by Marc Cameron
The big sicario fired but the shot went wide, taking the top off a metal stanchion. Garza’s first round caught him in the stomach. Initially, Chago wasn’t certain he’d been hit. There was no pain, just a punch, like a blast of air against his belly. Gun still in his hand, the big man blinked, then looked down and saw the blood. Garza put his second round an inch or two higher. This one clipped Chago’s spine, causing his legs to buckle. He fell hard, his pistol sliding across the deck and out a scupper to plop into the water.
“You think to save her?” Garza shook his head in disgust. He stepped on Chago’s outstretched hand with his heel, grinding down on curled fingers, spitting in the man’s face. “Pendejo! She has nowhere to run. You will only die with her.”
Chago swallowed, images of his sister flashing through the pain that now flooded his brain. “Lucia . . .” he whispered.
Garza stood above him, pistol pointed at his face. “What?”
“The devil . . . is in the water, Patrón.” Chago chuckled, tasting blood, coughing. He was so thirsty. “The devil, he has taken Fausto and Luis . . . and now he comes for you. . . .”
Garza fired again, but Chago did not feel it. He had stopped feeling many years before.
* * *
Garza turned with his pistol still raised, intent on killing again. The child stood at the rail, reaching across for Delgado. They were mere feet away from him and must have thought to sneak off the boat while he was dealing with the traitor. Both women froze, staring wide-eyed, and completely exposed. Fools! Somehow he had surrounded himself with idiots.
Carmen swung a leg over the rail of the other boat, assisted by the child, who was apparently too dense to realize Garza was about to scatter her brains on the deck. He would not even have to aim. It suddenly occurred to him that with his men all dead, he was quite alone. A hostage might come in handy, and a hostage with slow wits would prove much easier to handle.
Carmen was almost over the rail now, but Cassandra stood by to steady her. Garza leaned over and grabbed a handful of the child’s hair, hauling her back aboard Pilar. A guttural, wordless cry escaped her throat. He struck her hard in the side of the head with his pistol, sending her sliding against the cabin wall.
Carmen screamed from the deck of the other vessel, cursing at him to stop, yelling at the girl to run, to jump in the water, anything to get away.
Garza laughed maniacally, and then aimed his pistol at the spitting woman.
“You leave her alone!” Carmen screamed, red-faced, apoplectic. She was actually foolish enough to try to climb back aboard Pilar. “If you hurt her, you’ll never get the other disk!”
“We are beyond missing disks,” Garza said. He lowered the pistol so it pointed at the knee that hung over the rail.
And then he heard a female voice from the water.
“Hey! Asshole! Over here!”
Garza spun at the sound, then went to grab a dazed but squirming Cassandra by the arm. He shook her hard, barking at her to stop wiggling. He forgot Carmen Delgado. There was nowhere for her to go anyway.
He leaned over the rail to find the woman who had somehow killed both Fausto and Luis floating off the stern of the other boat. Only her face was above water, framed by the dark neoprene hood. It was now a deep blue purple, as if she were in the process of being strangled. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Garza’s face pulled back into a sneering grin. He raised the pistol and started to speak, but a new sound cut him off.
There were no words, more of a threatening growl, deep and angry—and very sure of itself.
Bullets slapped the side of Pilar’s cabin, forcing Garza to duck before he could get a shot off himself. He dragged the girl down with him, firing blindly over the rail. He cast off the two lines that connected to the two boats, then, bent at the waist, pulled the girl with him toward the pilothouse. He put another quick round over the side to keep his attacker’s head down. He’d been in gunfights before, and though he hired men to kill for him now, he had plenty of experience doing it himself.
He started the engine and threw the Pilar into reverse. She shuddered, straining against the anchor, but did not move. He pounded the wheel.
“Idiot!”
There was movement on the other boat. Carmen Delgado was there now, looking over her shoulder as she reached down for the other woman. She spoke with someone else, someone he couldn’t see—the man who had shot at him. But where had he come from?
