by Matt Lincoln
“Wonder what’s wrong with our driver?” I made it sound like it was out of the blue. “Something happened to her hand or something.”
“Yeah, but either way, she sure is hot,” Holm responded. “Maybe we could get her cheap. If she’s good at her job, a bad arm won’t matter that much.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Back in our Navy days, Holm had a girlfriend who had lost most of her arm due to cancer as a kid. That woman could drink us under a table and still walk a straight line. I got to hear a few too many stories about what she could do in other arenas… told to me by them both.
“True that,” I finally answered, although a small shard of guilt struck me. If we somehow failed, I hoped our little conversation didn’t cause her trouble.
The truck jerked to a stop, which jostled us in our seats. Maybe the driver had heard our little conversation. The engine rumbled to a stop, and the air conditioning cut off as well. Heat cascaded like a wave, but the back of the truck remained shut. People spoke outside near me, but I couldn’t catch their words.
Sweat prickled at my neck and brow by the time the door swooshed open. A hot breeze smelling of the sea entered the truck but brought little relief.
“We are going to remove the shackles and move you to regular handcuffs,” the driver informed us. “Do not remove your blindfold.”
The first thing that hit me as we exited the truck was the smell of industrial chemicals. It was quiet, though. In the middle of the week, we would hear blaring horns, crane engines, shouts, and more in a thriving industrial park or dock. I took a few sniffs, but I couldn’t identify the chemicals I smelled. I hoped Holm had a better time of it than I did.
We were guided into what felt like a hall, with cold air whooshing every fifteen paces or so. I thought I heard a muffled scream, but it was buried under the noise of the door slamming at the entrance. At what seemed to be the end of the hall, we were brought through a door. The air shifted as we went in, and I smelled a hint of perfume. Behind us, I heard the clank of a locking door.
My handcuffs were removed, then Holm’s.
“You may remove your blindfolds,” a different woman said in an authoritative but familiar voice.
I pulled off my blindfold. The room held a small stage, perhaps twelve feet wide, that faced two rows of velvet theater seats. Two armed guards, one at each end of the seat rows, stood with hands clasped behind them. One of the guards was the guy who picked us up with the truck. At the back of the room was a large mirror that had to be where the Trader watched the proceedings.
I turned to face the Proxy, who turned out to be the woman who owned Zest. Guess that info about the Proxy looking like Danny DeVito was way, way off. Unlike the night at the club, she was dressed in a dark gray tailored suit. She’d pulled her hair back and wore red-framed glasses.
“You may call me ‘Victoria,’” she said. “Mr. Winters, we met at my club the other night. How are you?”
“Very well, Victoria.” I flashed a smile, but she did not react.
“I am the Trader’s proxy,” she announced. “Now that you know who I am, I must emphasize complete discretion on your part. Should you reveal this information to anyone, there will be severe consequences. I can and will destroy your life and that of everyone you care about. Is this clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holm agreed with a good impression of being intimidated. “I promise, I will forget I ever met you.”
“And you, Mr. Winters?”
“Likewise.” I loosened my tie a fraction. “I have the money we promised, and then some.”
“Very good.” She snapped her fingers, and one of the guards retrieved the duffle with the cash we’d brought. “While you examine what we have to offer, our people will count your money.”
And make sure it wasn’t counterfeit or in marked or non sequential bills, I was sure. It was standard operating procedure to protect their interests from bad actors and stings.
“Have a seat,” Victoria ordered.
The can lights over the seating area went down, and I didn’t have to look back to know that there wouldn’t be any backlighting to give away the Trader’s identity in the window pane. A series of lights went on over the stage, and New Age music began to play as I tried to appear relaxed.
“Based upon the information we received regarding the club you are opening, we have chosen seven prospects who more than fit your criteria.” She held out her arm, palm up, toward the far side of the stage. “First is Melody.”
