Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  “Did he ever give you any specifics about the DIA job? Anything?”

  She shakes her head and takes a sip of beer, then says, “Wait, he did say once it involved rescuing sick people and bringing them to a place they could be treated.”

  “Treated for what?”

  “I believe it was some form of mental illness, something that made them dangerous to themselves and others.”

  “Mental illness?”

  She shrugs. “That’s what I remember. Again, he was always pretty vague about it, but whatever it was, it really affected him, so he got out and joined the teams.”

  “What about the people he worked with at the DIA?”

  Franky contemplates the question. “Law? Why are we talking about this now?”

  I hesitate.

  “Lawson?”

  I look down at my beer again, then decide to give her the five-minute version of my on-going investigation.

  She listens, then shakes her head and pushes that shot glass back to me. As I fill it, she says, “Christ, Law. That’s some fucked up story.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So, you think that Jonesy guy that worked with Dix is behind this?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “And Dix knew him as well as this Russian bastard that forced him to kill himself? The same lowlife who tried to run us over?”

  I nod.

  “So, this could all be connected to what Dix used to do?”

  Another nod.

  “And this was what Adanna was trying to track down at that bar when she was attacked?”

  One more nod.

  She chugs the tequila, chases it with the rest of the beer, and mumbles, “Fuck me.”

  “Yeah. It’s a lot to process.”

  “No shit. But now what?”

  “Now we rest. Tomorrow we keep digging. This is all connected and we have the muscle of two agencies behind this now, NCIS and CID. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  She nods, then pushes the shot glass back at me. “One more time.”

  I hesitate since I’ve truly lost count how many she’s had. But on the other hand, why the hell not? The woman lost her husband today. Let her drink herself into oblivion.

  “Please, Law.”

  I obey and she contemplates it a moment, looks at me, then, “I really don’t drink that much, Law.”

  “Look,” I say, showing her my palms. “After what you’re going through… I’m just glad to be here for you.”

  She chugs it, but this time she keeps her head back for a moment, eyes closed while she takes a deep breath. I can’t even start to imagine what has to be going through her head.

  When she opens them again, her eyes are glazy, like they did the other night.

  “Let’s not talk about what happened to Dix anymore. At least not tonight. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Looking about the cabin again, she asks, “So, how far have you sailed?”

  “Not very far. Mostly around the bay. The boat has a generator, so I can spend the weekend out there comfortably. But I’ve only taken her out to open water a couple of times when the weather’s good.”

  “That sounds nice. Maybe you can take me when this is all behind us?”

  “Love to.”

  She nods to herself while still looking about. “This is much roomier than it looks from the outside.” I notice that she is starting to slur her words a little.

  “Yeah, it’s a good design. Plenty big… for two.”

  She narrows her gaze at the comment as her eyes gravitate to me.

  “So, Law, you say you want to… be there for me?” her half-drunk stare is now planted squarely on me, though the woman is not blinking.

  But I do, twice, certainly not expecting that. All I can manage is a nod.

  “And what does that look like, beyond tonight?”

  And I remain silent because I haven’t had the time to think it through yet. I just know I want to be with her, and I hope to God that she also wants to—

  “Tell you what,” she adds at my silence, before pointing to the door leading to the bathroom. “Why don’t you think about it while I go pee?”

  Another nod, and Franky gets up with a bit of difficulty. The booze is definitely taking hold. She walks slowly—staggers really—to the bathroom, opens the door, and goes inside, but she doesn’t bother to close it behind her.

  I just sit here listening to her doing her business while trying to process what just happened as well as wondering what might happen next. With Franky, you never really know.

  She emerges again but pauses in the doorway, and just like the other night, her robe is no longer tied.

  Oh boy.

  “I think I’m a little drunk,” she says, eyes half closed now. “Can you help me get to…” she points her little chin in the direction of the narrow hallway leading to the forward berth.

  I go to her, running an arm around her shoulders as she leans into me and starts to go limp while closing her eyes. I work my other arm under her legs and pick her up just like the other night. And that’s precisely when the damn robe decides to part again, exposing those damn tattoos under her breasts as she rests her head on my chest.

  Once more—and in spite of the awkwardness of the moment, I get that sudden feeling that all is well with the world. And I promise it has nothing to do with her being naked in my arms. If anything, my reaction is to cover her, but I can’t while I’m carrying her.

  Slowly, and turning sideways because the hall is barely wide enough for one person, I work my way to the bow cabin.

  About halfway there, Franky opens her eyes and lifts her head, looks down at her naked body in my arms, then stares at me. “Law? What are… you… doing?”

  “Putting you to bed, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says, and closes her eyes again and once more leans her head against me.

  I finally reach the cabin, push the small door open with a foot, manage to move the top sheet out of the way, and lay her down. She curls up on her side as I move the sheet up to her shoulders.

  She mumbles something I can’t make out, followed by, Can’t be… alone… Law,” and starts to breathe heavily.

  I stand there wondering if I should just lock up and crawl in bed with her or head for the rear berth because that could just be the booze talking. Last thing I need or want is for Franky to wake up next to me naked and not remember a damn thing.

