by Vince Milam
“Oh yeah? Here’s what I do get. This is exactly why you’re here. You and Johnson. What’s the matter with you people?” He pointed a finger my way. “I paid you.” The pointing digit swung toward the FBI. “And it’s your job. So find who’s after me and stop it.” He sat back, satisfied with himself. “Have I left any gray areas or do I need to get a crayon and draw it out?”
Johnson pulled away from her outdoors scan and checked the phone again. No alerts, so she locked eyes with Pettis.
“Let me draw it out for you,” she said. “Bettencourt’s death, the poisoning, had extenuating motivations. A Bahamian sex palace and Bahamian trust fund. And Whitmore died a natural death as per the local cops.”
“But there’s the obvious ties,” Pettis said. “The clear associations. Think in terms of the scale of this project.”
“Plus, the FBI doesn’t chase conspiracy theories,” Johnson said. “So here’s my advice. Do what Mr. Tilly advises. Go chase another dream, another magic opportunity. Go public with your intent to drop the deal.”
Pettis’s face grew bright red. He wasn’t getting his way, clearly an unusual situation. He loaded up for another salvo. Bo plugged the barrel.
“Death isn’t something to fear, Jordan.” He leaned across the table, washed with sincerity. “Embrace it. Added spice for life’s gumbo. Every day’s an adventure. Consider it a gift!”
Pettis scanned the table’s occupants, shook his head, and stood. He started with the FBI.
“I know people. Important people. They will hear about Special Agent Johnson’s lack of diligence.”
Johnson shrugged, broke his stare, and returned to eyeballing outside activities. Pettis addressed me.
“My plane leaves in the morning. Be on it.”
“Happy to oblige. And don’t think about stiffing me on the contract, Pettis. Or the gumbo gets spicy as hell.”
Cheesy, yeah. But it worked. His eyes widened again as he absorbed the threat.
“Did you hear him?” he said toward the back of Johnson’s head. “Did you hear his remark? That’s twice he’s implied violence against me.”
She remained glued on street activities but did raise a hand and deliver a dismissive rodeo queen wave toward the VC.
“And you!” he called toward Bo. “What’s the whole point of you?”
“From a metaphysical perspective? Great question.”
Johnson chuckled. Pettis blinked once, then lifted and pounded the chair onto the floor. Revved for another diatribe but realized he addressed a group who weren’t open for further discussion. He stomped out as well as Topsiders allowed.
“Gumbo?” Johnson asked, chuckling again. “Added spice? I’ve gotta hand it to you, Bo.”
They talked, connected. I listened and thought and puzzled. Another round of non-alcohol drinks were ordered. Shadows lengthened, dusk fell. I overheard talk of bloodlines, island life adjustments, life’s passions and wonders and worldviews. While I pondered if I’d fallen into another Spookville passion play.
Heaven knew I’d populated peculiar scenes in my time. This one ranked. We knew Johnson was involved in the preparation, the anxiety, of a terrorist attack. She knew we knew. And wasn’t sure if we were part of the government’s response setting. Neither of us would discuss it, keeping doors shut. A shadow game of feigned construct, marbled with maybe. But at least Long Island events were shoved into the background, and I sure wasn’t mentioning those again. Bo and Johnson continued light banter as the falling darkness masked strong possibilities of mayhem and death. Charlotte Amalie, a tranquil and charming Caribbean town, settled for the night.
Then the killing started.
Chapter 20
A pistol boomed. Double tap. Two shots fired in rapid succession. An ingrained special ops technique, delivered outside our window. Bar patrons screamed, yelled, and threw wild-eyed glances. Many hit the floor, seeking protection. Bo and I snatched our duffels from beneath the table. Special Agent Johnson leapt up, pulled her pistol, crouched, and covered the bar’s entrance.
More shots echoed down the street accompanied with frantic screams. The moment held every evidence of a full-blown terrorist attack. Innocents slaughtered, the terrorists in force. We tossed our bags tossed on the table with a thud and unzipped. As we produced weapons, an eye-lock with my blood brother. Brief, intense, knowing. Bo’s eyes were bright, feral. Into the breach with no hesitation. Lock and load and take out the bad guys.
