by Lee Goldberg
Mordente moaned, spreading her legs and leaning back against the couch. Her breasts tumbled out the wide V of her open blouse, the nipples aroused into hard points. Macklin dropped his head and, with deliberate slowness, kissed and sucked and licked his way down her chest, moving off the couch and leaning over her. She writhed, running her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. He molded his lips around the stem of her right nipple, teasing it with his moist tongue. She dragged her fingernails across his back, parting her legs wide and pushing herself against the bulge of his erection. They ground to a quickening rhythm.
Macklin slid one hand down her flat stomach to her belt, carefully unbuckling it. She felt his hot breath on her cleavage as he moved to her left nipple, already excited by his sucking of her other breast.
She pulled his shirt out of his pants and slipped her hands under the tight waistband and over his buttocks, soft and smooth to the touch. Macklin's erection pressed uncomfortably against his jeans.
Leaning back, Macklin yanked down her pants, and she opened his, slipping down his briefs and wrapping her hand tightly around his penis. She looked into his eyes and smiled, pulling him to her. "Let me take you on a ride . . ."
# # # # # #
Noises that invaded Macklin's sleep always seemed ten times louder than they did when he was awake. That didn't change Sunday morning. When the phone rang, it sounded like a fire alarm going off next to his ear.
He grabbed for it angrily, nearly knocking the whole thing on the floor, where it would undoubtedly have crashed down like a two-ton boulder.
"Yes?" he whispered with aggravation, looking over his bare shoulder at Mordente, who lay on her left side with her naked back to him. His fingers traced the thin white lines left on her back by the straps of her bathing suit.
"It's me," Mort said. "The stuff is here and I've checked it out. It's fine. What the hell do you plan to do with it?"
Macklin picked up his watch on the nightstand and glanced at the time. Nine o'clock.
"I'll tell you when I get there, around two," Macklin mumbled, gently lifting up the sheet and admiring Mordente's firm buttocks and slim, crossed legs. "How are you feeling?"
"Better than you'd think," Mort laughed. "But I look like Quasimodo's uglier half-brother."
"Bye." Macklin set the phone down gently and slid close to Mordente, pressing himself against her back and slipping one hand between her legs.
She stirred, uncrossing her legs. Macklin nuzzled her neck and let his fingers explore her.
"Good morning," she said, her eyes still closed.
"Good morning," he echoed. "How are you?"
"Fine." She grinned. "And getting better." Macklin rolled over on top of her and gave her a deep kiss.
"But," she said, holding his face in her hands, "I've got work to do today, a freelance story that must go to New York by Express Mail tomorrow morning."
Macklin kissed her again, stroking her between her legs with his forefinger.
"Maybe," she moaned, "it could wait for an hour or so."
# # # # # #
The moment Macklin walked into the hangar, he could tell something was wrong. Mort was in the office sitting on Macklin's desk, holding the phone close to his ear, his brow furrowed.
"Brett, it's Shaw," Mort said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. A large white bandage covered the side of his head. "All the equipment is in the chopper."
Macklin nodded and took the receiver from him. "Bad news?" he asked Shaw.
"Yep, I think Orlock skipped out on us this morning," Shaw said. "I'm trying to get a search warrant to go through the house, but it will take time. It's Sunday and all the judges are on the golf course."
"Shit, where is he?" He couldn't stand the idea of Orlock slipping through his fingers.
"That's a dumb question," Shaw snapped. "How the hell do I know? His lawyers say he's here but unavailable. I think it's bullshit and I can't get the law on my side to force its hand. The cogs of the legal machine move slowly on weekends."
The legal machine always works slowly, Macklin thought, if it even works at all. "Who is Orlock's lawyer?"
"Jules Baldwin, a young Century City type, the kind who works seven days a week," Shaw said.
Macklin glanced at Mort. There might be a way to find Orlock after all.
"Orlock can't be far. Look, Ronny, don't you worry about it. I'll find out where he is." He gripped the receiver tightly. "You just get me the go-ahead from Harlan Fitz."
Shaw sighed. "I already did."
# # # # # #
Jules Baldwin knew his wife didn't like the stainless steel–modern look of his new law office, the glass-walled corner of the fifth floor of a Century City tower. He didn't give a shit whether she liked it or not. The decor was one way of keeping the pain in the ass out of the office. He loved his work far more than he'd ever love his wife.
It was a $300-an-hour decorator, a woman he described to friends as "extremely fuckable," and a late-night rerun of UFO that had given him the inspiration for the office's sci-fi style. The hanging prints were all new-wave splashes of color framed in silver against a white wall. The plants were potted in silver vases beside silver-wrought hi-tech chairs that Captain Kirk would be quite comfortable sitting in.
Baldwin sat in just such a chair, hunched over an ink-scrawled yellow legal pad that lay amidst a smattering of papers on his glass desk. Behind him was a window that afforded him a sweeping view of the Century Plaza Hotel.
He'd stare out the window at the hotel and console himself by thinking that though he didn't have a view like the other partners, he had Andrea for a secretary.
His mind had begun to wander to Friday's lunchtime dictation, which Andrea took between his legs, when the white phone rang and interrupted his pleasant memories.
"Jules Baldwin," he said, his New York upbringing turning "Baldwin" into "Bowldwin" as he spoke.
"Yeah, this is the garage," the caller drawled. "There's been an accident down here with your car."
Baldwin's eyebrows shot up and the color drained from his face. Images of his BMW 320i as a crumpled mass of twisted metal flashed in front of his eyes. "M-My car?" It came out "cah." "My car? Shit, I'll be right down."
He slammed down the receiver and dashed out of his office.
Macklin, downstairs in the garage beside the bank of elevators, hung up the pay phone with a smile and waved to Mort, who sat behind the wheel of Macklin's idling Impala.
Macklin pressed his back to the wall beside the elevator door and waited. A second later, the doors parted and Baldwin rushed out. Macklin stuck out his leg.
Baldwin cried out, falling face first onto the cement. Macklin was on him in an instant, sitting on Baldwin's back and pinning back the lawyer's arms. Baldwin, his cheek to the cool cement, screamed out in terror as the Impala shot forward out of the shadows and closed in on him.
"NOOOOOOOO!" Baldwin cried shrilly. The Impala screeched to a stop two feet short of his head.
Baldwin panted, fear dampening his face with sweat.
"Where's Orlock?" Macklin demanded, twisting Baldwin's arm.
"Who's Orlock?" