward Conchella who was watching the wreck, her arms still crossed.
“Officer Conchella . . .”
She looked around at him, her eyes shining with recognition. He stepped beside her. “Quite a day, huh?”
She lingered on him before turning her gaze back to the proceedings. She watched the crowd like a hawk. “It is.”
William was drawn back to Sausa. The man was glad-handing and laughing. Not a trace of self-consciousness. And why would he? He had the mayor in his back pocket. The local police were too trivial to stop him, the national police too distracted by mainland crime.
“I know all about him,” William said.
Her eyes lit on him again. With a few choice words he could reveal himself as a witness to Sterling’s murder. It was eating at him — Isabella had fanned flames of doubt and guilt in his mind — he’d seen and heard enough to provide compelling testimony. But it might result in his own imprisonment. So what was he doing?
When he didn’t speak, Conchella returned to watching the crowd. “I know about him, too. Men like him have been around for centuries. He’s a colonist. He wants to turn Roatán into a business.”
William was struck by her candor. Before he could respond, he saw something on one of the boats circling the wreck. A familiar figure. His phone rang in his pocket at the same time he left Conchella and started down towards the bay.
“Hanna?”
Another static-laden connection, but she was there. He could see her in the distance, holding a phone to her ear on the deck of a smaller cargo ship in the water.
“Will? Can you hear me?”
“What are you doing out there?” He pushed through some people and waded into the water without even thinking about it. He wanted to get as close to her as possible.
“The boat came and --- us from Royal Playa. Roatán police released us. DNIC still --- here yet.”
William glanced at the deck. From this angle he lost sight of Sausa and Marcotti. Hanna was telling him that Sausa had sent a boat. A multiple homicide at the resort, and the police had let them go, DNIC yet to even arrive. Marcotti had persuaded her aboard, and she’d likely gone along to keep things on an even keel.
Then they’d left her out there. Maybe they suspected.
“Who’s with you?”
But he had his answer — he could see the brightly colored shirt of one of Sausa’s militiamen. And he spotted another man, near the stern.
Her reply was garbled. It didn’t matter.
“I’m coming to get you,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
William returned to the jet-ski, keeping an eye out for the motorcyclist. He fired it up and tore out of the bight, spraying water. When he reached the buoys he slipped beneath the rope. So much for keeping a low-profile.
He gunned the engine and zipped across the bay towards the mammoth Voyager, aware that people were watching him from the shore deck. He cut past the tugboat chugging back out toward the open water.
The tug blared its horn as he slipped past. Over the jet-ski’s whining engine he heard the wail of a siren.
The seacocks of the freighter opened up and the ship began to sink. Seawater poured into the boat, weighing it down, creating huge sucking whirlpools in the bay that could draw William under.
He twisted the steering and charted a wider course, still aiming for the small cargo ship nearby with Hanna aboard.
She seemed to be struggling with one of the men. But she pull
ed free and leapt from the edge of the boat. Her body plummeted through the air and hit the water with a splash.
William sped to where she had gone under and then slowed. The men on the deck were looking down. One unslung the rifle from his back. They were going to shoot him. Right here in the middle of the bay in front of everyone. It suddenly felt like a dream. Like something happening to someone else.
Hanna bobbed to the surface, gasping for breath. William maneuvered close and extended a hand. She climbed up onto the seat as swung away from the sinking freighter.
He headed for the deepest part of the bay, beyond the crowd, Hanna’s arms wrapped around his waist.
The men hadn’t shot at them. It was a miracle they’d gotten through it. He zig-zagged between the smaller boats piled at the back of the bay, spraying rooster tails of water, and closed in on a long, warped dock. He found a free tether and wrapped it around the steering column before dismounting the jet-ski into waist-deep water.
From here, the ship was still impressive, water bubbling up along its sides, but the crowd along the beach were just tiny shapes.
William realized Hanna was staring at him with an angry expression.
“William,” she said. “Goddammit.”
Baffled, he offered her help off the jet-ski. She pushed him away, jumped in on her own and swam for the tangled shore. He watched as she thrashed through the brush to gain dry land.
There were a few people around, giving them looks, distracted from the sinking ship. William waded over and climbed out the same way.
“Hanna . . .”
She walked along a dirt trail away from the locals and he hurried to catch up. They were both dripping wet. The bugs swarmed in the air as he got in step with her.
“I’m an investigator,” she said. “I’m undercover.”
Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul Page 18
