by Dean Carson
We shared a bottle of wine and that kept the conversation flowing.
At eight, they stood up to leave. There were hugs and handshakes all around. Their part of the plan was simple. The three of them would walk back to the marina. Jelly would show her passport at the port authority office and have her bag checked by Customs. Her bag contained some of my stuff, including my phone. She would board with Bill and Ben and they would leave port around nine-thirty. That left them plenty of time to get into position off the diving cliff by ten.
My part of the plan was equally simple but more difficult in execution. I would have to get to the bar unobserved, then dive into the water and swim to the boat. It might be odd to see a man jumping into the water late at night, but at least my earlier visit had established me as a diver. I would tell the barman I was doing it for a bet, to amuse my friends on the boat below. It was believable enough.
I set out on foot, taking my time like a real tourist. I stopped and looked in shop windows and lingered in places along the way. I wasn’t really loitering. I was checking reflections in the windows and trying to throw followers off their stride. But I spotted no one. I timed it to reach the bar around nine-thirty. The place was still quiet but beginning to fill up. Mostly young people. At one table was a nun of all things, nursing a glass of white wine. The barman recognised me. He grinned and mimed a diving motion with his hands. I gave him a thumbs up.
I should have ordered a coffee, but I went for a beer instead. I reckoned the adrenalin would keep me awake and alert without the need for more stimulants.
“You make a dive tonight?” he asked.
“I might do. Some friends have asked me to jump and swim to their boat.”
“Then pay your bill first before you dive,” one of the locals joked.
I found a table and sat down. I was on the main platform, furthest away from the entrance to the bar. The view was worth paying for. The Adriatic was stretched before me, the sun sinking low in the sky, giving a rosy hue to the wispy clouds. As the sun sank lower, the glow intensified. The sun seemed to get bigger before plunging into the water, leaving a bright yellow path twinkling along the calm water.
There were myriad boats on the water, some going, some coming. But as the sky darkened, most began heading towards the marina. One didn’t; it was flowing against the others, slowly making its way along the coast. It took about ten minutes from when I first saw it to reach a spot directly out from where I was sitting. It was about four hundred metres off shore as it slowed down. The prow edged towards me and the boat began slowly making its way nearer the shore. There was no way of knowing if it was the right one. It would complicate things if a second boat was in the vicinity.
One of the figures on the deck stood up and draped a white towel over the front railing. That was the signal. I had found my rescue vehicle.
I stood and approached the bar. I ordered a coffee. Now was the time for the caffeine buzz. The barman looked at me oddly as he prepared the espresso. The machine was cold because it hadn’t been used for a few hours. But finally the thick pungent liquid dripped into a small glass and he handed it to me.
“It lines the stomach for the beer,” I explained.
I settled my bill and returned to my table. The boat was only two hundred metres off shore now. I was feeling confident. The dive itself would hurt because of the wound on my arm. But the shock of the water might numb it. Or the salt might sting like hell. Either way, it was only pain. It was not debilitating.
I let the espresso cool while I continued to sip my beer. I had time yet. It would be a mistake to dive too early and end up in the water for too long. That would draw attention to myself. It was getting nicely dark now. The people in the bar would see me jump, of course. They would probably cheer wildly. But no one else would see me. I would hit the water as a shadow and silently glide to the waiting boat. By dawn, I would be in the middle of the Adriatic and home free.
I finished the beer and put the glass down safely. Then I lifted the espresso and tossed that back. It was bitter and good. I was ready but in no hurry. This was meant to look like a fun stunt by a mad tourist, not a frantic attempt to escape. I looked at the various platforms where the kids had been diving two days earlier. I chose the lowest this time, about ten metres above the water. There was no girl to impress. I pushed my chair back. I was about to stand.
Someone dropped something at one of the neighbouring tables, and I heard a voice: “Mi scusi…”
I looked over and saw the nun had dropped her purse. She pointed to it and I smiled.
“No problem, Sister.”
I stood and walked over to her table, dropping down to pick up the purse. As my head dropped below the level of the table, I could see one of her legs was out straight and in a heavy splint. And one of her hands rested on her lap. In the hand was a silenced handgun. It was pointed right at my forehead.
I picked up the purse, straightened up and dropped it on the table. I pulled out a chair and sat down facing her.
“Hi, La Donna,” I said. “Good to see you.”
THIRTY-FIVE
She didn’t look pleased to see me. She looked furious. And why not? I had left her for dead less than twenty hours ago.
“Don’t Hi me, you fucking prick,” she said. “You tried to kill me.” She said it in a low whisper that would not carry to the surrounding tables.
“You tried first,” I said. I was trying to keep the tone light, but this would seriously hamper my escape. Or prevent it entirely. “You learned to swim?”
Her face turned black. “I can swim. That was a lie,” she snarled. “I was hoping you would throw me in the water.”
“And I did. Ever the gentleman, that’s me.”
“You shot me first.”
“I did — but you kind of forced my hand when you drew on me. Was I meant to fall down dead and let you collect the bounty? Look, this is getting us nowhere. You’re pissed off at me. I get that. You want to kill me and still collect the bounty. What now?”