He tapped his forehead with the back of his pistol, racking his brain for what to do next. It would take too long to bring up the anchor. Garza held the child up in front of him like a shield and peered through the wheelhouse window. Carmen was helping the woman on the boat now, assisted by the unseen man who was still in the water. Chago had urged Carmen to take the girl and flee in the skiff. Perhaps the traitor had been right after all.
Staying low, Garza dragged the girl out the starboard wheelhouse door, away from the other boat and the man with the gun. The girl gathered herself up to squeal, but he cuffed her hard with the back of his hand, dazing her, but not quite knocking her out. Pilar’s twelve-foot aluminum skiff was tied off the stern rail, completely blocked from view by the raised pilothouse of the big Nordic Tug. Garza shoved the girl in. She landed on her face, further dazing her, and keeping her relatively quiet while Garza jumped in beside her. He cast off the bow line and took up a seat at the rear, squeezing the bulb in the gas line a couple of times before giving the starter rope a stout tug. The motor coughed to life immediately. He wheeled the little craft in a tight arc, using Pilar’s hull as cover. The roar of the twenty-four-horse Honda engine growled across the still water, shattering the quiet of the glass-calm cove and covering the sound of Cassandra Brown’s whimpering cries.
CHAPTER 49
CUTTER HAD ONE HAND ON JANUARYS BUTT, PUSHING HER OUT OF the water, while he used the other hand to cover the other boat with his Glock. Carmen Delgado lay on Tide Dancer, her belly flat against the deck and her outstretched hands clinging to January.
Cutter looked up at Delgado. “How many bad guys onboard?” he asked.
“Only Garza,” Carmen said. “You guy’s killed the rest. But he’s got Cassandra.”
The water around January agitated like a washing machine she shook so badly. Most of her blood had long since been pulled into her core in an effort to warm vital organs, leaving her lips blue, her face drawn and tight. Her words came in breathless gasps, punctuated by clicking teeth.
“Whhy ddiid hhhe sstopp sh . . . shooting?”
“Not sure,” Cutter said. He felt guilty for being so warm in his own dry suit. “Could be he’s trying to draw us all into the open.”
“Sssooo ccold,” January said to no one in particular.
“It won’t do any good to haul you up if he just shoots you,” Cutter said. He didn’t say it, but the converse was also true. In a short time, the cold water would do Garza’s work for him.
Carmen peered over the edge of the deck with wide eyes. “Who are you?”
“US Marshals,” he said. “I was helping her work on the boat when you arrived.”
“Marshals . . .” Carmen gasped. “Thank God. Garza—he’s some kind of cartel boss.”
“Why’d he take you?” Cutter asked.
The young woman swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath. She held the vacant look of someone who’d been beaten. When she did speak it came in an avalanche of words and tears.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Something to do with our film. His men stabbed Greg and dumped him in this cove. He shot his own girlfriend, then dumped her in the ocean tied to an anchor to make a point. She was still alive.... He wants the media cards from our cameras.”
“I heard you mention another card,” Cutter said.
“Cassandra—” Carmen stopped, rolling half up on her side, listening. “What was that?”
Cutter strained to hear anything over January’s chattering teeth.
There was a metallic thu
d, a string of Spanish curses, and then the sound of a boat motor sputtering to life. Cutter stuffed the Glock into the pocket of his BC, relieved when he heard the distinctive clunk of an outboard being put in reverse. The whine of the motor began to fade as the skiff headed out of the cove.
Moving quickly now, Cutter tried to give January a boost but her grip was simply too weak from the cold to pull herself out of the water. Carmen tried to help, but the flooded dry suit acted as an anchor, ballooning out at the waist and legs and adding at least another hundred pounds to January’s weight.
His own blade broken in the struggle with the other diver, Cutter searched January’s BC until he found her dive knife.
He looked up at Carmen. “Hold her tight,” he said. “Don’t let her slip away.” Then, to January: “Be as still as you can. I have to make a way for all this water to drain out when we lift you up.”
January managed a palsied nod, but didn’t speak.
