by Matt Hilton
“Quietly does it,” Cain hushed him as he tugged down on the handle. By the law governing leverage, the blade’s tip sawed upward. Eight inches of honed steel easily found the lower chambers of the man’s heart. He was dead before he could make a further sound. Cain lowered the man to the deck, then tugged loose the blade, wiped it clean on the man’s trousers, and turned toward the cabin door.
The yacht was huge, and the living area was about as plush as any five-star hotel Cain had ever seen. Wide sliding doors led to an elegantly furnished sitting area. It was all cut glass and sumptuous leather. Even chandeliers. A massive plasma screen satellite TV dominated the forward wall. Then there were the six men.
John Telfer was sitting in a chair across a glass table from an older man in an open-neck shirt and tan slacks. His hair and the tufts that poked from his chest were white, standing out against his deep tan. That’ll be Carson, then, Cain decided.
On the table was Telfer’s backpack, open to show the spurious treasure within, and a briefcase that was shut tight. Inside it, Cain guessed, was the seven hundred grand. The two Latinos were there, their backs to Cain. He noted that they hadn’t yet drawn their guns, but the two other men in the room had. These were minders, like the man Cain had just stabbed. Hard-faced men who crowded Telfer yet wore cautious expressions in front of the Latinos.
Cain detected movement on the deck above him. He glanced up, ready to lift the gun, and saw a young bikini-clad woman move hurriedly away.
One of two things was about to happen. The bitch would have the good sense to get the hell off the boat, or she was going to set up a racket to alert her sugar daddy in the cabin. Cain couldn’t take the chance it would be the second option. He had to act now, while he still had surprise on his side. And with the decision came action. He only had six bullets and he had to make them count. The minders first.
Cain stepped up to the doorway. One of the sliding partitions was open, so he stepped inside. He was only ten feet away from the first minder when he lifted the gun and fired. The man’s head erupted in cherry-red fragments.
Then chaos ensued.
Chaos was fine with Cain. He loved chaos.
Telfer’s face came up, registering shock, and not a little relief in a mad sort of way. The Latinos were spinning, both going for their guns, the second minder already rounding on Cain. Only Carson had the good sense to throw himself to the floor and attempt to escape beneath a nearby counter.
Cain snorted, and shot the second minder. He hit the man in the right arm, the bullet passing through it into the flesh of his thick chest. The man went down, though Cain knew immediately he wasn’t dead. Didn’t matter, he’d dropped his gun, and he saw that Telfer had the presence of mind to snatch it up.
The two Latinos were next. Cain shot the one with the bandaged ear, hitting him in the thigh as the man leaped away. The bullet spun him, and the man went to the floor at the feet of his friend. The second Latino was already bringing up his gun to fire, and Cain realized it was time to move. But instead of bolting for cover, he leaped farther into the room, shouting, “Move your ass, Telfer!”
The second Latino fired. Not at him, as Cain had hoped, but at Telfer. The bullet struck the back of Telfer’s chair. Directly where his head had been an instant earlier. Telfer was already bent double over the glass table, reaching for the briefcase. As the Latino tried to draw another bead on Telfer, Cain shot him. Twice, once in the gut, then higher up at the jawline. The man went over backward, trailing a ribbon of blood that was stark against the chandeliers’ twinkling lights.
Cain turned on Telfer. “Get a freakin’ move on!”
Telfer snatched the briefcase to his chest, rising up at last. Cain stepped toward him. The gun trained on him. “Give me the gun.”
Telfer shook his head. Lifted his own gun and pointed it at Cain.
“We haven’t got time for this now,” Cain warned him.
“No,” Telfer said. “We haven’t.”
They both eyed each other over the ends of their guns.
“Let’s get the hell out of here and worry about the rest later,” Cain offered.
Before Telfer could accept or decline the invitation, a door burst open at the front of the cabin and another man skidded through. He had a compact Uzi submachine gun in his hands. He made a quick scan of the living area. To give him his due, the chaotic scene didn’t appear to faze him much. He lifted the Uzi and let loose an arching stream of bullets as he thudded over to cover Carson. In the same instant the injured Latino rolled over, grabbing at the gun he’d dropped on the floor. Two targets, one bullet, more coming his way. Cain decided the best course of action was to get out as quickly as possible.