“Freeze!”
Johnson’s semi-automatic pistol aimed our way, flung from me to Bo and back again. Understandable. She couldn’t be expected to grasp our adopted role. And she’d gone from zero to ninety on the adrenaline scale. A dangerous moment.
“We’re the good guys,” I said, weaponry extraction halted and voice calm, along with a sincere stare. “Your side, JJ. Whatever is going down, we’re on your side.”
“Why the weapons?” Her pistol still aimed our way. Hesitancy, but not acceptance. Couldn’t blame her.
“Former Delta, remember?” Bo asked, calm and soothing. More shots outside. Automatic gunfire, a returned double tap. The noise was sharp, explosive. JJ flinched at the intense reports and glanced out the window. More yells and screams inside the bar, everyone now on the floor. “We come prepared,” Bo continued. A sufficient answer. “Part of the deal and a well-trodden path, JJ. Let us go do our thing.”
A second’s hesitancy, situation assessed, decision made, and her pistol swung back toward the bar’s entrance. We slid pistols into jeans pockets and stuffed extra HK rifle ammo magazines into waistbands, the assault rifles produced. I chambered a round and head signaled Bo. Let’s hit it.
“Wait!” JJ remained crouched. “I’m coming.”
Bad idea. Firefights weren’t the FBI’s domain. They’d been trained, sure, but the odds of a special agent engaged with storms of two-way flying lead remained remote throughout their careers.
“Cover this area,” I said and headed for the door. “Protect these people.” A nod her direction, affirming and confident. Provide her a mission.
More gunfire outside, shrieks and shouts and cries of pain. We exited the bar and halted at the hotel’s entrance doorsill. We stood uninformed, operationally blind. The nature and extent of the enemy unknown. It didn’t matter.
“Friendlies! Friendlies coming out!” I cried.
The Delta operator was positioned somewhere close, and even though we’d met the cold appearance of two armed men during an adrenaline-washed melee invited instant killing fire. A half-second for the message to register and we stepped into the battle. The Delta operator stood plastered against an overhang column, his eyes our way. A tight nod both directions. Two dead bodies lay near the short hotel drive. Their blood tracked downhill. Both with automatic weapons dropped nearby. AK47s. The preferred automatic weapon of terrorists worldwide. Their appearance—Caribbean. It made no sense, but sorting came later.
Echoes of more automatic fire rolled uphill toward us from downtown Charlotte Amalie, a tourist nightlife hot-spot. The rapid cracks of terrorist weaponry were interspersed with short controlled bursts of return fire. Delta, downtown. Screams drifted our way as well, the sound of terror and disbelief. And death.
“Headed downtown,” I called. A brief nod of acknowledgement from the Delta operator. He’d pulled his assault rifle after the initial pistol salvo and now sought targets. A parked taxi stood near, the driver huddled under the front bumper. Bo and I dashed his direction.
“Keys in it?”
The driver, eyes wide and filled with disbelief, replied, “Ya, mon,” and dived into adjoining landscape plants as two well-armed men entered his taxi. I drove. The engine started and I slammed into gear when a back door flew open. JJ flung herself inside.
Bo twisted around and addressed her. “Bad idea.”
“Drive.” She was resolute. The FBI badge now hung from a lanyard around her neck, pistol pointed through the open back window.
“We’re headed into the m
iddle of it,” I said into the rear view mirror. “For God’s sake get out.”
She wouldn’t budge and said, “Move!”
I did. I floored the taxi and flew downhill, headed toward the sound of gunfire. Locals and tourists huddled and hid in doorways and alongside parked cars. They ducked as we sped past, our weapons visible. Several turns later, tires screeching, we captured several bright muzzle flashes and entered the small downtown area.
A burned rubber stop and we bailed, running to press against an old colonial house. Overhead, a porch with wrought iron railing. A series of close-pressed houses and porches, reminiscent of New Orleans’s French Quarter. Gunfire echoed from around the corner.
Bo dashed across the narrow street and plastered against a house wall. JJ took two steps his way, hesitated, and fell in behind me. Somehow she grasped, sensed, Bo’s battle approach—singular and wild and headlong. True enough.
