“Who are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m a security specialist. The agency got a phone intercept that you, Peter J. Dolan, Ex-Army, CIA, DEA, are the target of a known hit man named Jose Leal. And I’m here to get you out and keep you in one piece until then. We need to think up some reason, some emergency, so that you have to leave tomorrow.”
“What about the jet? Who’s going to fly it?”
“That no longer concerns you.” Waldo walked over to the balcony and looked at the glass door and shook his head. “We thought it would be Jimmy Rooker who’d be in danger. Now, it’s you. We told Steve you were a big boy and could handle yourself, but he has some sort of fondness for you. So, he sent us. And we can assure you that we’re going to take a big part of his discretionary budget for the year.” He moved over to the glass door. “Nice view.”
“Mr. Baranski, I don’t know who you are, but I ain’t running out of here just because you say so. Besides, where would I go?”
“That’s not important right now. You’ve gotta move. Keep ‘em off track for a while. Disappear, and they might forget about you.” Waldo fiddled with a picture on the wall and straightened it. “How much money do you have?”
“Not much. Maybe eight hundred dollars.”
“That won’t get you far. What do you have in the bank?” Pete didn’t like this line of questioning, especially knowing that Lillian was in the bedroom listening.
“That isn’t any of your business.”
“OK. Then you haven’t any. We’ll fund you, and bill Stevey boy.” Waldo smiled and rubbed his hands together.
Lillian came out of the bedroom dressed in one of Pete’s pull over shirts and some shorts.
“Waldo Baranski, my dear,” Waldo said as he removed his hat and bowed. “I am sure you overheard everything. We need to get you both back to the States tomorrow.”
Pete saw the terror in her wide eyes and hesitation to speak. But in a second she swallowed and firmed up her posture. He felt pride that she put down her fear and faced Baranski. She walked over to Pete and put her arm around his waist.
“Let’s get going, then,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “You never told me you were this popular.”
“Pack tonight and I’ll have a private jet waiting for us tomorrow morning. Early.” He held out his hand to Lillian. “Come on. I’ll escort you back to your room. Throw together your things, and then I’ll bring you back here to sleep.” He cocked his head and his moustache wiggled. “Easier to keep you safe.”
Two hours later they both lay on their back staring at the dark ceiling. The air conditioner hummed, cooling the room so that they needed the thick blanket to keep warm. Pete felt humiliated that he was the cause of Lillian’s shortened vacation.
He felt her hand sliding under the covers, bridging the empty space until she clasped his hand in hers. They fell asleep.
*****
Jose Leal walked down the beach dressed in the dark blue coveralls of the Beaches Resort maintenance crew. Even at three in the morning, everyone would assume he was just going about doing his job. Anyway, he thought, servants and maintenance people are always invisible to the rich.
He rubbed his eyes, and shook himself to rid his mind of the need for sleep. Ever since getting the email to eliminate Peter J. Dolan, he had been on the move: Packing, tying up loose ends in the import business that he ran, arranging for a chartered jet to bring him to Providenciales. I couldn’t use one of our cartel planes, now could I?
This last part of the journey proved much harder than he had imagined. After renting a car at the airport, he parked at a public lot and walked to the beach. Just over a mile of trudging through the sand past hotels and mansions and barking dogs and teens in tents had taken much of his last energy reserves.
Seeing the Beeches Resort complex, he turned in and looked for Building A. Within few minutes of searching, he found the right building. He pulled on his thin calfskin gloves as he walked down the hall to the room. Then he noticed the private security guard sleeping in a chair outside the door of the next room.
“Hmmm. This is not expected,” he said under his breath. He continued walking past and the guard never stirred. With a smooth movement, he turned, pulling out his .45 Glock with his right hand, and sliding the guard’s .38 S&W out of the holster with his left.
Poking the barrel into the guard’s temple hard enough to wake him, Jose whispered into his ear.