A young Latina woman of average height but generous curves strutted onto the stage in a glimmering red dress and matching strappy heels, lips, and nails. Her black, wavy hair fell halfway down her back. She smiled wide, showing all her teeth.
“Melody is seventeen years old and in good health.” Victoria spoke as though introducing models at a fashion show. In a twisted way, maybe she was. “She has beautiful teeth which have been bleached white. There are no disfigurements or tattoos other than the Trader’s beautiful mark. Melody, show them your mark.”
Without dropping the smile, Melody turned and displayed her shoulder blade, where the flower and trident tattoo looked freshly inked.
Victoria went on to list the girl’s bedroom specialties and other facts that I never wanted to hear about a teenager. The next girl was only a year older, and my discomfort didn’t fade. Halfway through the display of the fourth prospect, a different guard burst into the room.
“Hold the sale,” he barked. He faced the mirror. “Apologies, sir. These men are not who they say they are.”
Holm and I surged to our feet. Before I got a chance to speak, Inspector Tomás Forde pushed his way into the room.
“You are being set up,” Forde announced to the room. “These are Special Agents Marston and Holm, and they’re trying to take you down.”
42
“What the hell, Forde?” I yelled as the guards pointed their weapons at us.
I charged toward him, but the guard who’d broken up the sale stuck his gun in my face. I threw my hands up and took a half step back. Holm had tried a run at Victoria and ended up with a gun pointed right at him as well.
That cheesy smile had rubbed me wrong from our first meeting, and it wasn’t any better now.
“Everyone either works for the Trader or pays down the road.” Forde spread his arms wide. “What can I say? I wanted to prove myself.”
“I thought you were protecting someone,” I growled.
“See, about that, I could not find the girls. Did you hide them from me?”
“Enough prattle.” Victoria snapped her fingers and pointed at the stage, and the girl who was on display hustled out. The proxy stalked over and looked me in the eye. “You lied to me,” she stated. “I do not tolerate liars.”
I gave her my most charming smile. “I only lie for good causes.”
She punched me in the gut. Even though I saw it coming quick enough to tense against it, the hit drove my breath out. I stayed upright without gasping, though, and that only annoyed her more.
“The inspector informed us our little Luciana has returned to Barbados. We will find her after we’ve dealt with you two.” She paused and held a finger to her ear. “Yes, sir,” she answered to the mirror. She smiled, and it wasn’t as pretty as I thought it was the other night. “Your superiors will be sad to learn that you were robbed at gunpoint and did not cooperate.”
“Yeah, I’m not good at that whole cooperation thing,” I told her as she listened to her earpiece again.
“What?” Victoria exclaimed. “Get back—”
I took that for a good signal and hoped Holm had the same idea. I grabbed my guard’s gun, spun the opposite direction to break his grip, then landed my free elbow into his gut. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
Shots cracked, and a bullet whizzed past my ear. Before they had a chance to better their aim, I swung to fire at the shooter. I plugged the guy who’d shot at me and turned to where Holm grappled with his guard. They both tumbled to th
e floor in mid-scrum.
On my other side, Forde fumbled to draw his gun. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he backed away.
“Don’t do it, Tomás.” I pointed the weapon I’d taken from the guard.
“Do you see?” he shouted at the mirror. “I followed the truck because I knew these men came to ruin you.” He pointed at me. “I’m going to stop them.”
“Forde,” I warned. “Don’t you draw.”
The struggle on the other side of the room ended in the distinctive crunch of a broken neck, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of Forde. I hoped to God it wasn’t Holm.
“Partner?” I called out.
“Here,” Holm panted.
“You’re outnumbered,” I told the inspector. “Put your hands behind your neck and lace your fingers together.”
Forde shook his head. “No, no. If you live, my career is over.”
He pulled his gun. I fired, and the bullet hit him in the chest. Blood jetted out in a pulse as Forde crumpled to the ground.
“I told you not to do it,” I muttered. “Holm, you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” my partner grumbled. “Guy knew how to wrestle. Where’s Victoria?”