  So, I decide to play it safe and start to make my way for the guest berth in the—

  The Catalina rocks ever so slightly from bow to stern.

  Someone has just stepped off the gangway and onto the swim deck.

  Instinctively, I reach for my Sig, which is still strapped to my belt.

  Before I know it, I’m scrambling aft, past the main salon and up the steps through the companionway and into the cockpit, the Sig leading the way.

  But there’s no one there.

  Confused, I stare through the clear plastic walls at the boats docked to either side under the marina floodlights.

  Did I imagine that?

  Maybe it was a wave?

  But I know what I felt. And besides, the waves that sometimes make it into the marina from the bay always rock the boat from port to starboard, as in sideways. Never from bow to stern.

  Someone was here a moment ago.

  To starboard, the small blue catamaran sways in the same breeze sweeping in from Chesapeake Bay that wobbles the plastic walls, distorting the view from the cockpit. But I can still see the waters of the bay projecting beyond the catamaran. To port, the tall Sea Ray blocks the view of the marina.

  All seems fine, yet it isn’t. I know what I’ve felt.

  But as I breathe in deeply through my nostrils while exhaling through my mout
h, I notice that the thick zippered entrance is open halfway. And I remember clearly closing it after Franky and I came in over an hour ago.

  I take a step back while clutching my Sig, and that’s when I hear an engine.

  It’s a yacht cruising just aft of the Cobalt. And behind the helm is a man with ash-blond hair and—

  Casper!

  Bastard is glaring straight at me from the yacht’s cockpit. I can see his features clearly as those light-colored eyes narrow. The man is noticeably upset, pissed actually, as he points in my direction, like signaling to someone of my presence. Then he idles the engine.

  But as I’m about to shift the Sig in his direction and let him have it, I notice a figure standing on the catwalk out of direct line of sight, but visible in the reflection off of the shiny Cobalt yacht’s hull across from me.

  It’s a man and he’s clutching what looks like an Uzi submachine gun. The bastard was trying to get in here, finish the job they botched outside Franky’s house. But then he felt me running from the bow—just like I felt him stepping onto the swim platform—and decided to hide.

  I glance at his reflection and react just as I’ve been trained, firing five times in rapid succession into the bow of the Sea Ray. The .45 caliber rounds stab through the plastic side wall of the Catalina and tear into the Sea Ray’s fiberglass hull as if it was butter, punching through to the other side. In the same instance, a brief scream echoes in the night as the figure reflecting off of the Cobalt’s hull falls back, and I hear his body crashing onto the gangway.

  At the same time, the big yacht pulls away in a hurry with Casper still at the helm.

  Rushing around the steering wheel and pulling up the zipper the rest of the way, I glide across the walk-through and skip over the swim platform. But just as I’m about to run onto the catwalk and rush toward the yacht, I catch with the corner of my eye a second figure reflecting off the Cobalt’s hull. It’s also armed with something resembling an Uzi and running in my direction.

  A second assassin.

  He will emerge from around the Sea Ray at any moment and catch me running away from him toward Casper. Russian bastard gunned the engine to try to flush me out.

  Instead, I scramble in the opposite direction, to the side of the Sea Ray, almost by the holes my bullets had pierced seconds ago, and get low while also firing low, emptying the Sig.

  The second assassin emerges before I can reload, but at least he’s now limping. I got him at least once, but not enough to stop him from swinging the Uzi toward the rear of the Catalina, searching for me.

  But I’m off to the side, momentarily on his blind side. Out of choices, I lunge, catching him broadside, like an unsuspecting quarterback, striking the side of his face with my left elbow, shocking the web of nerves around his left temple.

  He drops like the sack of shit he is, and I leave him there bleeding and unconscious but grab the Uzi that skittered away from him on the gangway.

  The Catalina is moored almost at the end of the marina, so all I have to do is take a dozen quick steps and I’m at the very edge, with the stern of the runaway yacht stirring the calm waters as Casper tries to get out of dodge.

  At a distance of less than two hundred feet, I empty the Uzi on it, the 9mm brass ejecting in the dim moonlight, the repeated muzzle flashes, like lightning, casting a stroboscopic glow at this end of the marina. The 9mm rounds make a mess of the yacht’s stern, but it isn’t enough to stop it. I drop the submachine gun and continue with the Sig, releasing the spent magazine, snatching a spare one from the magazine holster on my left hip, sliding it up the pistol grip, and cycling the slide.

  I go a round of eight, drop the second mag, insert my last one, and I’m about to start again but the yacht is now at least six hundred feet away.

  Dammit.

  And just like that, the goddamned ghost is gone again.

  I pocket the spent magazines, leave the Uzi where I dropped it, and double back to the Catalina, where Franky is still belowdecks, probably out cold from all those tequila shots. I also see lights coming on by the Marina office, where there’s always a manager on duty, plus I hear the expected sirens in the distance given the racket I’ve just made.

