by John Hunt
“And now, Professor, let’s get you comfortable. Your face is not particularly photogenic right now. That must really hurt.”
Harrigan smiled, slightly and painfully. There was a shining chrome cover that surrounded part of a large compass on the bridge. He leaned toward it. The convex shape served to distort his face even more than it already was, and the image returned from it was of a purplish-green monster with bloodied teeth and nostrils. “Oh my,” was all that he said.
Elisa took him in hand, and guided him off the bridge. The master stateroom was just a bit aft, down one flight, and she led him there. The door to the room was unlocked and opened with a slight squeak. The bed was inviting, and Harrigan quickly moved toward it.
Elisa stepped into the head. On this vessel, grand as it was, it was probably acceptable to call it a lavatory. A soft white cotton towel hung on a rack. As it was perfect for her task, she grabbed it and soaked it in cool water from the sink. She found two others that she took back with her to Harrigan. After some delicate cleansing of his shattered face, the wet towel had been stained with profuse blood but the professor looked somewhat better. Soon thereafter, exhausted emotionally and physically, he fell asleep. Elisa stayed at his side for a few minutes. Satisfied to see that he was breathing steadily and easily, she stood and walked toward the stateroom door. She opened it and stood face to face with Enrico Marcos.
Enrico’s face was fixed with hatred. Aimed directly at her chest was a small pistol, which Elisa recognized, for she owned one. It was a Glock 19 9mm subcompact pistol, a weapon that despite its diminutive size had adequate firepower to cause major damage when the trigger was pulled. He ushered her back inside the stateroom, closing and locking the door behind them.
He spoke in Spanish. “Maria, you and I have some unfinished business. Unfortunately, there is no time for that now, although I am sure we can find time later. Now, who has taken over this boat? How many are there?”
Elisa chuckled, and spoke back in English, “Right. Let me tell you everything!” The sarcasm was thick. True to form, Enrico responded with violence, swinging his free hand toward her face. Prepared, she sidestepped the blow, and he struck only air. Unfortunately, he had full control of the weapon, and gave her no opportunity to escape. The gun was now firmly planted against her forehead.
“I doubt you will cooperate to save your own life, Maria. So I will not bother to threaten it. However, you seem rather fond of the professor here.” He moved to the bedside and shook the man’s shoulder. Harrigan stirred, then awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright, looking into the face of the man who had beaten him at the observatory.
Enrico smiled at him — an evil smile. “Hello again, Professor. I am happy to see you looking so well.” He paused as he considered his next statement. “Which knee would you like me to put a bullet in, Professor? Or should I ask Maria, here, since she is in control of this situation?” He looked back toward her, inquiring.
“You are filth,” Elisa spat out.
“Dirt, grime, mud. But I get the job done. I am very good at that.” He took a pillow from the head of the bed, and placed it on Harrigan’s right knee. Then he drove the barrel of the pistol down into the pillow so that it would serve to muffle the gun’s report. “I will count to three, after which, he loses the knee. Are you going to cooperate?” His voice was steady, intent. “One…Two…” He tightened his grip on the gun.
“Stop! I will tell you what you need to know.” Elisa was shaking her head.
Enrico did not change his position, and maintained the grip on the pistol. “I will not count further. If you do not completely cooperate, I will pull this trigger. I already know quite a bit about what has happened. If I catch you in a lie, I will pull the trigger. Is this completely and entirely clear? To you both?” He looked piercingly into Harrigan’s eyes.
“A man who works for Petur Bjarnasson was already on board the boat when we boarded. He was concealed somewhere, I suppose. He has some men with him. I am not certain of the number.”
Enrico looked at her and pushed the pistol farther into the pillow, tighter against Harrigan’s kneecap. The visual warning was effective.
“I have seen three others.”
“I have only counted three. So, there is at least one more. You are doing well, Maria. The men I saw all have German accents. Now, who is the leader? Be careful of your answer, Maria.”
Elisa considered for a moment. He could know much more about who was on board, or he could be bluffing. “The other man does not have a German accent. He may be the leader.” Then she lied. “I don’t know his name.”
“What does this man look like?”