I shook my head. “I think she ran backstage while we were busy. Nothing we can do right now. Backup should be here any second. Stay here and hold off what you can until backup gets here.” It was the best we could do with just the two of us at that moment.
“Copy that,” Holm said, and he hopped on the stage.
I fired my stolen gun at the two-way mirror. The glass shattered and sprinkled the ground with shards. Nobody was visible in the room that was revealed. I jumped over the low-set frame and did a quick survey of the room to be sure I was alone. A theater seat, similar to those in the mini-auditorium but wider, sat in the middle of the space as if it were a throne. Beneath was a Persian carpet. A discarded headset was on the cement floor next to the carpet.
There were two doors, both closed. Both were flanked by two gold-accented potters, and a tiger shark was mounted above them. That told me one thing immediately.
Levi Price was the Trader.
“Oh, crap.”
I checked my gun’s magazine. Eight rounds. Backup was theoretically enroute, but the time frame was jacked up by Forde’s uninvited appearance. The fact that he got inside worried me. MBLIS and Royal Police teams had scouted the location for the pickup, and the truck was supposed to have been tagged by a small, adherent GPS tracker. If they were following, they should have been able to stop Forde.
Time to choose a door. Like I told Holm a few days earlier, I hated that game show “Let’s Make a Deal.” I didn’t like it any better now. Going by the placement of the saleroom, the door along the left wall had to lead to the hall. I swung it open and led with my weapon. Yep. Empty hall. I shut the door and locked it. Let backup come through the mini-auditorium. I didn’t need surprises from the hall.
I stood to the edge of the other door and eased it open. The hinges creaked in alarm. Great. The exit led to stairs, which went down. I thought I heard footsteps far below, but I wasn’t sure. The only way to know was to follow.
My rental shoes were not made for stealth or traction. After a few steps of tap-tap-tapping, I yanked them off and prayed I didn’t have to run over sharp rocks or glass. The stairs went down maybe three stories and ended in a landing that opened into a cave. Regular fluorescent lights gave way to incandescent bulbs on a wire strung about seven feet up, and the floor had a gentle downward slope.
The cave floor was cool and gritty beneath my bare feet, and the further I went, the more humid it got. Before long, I heard the surf, and a strong breeze kicked up warm air that smelled of the sea. I picked up the pace and jogged down the path, always leading with the handgun.
An engine caught and hummed to life up ahead.
“Don’t you dare,” I growled with my jaw clenched.
I broke into a sprint and rounded a corner to find a cavern just large enough for three, maybe four slips, and Levi Price was in a Porsche speedboat. The powerful engine purred as he backed out of the slip. He turned forward as I raced toward him.
“Mr. Winters.” His deep voice reverberated through the cavern over the sound of his engine. “Or what was it? Agent Marston, yes.”
I slowed up at the dock and aimed the gun as he put the boat into forward gear. His off-white suit glowed in the sunlight that entered the cavern.
“Park it, Price,” I ordered.
“I don’t think so.”
Price gunned the engine and leaned over to the passenger seat. I fired two rounds, but the sudden momentum of the boat saved him. One bullet hit the hull, and the other went into the water.
I jammed the handgun into my waistband, ran full out on the last dock, and jumped for the back of the boat. As I leapt, Price sat up with a submachine gun. He opened fire as I slammed into the side of the boat and drove the air from my lungs. Fire lanced through my left forearm, and I missed the handle behind the seats.
I splashed into the boat’s wake, and Price hauled ass out of the cavern. My arm stung like a son of a bitch, but I swam over to the dock and climbed up. The through and through wounds were going to leave marks, but nothing essential was damaged. I ripped off my dress shirt and wrapped the injury tightly. It was then I realized I lost the gun in the water. Great.
There were two occupied slips. I ran for the small saltwater fishing boat but stopped for half a minute. There was a floating platform in the third slip, the kind that a person might use to tow their Jet Skis… or a twenty-foot cargo container. That would’ve been a hell of a trip, but that had to be how they got the girls’ box out to the Somewhat There.