“Get up slowly, my friend, and we are going outside. Very quietly.” Once outside, Jose directed the guard to walk around the building and behind the noisy air conditioner units. Turning the guard’s pistol so that he held it by the barrel, Jose slammed the sharp edge of the grip down onto the base of the man’s skull. The guard fell like a broken toy. He hammered the weapon into the skull three more times, and then dropped the revolver.
He checked the man. No pulse. Jose felt no fatigue now. Hot blood pounded through his body and he felt electrified. Only when he triumphed and killed did he truly feel alive.
“Now for the prize,” he said as he mounted the steps again. When he reached Pete’s door, he pulled out the key card left at the airport by the hotel manager. The door opened two inches and stopped.
Jose took out a small roll of wire. Unrolling a few inches, he hooked the chain and slid it back until he could wiggle it out of the slot. He winced as it made a little jingle when it fell.
He slipped inside and stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He searched the gloom for any sign of a threat. Moonlight poured in through the glass patio door. The hum of the air conditioner should mask any small noises he might make.
Jose had memorized the layout of the room from the drawing and the photos provided. But just to be sure, he got down on all fours and crept around the suite so that if he bumped into a piece of furniture, he would not fall, waking the two men.
He found the first bedroom door open. As he reached the bed he could see in the moonlight that it was empty and still made up. That’s odd, he thought. Are they sleeping together? No one told me that they might be gay. No matter.
Jose crawled back out into the hall, and stopped for a moment to listen. His muscles complained and his sweat now chilled him. He reached up and turned the knob on the door of the second bedroom. Pleased that his technique opened the door in silence, he pulled on the knob to help him get to his feet.
The moonlight illuminated the bed. Yes they both were in bed together. He smiled, thinking about how silly some men were. When he had his Glock ready in his right hand, he switched on the light.
The bright light blinded Pete for a second, and confusion muddled his thinking. Then he remembered that he slept with his new love. He turned to her and found her sitting up, clutching the blanket up around her neck. Her eyes told him a story of surprise and terror, so he followed her gaze and saw the killer.
His dark, baggy coverall could not hide the slender athletic build. Pete’s brain took a photo of the handsome Latin face, the short black hair, and the Glock with a barrel so big it seemed as if it shot out a golf ball.
“Mr. Dolan. I expected you to be in bed with Mr. Ferrara. I’m happy to see that you have found a nice woman instead.”
Pete’s instinct told him that silence would be his best tactic. This guy is a talker, he thought.
“I want both of you to get up and get dressed. We are going for a walk on the beach. Mr. Dolan, give me your best cooperations, and I will let your pretty friend live.”
Pete dressed and listened to the Mexican accent, determined to get some advantage. But this man is a pro, he thought. He never gets close to me, and keeps Lillian between us, knowing that I won’t try anything until she is clear. He is a babbler, though. That is his weakness.
“Get your billfold and room key. Some spare change, too. We want this to look so natural. Now that we all are ready, we go to the beach. It is nice and warm on the beach. I feel it cold in here, don’t you?”
“Why the beach?”
Lillian asked. “Why don’t you kill us right here?”
“Oh no, preciosa. Too much noise. Too much blood.” He wagged his pistol so that they knew that it was time to leave.
Walking across the central courtyard, Pete wondered where all the people were. No one around to help. No security guards, no maintenance people, no late revelers.
As they reached the water’s edge, Pete wondered how he would go. Would this assassin just shoot him? Would he drown? He hoped that it would be quick.
But what of Lillian? Oh, God, let her survive, he prayed. The man in the coveralls became silent. He motioned to Pete that he should walk out into the surf. Pete felt the cool water invade his running shoes. Time slowed, and he noticed the little waves lapping his ankles. The sound of a large caliber pistol hammered his ears, yet he felt no pain. On instinct he dropped into the water, and then heard a much louder shot, then another.
After a few seconds of silence, Pete rose from the water. He took in the scene of the assassin running down the beach, Lillian lying on her back, and a man in black stumbling toward him with a gun in his right hand and holding his left hand close to his chest.
