Rum Runner eBook_for Epub_Revised

by dannal

  “That’s the same tat Marquise has got,” Walsh said, his eyes huge with confusion.

  “Why?” the vicious murderer de Losa asked. He looked just as confused as Everest Walsh.

  “I had this inked into my skin to ensure I would never forget the man who killed my family, Marquise,” Max said. “After you killed my wife, my daughter, and my son in cold blood—simply because we happened to stumble upon your drug transaction in Islamorada—I had this done to remember you. Every day when I wake my first thoughts are of revenge, and every night before I go to sleep I pause to remember your hideous face.”

  De Losa’s hand reached slowly for his 9mm Heckler & Koch.

  “Do it,” Max said, dropping his folding knife and placing his hand on his Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol. “Let’s do this.”

  Marquise de Losa desisted.

  “Oww!” Everest Walsh shrieked. The tanto-tipped lock blade had dropped onto his foot, sticking through his suede slipper, standing on end, lodged into his flesh. He bent over and yanked it out with a lady-like scream.

  “I picked up a partial magazine you dropped at the murder scene, Marquise,” Max said, speaking the words he had spoken in his head a hundred times before. “Three hollow points left. I managed to keep the police from bagging the magazine as evidence by hiding it in a storage compartment on our rented boat. Even though I was shot and bleeding, I crawled to hide the bullets. I knew someday I’d get the chance to use your own bullets against you. Now they’re in here,” Max said, beaming as he drew the Smith & Wesson pistol from its holster.

  Marquise looked legitimately terrified.

  “You know, Everest,” Max said, turning his attention toward the cigar magnate, “I only started making rum after I learned of your lust for small batch boutique rum. That article I read about you in GQ revealed your particular penchant for bootleg rhum agricole, and it was clear what I had to do. I moved to Martinique to make the best damn rhum agricole in the world. I believed with every fiber inside me that someday my reputation would reach you, and you’d come looking for me. I didn’t know you would have my friends Jacques and Susan killed. And for a few cases of my rum!”

  “So you’re saying you only made the rum to get even with me and Marquise?” Walsh asked. He looked as if everything he had known to be true in life was now upside-down. “But your rum, it really is the best in the Caribbean. You can’t tell me you don’t have a passion for making it.”

  “You know that old adage, Walsh?” Max said seriously. “Someone bakes a cake or something, and they say they have a secret ingredient. They say the secret ingredient is love.”

  Walsh nodded and looked intensely at Max. His reddened face dripped with perspiration. He looked like he might have a stroke.

  “Every moment I spent distilling every batch of my rum I thought about you and de Losa,” Max said viciously. “I craved this day. The day I would finally get even with both of you. Each time I distilled the Fleur de Lis rum, Everest, I didn’t do it with love. My secret ingredient was revenge.”

  Walsh’s mouth hung open. It was clear he didn’t know what to do or say.

  “Josue put the cocaine in Chuy’s handbag,” Max said. “That big lump wasn’t stealing from you. We set him up and you shot him. You shot your own guy for no reason,” Max said. He wished he was relishing every second of his revenge. Now that it was here, Max felt hollow and empty. It just brought back the sick feelings he’d had in the aftermath of his family’s murders.

  “Tito?” de Losa asked.

  “I put your whore’s cell phone in his jacket pocket,” Max said. “You killed Tito for nothing. Nothing, Marquise.”

  “Son of a—” de Losa started to say, but never finished.

  Max raised the Smith & Wesson and shot Marquise de Losa twice in the heart.

  Everest Walsh gasped.

  “That just leaves you, Walsh,” Max said, coldly.

  “What do you want?” Everest Walsh said in a pleading tone. “Anything.”

  “Where’s my money?” Max asked.

  “What money? Oh, the rum money. It’s in a bag up on the sundeck. We thought you’d be right back. But you took off with my granddaddy’s boat. Almost thought I’d have to deduct that from the total.” Walsh forced a laugh. He was obviously doing his best to get out of the situation with his life.

  “What’s all that about?” Walsh stared out the huge panes of glass on the yacht’s port side bulkhead. His gaze pointed toward the suspicious catamaran anchored near the shore of Ilet Boisseau. A helicopter hovered over the cat, causing expanding concentric circles in the water around the vessel; two police boats converged on the scene, moving swiftly, lights flashing.