Putting that thought aside, I jumped onto the fishing boat and was relieved to find the key onboard. As I tried to start it up, the engine choked and caught. By the slight rattle and sluggish response, I guessed that the engine had been abused. Probably by towing something way too heavy.
“Come on, come on,” I begged.
The boat took its time to back out. When I put it into forward gear, however, it lurched forward. I opened the throttle as much as I dared, and the boat surged out of the cave. Price was out of sight, but his dissipating wake was like a neon arrow.
I looked back for a moment. A helicopter with a shield on its side hovered over the cliffs way behind me. MBLIS and the Royal Police must have descended on Price’s operation. They’d find the cave but not Price, so I had to push harder.
“C’mon, baby,” I urged the boat.
If anyone were to ask, I did not talk to boats. They are inanimate objects and don’t respond to human wishes.
Except when they do. The boat’s engine whined and then kicked in. I chased the waning trail but had to back off the throttle before it could blow. Even though I had something of a trail, I worried that I was going to lose Price. Some small boats had radios, and I performed a quick search for one.
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled.
There had been a radio… until it got yanked out. Price must have done that before he jumped into his getaway boat. What about flares? I kept one hand on the wheel and rummaged around the console for a kit. An orange flare gun box was barely an arm's length away in a small compartment. I fished it out, loaded one of the six flare shells, and put the rest in my pocket.
The fishing boat had an open canopy. I leaned out the side of the canopy and fired off the first flare in the direction the helicopter had gone. It was out of sight, but if that chopper was still in the air, the flare had a chance of getting the pilot’s attention.
Price’s boat wake disappeared, but there were only so many places he could go. I scanned small beaches and bays as I passed the karst cliffs, but there were no signs of the speedboat. My boat’s fuel gauge was low, and I smelled oil. That boat really had taken a beating at some point, and the engine began knocking and shuddering.
That’s when a new stretch of beach appeared, the Porsche speedboat moored at a long narrow doc
k that reached out from the beach and over the narrow shallows. A large white villa reigned over a hill that led up from the private beach. Price was halfway up what looked like a stairway or path towards it.
I coaxed the fishing boat as far as it would go. As much as I loved swimming, I did not have time. The boat’s engine sputtered and died as I closed in, but there was enough momentum to guide it closer to the dock. Lucky for me, that was close enough to the speedboat Price had lovingly moored. I loaded the second flare from my pocket and stuffed the flare gun into my waistband, and I angled the fishing boat to collide with the speedboat. The flares would have to do, it was the closest thing to a gun I had left.
The collision was more like a soft scrape. As much as I would’ve liked to ruin a toy for Price, it would’ve been a shame to destroy something as pretty as that Porsche. I jumped from the fishing boat onto the Porsche’s leather seats and then onto the dock. It was a shame Price hadn’t left any weapons on the boat, but I’d make do.
The path up to the villa was smooth from long years of use. Although it damned near sizzled in the intense sunlight, I ran too fast for it to bother me. But as I approached the top, I slowed down and crept up on the ridge while hoping to sight my quarry. There was little to no vegetation, no grass or weeds to sneak up through, but there were massive boulders at the top. I prayed Price wasn’t waiting behind one of those rocks.
Yeah, God wasn’t listening that day.
“Agent Marston, you are a persistent creature.”
Price stepped into view with the submachine gun in hand. It was a Mini Uzi, something that looked almost like a toy in his huge paw. I was lucky that putting a hole in my arm earlier was all it did. Put hollow points in a thing like that, and my through and through would have been more like my arm was through.
“It’s in my nature,” I said with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “Hell of a speedboat you got there. How many women and kids did you have to sell to buy it?”
“Enough!” He pointed the Uzi at me and stared me in the eye. “I have to start my business over because of you. The only pleasure I get will be watching you die.”