As bullets churned the decor behind him, he flung himself through a side window, crashing through glass to sprawl on the deck. Shouts came from inside the cabin, then Telfer was sprawling on the deck beside him, the briefcase clattering away from him. Telfer’s shirt was bloody and he groaned as he rolled to his knees. Cain grabbed him, checking his hands.
“What the hell’re you doing?” Telfer demanded.
“Where’s your gun?” Cain snapped.
“I dropped it,” Telfer said.
“Jesus Christ,” Cain said. He slapped Telfer’s shoulder. “Get the briefcase. We’re out of here.”
Telfer went on hands and knees, grabbing at the Samsonite case. He came back to Cain, the case against his chest. “That better be real money,” Cain said.
“Course it is. I’m not a friggin’ idiot.”
Cain nodded, indicated the front of the boat. “That way. Now.”
They both lurched up as the fourth minder appeared at the window they’d recently crashed through. He gave an angry shout, twisted so he could bring the Uzi into play. As he did, Cain sprang toward him with his Bowie knife. The knife connected before the man could depress the trigger, severing his thumb. The man screamed and the gun flopped sideways, bullets splintering the wooden deck next to Telfer. Cain chopped again, this time deep into the man’s wrist and the man withdrew his seriously wounded arm from further harm.
Telfer was up and running. Cain glanced at him, then down at the deck. He paused in his flight to retrieve the severed thumb, popping it into his pocket alongside his other mementos.
The bodyguard was back at the window again, but only to scream in abstract terror while he attempted to replace his drooping hand in its rightful place. Cain grinned at him, then charged after Telfer.
He caught up with Telfer at the helm of the yacht. Telfer was wide-eyed as he looked down at the seemingly bottomless gulf below them. The water had a turquoise sheen from the thin layer of diesel oil on its surface.
“Jump,” Cain told him.
“No,” Telfer said, the briefcase clutched tightly to him.
“Jump, Telfer.”
“No way. I can’t swim.”
“Jesus Christ on a freakin’ bike! You can’t swim?”
Again Telfer shook his head.
“I don’t believe it,” Cain said. He grabbed at Telfer and propelled him toward the rail. “Get the hell over the side. If you think I’ve gone to all this trouble to let you drown…”
Telfer resisted, though he knew it was his only chance of survival. Even as he dithered, he could hear the slap of running feet from inside the cabin.
“One of them spicks is still alive,” Cain snapped at him. “So are two of the guards and Carson. Any second now, they’re going to be out here and we’ll be dead. You got that?”
Telfer nodded but still held back from jumping.
“Oh, Holy Christ!” Cain said as he grabbed him and flung him bodily over the railing. Telfer hit the water like a stone and sank immediately. Cain lifted a leg to the railing, just as the minder he’d shot in the arm rounded the deck. Blood had made a patchwork of his chest but he was still in the game. He had the Uzi and was already searching for a target.
Cain lifted his gun and fired.
Not at the man, but at the scuba-diving t
anks he saw stacked neatly along one wall of the cabin. It was a desperate shot, one he hadn’t time to calculate, but even as he plunged headfirst into the sea he felt the concussion of the explosion send shock waves through the water around him. Cain hit the water and swam deeper, his ears thrumming with the concussive blast, until his clawing hand found Telfer’s shirt. Telfer twisted and tugged, in the throes of panic.
Cain cursed, letting loose a stream of bubbles. He couldn’t get a grip on Telfer because he was also holding on to his Bowie. All the trouble he’d gone to in order to regain his knife and now this? He let the blade drop from his hand, watched it sink with a wistful look on his face until it was lost in the murk. Then he angrily grabbed hold of Telfer’s clothing and kicked upward.
They broke the churning surface, Cain behind Telfer with an arm looped around his neck. Telfer gagged, spat, and sucked in great lungfuls of air as he cradled the briefcase to his chest like a baby. Cain guessed his death grip on the case had nothing to do with what was inside, but rather that the sealed case was a handy flotation device.
