by Bill Thesken
Finally satisfied that they were secure from prying eyes and ears, they checked the weapons first, assembled them quickly and maneuvered the triggers and firing pins.
They worked without talking, and when they were both convinced that the rifles were in the same perfect condition now as they were when they boarded the ferry in Long Beach, they each got out a daytime rifle scope and opened the drapes a crack on either side of the window that faced the harbor.
It was a scope, a telescope and a range finder. They each scanned the harbor and settled in on their target. The black catamaran moored in the middle.
Avalon had a simple mooring system. It was a round harbor like a giant open mouth and the moorings were strung in even, roundish lines from one side to the other, eleven in all. Each line contained additional mooring balls the closer you got to shore. The bigger boats were moored closer to the ocean and the smaller boats closer to the shore. You can cram a lot more little boats into the lines by the beach.
The black catamaran was moored in the third row from the entrance.
In some ways it was unfortunate that the mooring was in the middle, since at water level where they intended to set up their sniper positions, they might have to set their firing lines in between the other vessels that surrounded it. In other ways it worked to their favor since their target would be somewhat shielded from prying eyes on shore. From their earlier reconnaissance they knew that the boats moored immediately adjacent to and around the sailboat were mostly residents and were rarely used.
One of the sniper positions would be on the rock jetty at the entrance to the harbor on the northern side, while the other would be on the southern side creating a V shape firing pattern.
Four targets would be on the boat at the same time. Each of the assassins had two each as their marks, which they would eliminate within a split second of each other. Timing was critical. They would have wireless headsets to communicate with each other, and when all four targets were visible on deck with clear kill shot angles, a single word would begin the action and it would all be over before you could snap your fingers twice. Their rifles had noise suppressors on the barrel and subsonic rounds, which would greatly diminish the crack of the bullets firing. Plus, they would be down at water level on the rock jetties and the waves breaking and washing in the crevices would further mute the sound.
The only thing that they couldn’t eliminate would be the muzzle flashes, but it would be over so fast that if someone thought they saw something, it would be too late to spot them on the rocks.
Two quick shots each and they would break down the rifles, pack them into the metal suitcases and be moving away from the area in less than half a minute.
The tall man nodded to the shorter one, who put on his sunglasses and went for a sightseeing walk down to the jetty to check out his sniper position, while his partner protected the equipment. He walked towards the end of the rock jetty, past the bars and restaurants, past the dock where the mainland ferries parked, and finally could go no further.
The jetty was fifteen feet above the water at a medium tide and was composed of rocks and boulders the size of small cars. Harvested from the east side of the island during the construction of the harbor at the turn of the century, they protected the interior of the harbor from surges and gave a foothold for the docks that housed the ferries.
He peered down at the apex of the jetty where the sea met the rocks. Someone was fishing down there, standing on a large flat rock casting a silver metal lure out into the harbor and retrieving it, reeling it in over and over. He made his way carefully down to investigate. It was a young teenage boy, blond-haired, tall and gangly, He greeted him with a wave, and a fake Japanese accent.
“Herow, pwenty fishes yes?”
The kid was startled and turned to look at him with fear and astonishment from the loud unexpected noise. Realizing that the funny man was just a tourist, he relaxed.
“Pwenty fish no,” he replied dryly. “I’ve been here for over an hour and haven’t had a single strike. This place sucks.”
The man pointed at the water and made a motion with his hand held out flat and rising it.
“Maybe tide, yes?”
“Yeah maybe, I think the water’s are just polluted here from those ferries over there.” He pointed to the two ferries secured at their docks. “Why do you ask? Do you like to fish?” The funny tourist seemed keen on the water by the way he looked at it, plus his remark on the tide meant he had some kind of handle on the ocean.
The man lit up with a big smile and a loud voice. “Hai, I fish,” and he pounded his chest and pointed at the rock that the teenager was standing on. “Tonight I fish here. Is okay?”
The kid laughed nervously. “It’s fine with me dude. I don’t think I’ll ever try to fish at this spot again. In fact I’m done right now.”
He reeled in the shiny lure, hooked it onto one of the eyes halfway down the pole, and picked up to his tackle box. He was getting creeped out by the funny looking tourist standing over him asking questions. “It’s all yours dude.” And he scrambled up the side of a rock and made his way up to the concrete walkway.
The man grinned sheepishly, pretending to be ignorant of what was being said, while his eyes were scanning the scene with military precision. He jumped down onto the now vacant rock and took it all in. He had a clear line of sight to the black catamaran from the flat rock, which was hidden from the top of the jetty. He could sit on the rock with his back to another rock for stability. The tide was medium at the moment and would be low at midnight so the rock would remain dry. Yes, this was perfect.
He stared at the catamaran which was pointed west into the prevailing wind sweeping into the harbor from the hills of the island. All the boats in the harbor were pointed east towards the wind. He was looking straight into the front of the catamaran, and could see directly into the wheelhouse. The winds were forecast to remain from the east through the night, so this was the view he would have. A clear line of fire as they were preparing to leave the harbor at midnight.
