Triggerfish

by Dieter Kalteis

  “You left him ’cause he hit you?”

  “He died.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Shouldn’t have hit me.” She put the plate beside her on the bed, leaned back on her elbows, patted the spot next to her.

  “Remind me not to tick you off,” Axel said, getting next to her.

  “He liked me to put on tight clothes, took me to discos, for his friends to see.”

  “Showing you off.”

  “On the way home one time, we were pulled over, the policeman scolding Amad for the drink on his breath and the Filipina whore in his car, Amad not saying I was his wife, the mother of his child.”

  “You got a kid?”

  “We argued, and at home he drank more and struck me with his fist. When I couldn’t get up, he told me to get used to it.”

  “So you . . .”

  “They found him in the lane behind the house; at first, the police said it was over the money in his wallet. A mugging, they called it. Advised me to move with my child to a safer place.” She untucked his shirt, working the buttons, Axel looking at the door, Reyes on the other side.

  She said sometime later they began to suspect her, Axel asking about her kid again. She put a finger to his lips, didn’t want to talk about her life: leaving Fatima with a brother, promising she would be back, taking off with the Somalian who showed her a way out, getting her mixed up with the New Freedom Army, with ties to the Taliban. Supplying guns, bringing them in from Ireland. Scotland Yard seeking her for her part in a London subway bombing two years ago, three people killed, twenty more injured. Fleeing to Tanzania, then Mombasa. The Somalian shot down in a gun battle with peacekeepers. Ashika staying with the freedom fighters, changing her name to Dada Mzungu for a time, Swahili for white sister. Getting mixed up with Flutie Al-Nabi, moved to Montreal, got into running guns through Canada and into the U.S.

  She pushed all that out of her head and straddled Axel, touching the bump on his head, asking, “Still hurts?”

  “Yeah, it hurts.”

  She pressed again, and he took her wrists, pinned them down, rolled on top of her, the two of them grinning, finding that rhythm.

  The coons had been back, ones he’d been feeding since the mother paraded her young last spring. Axel swept up eggshells and trash, set a brick on the trash can’s lid. Gave him a chance to glance over at her cabin, hoping to catch her at the window. Only time it would happen, is what she said last night. Brought her towels, then the sandwich, and it happened again and again, the tattooed goon outside her door. Still there, looking over at him now.

  Checking the time on his cell, Axel went through the door, Diego at the bar, the sat phone pressed to his ear, the bottle on the bar.

  Speaking Spanish, sounding agitated on top of drunk. When he hung up, he popped off the back of the phone, snapping out the SIM card. Tossed it on the bar, cursing in Spanish.

  Going behind the bar, Axel saw the smashed glass, the sound system on the floor. Diego had thrown his drink at the source of the country music. “What the fuck . . .”

  Diego was across the bar, catching him by the throat — another bottle rolling, smashing to the floor — pulling him eye to eye, Axel pushing him off.

  Putting a hand to his windpipe, Axel stepped to the broom closet, reaching in past the shotgun, taking the mop and bucket, gathering up the broken glass, tossing it in the can under the bar, then mopping the spill.

  “We go now,” was all Diego said, getting off his stool, coming around, helping himself to a fresh bottle of CC from the shelf. One for the road.

  “What about the guns?”

  “The policeman they say drowned, he is back in life.”

  “This Rene Beckman guy?”

  Pointing at the phone, Diego told him that call was from Ismael, telling him about the two pendejos on the Sea-Doo, then told him to get the truck.

  The old man’s Land Rover. Going to the wall phone in the kitchen, Axel punched in the number for the East Van clubhouse again. Then Billy Wall’s cell. Nobody picking up. He tried his old man. Not getting through.

  “Fuck . . .” He went back through the swinging door, going in search of Rudi’s keys.

  . . . GOING FOR TAKEOUT

  Something he saw on the History Channel, a program about midget subs, two-man Nazi jobs with torpedoes nearly as long as the hull. Getting in close, firing point blank at a convoy’s belly, slipping away, and the convoy didn’t know what hit them.

  The cartels adapted the concept, constructing their subs in the Amazon. Crude as hell at first, not much more than go-fast boats, semi-subs bobbing along the surface with exhaust pipes sticking out of the water. A lot of them didn’t make it.

  A decade later, they were running two thousand kilometers below the surface, undetected. State of the art and packing tons of blow.

  Slave-labor conditions, deadly reptiles, killer mosquitoes. Lugging parts and equipment overland in the Amazon. Subs were built, equipped with radar, sonar, infrared and costing the cartel over a million bucks a pop. A spit in the ocean compared to the net on the powder making its way from Colombia and Ecuador. Stopping in Mexico for a fresh crew and fuel, then non-stop straight up to Vancouver, the DEA and RCMP clueless. Cartels doing whatever they wanted, raking in the dough. That’s what Beck put together.

  After his RCMP training at Depot, he followed their rules. A rookie thinking he’d make a difference. A year out of basic and that all changed, the street painting him a different picture. Downtown Eastside was nothing but zombie stares and street gangs. Police crackdowns made headlines, but barely made a dent.

  Dope coming by the boatloads. Grow-ops and meth labs dotting the Lower Mainland. Pot the reigning cash crop, the hard shit running a tight second.

  Kicking in doors and cuffing his share of assholes nearly got him killed. The department not backing him. Beck was happy to leave the life behind, spending his days on the boat, chasing salmon, his skin turning brown. Nothing but the scotch trying to kill him.

  Now these guys had torched his boat. Left the flare on the dock, sending a message, making it personal. Just a washed-out cop in the wrong place at the wrong time. Beck sending his own message back, doing it with a pen, giving the sergeant at arms a new limp.

  Coal Harbour lay ahead, the green girders of the Lions Gate above. Skirting the top of Stanley Park, lighthouse at Brockton Point and Deadman Island, Jimmy back at the throttle, guiding the Sea-Doo in.

  They could just make out the anti-whaler at dock, guys painting over what used to say RESEARCH down its white hull, a few more crew members up on deck. Jimmy eased the throttle, steering her to Gasoline Alley’s floating station. A tug on its west side, snugged against a line of tire bumpers, two guys in jeans on the deck, filling its massive tank, likely to take hours. Looking over at these two clowns on a Sea-Doo in springsuits and goggles, Jimmy swinging to the far side and tying her off.

  “How we doing it?” Jimmy asked.

  “Straight on.”

  Eddie Soto had told it straight. Beck was sure the sub was up there by the kelp bed. Enough daylight left to get the Sig from under the Jeep’s seat, grab an extra clip, Jimmy saying he had a piece on board the anti-whaler, souvenir from his last tour. Beck thinking they’d motor back to Gambier and have a closer look, find these fuckers who owed him a boat.

  Nearly dusk by the time they found the spot again, the half-sunken pier with debris around it. Jimmy at the controls, cruising the Sea-Doo around the kelp, came at it from the north end this time, Gambier’s long bays like fingers, all in shadow now, greens turning to purple, a couple of blinking lights along the shore of the middle bay.

  Jimmy bringing his Ruger, Beck tucking the nine-millimeter Sig in the rear compartment, the Olin flare, crab-trap markers and weights they picked up at the Chevron piled at his feet. Jimmy thinking the markers and weights could tie up the sub’s prop. Beck br
inging the flare in case he needed to call Danny Green for help, mark the spot.

  Scanning from the kelp, neither of them made out the black inflatable shoving out from the rocky shore a hundred yards behind them in the near-dark. Diego, Reyes and Ashika with a half dozen jerry cans of diesel, enough to get the sub out to the cargo ship Costas.

  Riding in slow past the kelp, bulbs and fronds bobbing on the surface, Jimmy stood high in front, checking the debris against the waterlogged pier, half its planks missing, looking like broken teeth. Pulling to within thirty yards, Jimmy checked out the jumble sticking above the surface. Pulse pumping.

  Same time, Reyes eased the inflatable Seahawk from shore, working the paddles, keeping it quiet, the craft laden with the cans of diesel, the two men on the Sea-Doo facing toward the hidden sub. Diego got in the bow, knife in his hand, the woman in the center, her feet on the cans. The two on the Sea-Doo, the ones Ismael called about, had come back for another look. No sign of police boats. Nobody else around.

  Diego slipped over the side. Nothing drunk about him now as he swam.

