The Catalina Cabal

by Bill Thesken

  “What are you planning?”

  “Those two guys who took out your crew?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re watching us right now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know it, and I also know they’re not gonna let you get away. And now I’m involved so they can’t let me get away. These guys are contract killers and they don’t get paid unless the job is complete, and since I got in the way, I’m on their list. Now, I could just take us out of here, leave the port in my boat right now and head out to sea. There’s not a boat in the harbor that could catch us, but that would just be delaying the inevitable. It’s either going to be now, or sometime in the future when I have less control, and I’d rather have it be now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a couple of different ways this could pan out. They could go into hiding and try to escape the island when the dust clears, they could even be on their way off the island right now. Or, they’ll try to finish the job. Tonight.” I bit my lip and shook my head. “I think they’re going to try to finish it now. Right now. I’ve seen these kind of guys in action. Once they’re hired to do a hit, they have to finish it, or they’re the ones that are gonna get hit. They had it all planned out and were ready for you guys. All four of you like sitting ducks on the deck of your boat. Now, how do you suppose they knew you were all going to be in the same place at the same time?”

  “We were set up.”

  “Damned right you were. I know about your Asian connection, the ships from China dropping off human cargo ten miles north of here, I know you were smuggling people. You must have been pretty successful, only losing two in the past couple of years. Why would they want to kill you for that? Rival gang? Whoever set this up knew the exact time you were going to the lane for a pick-up.”

  “The triad was pressuring us. We didn’t… I didn’t want to transport drugs. Only people. Maybe they thought they could take over the whole operation, get us all out of the way, and run it the way they wanted to.”

  “Look,” I said. “We could go as far as putting the whole island on alert, turn on the air warning sirens, wake everyone up and tell them to lock their doors and load their guns. Call in the Coast Guard, Air Force, FBI, roll around Avalon in squad cars with bullhorns and tell the assassins to give up.”

  “And get a lot more people killed.”

  “Or we take care of it on our own.”

  He nodded. “Alright.”

  “This is what’s going to happen. We’re gonna make it look like we’re running for the precinct and the hospital. They’re going to try to box us in, up close. But we’re not going to the precinct or the hospital. We’re going to Corbin’s. They’ll follow, and we’ll have to be ready for them. They’ll either be on foot, or steal a car or a golf cart. Either way we just need to make sure we get to our location a few minutes ahead of them. Where’s Corbin’s truck?”

  “By the harbor master’s office on the middle pier.”

  I pulled out the binoculars and searched the pier by the harbor department. There was Corbin’s black truck parked next to the building office. It was tucked in and barely visible.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “On the out dock, next to the ferry loading dock. That’s where we let off the packages.”

  “Do you know anyone at the hospital? Or, I should say, do they know you?”

  “Of course.”

  I handed him my cell phone. “Call your office and tell them to bring an ambulance and a squad car out to the dock where your car is parked. Tell them to wait for a ten-foot skiff, we don’t want them following us when we make a detour. No sirens, just lights, not a medical emergency, but someone is hurt and needs assistance.”

  “Why?”

  “We need a diversion. We’ll head in to the ferry dock and the ambulance, if the assassins are hard pressed to hit us quick, they’ll try to ambush us at the dock. They’ll get positioned somewhere nearby, out of sight. Right before we get to that pier, we do a one-eighty and gun it for the other pier. It’s only a half mile away but we can get there a lot faster than they can if they’re on foot. Make the call.”

  He dialed the phone. “Marilyn, this is Don, we had a little accident out here on Pier One, someone fell and hurt their leg, might be broke. This is not an emergency, I repeat not an emergency, but can you send an ambulance and squad car out here right away? Yep, no sirens, just lights to let everyone know to get out of the way. They’ll be coming in on a ten-foot skiff. That’s right. Thank you.”

  He handed the phone back to me and we waited. At midnight on Catalina island you wouldn’t expect quick results from emergency responders, but not more than thirty seconds went by and we could see two sets of flashing lights following close behind each other heading, to pier one.

  I pushed the throttle forward and started the Spice towards Pier One, engines rumbling, water streaming past the hull.

  The squad car and ambulance pulled up next to each other, one person got out of the squad car and two from the ambulance. They waited and watched as we motored straight towards them. Somewhere in the shadows, I was sure, waited two men with long guns.

  This is how you get innocent people killed, I thought.

  When we were a hundred feet from the dock, I turned the wheel and we headed back out to sea. I pushed the throttle all the way forward. The back of the boat dipped low in the water as the props dug deep with five hundred reps per minute, the bow lifted high in the air. We were up to thirty knots in ten seconds flying over the water towards the pier in the middle of the harbor.

  “Get on the port side,” I yelled. “And get ready to jump on the dock!”

  When we were just fifty feet from the dock, still doing thirty knots, I pulled the throttle back, let the props set to zero, and pulled into reverse. The boat started bucking and shaking with the torque on the engines and hull. I knew I’d have to have a transmission rebuild at the least, if I lived through this.

  We slammed into the dock carrying a five-foot wake with us. It washed over the wood planking and the fiberglass on the side of the boat cracking with the impact. Don jumped out and I threw him the front rope and he held it with his good hand till I jumped out and put a quick two tie on the dock cleat.