Right now the winds were in the ten knot range and if he were firing at this very moment he would calibrate his sight an eighth of a degree to the left to accommodate the wind against the bullet. When the time came and he was standing on the rock at midnight, he would calculate the wind speed and sight calibration.
It looked like it was exactly one hundred and fifty yards from the flat rock to the back of the boat, just like their estimate from the satellite maps. He would also use his rifle scope to get an exact range when the time came. There was no sense in bringing it with him now and drawing attention to himself.
He walked slowly back to the hotel observing every nook and cranny and cubby hole as he went. He stopped now and then, leaning over the handrail along the waterline and looked back towards the end of the jetty.
There were many places along the walkway where his flat rock was visible if you were looking directly at it. It would be midnight, cloudy with no moon, but the surrounding area would have dim lights, and the concern as always was the flash from the muzzle. Two shots, three at the most and he would be out of there. The only person who would recognize what it was would be someone who had been trained in firearms and had actually seen a muzzle flash at night. Otherwise from this distance it would look like someone was lighting a cigarette. Plus, they would have to be looking directly at the flat rock at the exact moment that he fired to see it.
Two quick shots, three at the most.
You worry too much, he told himself.
And that’s why I’m here.
I take no chances, and the job gets done.
His mirrored sunglasses reflected the boats in the harbor. He paused in his thinking and reminded himself that the job gets done, every time no matter what may happen. This was his third hit in the past month, it had a strange feel to it. Most of his jobs were in the city, close up and personal. A window looking down onto a street, an alleyway, or a passing car stopped at a light and a bullet
through the windshield.
A city where it was easy to escape with a car or a motorcycle. His last job, two weeks ago was at a villa on the outskirts of San Francisco.
Secluded in the hills, the villa had great perimeter security with one flaw: a line of trees two hundred yards away from the pool deck where his target was barbecuing a steak. They nearly got him after the hit but he managed to escape with the motorcycle through the hills and down into the maze of the city.
Here he was on an island and if something went wrong, the escaping part would be more difficult.
You worry too much, he told himself again. If something goes wrong you will never be caught. Alive that is. You will never be caught alive because that would be a thousand times worse that being caught dead. Your family would suffer greatly at the hands of the Triad. That’s why he always carried a spare bullet.
For himself.
Two quick shots, three at the most.
He continued back to the hotel, walking slowly, studying the buildings as he went, cubby ways and escape routes, doors and windows and stairways leading up and out of danger, places to hide, places to run to and blend in, safety zones, from his rock on the edge of the harbor to the front door of the hotel, filing them all in the back of his mind for midnight.
Then, like a track athlete in a relay race handing the baton off to the next runner, the other shooter went on a stroll along the opposite side, the northern end of the harbor, past the Avalon Theatre to the long rock jetty and picked out his spot. He saw it with his own eyes: the exact rock where he would set up at midnight. He climbed down and stood on it, to feel it was solid with good grip.
Some tourists nearby were looking at him. He smiled at them and reached down to touch the water. Surprised at how cold it felt, he let out a little yelp. He was also a tourist, just passing by, testing the water of an unknown bay. The people looking at him shrugged their shoulders and went on their way. He continued with his preparation, observing his line of attack, and his target.
He also had a direct line of fire to the back of the catamaran, and since his angle was different from his partner, the wind off the hills coming directly into his face, he would most likely need no sight calibration.
Just like his partner, he walked slowly back to the hotel and studied the surrounding maze of escape routes.
There was the old Casino and the hillsides surrounding it, stairways leading up a away from the water, into the night. Nooks and crannies to hide and escape. As he made his way slowly back to the hotel, no one paid him the slightest attention. It was if he did not exist and blended into his surroundings.
14.
The reception area was pleasantly peaceful and quiet. Soft brown wall-to-wall carpet, dark wood paneled walls, gilded gold lamps with low wattage gentle lighting, and doors that closed with a whisper. All the colors were gentle and muted. But there was a slightly unpleasant smell: a background wisp of mothballs and embalming fluid.
The woman sitting at the desk in front of me in the mortuary was very pleasant in her unhelpfulness.
She looked like she was probably in her mid to early thirties, plump but not overweight, solid with a Slavic build for raising children or castle walls, long blond hair that looked like it was brushed a hundred times a day, and dimples on cheeks that deepened as she smiled, which seemed to be perpetual.
Since I’d entered the door and stood in front of her, she hadn’t stopped smiling. For someone who dealt with dead people all the time she seemed unusually upbeat and cheery. Maybe it was her way of offsetting the morbid situation of being in close proximity to the recently departed and the people who were left behind, or maybe it was just her natural good-hearted being.
Either way, it wasn’t doing me any good. She smiled sweetly while shrugging her shoulders and with a sugary voice declared that there was nothing she could do for me.