“Now I shoot you,” she said. “I shoot you in the gut, and as you slump over I call for help. And as they try to save your sorry ass, I walk away.”
“Hobble away,” I contradicted. There was a crutch leaning against the table. “What prevents me screaming my head off and getting you caught?” I went on.
She reached into her purse and removed a small aerosol and placed it on the table between us. I was familiar with it. One puff and I would conveniently pass out, allowing her to put the silenced slug into my gut unopposed.
“I have thought of everything,” she said with a smile. She looked me right in the eye. “Yesterday was about money. Today it is personal, and I will enjoy it. It is a shame I cannot stay to savour it, but we both know a gut shot is not a nice end.”
Her hand reached for the aerosol and her eyes flickered towards it for a second. Nobody reaches for anything without looking. It was not enough of a distraction, but it was all I would get. I grabbed the bottom of the table with both my hands and flipped it violently over, throwing it into her face. As her chair began to topple backwards she got off one shot, but it sailed harmlessly into the air. No one noticed that; the slight sound had been masked by the clatter of the falling table. Immediately there was noise in the bar as patrons ran to help straighten her up.
I turned and ran too. Instinct guided me. I ran from the bar and out along the path towards one of the diving platforms. I didn’t want to go back in the direction of town. I had to make my dive tonight. Especially now.
As I reached the edge of the diving platform, I risked one glance back. She was on her feet, grasping the crutch with one hand. The barman was trying to force her into a chair and she was cursing him. Suddenly I saw a muzzle flash, and he hopped on one leg and began swearing loudly. Then he fell over and clutched at what was left of his ankle.
The crowd around Sister La Donna fell away as she waved the gun in a menacing circle, then she began limping towards me, the crutch under one a
rm. She was moving surprisingly fast, drawing the gun up to take the shot. I could dive, but if she didn’t hit me in the air I would be an open target as soon as I hit the water. I crossed the diving platform and followed the path away from the bar. I heard the click click of her following me, the crutch beating out a rapid staccato rhythm against the ground. Her first shot missed, but not by much. I ran on. I knew the path went further, but how far did it snake across the cliff face?
She was still following me. Damn. There were two options, and this was the worse of them. It would have been so much easier if she had accepted defeat and tried to make her getaway. I kept running. She was not going to catch me. Unless I ran out of path.
She surprised me by maintaining her pace. She was moving damn near as fast as I was, which meant she was still within shooting range of me. I ran thirty metres along the cliff path, rounded a corner and then…
And then the path ran out.
THIRTY-SIX
I was at a dead end. I could only proceed if I trusted my abilities as a rock climber. I am actually quite solid on a rock face, but not in loafers with a shredded arm. And even if I had the proper shoes and unblemished limbs, I couldn’t get very far before she arrived. She would have a leisurely shot at me. Checkmate. The only solution was to make my dive here.
I looked down. Right below me was a big rock, sticking up out of the water with small waves crashing against it. A dive here would result in the sort of concussion that was fatal: a completely staved-in skull. If I ran back around the corner, I could land in clear water, but I was running right into her sights.
Going forward was not an option. Going back was not one. Going down was not one. Up? That was daft. And then the click-clack came very close indeed. I knew she was about to round the corner. We were in the endgame, and she seemed to have all the good pieces left on the board.
I flattened myself against the wall and waited, holding my breath. I had one thing going for me. She wasn’t taking any precautions. When you are the hunter going in for the kill, you have to throw caution to the wind. The predator rushes headlong and leaves all thoughts of safety to the prey. She had the gun. She was angry. I was getting away. She would rush headlong around that corner, and I would have only a moment to disarm her. Assuming she did not run right into me with the gun pointing forward. If she did, my game was over.
I waited. I could feel my heart beating, far too fast. I could hear the blood rush through my inner ear. And then she was on me.
She came around the corner with the gun in her left hand, the hand closest to the wall of the cliff. Her right hand held the crutch, which was on the side of the path nearest the sea. I stepped out from the wall and smashed my forearm into hers, pushing the gun to the side, forcing her arm into the wall. She got off one shot that went wildly astray. I kept pressing her arm into the wall with all my strength. But the angle was wrong. She was against the wall, I had my back to the sea. She began to push me. I was stronger than her, but she had the wall for leverage. For a moment she almost succeeded in pushing me backwards to my death. But I shifted my feet and bent my knees, pushing back against her strongly. For a second I believed I had her pinned. I could get to her side and swiftly reverse our positions. As long as her back was to the wall, she was supported and her injured leg was not a disadvantage to her. But once I turned her, it would be over.
I was starting my move when she brought the crutch up sharply between my legs. Lights flashed before my eyes and my knees turned to jelly as the metal stick caught me full in the testicles. I dropped like a stone, my knees hitting the ground hard. I lost my grip on her gun arm for a second, but found it again, gripping the fabric of her black habit near the wrist. I wrapped my other arm around her knee and held on like a drowning man.
That was what saved me. She threw her weight backwards so that she wouldn’t be dragged over the cliff, and I managed to hold my position. My eyes were watering.