  We ran to Corbin’s truck. He got in the passenger side while I got behind the wheel. He pulled the key from its hiding spot over the visor and I started up the engine and reversed all the way back to the road, with the lights out.

  Far on the other side of the harbor I could see two men running fast. I waited for a moment to let them get a little closer so I could get a look. They were tall, wearing dark clothes. I didn’t see any long guns. So they must be carrying pistols, all the better.

  I reversed all the way out and punched the accelerator to the floorboard. I headed two streets down and took a left, tires squealing, up one street, stopped in front of Corbin’s driveway, and backed in. I put it in park and left the engine running, just in case we needed to make a quick getaway.

  “We have one, maybe two minutes,” I said, and we got out and headed to the front door, each of us carrying a small flashlight. “This is what we’ll do. We’ll leave the front door open, grab the weapons and come outside and hide on the side of the house under this bush. When they come looking to ambush us inside, that’s when we attack.”

  “I don’t have a key to the house,” he said.

  I ran towards the door, flew both feet in the air, and karate kicked with all my mass at a spot right next to the handle. The door frame splintered as the dead bolt sliced through it and the door slammed against the wall inside the house. I caught myself with my hands on the ground and motioned with my head.

  “Let’s go.”

  I went to the living room and grabbed the Glock from the bookcase and a shotgun by the side door. “Can you handle a shotgun with your bad shoulder?” I asked him.

  “I wouldn’t trust it.”

  “There’s another Glock in the bedroom
in the nightstand drawer next to the bed.”

  He nodded. I went with him and stood at the door, pointing the light next to the bed. My inner clock screamed at me, thirty seconds and we had to get out of there.

  He opened the drawer and was about to grab the gun when something bright and flashy caught his eye on the night stand next to the light. He bent to pick something up and sat down heavily on the mattress.

  A pair of earrings. Custom, unusual creations. But familiar to him. Large gold hoops with three diamonds on the ends. His head was shaking back and forth as he studied them, turning them over and over in his lap. Then he dropped them both on the ground, picked up the gun from the drawer, and put the barrel next to his temple.

  I couldn’t watch, and ducked out of the doorframe as the dull thud echoed in the now dark room. I pointed my flashlight back on the lifeless figure sprawled on the bed, dull eyes looking towards the ceiling.

  I was stunned for a moment at the sight, and then shook myself out of it.

  My inner clock said it was too late to go out the front door, half a minute too late.

  I slid over to the side window in the living room and opened it.

  I wedged the shotgun through the window and I laid it on the ground outside. I then maneuvered myself out with one hand while holding the Glock with my other.

  I see two figures dressed in black walking slowly on the road past the big bush. I move as quickly I could towards it and slid under a branch in the dark shadows. They were each holding a pistol in an upright ready position as they walked towards the house. The streetlight was shining right down on their grim Oriental faces and coal black eyes, oblivious to the fact that they were sitting ducks in the open. If I was closer I could take them both right now.

  They fanned out on either side of the truck. They noticed it was still running and looked inside the cab. They gave each other quick hand signals, and the first guy sprinted around the far side of the house while the second guy slid towards the front door.

  Half a minute too late.

  Unless I can get them positioned together again, my time for ambushing them both has passed.

  A tiny pebble moved by my knee, the sound imperceptible, but the guy by the front door heard it and wheeled around with the barrel of a gun. I pull one of the triggers of the double barrel shotgun and he flies backward into the door frame. He gets off a shot that hits the dirt in front of me and raises the gun again. I give him the other barrel and he doubles over and collapses in a heap with a sudden gasp of air leaving his lungs.

  Out from under the bush, I drop the shotgun and run to the side of the house. And here comes the other guy, sprinting towards me from the back of the house.

  I took quick aim, fired one shot and he hit the deck and rolled away. When I tried to fire again, my pistol jammed. The trigger was stuck and wouldn’t budge.

  Time to leave.

  I turned on my heels and ran back to the front of the house zig-zagging around the corner as bullets whizzed by. I jumped in the truck, put it in drive, and punched the accelerator out of the driveway, burning rubber. I made a right turn, nearly losing control. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure leap out the dark onto the back bumper. I zig-zagged the truck with the pedal to the metal hoping he fell off. The speedometer said fifty. There was a sharp corner, so I slowed down while keeping one eye on the rear view mirror. I could see a figure crawl over the back into the bed of the truck, I slammed on the brakes and he barreled into the front of the bed. I punched the accelerator and he slammed into the back of the bed. I came up to another corner. I zig-zagged full speed, grazing the side of a car that was parked on the shoulder. Bullets were flying through the truck cab. The back and front windows exploded, then both side windows. I slammed on the brakes and heard a thud as he hit the front of the bed. I punched the accelerator and the truck was up to fifty again, around the hairpin turn. The Zane Grey house raced past the driver’s side. I cranked the wheel back and forth, tires screaming. More bullets flew through the cab, he can’t get off a clean shot.

  I went straight up Chimes Tower Road to the hairpin turn at the top.