“I’m sorry sir, but since you are not the next of kin I cannot divulge any information about the deceased.”
“What if I told you I was her husband?”
She looked startled. “Are you?”
“No, but what if I was?”
“Well of course,” she said flatly. “That would qualify as next of kin. That’s the definition of next of kin. Of course you would need to provide proof such as a marriage certificate.” Her sugary demeanor was souring.
“What if I told you I was her husband and even though you knew it wasn’t true, you just looked the other way and gave me all the details I’m looking for.”
All the expression drained out of her face. The joyful eyes turned blank, the smiling corners of her mouth turned downward. She was tired of playing my little game and no reply was forthcoming.
“So you can’t tell me what the cause of death was?”
“No.”
“I’m the one who found her you know.”
“Yes sir, I know that now.”
“Can you at least tell me if an autopsy was performed?”
She shook her head. Her lips pursed together tightly like she’d just taken a bite out of a bitter lemon, and she sighed heavily.
“Can you at least tell me if she’s still here?”
“Yes, that I can tell you.”
“And?”
“Yes, she is still here.”
“Have any of her next of kin called or inquired?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Have the police made any headway in their investigation? Do they have any leads?”
Her eyes narrowed and her smile was tinged with evil intent, for this was her golden chance to get me out of there. “Now why don’t you ask them that question?” Her sugary voice was out of place with her facial expression.
I was done pestering the poor lady. I found the woman and brought her to shore, but I couldn’t get the smallest bit of info out of an undertaker’s wife. I would fail miserably as a detective.
She shuffled some papers on her desk and looked back up, seemingly surprised that I was still there and raised her eyebrows in dismissal. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a lot of work to do.”
Sure you do lady.
I walked out of the mortuary and headed down the street towards the police station in the middle of town. Maybe they found out the same thing I did, that the girl didn’t even live at the address on her driver’s license.
I decided to have a drink in a bar and think for a little while. Sometimes when I needed to figure something out, I’d head to a noisy place with a lot of people, and the way I had to keep my attention focused on everyone around me it somehow had a way of increasing the blood flow to my brain, triggering my synapses or something. I don’t know, it worked for me.
I liked the little bar that we sat in when we first got to the island with Cody and Tony Piper and so I headed over there. It had a nice view of the water and a good vibe.
I walked in the front door and headed to the exact table I’d sat in a few nights ago and settled into the exact chair as before, set against the stucco wall with a view of the harbor.
It was ten o’clock in the morning and the sun was shining at an angle that made the water look grey. I could see the Spice tucked in between a thirty-five-foot ketch and a forty-foot power boat, but the black catamaran was nowhere in sight.
Must be out on a pirate sailing adventure, I thought. When I was walking through town I saw a few hand-outs advertising the three-hour pirate cove snorkel and lunch tour.
There was a waitress taking an order at a table across the room, and a bartender making bloody Mary’s for three people sitting at the bar and talking loudly, twenty tables in the bar, and five had customers, including myself. It was a slow morning.
At one of the tables near the entrance sat a fairly beautiful brunette who was fiddling with a straw in a tall glass of iced tea, just stirring and stirring, and watching me.
She looked to be in her late twenties, early thirties at the most. I nodded to her when I entered the bar. She was sitting in the shadow so as my eyes got used to
the difference in lighting it was hard to see what I was looking at when I passed her. Now as I watched her over there watching me I realized just how stunning she was.
Super beautiful women can be unnerving to the uninitiated, they sensed a power over the opposite sex who they could turn weak at a single glance. Sometimes the vicious ones used it for sport, and she was approaching that level.
She had the kind of long luscious brown hair that naturally curved very slightly throughout its length and settled on her tan and bare shoulders just right.
Large gold hooped earrings with diamonds on the ends that sparkled in the morning sun and said ‘look at me’ framed her face. She was wearing a low cut peasant blouse that ran straight across the tops of her ample breasts, and her eyes were bright and inquisitive, sort of wild in nature with long suggestive eyelashes, while her mouth was full lipped, pouty, and bored.
Never one to back off a challenge such as this, I returned her gaze without flinching, and nodded to her again.
Her pouty bored mouth bent over and took a long sip of her drink without taking her eyes off me, staring at me for close to a minute to see if I’d flinch, and seeing that I wasn’t going to back down, she rose gently from her chair and walked towards my table to stand in front of me, blocking my view of the water with her curves.
Somehow I didn’t mind.
“Can I get you a drink?” She asked.
“Are you a waitress?”
She smiled at that. “You’re pretty sure of yourself aren’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to be.”
“Did you come over on the ferry?”
“I have my own ride.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Explain.”
“You see those three tourists sitting at the bar drinking bloody Mary’s at ten o’clock in the morning?”
“You mean the ones who were trying to get your attention when I came in?”
“They came over on the ferry.”
“How can you tell?”