Twenty feet away, the yacht was on fire. When the tanks had gone up, they’d taken the minder with them, not to mention a good portion of the deck and cabin. Cain spied a bikini-clad figure leaping from the boat into the water. Another figure hobbled down the steps onto the pier, a white patch on the side of his head. Even from here, Cain could tell it was the remaining Latino.
Of the remaining minder and Carson, there was no sign. Perhaps the Latino had turned his gun on them before making his escape. But Carson appeared, staggered to the railing, and fired a handgun at the limping Latino trying to escape. His aim was useless, and the Latino made it to the shelter of a second boat. The Latino proved a better shot, firing back at Carson three times in quick succession. Carson folded, somersaulted over the rail, and sprawled facefirst on the boardwalk. Didn’t look like he’d be getting up again.
Cain paid them no further heed. He kicked with his feet, trawling Telfer and his precious cargo backward. They’d just made it to the ladder of a yacht about a hundred feet away when the air turned inferno hot around them. Cain held Telfer down, following him beneath the water as Carson’s yacht erupted in a churning fireball that scattered steaming chunks of metal and wood across the harbor.
31
“YOU’VE GOTTA BE YANKIN’ MY GODDAMN CHAIN.”
Rink was standing with his knuckles on the hood of Cheryl Barker’s squad car. His bowed head emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, equally emphasizing his dismay.
I wasn’t feeling much better. I was thinking much the same thing as he was.
We’d both caught the TV news earlier.
A man with a hangdog expression related the disaster that had struck an exclusive yachting club only minutes earlier. The camera cut from the studio to an on-scene reporter who was standing amid crowds of stunned onlookers as a huge pall of black smoke breached the heavens behind them. I’d grimaced at the screen. The world was full of doom and gloom. Even, I’d decided, in exclusive rich men’s playgrounds like Marina del Rey.
Uninterested, I’d switched channels. Then we’d driven out here to meet with Cheryl Barker.
We were parked on the ridge of a shale embankment at the head of a valley in which we could glimpse the roofs of houses amid lush greenery. Palms and peppertrees dominated. Birds called and flapped in the skies above us.
Cheryl had chosen this place for an impromptu meeting simply because it was a halfway point for us all. I could hear the disjointed chatter and squeals of children and guessed it was playtime at some park hidden in the trees. It was a surreal moment, us talking about death and destruction while dozens of kids laughed and whooped with delight below us.
Barker, an attractive woman with light freckles and short but unruly red hair, shook her head. “I ain’t the one yankin’ chains, Jared. It’s just come over the air. The fireball in Marina del Rey is down to your good buddy John Telfer.”
Rink glanced my way, and I lifted my shoulders in a noncommittal way. Since the nonsense I’d read on Harvey’s computer, not to mention the subsequent newscasts I’d caught on TV and our rental car radio, it didn’t surprise me that this latest atrocity was being laid at John’s door. It seemed that John had superseded Osama bin Laden as the most notorious felon in the western hemisphere.
Barker was almost as tall as Rink but she was much leaner, and that made her appear diminutive next to my friend’s bulk. She stood with her thumbs hooked in her belt like some Wild West gunslinger. Annie Oakley in the flesh.
Rink turned from bracing himself on the hood of the LAPD mobile. He looked Barker up and down. He took in the officer’s pristine uniform.
“You ain’t made detective yet?”
“Nope,” Barker said.
“Someone has to see sense soon,” Rink offered.
“Tell the truth, I’m in no great hurry. I’m as happy swanning around in a squad car as steering a desk. If I get the promotion, all well and good. If not, well, I’m as happy busting the balls of gangbangers and writing misdemeanor tickets for little old ladies driving the wrong way up the freeway.” Barker glanced down, brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her black shirt. “Anyways, I’m partial to the uniform. Can’t see why there’s such a big deal about getting into civilian duds.”
Rink gave Barker a tight-lipped grin. “Plus you get to drive a cool car, huh?”
