by Evan Graver
Mango watched the guard on the bridge expend his last round and then thread more twelve-gauge shells into the Mossberg 500’s magazine tube. The man’s movements were clumsy as he fumbled the rounds out of his pocket and jammed them home. The Russian dropped more than one in his haste.
Mango whispered, “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, bro. Take all the time you need.”
He had a glimpse of Ryan leaping up and firing. The bridge guard’s head snapped back, blood and gray brain matter splattered across pristine, white fiberglass. The shotgun dropped from the man’s hands.
“Greg’s gonna be pissed,” Mango said while scanning for the final target.
Then Mango saw Ryan creeping up on the cockpit of the Hatteras, arms extended, pistol locked in both hands. Ryan paused on the deck of the fishing boat and appeared to be speaking with someone.
Volk was hiding in the recess of the salon’s doorway.
Chapter Sixty-Three
The bounty hunter crouched in the doorway behind Greg Olsen. He had a pistol pressed against Greg’s temple. The only visible part of Volk’s head was his brown right eye, framed in the triangle formed by Greg’s head, shoulder, and Volk’s arm holding the gun. Through that triangle, he focused solely on his prey, the bounty worth two million dollars. His ticket to riches.
“Throw your gun down,” Volk yelled.
Ryan released his left hand from the pistol and held his hands apart and up in the universal sign of surrender.
“Put the gun down,” Volk said again. He felt Greg move, and he tightened his grip on his hair. Greg let out a barely audible groan. Anger surged through Volk’s body. He twisted Greg’s hair out of spite. He wanted to hear the man cry out in pain, needed Ryan Weller to know how high the stakes were. Greg Olsen was an expendable pawn.
“Bleat for friend,” Volk’s whispered voice rasped in Greg’s ear. “Tell him you hurt. I know you want to die. Let me help you. Do something to save friend.”
Volk’s fist twisted the hair, wrenching Greg’s head to the left. He shoved the pistol barrel harder into his skin.
“Don’t do it, Ryan,” Greg pleaded. “Shoot him. Shoot the bastard! SHOOT. ME.”
They both watched as Ryan squatted and set the gun on the fishing boat’s rail. He straightened up.
“Your friend is pussy,” Volk said to Greg. “He is weak for wanting to save you. He should shoot you to kill me.” To Ryan, he yelled, “Push it overboard.”
Slowly, Ryan brought his leg up and used his foot to knock the gun over the rail. It made a quiet splash, the sound of a rock sinking into deep water.
Volk felt his hostage slump in defeat. He ordered Ryan to step into the cockpit.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Joulie’s fingers curled around the barrel of the pistol Ryan had dropped in front of her. She cautiously pulled it across the rough planks of the dock. Blood speckled the gun’s slide and grip. She had little desire to touch the pistol, let alone fire it, but she was desperate to escape the clutches of Toussaint Bajeux. To do so, she would need to muster all her nerve, and help Ryan Weller kill Volk.
She squatted behind the trawler’s hull with the gun laid across her palms. Tears fell to mix with the blood on the pistol. When she was a little girl, her grandmother had taught her that life was sacred. Those who murdered practiced the dark arts. Her life’s purpose was love and light and life.
Joulie closed her small hand around the grip, feeling the cold steel of the gun fuse with her determination. She remembered the basic tutorial Mango had given her in the Honda Pilot and what she had learned by watching Toussaint and his men. Her thumb forced the safety off. Metal ground against metal, setting her teeth on edge. And she felt something else, something that stilled the quivering inside her. For many years she had known she carried the name of her ancestor, the pirate Jean Lafitte, and Joulie felt his presence calming her nerves.
Still she trembled as she rose just enough to see through the railing around the fishing boat’s hull. Ryan was in Dark Water’s cockpit cuffing his hands in front of him. To cross to the Hatteras, she would need to climb onto the fishing boat and traverse a deck littered with ropes and nets. If Volk could see Ryan, he would plainly see her.