  “Four gang members captured Josue,” Max said, matter-of-factly. “They tortured him before they killed him. But I killed them.”

  Everest Walsh swallowed hard. “Now, Max,” he began, but Max’s eye caught unexpected movement reflected in the starboard glass windows. It was Marquise de Losa getting to his feet behind Max. Bastard must have been wearing a vest.

  Max turned to face the menacing killer as he raised the submachine gun out of his coat. Marquise de Losa opened fire.

  In a blur of motion, Max slipped behind Everest Walsh just as the bullets started ripping into the large man’s body. Max grabbed hold of Walsh’s bright orange Hawaiian shirt. He struggled with all of the strength in his grip and his arms to hold the unfortunate meat shield upright. If Everest Walsh hit the ground, Max would lose his cover.

  Marquise de Losa was foolish enough to unload his entire magazine on Walsh. The Cuban thug dropped his empty mag at the same time Max dropped Everest Walsh.

  Before de Losa could slam another magazine home, Max holstered the Smith & Wesson and drew his FNS compact pistol and fired twice, shattering the glass behind the murderer. Then Max rushed him, grabbing hold of his throat and forcing him through the shattered glass, and over the railing.

  Marquise de Losa landed in a heap on the main deck near the railing. But not as hard as Max had anticipated. Max had wanted to hurt him, to break his bones. But de Losa scampered to his feet and limped away toward the stern of the Snowy Lady.

  “No, no, no,” Max said rapidly, desperate to keep the murderer from getting away. Why didn’t I just shoot him?

  Max couldn’t let the cold-blooded hitman get away, not after all the vicious man had done; all that he had taken from Max. And not after all of Max’s efforts to make the rum that would draw Everest Walsh to him, and all of the years of combat training and other preparations he and Josue had made in anticipation of this day.

  Max turned around and looked at Everest Walsh’s body. The wealthy cigar plantation owner and drug trafficker had been reduced to hamburger by de Losa’s 9mm bullets. Blood pooled around him, staining his brand new off-white carpet.

  Max felt an irritating sting in his left hip. He lifted his shirt to see a half-inch deep gash just above his hip; a good graze by one of de Losa’s bullets. No time to worry about that now.

  And then Max heard the sound of gunfire down below. He leaned far out of the shattered window opening in the cigar lounge to see a cloud of black smoke from somewhere down below, just out of sight, at the end of the main deck near the stern. Max spotted Marquise de Losa limping back toward the bow just below him. Someone was chasing him.

  “Vivienne!” Max shouted. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Tell you later,” she shouted up to Max through the fractured window.

  Max ran pell-mell toward the spiral staircase, virtually floating down the steps to the main deck. He practically knocked down Vivienne as she bolted through an outer door to the inside passageway.

  “Where’d he go?” Vivienne asked, slightly out of breath. She clutched her Mossberg twelve gauge; seeing her holding the weapon a second time, it struck Max how comfortable it looked in her hands.

  “I’ve studied the blueprints of this ship for years,” Max said frantically. “There’s another staircase near the bow, for
the staff.

  “Vivienne. This guy de Losa killed my wife, kids. I can’t let him get away.”

  Vivienne nodded with a look of both tenderness and pity.

  “Search the main deck for me, will you?” Max asked. “Just in case he doubled back, and then the lower deck. I’ll head up to the upper deck, clear it, and then check the sundeck.”

  “Right,” Vivienne said. “Don’t worry, Max. He won’t get away.”

  Max rushed up the spiral staircase. Vivienne peeled off and started checking doors on the main deck. Max continued on toward the upper deck. He caught a blur of green fabric near the far end of the cigar lounge where Everest Walsh lay in a heap. The fleeing thug dashed toward a door near the bow, leading to the bridge.

  “De Losa!” Max shouted. “Stop running, coward!”

  But Marquise de Losa disappeared through the door. Max sprinted after him, kicking the door open. As Max burst through, he came face to face with the butt of Marquise’s submachine gun.

  “Hey! What’s the deal?” the Snowy Lady’s captain said. He appeared aghast at the tussle taking place in the yacht’s handsome control room, which was fitted with hardwood flooring and wall panels, and polished brass accents.