But the funny thing about a blow to the testicles is that though it hurts like hell, it is rarely a game ender. If you are an experienced fighter, you can ride out the sudden shock and deal with the pain afterwards. Just look at any boxer who takes a low blow. They are back in throwing punches quicker than you can blow your nose. In the two or three seconds it took me to recover, she tried to force her gun arm down but I managed to hold her off.
Then I made my move. I made it as explosively as a sprinter coming off the blocks, and I committed to it fully. Holding her gun arm, I drove my other hand low between her ankles and up under the long flowing skirt of her robes. I reached towards the small of her back, my elbow hooking her crotch. I drove my shoulder into her stomach and stood and twisted and took three running steps forward, charging back up the path and around the corner from where we had come.
As soon as I rounded the corner I dived from the cliff, my foot pushing from the edge and driving me out into the abyss, springing into emptiness with La Donna over my shoulder in a crude fireman’s lift. The ground was gone from beneath me and I was falling … falling. We turned in the air, a clumsy cartwheel. She was now on top and I was underneath. Then I was on top and she was under. I tried to fill my lungs in the second I had. Then I was underneath again and my back struck the water with a blow that drove the breath from my body. And then we were sinking, plunging into the enveloping darkness.
Now she had the advantage. I had taken the blow for her and her shattered knee was no longer a disadvantage in the zero gravity of the water. Her fingers were scratching at my face, and then she hit me with the gun and I felt the sharp pain above my eye. We bobbed to the surface and the blood began to flow, mingling with the sea water, blinding me. I grabbed her gun arm with one hand and tried to push her head back under with the other. Her free hand grabbed my testicles and she squeezed. We went under again. I let go of her head and grabbed the gun. I wrenched it from her hand.
Here’s a fact about guns. They work perfectly well under water. Most people don’t know that. La Donna clearly didn’t, or she wouldn’t have been using hers as a crude club. The bullet is sealed, and there is enough oxygen in between the grains of powder for the bullet to be fired on a range, under water or even in the depths of space. But water is eight hundred times denser than air, and the bullet quickly loses speed once it leaves the barrel of the gun. Within two metres it has slowed to a standstill and will sink to the bottom. The effective range of a bullet under water is a few centimetres.
I took no chances. I jabbed the barrel of the silencer into her chest, straight between her magnificent breasts. I jabbed hard, and as soon as the barrel hit her I pulled the trigger, point blank range. A huge bubble rose between us and flew towards the surface. Her grip on me loosened and she fell away. A plume of darkness welled from her chest like a weird rosette, and her eyes were open wide with surprise. A few bubbles escaped her lips and she slowly sank away from me. Permanently.
I let go of the gun and swam for the top, breaking the surface and gasping for air. It was over.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I clung to a rock until I had regained my breath, then pushed off and began to move towards the waiting boat, which I could see bobbing in the darkness about a hundred and fifty metres off. I swam on my right side, with my injured shoulder up out of the water. My right arm moved in powerful sweeps and it only took about five minutes. I had ditched the jacket and the loafers to make the swim easier, and it felt good to move through the water under the twinkling eyes of the stars.
When I got to the boat they were ready for me. They had heard the splash of my side-stroke and used a flashlight to pick me out. When I touched the side of the boat, three sets of eager hands reached down and pulled me over the edge. I lay on the deck on my back, looking up at the smiling faces of Bill and Ben and Jelly and feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. Now I could believe it: I had escaped from Mostar.
“Don’t just look at me,” I said. “Somebody make the boat move.”
Ben grinned and stepped away. The deck vibrated and the d
eep purr of the diesel engine filled the small space. We were on our way.
I sat up and Bill grabbed me under my arms and pulled me to my feet, then guided me towards the small hatch leading to the cabin. I had to stoop and used the steps to climb down. I found myself in a space about three metres long, with a sofa and table at one side and the galley on the other. The sofa pulled out to a double bed and there was a small door at the far end that led to a second room that housed nothing but a double bed and some storage space. There was a chemical toilet in a small cubicle by the hatch. And that was it. Jelly followed me into the inner room.
What followed was not a glorious reunion. I was too exhausted for that, and I think she was too worried. She stripped my t-shirt off me and began expertly easing the bandage from my arm. The struggle had reopened the wound, and it was oozing black blood. But there didn’t seem to be any swelling or other signs of infection. The vodka and the salt water seemed to be taking care of that. She went back into the galley and removed a first aid pack from the press above the stove. She cleaned the wound with an alcohol wipe, which was painful, then reapplied the bandage, which felt fine. I stripped to my jocks and went back on deck to use the open air shower. It was marginally warmer than the sea I had come from, and I felt cleaner when I returned down the hatch to towel off and put on fresh clothes. That was one of the advantages of having Jelly come on board ahead of me. She had brought my luggage.
Now I felt human again and I joined the others on deck. Already the lights of Dubrovnik were a distant twinkle. Bill cracked open a can of beer and passed it over to me. He opened one for himself. Jelly had a glass of white wine. He raised the can.
“To a successful escape,” he said.
We clinked cans. We touched can to glass with Jelly.