Joulie focused on the next boat along the dock. To get a better shot at Volk, she needed to move to the fishing yawl. She whispered a prayer to Ogoun—the loa of war—for strength and that her bullet would find its mark. Buoyed, she rose and sprinted toward the yawl.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Mango watched Ryan kick the gun over the railing and, with arms raised, step down into Dark Water’s cockpit. Mango tried to anticipate the next move in the play.
Something landed at Ryan’s feet. He bent down and picked up a pair of handcuffs.
Mango pulled away from the scope and blinked. Then he jammed the stock tighter into his shoulder and refocused his eye on the glass. Ryan was manacling himself with the cuffs, wrists in front of him.
“Hang tight, bro,” Mango said. He slid off the table, leaving the Dragunov resting on its bipod. He stepped to the canvas bag he’d transported the rifle in and unzipped it. There was one more weapon he’d obtained when Joulie had driven him to Toussaint’s armament cache. He slid the steel and wood tube of an RPG-7 from the bag. He’d planned to use it if they needed a distraction. Now was the time.
Squatting on the bridge deck, Mango loaded the RPG round into the tube. He stood, walked the four steps to the port bridge wing and aimed the rocket-propelled grenade at Toussaint Bajeux’s Carver.
The little boat bobbed on the choppy waves as it slowly circled the narrow entrance between the commercial quay and the small spit of land occupied by the private dock. Toussaint had told Mango and Ryan he would stay in place to prevent them from running away once they’d liberated Greg. To arm his meager blocking force, he’d brought several RPG rockets and crewmen armed with AKs. These he had also shown them to emphasize the point that they were not to attempt an escape.
But Mango had brought a contingency plan for dealing with Toussaint. The Haitian warlord would be the distraction. He focused the iron sights on the Carver, hoping that when the Carver detonated, Ryan could use the brief seconds of commotion to take out the bounty hunter.
Mango pulled the trigger.
Unlike the movies, he saw no streak of smoke as the rocket screamed across the water. The boat was there one moment and the next it was a raging ball of fire. Twisted fiberglass, metal, wood, and bodies flew into the air to come raining back down.
For a moment, he stood watching the fury subside. Then he bolted back to his Dragunov and pressed his eye to the scope.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Joulie was halfway across the yawl’s deck when she saw the white Carver explode. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. More tears burned her cheeks. Toussaint was dead. Ryan had kept his promise. She must repay the favor.
She moved again, feeling the exhilaration of freedom wash over her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ryan launch himself off Dark Water’s railing and land awkwardly on the deck of the fishing vessel. Bullets chased him, ricocheting off metal and showering him with rust and flaks of paint.
The shooter did not reveal himself. Joulie prayed to the loa, Erzulie, to deliver Volk to her. Erzulie was the goddess of love, but a goddess who could be spoiled and jealous. Right now, Joulie felt jealous. Jealous for the life of a man who had come to save her, and jealous for her new freedom. She was free for the first time since she’d been a child. No one was going to take away her ride to America.
Joulie pressed herself against the bowsprit and aimed. Erzulie would deliver the target, but it was the hand of Jean Lafitte that steadied her gun.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Volk rose from behind his hostage and stared at the blazing ball of fire rising from the middle of the harbor. Ryan leaped for the fishing boat. Volk brought his pistol up and fired until the slide locked back. The two million dollars was payable dead or alive. Alive could be wo
rth a bonus, and there was the pleasure of seeing his bounty tortured by the ruthless Aztlán cartel. He’d thought Russians were the masters of torture, but the Mexican cartels took it to new levels with their witless victims.
He rapidly changed magazines and watched as his bounty scrambled on his belly behind a hatch cover. Volk aimed and fired a round that ricocheted off the deck just inches from Ryan’s face.
Ryan bounced up and dove behind the protection of the bridge’s steel walls and the electronic consoles inside.
Volk laid his lips back to expose his canines in his trademark grin. He screamed, “I am tired of playing this game!”
He grabbed the handles on the back of Greg’s wheelchair and shoved him into the cockpit.