“Watch our six,” I said and nodded toward Bo. We both progressed along the street, toward the intersection and sounds of automatic AK shots.
“What?” Her voice was tight, loud.
“Our backs. Watch our backs.”
A dozen rapid strides and gunfire popped overhead. Rapid rattling shots fired toward Bo from the balcony above me echoed across the enclosed street. Hyper-tuned, full throttle, I watched several bullets punch brick dust near Bo. Throwing my HK into full auto and cutting loose straight overhead, I drove round after round through the wooden porch floor, spraying lead. Bo’s rifle spoke from across the street. Three seconds of ultra-violent firefight, then quiet. The shooter moaned once from above. A final burst from my HK ended that noise. We continued toward the street intersection. More automatic gunfire, more panicked screams and shouts.
I halted and pressed against the corner brick wall. Flicked my weapon’s selector switch back to single shot mode and aimed the HK around the corner toward the sound of the latest gunfire. Shot a quick glance Bo’s way. He dashed across the street, exposed himself, and found cover against an outdoor pillar. Sharp cries and muffled pleas came from an unidentified bistro. More gunfire sounded farther away, and more from a different direction. Darkness, scattered streetlights, a sprinkling of lit-up signs above the entrances to bars and bistros. And the blue lights flashed from a stopped Virgin Islands cop car a half-block away. The killed police officer’s upper body was draped out the open door.
This was a massive coordinated terrorist attack with dozens of bad guys armed with automatic weapons. Delta would have assigned no more than eight or ten operators for a “maybe.” Shots crackled uphill in the area of more tourist hotels. My mind worked frantic addition. One operator at the airport. One at our hotel. Figure another one or two among the other tourist hotels. Three or four downtown. That was it, with, at best, one or two additional operators. My God. And this was Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas Island. Insanity. Horrific insanity.
A dark figure sprinted across the street nearest Bo, spraying lead his general direction. He disappeared into another bistro before Bo could get a shot. My brother and I exchanged a quick look and quicker nod. Bo went after him.
Single shots sounded half-way down the short block where I aimed. They echoed from inside a restaurant, a neon sign casting light over the entrance. The sound of explosive singular blasts arrived along with howls of terror and pain. The earmarks of terrorists murdering individuals, one at a time. I bolted toward the entrance, JJ on my heels. At that moment, an armed man turned the corner at the end of the block, full speed and weapon raised. An operator. He slammed the brakes. JJ and I ran toward him, armed people in the darkness. My hand flew up, palm open, while I continued a mad dash.
“Good guy! Good guy!”
The operator lowered his weapon and sprinted, continuing his advance. We both headed toward the bistro from opposite directions. He arrived first and didn’t hesitate. He slammed through the entrance, sought targets, weapon firing. I followed two strides behind.
Carnage and death and screams and pleas for mercy. Three shooters. Two headed for the floor as the first-in Delta operator took them out. I plowed three chest shots into the third. The operator and I scanned the dim room, weapons shouldered, ears ringing. We hunted for any remaining killers.
“Clear,” he said.
“Clear,” I echoed back.
Triage of the wounded pulled hard. But as always, first remove threats. Among the immediate survivors were capable people, if they could keep it together and help the wounded.
“What’s the situation?” I asked and moved toward the door. JJ stood at the entrance, spread-leg stance, pistol now pointed toward the floor. Her head moved with short sharp snaps, taking it in. Eyes wide, jaw clenched.
“Thirty to forty bogeys we reckon.” He had a radio earpiece and would have communication with the team leader. “Where’s your partner?”
He’d been told of Bo and me. “Down the street, hot after one. How many operators?” Rapid fire discussion, time ticked.
“Ten.”
A serious deficit. Less than a dozen Delta deployed. They anticipated a large attack. But not this large. We stepped outside, prepared for the next round. Eyes scanned, intent, while our brief conversation ended.
“Where’s the weak spot?”
This terrorist attack stood well outside the norm. There were unavoidable vulnerabilities with this scale of assault. Had to be.
“Cruise ship. Got a solo there.”
One Delta Force member to handle an attack within an enclosed multi-divided space. A space containing two thousand passengers. The other cruise ship had departed the bay. This one would have prepared for its departure—loaded with passengers—when the attack began. Too much for one operator, too much opportunity for carnage.