  Max hit the ground hard. He lay flat on his back, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Marquise turned his weapon to fire. Max pulled his FNS, firing several times at the murderer, hitting him square in the chest.

  “Aghh!” De Losa grunted, letting go of his Heckler & Koch, as the Ruger 107 grain bullets ripped into the man’s bulletproof vest. The criminal wheeled back, then dropped to a knee, gasping for air, but not before knocking the .40 caliber pistol out of Max’s hands.

  Max guessed at least one of the ARX copper-polymer hybrid bullets might have gone through the vest, likely made of Kevlar, lodging at least a short distance into the man’s chest. But as he regained his breath and moved to get to his feet, Marquise de Losa dove forward and grabbed onto Max’s throat.

  As they struggled, Max slipped a KA-BAR Becker Combat knife from its sheath on his belt, and stabbed it into de Losa’s back. The knife bounced off de Losa’s vest, doing no damage. Max raised it for another thrust, but Marquise wrestled the knife away, sticking it into the floor during the struggle.

  Max grasped for de Losa’s submachine gun, still slung around the killer’s body. The two men rolled across the ground, each one desperate to gain control of the weapon. Suddenly it burst to life, spraying 9mm rounds all around the bridge until it was empty.

  The yacht’s captain cowered in the corner, hugging himself into a ball to avoid the flying bullets that were ripping apart the yacht’s control room.

  Max grabbed the knife out of the floor and slashed the sling on de Losa’s submachine gun. The weapon tumbled free to the floor, and Max sprang to his feet, slipping the KA-BAR back into its sheath.

  Marquise de Losa bolted, scrambling up a service ladder to a hatch on the sundeck. Max chased closely behind. He felt a tug on his leg and realized the Snowy Lady’s captain had emboldened himself enough to grab onto Max’s leg. He was trying to pull him off the ladder.

  Max kicked the well-built captain in the chin. The yacht’s skipper stumbled back away from the ladder. He reached for something behind his back, and Max pounced off the ladder, taking the captain down hard on the floor of the bridge. A Glock subcompact pistol, just like the one Eric Pepperdine had carried, slid across the polished cherry wood floor.

  Max brought his fist down hard again and again into the captain’s face until blood had splattered from both nostrils and he had clearly lost consciousness. Max turned to the ladder and climbed, exercising extreme caution at the open hatch, lest Marquise de Losa lay in wait.

  He poked his head up like a prairie dog on the sundeck. De Losa stood nearby, waiting, his unsheathed machete clutched in his grip. “You made me use this on my friend, Tito,” he said, sounding strangely forlorn for as hard of a man as he clearly was. “Now I am going to use it to cut out your heart.”

  Max slipped out his KA-BAR from its sheath, holding the blade in a defensive position. As far as weapons go, De Losa had the size advantage with the machete, but Max doubted he had as much skill at blade-fighting.

  Marquise de Losa lurched toward Max, swinging the machete like an axe. Max immediately lowered his center of gravity and moved to the left, stepping lightly, just as he and Josue had trained in tire machet for years. De Losa’s machete clanged against Max’s knife and glanced off.

  Max blocked another of de Losa’s blows. Sometimes he would deflect them with his knife, sometimes he would knock the criminal’s arm out of the way. Other times he would slip out of the way altogether, as de Losa’s machete swished through empty air.

  Then Max went on the offensive, stabbing the KA-BAR again and again toward the retreating thug’s face. De Losa did his best to defend himself, using his machete to deflect Max’s knife, all the while stepping backward, closer and closer to Walsh’s outlandish waterfall-surrounded hot tub.

  Marquise de Losa, realizing he was outmatched, spoke, likely hoping to halt Max’s onslaught. “I remember your family, Max,” he said, his yellowing teeth stained red with blood.

  Max knew what de Losa was trying to do. But Max was determined not to let the murderer get inside his head. He said nothing.

  “I usually don’t. I kill so many people, they sort of all blend together. Each gruesome face dissolving, one into another.” Marquise de Losa coughed and placed his hand over his chest, no doubt still feeling the sting of Max’s bullets. “But those kids of yours went down so easy. Didn’t they? You saw it.