“Let’s play new game!” Volk shouted. “You come out, or I shoot.”
He pressed the warm pistol muzzle to Greg’s temple, palming Greg’s head like a basketball with his beefy hand.
With a sadistic smile on his face, Volk watched Ryan Weller step out from behind the trawler’s bridge with his hands in the air.
Volk growled, “Get into boat.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Joulie saw a massive Russian push a man in a wheelchair into the Hatteras’s cockpit. She lined up the sights as Mango had instructed, the small blade of a front sight centered between the divot of the rear. Volk’s head sat like a pumpkin on a post.
Instead of Volk’s head, she saw Toussaint’s toothy grin, the high forehead, and wide-set eyes. She hated him. Her hands trembled as she held the gun out straight, finger drawing tight around the trigger.
She nearly dropped the gun when it discharged.
The bullet went wide of its mark. Joulie stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. In slow motion, she watched as Volk turned, bringing up his gun to target her.
Then Volk’s head exploded.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Ryan had just stepped out from behind the bridge. His job was to lure the Russian bounty hunter out into the open. With arms raised, he walked around the front of the bridge and onto the fishing boat’s narrow side deck. He grinned at Greg.
A second later, a gunshot rang out. Volk started to spin toward the sailboat behind them. Ryan took a running step to the rail and vaulted it. His legs had just cleared the railing when Volk’s head exploded.
The Russian just stood there behind Greg, his arm half raised, head split open like a ripe melon. In slow motion, his gun slid from his hand and then his knees buckled. He toppled over, smacking face first into the gunwale with an impact that shattered his spine. Blood from the head wound oozed across the white fiberglass.
Ryan lost focus on his landing as he saw Volk’s head explode and he fell in a crumbled heap in Dark Water’s cockpit. He scrambled to his feet and squatted beside Greg.
“You okay?”
Greg nodded. “Glad that’s over. What about Toussaint?”
“That was his boat that just blew up. Be right back. Get the engines started.” Ryan crossed back to the fishing boat and jumped down to the dock. “Joulie!”
As he ran along the dock, he saw his body double struggling up the bank at the edge of the water. He appeared wet but unhurt.
Ryan found Joulie leaning against the sailboat’s bowsprit. The pistol lay in a puddle of vomit at her feet. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her skin felt like it was on fire. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head and buried her face in his chest. Hot tears soaked into his shirt. She trembled as she cried.
“We need to go,” he said softly.
He felt her head bob.
Ryan guided her off the yawl and across the fishing boat to Dark Water. Greg was already on the bridge.
Ryan called out, “I’ll get the lines as soon as I get her inside.”
Joulie sank into the settee behind the table. Ryan fetched her a bottle of water as the diesels snorted to life. He handed her the water and ran out to the dock. Kneeling down, he grabbed the line tied to the rebreather and hauled it up.
“Get the bow line,” Greg yelled.
Ryan put the rebreather in the cockpit and ran forward to work the rope loose from the cleat before tossing it onto the Hatteras. He was untying the stern line when Greg engaged the drives and began to swing the bow around.
“Cast off!” Greg shouted.
Ryan pulled the line loose and tossed it onto the boat before jumping aboard. He scrambled up the ladder to the bridge and pointed across the bay at the commercial docks. “Mango’s over there. We need to pick him up.”
“What’s he doing over there?”
“Sniper overwatch. Who do you think shot Volk?”
“I didn’t think it was the girl.” Greg ramped up the throttles, and they shot across the choppy bay.
Ryan punched on the radar, sonar, and GPS screens. “Where we running to? That hurricane has to be getting close.”
“We have to go north and east. The eye has already crossed the Mona Passage between the DR and Puerto Rico.”
Ryan dropped down the ladder to the cockpit as Greg brought the Hatteras alongside the boat that had served as Mango’s overwatch position.
The blustery wind tore at Mango’s clothes as he stood on the long liner’s deck. He tossed a green canvas bag to Ryan before he jumped to the Hatteras. Greg had them roaring away before Mango could get his feet under him.