On all fours, Pete scrambled over to Lillian. The bright moon showed him a gaping hole in her chest. He held her and knew that her life was over.
“NO!” he yelled. This can’t be. She was just here, so alive.
The other man came close and dropped to his knees. After a couple of seconds, he said. “Come on, Mr. Dolan. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Baranski?”
“No time to talk. I think I winged him, but he could be back, or he could have a partner somewhere close.”
“We’ve got to help Lillian.”
“She’s gone.” Baranski laid his gun on Pete’s shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do for her. She would want you to survive.” Pete looked at Baranski and saw the left hand hanging at a strange angle from his forearm.
“Come on. Follow me.” Pete allowed himself to be guided the opposite way that the gunman had taken. Pete couldn’t think, only putting one foot in front of the other.
“Stop here, Mr. Dolan.”
Pete realized that he was standing on the road. A taxi motored by and Baranski waved it down, and they got in.
“Take us to the hospital,” he said. The taxi driver saw the wound and Baranski’s pistol. He sped across the island, running red lights to get to the one-story building.
“Take off my scarf,” Waldo said. “Use it as a tourniquet on my arm, or I’ll bleed out here in this taxi.” Pete tied the scarf just above Baranski’s left elbow, and used his folded knife to twist the scarf until the blood slowed to a trickle.
“Stop here.” Waldo had a wild look in his eye.
“But it is still a block to the hospital,” the driver said.
“Stop here.” Baranski showed the pistol. They got out and the taxi sped away without asking for any payment. Instead of heading for the hospital, he pushed Pete toward an alley. About sixty meters in, Baranski stopped at a doorway marked “Deliveries”. He pushed the button on a speaker box.
“State your business.”
“Alpha-four. Zero- Six. Sierra-Golf-Three. Five-One-Yankee,” Baranski said.
“Yes?”
“Pumpkin rider. Question mark. Asterisk.” A soft buzzer sounded and Baranski pushed open the thick door.
“Welcome, Mr. Nikolas,” a uniformed guard said. “Oh, you are hurt. Let me help you.” Pete gave Baranski a questioning look, but kept silent. There was more to this guy than he knew.
The guard led them into an office, and then pushed them into a restroom. When they had all crowded in, he closed the door revealing a keypad. The guard swiped his badge, and entered a code. He grasped the floor to ceiling cabinet and swung it away from them. Lights came on and Pete could see a steep, narrow stairwell descending into the basement. They went down single file, the guard leading the way and supporting Baranski.
“I need a tourniquet and a doctor. Preferably an orthopedic surgeon.”
“Yes sir. Just lie down here.” The guard pulled out a big first aid kit and found the tourniquet. He cut off the scarf and positioned the real tourniquet above Baranski’s elbow, cranked it down, and wrote the time on his skin. He left. Pete assumed to go call a doctor.
In the light, Pete could see the bone fragments sticking out of Baranski’s wrist. The hand hung at an unnatural angle and seemed attached only by the skin.
“Do you want something for the pain?”
“No, we need to be clear headed when the doc comes,” Baranski said.
“What is this place?”
“This is the Talon International Bank of Commerce and Industry. It’s affiliated with other banks in which we have some funds. They provide this kind of service to certain depositors. Of course, the fees for this service will be deducted from our account.” He started laughing, and Pete wondered if Baranski was going to lose it.
“How did you happen to be at the beach to save me?”
“I heard voices in your room. I’m a very light sleeper. When I checked outside, I saw the guard was missing and assumed the worst. I got dressed and followed you out. I was too far away for a clean shot. I’m sorry I couldn’t drop him before he shot Lillian.”
“But he got a shot off at you.” Pete said. Baranski made a face.
“Yes, and he was lucky, or good. The wound distracted me enough that I didn’t kill him.” Without warning, Baranski fell into a light sleep. Pete watched him breathe, not knowing how much time passed.