“Yep, beats the hell outta the pool cars the detectives limp around in. More power under the hood, for one thing.”
“You’ll need it when you’re chasing all those rogue grandmothers in golf carts.” The small talk out of the way, Rink asked, “You putting much credence in it?”
“What? The fireball? No doubt about it, Jared. Eyewitness testimony places your boy at the scene.”
“They sure it was John Telfer?” I asked, stepping into their circle.
Barker turned and squinted at me.
“Joe Hunter,” I said, introducing myself. I stuck out a hand and Barker accepted it, shaking it languidly. “John is my brother.”
Barker frowned and glanced at Rink, who said, “It’s cool, Cheryl.”
Rink’s word was enough for Barker.
“Your boy’s been on every network and newspaper in the country. Witness swears that Telfer was the one who brought hell to that boat.”
I still wasn’t convinced and it obviously showed in my face.
“Before the boat went supernova, the witness managed to get off it unscathed. She says that John Telfer must’ve brought a bomb on board with him. He was carrying some kinda backpack when he arrived.” Barker sucked air through her teeth. “Mind you, we ain’t giving the bomb part much weight. More than likely, something on the boat went bang. Apparently there were a lot of guns going off prior to the explosion.”
“It’s not like John,” I said, thinking aloud.
Barker lifted her knobby shoulders. “Just telling you what’s been said.”
“Was there any mention of why John was on this boat in the first place?”
“Nothing the witness will admit to.”
“Who is the witness?”
Barker said, “A hottie Rhet Carson picked up over on Catalina Island. You know how these old rich guys are. They like a touch of eye candy draped over the rails of their yachts when they pull into dock. Gives them, whaddaya call it, self-esteem?”
“Are you saying your eyewitness is a hooker?”
“Hookers have eyes the same as anyone,” Barker replied. “She says that Telfer wasn’t the only one to come on board. Two guys in sharp suits turned up. Then some other guy. She seems to think that the last guy on board was with Telfer. The shooting started just after he got there.”
Rink and I looked at each other.
“Did she give a description of any of the three that turned up after John? The two guys in suits, for instance?”
“Let me see.” Barker pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket and thumbed through to a page marked with an elastic b
and. I doubted she needed the prompt. “Yeah, here we are. An APB was put out for them. Both guys are in their thirties, medium build, dark haired. Kinda swarthy-looking. Dressed in designer suits by all accounts.”
“The Mambo Kings.” I nodded to Rink.
Barker lifted the corner of a lip at my remark. “You know these two?”
“Not personally,” I said. “But I intend to.”
Barker looked off across the valley. “Whatever your intentions, you can scratch one of them from your ‘to-do’ list. Got another dispatch not ten minutes ago saying one of them was among the dead found in the burned-out wreckage. The other could be at the bottom of the harbor for all we know. They’re sending divers down as we speak.”
“What about the third man? The one she thought was with John?”
Again Barker scanned her notebook. She made an exasperated noise as she puffed out her cheeks. “White guy. Late thirties to early forties. Cold eyes. That’s about it.”
“Nothing about his clothing? His hair coloring?”
“Nope. The witness said she only got a quick glance at him. Something about the way he looked at her was enough to send her scuttling for cover, she said.” It was apparent Barker didn’t like what she was reading. “Not to mention the fact he’d just gutted one of Carson’s bodyguards with a knife.”
It was my turn to puff out my cheeks. I looked at Rink and saw him staring back. Turning back to Barker, I asked, “Did the witness say anything else about him or John? Did they make it off the boat before it blew?”
“She says they jumped in the harbor just before the boat went up. She didn’t see them after that. Chances of them surviving that kind of explosion would be pretty slim.”
“John can’t swim,” I said, a feeling of dread gnawing at my insides. Burned or drowned, neither would be pretty. I had the fleeting impression of John’s bloated face peering up at me from some infinitely deep place. Shaking off the disturbing vision wasn’t easy, but I had to remain optimistic. I wasn’t prepared to admit defeat just yet. Neither was I ready to give up looking for him until the police divers dragged his corpse from the murky water.