“On it,” I said. “Don’t shoot my partner.”
Both our heads snapped toward Bo’s area as automatic gunfire erupted. Fire from multiple sources. The operator sprinted Bo’s direction and tossed, “Good luck, I’ll pass the word,” over his shoulder. He’d alert his team, via radio, we were headed toward Havensight Pier where the cruise ships docked. A ten minute sedate drive around the bay on a normal day. We didn’t have ten minutes and it damn sure wasn’t a normal day.
I turned toward JJ. She’d already dashed away and jumped on a nearby Honda scooter. Started it and zipped toward me.
“Get on!”
Gotta go, gotta move. And the scooter offered movement, transportation. With our butts exposed to passing fire. Beggars, choosers, gotta go.
“Turn off the headlight.”
“It’s night.”
“Turn off the headlight until we leave town. Makes us a target.”
She did. I perched behind her, and she juiced the throttle. I was near thrown off the back. Intermittent street lights, bistro and café signs, a better than quarter moon. Sufficient for navigation and return fire. Two blocks forward a figure dashed around a corner. He carried a rifle. An operator. Style of movement, physical carriage—easy to identify. We didn’t hold the same advantage. He aimed our way. Two people on a scooter, the back passenger holding an assault rifle.
I screamed “Friendly!” and hoped it carried over the scooter’s strained engine. The operator remained locked on us. I removed my left hand from the weapon’s forestock and reached around JJ. Snatching her bright plastic-enclosed FBI badge, I held it toward the operator. Jerked JJ’s head in the process. The scooter swerved, and she regained control.
The badge’s reflection or preparedness on his part or blind luck—but a slight lowering of his weapon. He continued a dash toward gunfire behind us. Oh man. Too close.
No traffic, normal activities frozen while this hellish scene played out. Three blocks later shots cracked at us from the right. Bright hot muzzle blasts. The popping sound carried over the whine of the scooter’s engine. A terrorist, coming or going from a well-lit café. And our direction brought us closer. He wouldn’t miss at close range.
The scooter slowed—big time bad news, making us an
easier target. “Goose it!” I said and swung the HK over JJ’s head to take aim. Before I could, our contingent boomed back with voice and weapon.
“Stop yelling!”
JJ had taken her hand off the right side of the handlebar, and the throttle, to pull her semiautomatic pistol. She cut loose with multiple shots. The terrorist reacted to her first hit and sprayed bullets across the asphalt at his feet. The distance closed as the shooter staggered, recovered. Our gunfire filled the air. He spun with another JJ shot. I ended the firefight as two assault rifle bullets ripped through him. Dead before he hit the ground.
“And stop jerking my badge lanyard!”
“No choice. And good shooting. Now kick this thing in the ass.”
She did. As we left downtown and its streetlights I asked her to turn the scooter’s headlight back on. My mistake. At the edge of Charlotte Amalie, a mile and a half from the cruise ship dock, more muzzle blasts came our way from deep darkness. We weren’t hit, so it wasn’t an operator. If it had been, game over. I flicked the weapon’s selection switch to full automatic and laid half a magazine of return fire into the cluster of continuous muzzle flashes as we zipped past. They ceased blinking.
Gotta go, gotta fly. JJ knew what she was doing. The Honda would hit fifty mph with the two of us on it, and she used every bit of speed. Gravel stretches, potholes—she plowed through with assured aplomb. Headed for combat. My assessment of Julie Johnson ratcheted up a solid notch or three.
Minutes passed, the pier approached. The scooter’s small engine screamed and drowned out other noise. JJ’s ponytail whipped across my chest. Across Long Bay I could discern activity—dim figures abandoned ship. They jumped into the water on the vessel’s bay side. Bad, bad news.
Chapter 21
We entered the dock area and flew past wet, fleeing passengers. Wild-eyed and frantic—people who'd jumped ship and swam to safety. They ran away from the dock area and disappeared into darkness. The cruise ship was lit as a beacon. Bright deck lights, cabin windows glowed, reflections off calm bay waters. But my gut said the interior resembled a charnel house.