  This was fucked, Axel getting word on the drive out from Hope, Billy Wall and a couple of the East Van bikers on their way, coming by boat with the guns, supposed to be here anytime. Now this . . .

  Resting the paddles, Reyes did the same, going over the side, leaving the terrorista among the batteries and cans of diesel.

  Taking the Bersa from her pack, Ashika kept low, getting in the bow. Easy shot from this distance. Could pick both men off the Sea-Doo, but there was the noise. She would wait, let the Mexican and the one with the tats get it done. The Sea-Doo pulled closer to the sub, both men standing in neoprene vests, nothing that would stop a blade or a bullet, two men about to die.

  Resting the pistol on the gunwale, she waited, knowing Axel was watching back along the shore, Ashika facing too many days under the ocean with these smelly men, leaving the boy behind with the Camilla image.

  Diego and Reyes bobbed up on either side and just behind the Sea-Doo. Then movement among the debris, Ismael sweeping an arm at some branches, standing over the hatch, his feet spread, dead Carlos spread-eagled on the hull. Swinging the bullpup across his folded arms, Ismael showed the tats, calling to the men on the Sea-Doo, seeing Diego and Reyes swimming up from behind.

  “You are the police, sí?” Ismael’s voice rolled on the water.

  Diego and Reyes getting close to the back end.

  Jimmy took the flare in one hand, pistol in the other, Beck reaching in the rear compartment, taking his Sig.

  “You want to look? Come.” Ismael waved, doing his mi casa es su casa bit. Showing a lot of teeth, the bullpup across his arms, Diego grabbing for the stern, Reyes on the other side.

  Beck held the Sig along his leg, feeling the two men take hold. Reyes grinning up at him, a knife in his hand. Stepping on the fingers, then shoving the bundle of nets and weights with his foot, Beck watched Reyes getting tangled in the nylon line, slashing with the knife, the weights dragging him down, his face fading like a ghost under the surface, air bubbling from his mouth, the markers floating on the surface.

  At the same time, the Sea-Doo bobbed, Diego pulling himself up and swinging his own knife. Beck turned enough and fired the Sig. The crack rolling across the water, and Diego was gone.

  Beck looked back to Ismael, saying, “Know who I am now?”

  “Sí, the naked man,” Ismael said, this guy saving him the trouble of doing Diego and having to explain it.

  “And you people owe me a boat,” Beck said.

  “Ah, sí, you wish it in cash?”

  “Cash is king.”

  “Then come see the king.” Ismael bringing the bullpup level, pulling the trigger, Jimmy firing the Ruger and flare at the same time. Jimmy was knocked into the water, Ismael ducked and racked a round, the branches around him catching fire. Beck fired, hitting the periscope. Ismael swatted at the flames, stumbled against the hatch, tripped on dead Carlos, and dropped down into the sub, the bullpup going off.

  Deafened by the blast, head striking the metal rungs. Everything black. Ismael thinking he was dead, tasting blood in his mouth. Splayed on the crate of grenades, the wind knocked out of him, a stabbing in his ribs, his ankle felt broken. He felt around for the bullpup.

  Flashes of light from out the hatch, the branches burning above him. Sliding off the crate, his breath coming in gasps. Branches burned and crackled, bits dropping around him from above. Spitting blood, he dragged himself for the ladder. Embers fell on the crate of grenades, Ismael kicking it away, trying to scramble up the rungs. The crate catching fire.

  Laying the Sig on the seat, Beck dove after Jimmy, the flames reflecting on the water.

  Ismael’s shot had taken Jimmy high in the chest, punctured the inflatable behind the Sea-Doo, Ashika jumping from it. The Bersa in her hand, she swam for the Sea-Doo, one man lifting the other onto it. She felt the pain, some of the shot from the bullpup caught her on the shoulder.

  She tugged herself up on the Sea-Doo, Beck letting go of Jimmy, reaching for the pistol on the seat. Pointing the Bersa, she smiled, recognizing him, couldn’t believe it was the same cop.

  The name came to him, Beck saying, “Ashika Shakira.”

  “Officer Beckman. Nice of you to remember.”

  “Hard girl to forget.” Weighing his chances of grabbing the gun.

  “I can help you forget.” She pointed the Bersa at him.

  “Changed your hair, huh?”

  “You like it?” The wig sat twisted on her head.