“Dark hair and green eyes. He might be Hispanic, maybe Arabic. Heck, he could be Japanese. I have no idea. Why don’t you go up on deck and see for yourself? I will stay here with Evan.”
“The only way you will stay here with Evan,” Enrico replied, “is if you are both dead.” He continued immediately, “Now, tell me where my father is being held.” The pistol, momentarily relaxed, shoved harshly into Harrigan’s knee once more.
“Cut with the pistol thing, Enrico. I don’t know where your father is.”
“How about you, Professor? Do you know?”
Harrigan replied, his voice shaky, “I have no idea. Maybe they threw him overboard. The boat seems to be sitting higher in the water now.”
Enrico laughed loudly. “My father would kill you where you lie for mocking him in that way. I may tell him what you said when I find him.”
“I would be careful,” Harrigan retorted. “Sometimes the messenger is the one who gets shot.”
“Enough of this. I think I know where he is. Why don’t we all go?” Enrico motioned to the professor. “Get up, Harrigan. We are going for a walk.”
Elisa studied Enrico as Harrigan slowly climbed his way out of bed. He was dressed in white shorts and a buttoned Hawaiian-style shirt, sockless with boat shoes. He looked like he should be sipping cocktails on a porch at a yacht club.
As they stepped out of the stateroom, Enrico turned them aft, away from the bridge. He guided the pair down into the bowels of the boat, encountering nobody on the way, and then turned back through the engine room to the bow. In less than a minute, they were back at the heavy metal door of the rope locker.
“Open it,” Enrico commanded Harrigan. Harrigan looked at Elisa, who nodded in acquiescence. There was no choice in the matter.
The door pulled open with some effort. Out the door came Jowls and the other Mexican soldier, both of whom had been untied in the dark by Juan Marcos, who, in turn, emerged subsequently. It was with some difficulty that he exited the locker, for the size of the door was not generous.
As he stretched, he said, “Good work, Enrico. What is our situation?”
“You are looking at our assets: the four of us, one weapon, these two hostages. On the other hand, I think they have only four men.”
“They may have four men, but two are occupied keeping an eye on the rest of the crew. We have little time before they realize these two are missing.” He indicated Elisa and Harrigan. Juan Marcos was decisive. “We go to the bridge, directly. That’s where Baddori will be!”
“Baddori!” Enrico was aghast. “Baddori is here?”
“He is the one who took over the ship, you fool. He works for Bjarnasson now.”
“Devious bastard.” Enrico exhaled loudly. “I cannot believe he is on board our boat!”
“He will not be for long.”
Enrico led the little band back the way they had come, stopping on the way to check storage bins for weapons, but finding that all had been found and removed. Through the engine room and up the back companionway they traveled, with only one — briefly and bloodily addressed — challenge. Soon they were in the passageway attached to the master stateroom. It was a few meters up the companionway to the entrance to the bridge. Upon arrival, Harrigan was shoved through the bridge door roughly, attracting the attention of Jeff, who spun and pulled h
is pistol out of his belt loop, aiming it at the door.
Harrigan’s agonized face immediately revealed to Jeff that something had gone afoul. The next face that appeared around the corner of the door was Elisa, likewise appearing dismayed, with a gun held at her head. The man carrying the gun came into view: Enrico Marcos.
Jeff swore loudly. A moment later the bridge had become crowded, as two more Mexicans, both rather bloodied, and then Juan Marcos, entered. Juan Marcos carried an automatic assault weapon, one that looked too familiar to Jeff. Enrico’s gun was still pointed at Elisa’s head. Jeff’s expert hand was shifting his gun back and forth between the two Marcos men. It was a standoff of sorts, but not one that Jeff was likely to win, and he recognized it immediately.
He flashed a glance at the foredeck below, at two of the German engineers guarding the Mexican soldiers. They were oblivious to what was going on above them.
“As you try to make your decision as to what to do next, Baddori, let me give you one more piece of information. The man who you had take me to my little prison in the bow is now quite dead. We ran into him on the way back. He kindly donated his weapon to our cause.” Marcos held up the German-made MP5 assault rifle. “You are left with little. Now, drop your weapon so we can all avoid further unpleasantness.”
The two Mexicans whom Jeff had incapacitated outside the rope locker each gave Jeff a withering stare, angered at having been tricked and beaten by the man. Then they moved to the far side of the bridge, where Jowls began unbinding his uniformed colleague who lay on the floor, while the other stood watch out the port bridgewing.
“Someone always gets hurt when you are involved, Marcos,” Jeff responded. “Nonetheless, you do have me at a disadvantage.” But he held his gun tight, still moving it back and forth between the men.
“Two guns to one, Baddori. We have you soundly beat.”
“I’m sorry, but you need to recount, Governor Marcos.” The voice, with a thick German accent, came from the small communications room attached to the bridge. Heinrich Poll stepped out, with his HK MP5 leveled at the Mexicans. “It seems we are all miscounting today.”
Juan Marcos looked over his left shoulder toward the man holding the weapon. He was tall and tan, well muscled, and with a shaven head. The figure, with a grim line to his thin lips, was intimidating. The situation was uncertain. Enrico had his small pistol against the girl’s temple, Baddori’s was moving throughout the room, and both Juan Marcos and this new interloper were prepared to pan through the whole place.
“We seem to be in the midst of an awkward situation.” Jeff looked at each person there: the two Marcos men, the Mexican soldiers, Captain Zamrano, Harrigan, Poll. He was calm, calculating, carefully speaking to everyone on the bridge. “Bullets are about to fly. People will certainly die when that happens. Which people? Could be any of us. But Elisa — I’m sorry, Maria — would clearly be one.” He looked at the gun Enrico held to her head. “And what a shame that would be. Of course, Governor Marcos is a hard target to miss. He would almost assuredly succumb. As to the rest, all of us or none of us could die.”
At least one of the Mexicans seemed to be paying heed, for the balding fellow, the one who had just been unbound on the bridge, started edging across the room. The man sought quiet approval from Marcos, Jeff, and finally Heinrich Poll, all of whom nodded. He then moved a bit more confidently, close enough to speak in a whisper with Juan Marcos.
Poll spoke up, leveling his weapons now directly at Marcos. “It is good for us all to talk about this, but you must make yourself heard to the rest of us, please. We do not want any plotting.”
The balding Mexican said nothing more, but Juan Marcos replied. “I am sorry, I have just been reminded by my bodyguard that I am not a very good shot with a gun.” He then proceeded to hand his weapon to the other man. No one had time to react or intervene. The newly armed soldier, confidently and without showing fear of any kind, then proceeded without warning to walk abruptly across the small bridge toward Baddori. Jeff had not expected this move, and suddenly found the barrel of the man’s gun firmly planted against his forehead.
Poll had his weapon aimed directly at the man, but knowing that one shot would set off a massacre, hesitated to act. The newly armed Mexican, who, it had just become clear, was not one to be trifled with, had clearly counted on this hesitation.
His stature was not impressive, nor was his overall appearance, but his voice was deep and dominant. “Your little speech was eloquent, but, now, Baddori, the people who will certainly die when bullets fly includes you. So I ask you, how brave are you? Are you ready to die? For you most definitely will if you even blink.”
No one breathed during the next thirty seconds. All eyes were on Jeff Baddori. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, and then another and another. His eyes looked first at those of the man holding the weapon to his head, then at Poll, and finally at Elisa. With overpowering shame, Jeff lowered his pistol to his side.
There were dozens of electronic instruments on the bridge of the modern luxury yacht: radar, sonar, satellite navigation, LORAN, computerized stabilizers, and more. There was invariably heard a pleading monotone beeping, as one of the instruments seemed always to be demanding attention. But now, at this highly tense moment, even the electronics maintained a reverent silence.
“Heinrich. Please lower your weapon,” Jeff commanded, and then turned to Juan Marcos. “Governor, we are at your mercy.”
Poll hesitated to obey, but then slowly did so, allowing the muzzle of his powerful weapon to aim at the floor. Juan Marcos smiled broadly, sensing victory. Enrico, the muscles in his arm burning from holding his gun at Elisa’s head, relaxed his grip on his pistol. He slowly stepped back, targeting her now from his hip.