  The only glass left in the truck is the rear view mirror. I could see, with one eye, the assassin standing straight up in the bed, wedging his left arm in the strap along the top of the surfboard rack. I viciously cranked the wheel, the truck careening from one side of the road to the other, and slammed on the brakes. But by then his body was secure, his arm wedged tight into the surfboard rack and his feet wedged into the back of the truck bed. As he raised his handgun to take deadly aim at my head, I punch the accelerator, crank the wheel to the right, opened my door, and jump out. I hit the ground on my right side, knocking the wind out of me. I held my arms over my head and rolled thirty miles per hour over rocks and brush tearing at my limbs. I heard a rending crash of metal as the truck jackknifed end over end over the cliff. I stopped rolling, my head face down on a pile of sharp rocks as dust settles around me.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness I knew I was hurt badly, I can feel every inch of skin on my body and most of my bones. It was hard to breathe, my lungs were filled with dust and shards of pain.

  Blackness covers me. All is quiet and still.

  I see Amber. My beautiful Amber. She’s walking towards me, her feet gliding on air, dressed all in a white flowing robe. She cradles me in her lap and caresses my head with her fingertips. I see angel wings on her shoulders, all is bright shining gold and light.

  Oh my God I’m dead.

  She bends down and whispers in my ear. “All will perish, the just and unjust, the righteous and unrighteous, the wicked and the good, all will perish, one and the same. One and the same.”

  There was the sound of wind in my ears, sirens, and slamming doors. Feet running.

  I fell asleep for a moment. Then I woke again, then fell asleep.

  I tried to blink my eyes. They’re covered in dirt and I can’t open them. I try to move my head, my arms, my legs. All over is a sharp and dull overwhelming pain.

  I hear a voice shout out. “Here’s another one over here!”

  Footsteps on gravel, hands turn me slowly over, flashing lights, blue and yellow on the inside of my eyelids. Then gentle fingers on the side of my neck, checking for a pulse.

  “This one’s still alive.”

  I tried to open my eyes again but it was useless and I gave up.

  This one’s still alive, he said.

  Meaning the other one was dead.

  Pain enveloped my entire being, wrapping me in a searing blanket.

  This one’s still alive, he said.

  For how long, I wondered.

  Blackness covered me again.

  23.

  Mrs. Bailey was in labor for fifteen hours and twenty-five minutes. Her water broke at seven in the morning, her husband dutifully packed her up and brought her to the hospital by eight. She went into labor at ten AM in the maternity ward on the third floor, right at the beginning of Amber’s shift.

  Everything was going smooth for the first eight hours, a lot of huffing and puffing and pushing and screaming and yelling, and then as her womb was being stretched from the abnormally large child trying to get out of her, she slowly started seeping blood. The huffing and puffing and yelling became more subdued and quiet, and yet the exertion became more intense.

  They don’t call it labor for nothing. The sheer physical exertion was taking a toll on the poor woman. She was in a fight for her life.

  For the first easy eight hours they all joked, doctors, nurses and even the parents, about how a small girl such as herself at all of five-foot zero inches and less than a hundred pounds would fair with a husband as big as a pro wrestler at six-foot eight and three hundred pounds.

  One thing was for sure. It was going to be a big child.

  The ultrasound looked fine, everything was going well, but time was running against them, and if the large child did not appear soon, they would have to perform an emergency cesarean section. Mrs
. Bailey was steadfastly against that, and made it very clear in the beginning that she wanted to forge ahead with a normal childbirth no matter what.

  She was nearly fanatical in that desire. But as time wore on, her fanaticism was slowly diminishing.

  Her husband held her right hand throughout the entire event. The nurses all took turns holding her left hand as she pushed and yelled, and sometimes screamed out in pain and frustration at the giant head that just would not fit through her small cervix.

  In the fourteenth hour she started to get weaker as her blood volume diminished. The blood which was being depleted needed to be replaced.

  They put her on an IV drip, yet her blood pressure dipped into a dangerous range. Her body temperature fell, and they wrapped her with extra blankets.

  “Don’t you leave me,” she whispered to her husband through sweat streaked and matted hair that fell onto her face. “You either Amber, please…” she said sweetly to the nurse on her left.

  Amber took over holding the left hand two hours ago and even though a couple of times it felt that a bone or two, or at least cartilage might have cracked a few times with the super-human strength in the small woman, she never let go.

  Mrs. Bailey took a liking to Amber right off the bat when she first got to the hospital, and told the doctor that no matter how long this took to please keep her by her side. She liked the color of her hair and in between contractions they talked like long lost sisters.

  Finally, the crown of the baby’s head appeared, a couple of snips of the doctors scissors to make more room, and the baby slid right out into the doctor’s waiting hands.

  The nurses cleaned up the baby, the doctor did a quick examination with a stethoscope, listening to its heart and breathing and soft crying, put it on a scale, then wrapped it with a soft swaddling blanket. They put a little cloth hat on his head and handed him to his father.

  A bouncing baby boy, eleven pounds and eight ounces.

  “We should name him Gigantor,” joked the father nervously, as he held the baby in his arms. And all the nurses gave him a look, while his wife wiped her face and sighed.