She shook so violently now he was afraid he would cut her instead of the neoprene—which caused him to waste precious seconds as he ripped two long gashes in the suit from her hip down to her ankles.
With the threat of getting shot gone for the time being, Cutter pitched his mask up on the deck and then towed January to the small swim step at the stern. He wiped the salt water from his eyes and looked up at Carmen. “Get down on your knees and grab her vest to keep her from floating away while I climb on the boat.”
Cutter jettisoned his fins and vest, clipping his BC and tank to a cleat before putting both hands flat on the platform and pressing himself up. Every second counted now, and he planted both feet against the rail as soon as he was onboard. Bending his knees, he stooped to grab January by both hands and then fell backward into a seated position. Water drained from the slashed dry suit as she sloshed onto the deck on top of him belly to belly.
Carmen rolled her into a sitting position and peeled off the neoprene hood while Cutter reached for the pistol he’d stuffed into his BC.
The skiff was almost to the mouth of the cove. Cutter had come in by truck, and though he could see green trees across the open water, had no idea if he was looking at a smaller island, or a piece of Prince of Wales. Whatever it was, it was thickly forested, and Garza would have little trouble disappearing if Cutter allowed him much of a head start.
He touched Carmen’s arm to make sure he had her attention. “Do you know anything about hypothermia?”
She shook her head. “A little.”
Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, Cutter said to himself, repeating the gunfighter’s mantra. It would do January or Cassandra zero good if he moved forward in a panic, crashing ahead too quickly without thinking things through.
“Okay.” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “We have to get her warm.” He set the pistol on the deck and peeled the dry suit off January’s ashen shoulders and down around her waist. The gashes he’d made in the legs made the rest easy and she was soon stripped down to nothing but her underwear. Bloodless from the cold, her flesh was a deathly blue gray.
Carmen recoiled at the mastectomy scar.
Cutter gave a slight shake of his head, signaling Carmen to get past it. He pulled January to him, chest to chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Her cheek was ice cold against his neck. He rubbed her shoulders vigorously in an effort to get the blood flowing.
January’s lips fluttered against his skin. “I . . . had vvvvisions . . . of this m . . . moment b . . . bbbeing . . . d . . . different,” she said, loopy from hypothermia.
“We’re going to get you inside and crank up the heat.” Cutter nodded to the door so Carmen would go ahead.
January attempted to get her legs under her but she seemed to be without bones. Without Cutter’s assistance, even sitting up was impossible.
“C . . . Cassandra?” she said, coming out of her stupor enough to realize the girl was missing.
“Garza took her,” Cutter said.
“Sh . . . shhit!” January said. “Ffforget ab . . . about m . . . me. I’m ggonna die anyway. . . .”
Carmen turned at the door. “Don’t say that!”
“You’re not dead until you’re warm and dead,” Cutter said. He lifted her like a child. Too cold even to hold on, her arms trailed downward. Her head lolled against the chest of his dry suit.
Cutter followed Delgado into the cabin, glancing over his shoulder as he stepped across the raised threshold. Garza and Cassandra were nearing the mouth of the cove. “What’s across the narrows?” he asked, as much to keep January talking as to find out the answer. Whatever was over there, he’d find out soon enough. They walked past the salon, down the steps to the V-berth.
“Islands,” January whispered as he lay her out in the blankets. “Lots . . . of islands.”
Carmen looked at Cutter. “Tuxekan is north of us,” she said. “Hecate Island is west. We shot some footage out on Hecate because of the caves. There are tons of them, sinkholes too, hidden in the moss and shrubs. One of our guys ended up with a compound fracture in his leg. There’s a gypsum mine over there, and an airstrip.”
“Got it,” Cutter said, turning up the thermostat on the wall heater, then pointing at the pile of blankets in the V-berth. “You need to get in there with her,” he said. “Warm her body skin to skin.”
“I know,” Carmen said, already peeling off her shirt.
January managed to lift her hand a few inches, summoning Cutter.
“C . . . Cassandra . . .”