  I step over the unconscious assassin and peer around the bow of the Sea Ray, where I see the first guy still holding his Uzi, but his dead eyes are staring at the night sky. Of the five rounds I fired initially, I put two in his head and one in his upper chest, and who knows where the other two went.

  I kneel by the bastard I knocked out and check on the leg wound. It went through and it’s bleeding, but not enough to suggest I hit his femoral artery. But he’s still out cold. I check for ID but he has none.

  I gaze about and see no other threat.

  Taking out my phone, I holster the Sig to send Mia a quick text to alert her and also give her the description of the runaway yacht driven by our elusive Russian ghost. Plus, I suggest she gets her ass over here pronto. Then I dial 911, identify myself as NCIS, and give the operator quick instructions to send an ambulance. That will at least also alert the incoming police of my situation so I don’t get shot by some overzealous rookie cop.

  I then use my SOG knife to rip open the assassin’s left pant leg, where I shot him, and I quickly use the fabric to both make a tourniquet above the wound on his thigh and also to tie his wrists behind his back.

  And that’s when I catch a figure out of the corner of my left eye. I look up from the phone while reaching for the Sig.

  Franky has stepped onto the gangway. In sharp contrast with the madness of the last sixty seconds, she looks like a heavenly apparition, mesmerizing. The open robe is swirling in the light breeze, almost like a white cape, and the leftover gunpowder smoke from the Uzi and the Sig hovers around her. For a moment, she resembles a work of modern art, smooth and beautiful, alive in the pale moonlight mixed with the haze from my handiwork.

  “Law?” she seems quite awake now, unlike the staggering woman I’ve just tucked into bed. And in spite of what I just went through, what comes to mind is pure amazement at how much booze the little lady can hold and still remain standing. I would have been floored after the fourth tequila shot and I’m at least twice her weight.

  “What the hell, Law?”

  Yeah. Indeed.

  “Are they… dead?” she asks, apparently finally realizing she is naked because she grabs the ends of the robe and covers herself.

  “Not this one,” I reply, looking down at the assassin I just secured. “But that one is,” I add, pointing at the one sprawled on the gangway by the bow of the Sea Ray.

  She hugs herself. There’s fear in her eyes as she gazes at them, then at me.

  “Jesus, Law.”

  “Hey, no harm will come to you while I’m around, Franky.” Standing, I then walk up to her. “They’ll have to go through me first, okay?”

  Franky just stares at me before hugging me. And I realize then that my initial reaction had been as her protector, shooting to kill, and not as an NCIS agent, whose priority should have been to try to capture both bastards alive so we could interrogate them.

  I also realize, as I hug her back, that I’m probably going to get another lecture from Mia. But then again, what choice did I really have? It was a Sig against two Uzis. Plus, I had no idea how outnumbered I was. No. I had to fire first and not miss. The second assassin is lucky I decided to shoot low and that the Sig went empty, forcing me to knock him out. And I guess Franky and I are damn lucky that Casper only sent two guys after us and not three since I was temporarily empty.

  “I saw him, Franky,” I add.

  “Saw who?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “The asshole who killed Dix. Bastard got away on a yacht.” I stretch a finger toward the darkness beyond the marina entrance. All that’s left is the silvery wake in the moonlight marking his getaway route. “Just called it in. Maybe someone
will intercept him, though I doubt it. The man’s quite the escape artist.”

  Her stare hardens before she also looks in the direction of the bay.

  Realizing that in a matter of minutes this place will be swarming with just about every law enforcement agency in the region, I get her back inside and say, “You’d better get dressed. This is about to turn into a shit show.” The comment, of course, makes me think of Mia.

  Franky pauses just below decks, in front of the galley, turns around, and stands in front of me.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, as the sirens get closer. Then she puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me on the lips for the very first time. Then she shocks me as only she seems to be able to do. “Something to look forward to, yes?”

  Goddamn. I really want this woman, and I want her now, but I obviously can’t. So, I manage a nod and a simple, “Absolutely.”

  “Good,” she says, and heads toward the forward berth while I go back up.

  First at the scene is the marina manager, followed by two uniforms from the Portsmouth PD, then four MAs in a Humvee, two Virginia State troopers, two more Portsmouth PD officers, and finally, NCIS.

  “Damn, Law,” Mia Patel says as she stands flanked by Rossi and Beatriz while Yanez works the body. “What the hell were you thinking coming here?”

  “Franky was tired and needed a place to stay, so…”

  She shakes her head while lighting up and taking a drag. “So, you brought her here, to your registered domicile while knowing quite well that there are people trying to kill you and her?”

  “Not so smart, Law,” Beatriz comments.

  “Ever heard of a motel, Pal?” Rossi decides to pitch in.

  I just nod at all the love I’m getting and say, “Look, guys, at least we now have someone to interrogate.”

  “And we’ll get to him soon enough,” Mia cuts in as all of us look at EMS personnel rolling the unconscious assassin away while escorted by three MAs. “But Ledet just called an emergency meeting.”

  “But… it’s almost midnight,” I say as Franky now stands by the Catalina’s stern dressed in her new jeans, a pullover white sweater, and sneakers. “And what about the shooting and—”