Juan Marcos spoke. “I think things seem a bit more sane now. Tensions are easing.”
The metal of the weapon against Jeff’s head was cold, and he felt strangely relieved that the barrel was moved from between his eyebrows to the back of his head as the short man moved behind him. The gun was now in the position used for ritual assassination, where the bullet enters straight into the base of the skull.
“Get on your knees.” Slowly, Jeff did so. “Now, tell your man to obey me.” The voice holding the weapon at Jeff’s head was in complete charge now.
“Heinrich,” Jeff said, “please do precisely as this man says.”
The man holding all the power now looked first at the two Mexican soldiers, then at the boat’s captain, and then at Juan Marcos. Clearly having made a quick decision, the man looked at Poll and said, “Place your weapon on the floor, and kick it across to Governor Marcos.”
Heinrich looked at Jeff, who nodded his approval. Poll did as he was told, the questioning look of concern not leaving his eyes.
Juan Marcos bent over to pick up the weapon, which he then aimed at Heinrich Poll. He said, “And now, Mr. Baddori, it would seem that the balance of power has shifted to us. Please place your own weapon on the floor.”
Jeff did not move for a moment.
“I said, drop your weapon.” Marcos’s voice was firm, unwavering, and impatient. He moved the muzzle of his newly acquired weapon to the floor behind him, upon which Evan Harrigan lay. “Or I shoot this man where he lies.”
Again, silence permeated the bridge, and no one breathed. What happened next came as a complete surprise to almost everyone. Jeff, instead of dropping his gun to the floor, raised it up suddenly and fired one carefully planned shot. The move was so fast that those watching were not even sure that it had happened. The 9-mm bullet, propelled by the explosive force of two grams of high-grade powder, hit Enrico Marcos square in the ear, blowing out the far side of his head. He was dead before he even heard the report.
Juan Marcos stood there in shock, not believing what he had just seen. His son lay on the deck, bleeding profusely from his fatal wound. How could this have just happened? Anger surged within him, his face reddened with rage. He closed his eyes and shouted in Spanish to the
man whose weapon was still pressed solidly against Jeff’s head. “Diego, blow his head off!”
The mildly stout, unimpressive man named Diego did nothing of the sort. Instead this man, present on the boat solely for the purpose of protecting Juan Marcos, just laughed.
Juan Marcos at first did not know what to make of Diego’s reaction. Was the man going insane? Was this how he acted when he was about to kill a man? Or was Diego laughing at him? Thoughts raced through his head. Diego had been in his organization for years, and had become a highly trusted comrade and advisor, as well as frequently performing unsavory tasks from time-to-time. Diego had always been independent — never really an employee, more like a colleague, but always trusted.
He stated firmly, “Diego, kill him! Now!”
The response from the man was far from what Juan Marcos had hoped. Diego gave him a sardonic smile, and shook his head, as if pitying the man. Somehow, some way, Baddori had gotten to him.
Marcos raised his gun away from Harrigan, turning it towards Baddori and Diego. His mind was consumed with fury. Fury at being tricked again. Fury at the treasonous behavior of a trusted ally. He began to tighten his grip, squeezing the trigger with the index finger of his right hand. Jeff, his weapon still at the ready, fired once again, another carefully aimed and executed shot. Marcos’s hand erupted in a mass of blood and tissue fragments as the bullet tore through bones and tendons. His heavy weapon crashed to the floor and he howled in pain.
Jowls, braver than he was smart, dove for the discarded weapon. Diego quickly reacted, moving his gun away from Jeff’s head and firing several rounds into the Mexican soldier, who was instantly stopped by the bullets. Jowls lay dying on the deck, his blood mixing quickly with that of Enrico Marcos. The other soldier stayed quiet and behaved, as did Captain Zamrano.
Juan Marcos sat down slowly on the deck, looking at his bloodied hand. Elisa had picked up the weapon, fouled with crimson-stained fragments torn from the governor’s flesh. She helped Harrigan to his feet. One of the German engineers who had been serving as a guard on the deck below was running through the door, responding to the sounds of gunfire. He entered the bridge and trained his weapon on the remaining Mexican soldier and the boat captain.