A noise of the door opening and feet grinding on the concrete stairs announced the arrival of the doctor. Without a word, he put down his big bag and checked Baranski’s pulse and blood pressure. He looked at the wrist without touching it.
“Are there any other wounds?”
“No,” Pete said.
“Wake him.” The doctor turned to the sink and began to wash. After a light shaking, Baranski was lucid.
“Blood type?”
“A positive.”
“Guard! Call the hospital and get me a surgical nurse. Have her bring two units of whole blood. ‘A’ positive. Now.” The doctor looked down at Baranski with compassion in his eyes.
“You have a difficult decision, sir. I think that the best thing I can do for you is to amputate that hand.”
“Doc, that’s not an option,” Baranski said.
“Look at your wrist, mister. It appears that a large caliber bullet struck your wrist at the worst possible place. Both the ulna and the radius, the long bones of your forearm have been shattered. The ends are missing. Also, the lunate and navicular bones are gone. They are gone. There’s not a surgeon outside of perhaps New York City who could even attempt to save your hand. If I sewed you up like this, you would have massive pain. Always. And with all those bone fragments, the chance of continuing infection would be huge.”
Baranski bit his lip and turned to the wall.
“We don’t have much time. You’ve lost a lot of blood. With a clean amputation, you’ll be able to have a prosthetic fitted. With a mangled hand, you will only have pain and problems.” The heavy air carried the smell of blood, and Pete hoped that he wouldn’t be sick. As they waited for Waldo’s decision, the doctor gave him a shot of morphine from his bag. After a minute Waldo cranked his head around. He stared hard at the doctor, then relaxed, accepting his fate.
“Alright. Do it.”
*****
November 20, 1999
0920
Room C460
Beaches Resort
Joan Merkam heard the banging on her door and rolled over. The bed, so nice and warm, seemed to hold her inside with its satin sheets and soft duvet. She looked at the phone, and saw the light blinking. She wondered why the commotion. The “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on her door. A heavy fist pounded her door again.
“Joan, get up. It’s Jimmy.”
She grabbed the long hotel robe and tied the strap around her waist. I’m in no shape to answe
r the door, she thought. I’ll wake up Wilson. No, he’s worthless until that sleeping pill he took wears off. More bangs on her door.
“OK, OK, I’ll be there in a second,” she said.
She opened the door, and Jimmy stood there with two police officers. She brushed back her hair with her hand and, with some hesitation, motioned them in.
“Joan, something terrible has happened. Pete’s girlfriend and a security guard have been killed. Pete’s missing along with the guy in the adjoining room. The whole place is going crazy with the news that a murderer is on the island. These men want to talk with you and Wilson.”
“He’s asleep. Can’t you come back? We had a late night.”
“Mrs. Merkam, I am Detective Mobry. If it would help to wake up your husband we can all go down to the station and talk in a holding cell.”
“No. Wait.” Her head cleared at the threat. “I’ll get him.”
The interrogation lasted only a few minutes, but Joan grew worried seeing her husband become so agitated. The police were just talking to everyone connected to Pete Dolan. There was no hint that the Merkams were suspects. By the time the police and Jimmy left, Wilson Merkam was shaking with rage.
“This whole deal is blown. I’ll never get enough money to retire on now.”
“Relax, honey.”
“How can we live with no money? The group will fire me, I’ll get no bonus, no percentage. And they’ll never hire me again. I am through.” He sat down on the couch and held his head in his hands.
Jimmy knocked on the door again. As he came in, he started talking like a machinegun.
“We’ve got to get off of the island. Pack all of your things. The police have agreed that we can go. I’ve already called Bob. I’ll fly right seat on the trip back.”
“We can’t leave,” Wilson said, as he stood. “I can still make this project work.”
“No, we already have instructions from the bosses. We are out of here. Maybe we can resurrect the project in a few weeks.” Merkam moved close to Jimmy Rooker and glared into his eyes.
The Grace Bay Agreement Page 7