  “For me, it was fun,” Marquise de Losa goaded. “Like shooting a pair of sick dogs.”

  Max clenched his jaw and considered when he would lunge with the knife.

  “But it was your wife who must have gotten the worst,” de Losa said, continuing his taunting. “Did she even die? If she did it must have taken awhile, because my bullets ripped her guts apart.”

  Max tried not to think about Marquise de Losa’s words. He just waited for the other man to strike. He would deflect the other man’s blade, then he would bring his knife up to the man’s throat, cutting it, and watch the man who killed his family bleed out before him.

  “It must hurt to know they all suffered so much, but you lived,” Marquise de Losa said. “You must struggle with it. The guilt, I mean,” he spat.

  Marquise de Losa reached back with the machete. In a flash of fluid motion, he swung it down ferociously toward Max’s neck. It was the same blow he had used to kill Tito. Max had known he would use it.

  Max ducked down and deflected de Losa’s arm with his own. De Losa’s carbon steel blade swished over Max’s head. Max reached in and grabbed the front of de Losa’s shirt, pulling him and his nemesis together tightly, locked face to face.

  Max brought the seven-inch blade up to de Losa’s neck, and then—

  The left side of Marquise de Losa’s head erupted into a repugnant shower of blood, skull fragments, and brain matter. The remorseless killer slipped out of Max’s grasp, falling backwards into a bleeding heap in Everest Walsh’s hot tub.

  Vivienne Monet poked her head out of the trapdoor leading up from the yacht’s control room. She spotted Max on the sundeck, and she lay her shotgun down on the deck before climbing up to reach the sundeck.

  “What happened?” Max gasped, his eyes bulging. “Who?”

  Max looked over the sundeck’s railing toward the lapping Atlantic Ocean water below. Colonel Travere stood on the deck of a Zodiac police boat, braced against the boat’s control console, an FN P90 in his hands. The Gendarmerie Nationale commander had picked off Marquise de Losa from the moving boat with the bullpup-style personal defense weapon. And he stood by, ready with a follow-up shot, if necessary.

  Max turned away from the rail and looked at Marquise de Losa’s floating body. His blood had tainted the water that circulated between the waterfall and the hot tub. The steaming water that trickled over the grey stones
on either side of the tub now flowed in a disquieting pink color.

  Max pulled his Smith & Wesson pistol from its holster and let it dangle by his side. “You know, Vivienne,” Max said in a sad, monotone voice, “I’ve carried around three bullets that Marquise de Losa dropped at the murder scene where he killed my wife and kids. I always intended to use one or all three of these to kill the man who took their lives. Now that’s been taken away from me. He’s dead, and I didn’t do it.”

  Max chuckled. “You know, I also considered how, even though I wasn’t killed alongside my family, maybe one of these bullets might still be destined for me. And now, I only have one left.”

  Vivienne Monet stood nearby with her shotgun slung over her shoulder by its leather sling. The wind played with the thin fabric of her white dress. She looked like a picture out of a magazine. “Max?” she asked, deep concern apparent in her voice. “What are you doing with that gun?”

  Max clutched the gun by his side in a way that frightened Vivienne. She was not afraid for her own safety, but she had been around suicidal people before. “Why don’t you just put it away,” she said.

  Max paced the deck like a wounded animal. He swung his gun hand up and down as he stepped. Vivienne could not take her eyes off the semi-automatic pistol. She wondered if she should intervene by force.

  “Max, you don’t want to harm yourself,” Vivienne said.

  Max turned toward her with a vacant expression. “I honestly never knew what would come next.”

  “You mean, after you took revenge against your family’s killer?”

  Max nodded. “I suppose I just thought I would keep moving forward. But now Josue is gone as well. Everyone in the world I’ve ever cared about has been taken from me. Do you know what that’s like?” Max turned to Vivienne. At first she had thought it was a rhetorical question, but it seemed like he was really asking.

  Vivienne stepped forward and placed a hand on Max’s shoulder. “I do. I mean, not exactly like you, Max. But my mother was taken from me when I was very young. And my father died just after I moved to Paris when I was only seventeen. I was going to be a model, you know?” Vivienne flashed a smile at Max.