“I’ll bring her back,” Cutter said. He leaned in close so only Carmen could hear. “She may fight you a little, say she’s starting to feel warm. Don’t believe her. She’s still shivering so that’s good. But you need to make sure her core temperature comes back up. She can’t do it without you.”
“Okay.” Carmen nodded. “Maybe Garza’ll step into a sinkhole and break his leg. It’ll make it easier for you to arrest him.”
“Maybe,” Cutter said, heading up the stairs without looking back. He peeled off the dry suit, slipping into his jeans and pulling a T-shirt over his head before sliding the Glock into the holster on his belt. The Xtratuf boots went on quickly.
Garza was a diminishing black dot at the mouth of the cove by the time Cutter made it out to the deck and hopped down into Tide Dancer’s skiff.
He’d seen the nasty burn on Delgado’s arm, the hateful bruises on her body when she’d undressed to warm January. Members of a cartel did nothing without orders from their boss. His men were now dead, and that boss was hiding behind a little girl.
The outboard started on the first pull. Cutter cast off quickly, pointing the bow toward the mouth of the cove.
“No,” he thought. “Broken leg or not, an arrest really isn’t in your cards.”
* * *
Manuel Garza sat on an overturned bucket at the back of the skiff with the throttle twisted all the way open. The little outboard caused the aluminum boat to fairly fly across the water. The girl lay curled in a ball on the floor, playing dead. He’d gone due north out of Kaguk Cove, at once astonished and elated when he saw no one following. Whoever had shot at him was apparently happy to let Garza take the girl to save his own skin.
Garza had no real idea where he was going, just away. He didn’t have nearly enough fuel to take the skiff back to the mine and his aircraft, pointing it instead in the general direction of civilization. There would be other boats there, larger ones that he could commandeer and take around the bottom of the island. It would be an easy thing to slip away on his private jet before the authorities were any the wiser. If the idiot Bean was any indication as to the locals, then procuring a larger boat should not prove too difficult—especially when they saw his little girl was hurt. Thankfully, the dull child could not speak, making his job all the more easy.
Garza worked his way out of the cove and past a small bay, rounding a larger point before turning southward. Sun dazzled the choppy surface as he left the protection of the eastern mountains. He raised a hand to
shield his eyes, searching for one of the many fishing boats that would be out after the storm. He’d seen dozens of them on the water when they’d flown in.
He glanced down at the child in the bottom of his boat and wished she were awake to witness the brilliance of his escape plan. There was always a chance that the people back in Kaguk Cove might call for help on their radio. Garza shrugged, consoling himself with the fact that there could not be more than one or two policemen on this little island—and they had most certainly never had to deal with anyone as committed as him. Still, it was an issue. Other boats would hear any radio broadcast—and be ready for him. Everyone in Alaska carried a gun. Perhaps a fishing boat would not be the best answer. . . .
The airplane was a little over a mile away when he saw it, coming in low and flying to the northern side of the tree-covered mountains to the west. Fausto had mentioned the existence of another mine somewhere in this vicinity.
Garza smiled. An airplane would make for a much easier escape than a boat—and it was less than two miles across the water to where the plane had disappeared over the mountains. He could easily make it with the fuel onboard.
The taste of escape sweet on his lips, Garza cranked the tiller hard over, bringing the skiff up on its side in a tight, arcing turn back to the north, partially retracing his route. The smile bled from his face when he glanced back toward the mouth of Kaguk Cove. His hand convulsed on the throttle, trying to wring more speed out of the little motor.
Across the narrows, a skiff emerged from the shadows, heading directly for him. Because he’d turned back, it was now less than half a mile away.
CHAPTER 50
CUTTER PROVED TO BE MORE SKILLED THAN GARZA ON THE OPEN water, working his skiff over the swells so he kept the prop in the water and the boat on step. The cartel boss took the swells head-on, giving himself the perception of speed, but wasting valuable time as he sailed over the top and went airborne to plow into the next wave in the train. A plane passed overhead, presumably toward the landing strip Garza was aiming for.