The two men buddy hugged. “Saved your ass, bro.”
Ryan grinned. “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”
Greg shouted, “Quite playing grab-ass and get the fenders.”
Ryan went forward to pull the bow fender while Mango retrieved the rear. They stored them in the cockpit locker and then Mango carried his bag into the salon. Ryan followed him to check on Joulie. She was still at the table. Mango paused, set the bag down, and unzipped it. He pulled out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater. All of which, he tossed on the table.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Watch out for this one.” He pointed at Ryan.
“I just came to see if everything was all right,” Ryan said. “I’m going up to the bridge to help Greg.”
“I’m fine,” Joulie said, rising to gather her pile of clothes. “Is there a place I can change?”
“I’ll show you,” Mango said. “I’ll be up in a minute, Ryan. I’m serious, Joulie, watch out for him.”
She smiled and shook her head. Ryan gave her a devilish grin and went up to the bridge.
Greg had Dark Water up on plane, charging toward open ocean when they passed Toussaint Bajeux’s former house on Rival Beach. The small barrier islands along the eastern entrance to the bay were blocking six-foot waves marching in from the storm. Rain began to pelt the boat.
“It’s going to be a rough ride,” Greg yelled.
Ryan scrambled to close the spray curtains the Russians had opened. He zipped the front one last. He looked out to see Fort Picolet passing on their port side. The nose of the boat hit the big waves, beginning their yo-yo ride.
Joulie and Mango joined them on the bridge.
“Are we going to make it?” Mango asked.
“Yeah, but it ain’t gonna be fun,” Greg said. “I’m heading to Matthew Town on Iguana Island. We’ve got enough diesel to make a full power run, but I don’t think I can push very hard in this weather.”
Ryan glanced up from the radar screen. “Storm track says it’ll run right along Hispaniola and cross to Cuba.”
“Why not go to Jamaica?” Mango asked.
“I don’t have enough fuel. The guy at the marina refused to give me a full load and I burned some trying to find you guys. Plus, we’d be crossing right in front of the hurricane. If something happened to the boat, we’d be screwed.”
“Power on, bro,” Mango said.
Epilogue
Hurricane Irma savaged everything in her path. Islands once green with vegetation were laid bare. The wind stripped away leaves and grass to leave behind naked trees and eroded rocks. The l
ower Florida Keys were the hardest hit part of the United States. Sections of U.S. Highway 1 had been washed away, houses demolished, bridges damaged, boats flung onto dry land, and channels reshaped as the storm moved around coral and sand. Even shipwrecks were shifted on the sea floor.
People who had run from the storm, thinking they would be safe in Tampa or Orlando, were surprised to find the storm chasing them up the western coast. This shift was good news for the crew of the sixty-three-foot Hatteras GT sportfishing yacht, Dark Water. Their anchorage on North Eleuthera Island in the northern Bahamas remained unscathed, save for heavy rain and high winds.
After they’d arrived at Dunmore Town, they’d checked into a small hotel. Ryan called Landis from the privacy of his room and gave him the whole story.
“Another job well done, Ryan,” Landis congratulated.
“We didn’t accomplish much. Kilroy is still out there, and Mango and I still have a bounty on our heads.”
“We’ll keep an ear out for any word about you guys and the shipwreck in case Kilroy tries to recover the gold.”
“I think the gold will bring people in droves.”
“How many people know about it?” Landis asked.
Ryan thought for a minute. “Me, Mango, a couple of guys on the Santo Domingo, Kilroy, Toussaint, and probably a few of Toussaint’s men. Most of those guys are dead.”
“I’d forget about it if I were you.”
Ryan shook his head. “It’ll be hard.”
Twenty-five million dollars’ worth of gold was not easily forgotten, especially when he’d seen one of the steel strong boxes break loose from the pallet and spill gleaming bars across the cargo deck. He would be the first to admit he had gold fever.
“Think about all the bounty hunters who will start chasing you again if they know you’re alive and going after gold.”