  Branches crumbled, the fire on the sub nearly out. Ismael didn’t come back up the hatch. Diego was floating face down. No sign of Reyes. Axel somewhere on the shore, her only token out of here.

  The last of the embers dropped, casting them in darkness. She straightened her arm and squeezed the trigger. The roar deafening.

  The explosion punched her back, the Sea-Doo tossed, nearly capsized. Felt like a brick slapped his head, Beck was knocked in, he felt himself sinking. Thinking she beat him — again — but he was moving, stroking with his arms, breaking the surface, gasping in air, his ears ringing.

  Smoke and stench rolled from the sub’s hatch, the hull was gulping in water.

  Grabbing for Jimmy, getting his head up, Beck pushed him back up on the Sea-Doo, slumping him over the seat. No idea how bad he was hit. No sign of Ashika now.

  The inflatable was gone. Grinding metal over the ringing in his ears, the sub was settling in the muck, starting to list. Beck climbed onto the Sea-Doo and felt for the ignition key, reached Jimmy’s jacket for the lanyard clip with the kill-switch, needing to get out of there. Seawater sloshing into the sub’s hatch, air gurgling up, debris floating on the surface.

  She could swim up on him again. No idea what had happened to her. Beck giving Jimmy mouth-to-mouth, thinking of that knife going through the Kevlar vest, the way it felt back at the Jesus Factory. The front of Jimmy’s vest torn away, Jimmy unconscious and in bad shape.

  Something floated to the surface. Looked like a head in the Sea-Doo’s LED beam. Ashika’s red hair. Hearing Jimmy breathing on his own, Beck slid back in, doing a few strokes, and reached to lift her head above water, catching the hair in his fist, flinging it away; in that split second Beck thinking it was her severed head, realizing it was just her wig. He swam back.

  Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the whup whup of helicopter rotors, searchlight sweeping across the bay, the bird circling from the north. Beck climbed back up, tried to stand, doing his best to wave into the air. Didn’t see the Boston Whaler slowing at the top of the bay, switching off its lights. Waiting.

  . . . NIGHT ON FIRE

  Reyes had lent a hand, pulling the inflatable Seahawk from the tailgate, Axel pumping it up, the two of them lifting the jerry cans from the Range Rover, setting them inside. Axel stood at the shore, Reyes and Diego shoving
off, Ashika sitting among the jerry cans. No kiss goodbye. She didn’t look back at Axel.

  Billy Wall got himself over to the East Van clubhouse after Beck stuck the Bic into his leg, had the fat pen removed by the doc that worked for the club off the books. After the painkillers kicked in, he called up Axel, was told what was happening, they were getting the coke Diego held back off the sub. Billy said the guns were on the Boston Whaler, would meet them at the bottom end of Gambier. Then, he’d go back with Axel, drive the last of the coke out to Rudi’s lodge, six hundred pounds of the shit, enough for a few life sentences.

  Axel heard it before he saw it, the Sea-Doo buzzing into the bay, its LED light shining past the kelp bed, then switching off. Two riders closing on the hidden sub, Diego paddling the inflatable, slipping over the side, Reyes too, Ashika sitting low among the cans.

  Nothing Axel could do but watch it unfold. The flare lit the bay, the gun shots, then the blast from the sub, rocking the night. Scanning across the black water, he called her name.

  Axel and Billy Wall were at opposite ends of the bay, both hearing the chopper come with its searchlight sweeping the water.

  Billy had Digger switch off his lights, told him to veer off, having to get out of there, the Boston Whaler loaded with guns.

  Axel watched it all happen. Then he saw her, crawling to shore, coughing water. Jumping in, he pulled her up on the rocks, the chopper pulling low on the water, one guy on the Sea-Doo waving.

  Axel half-carried her through the bush back to Rudi’s Range Rover, telling her she’d be alright, thinking of the next move. Driving out of there with the lights off.

  . . . HORSESHOES AND HAND GRENADES

  “Fucker went up like a meth lab,” Beck retelling it, same way he told the detectives: the blast shooting from the hatch, the hull ruptured and bubbling, debris swirling round the conning tower, the narco sub going down. After Jimmy was airlifted to Vancouver General and the detectives asked their questions, Beck called Danny Green. Needed a favor that came without any more questions.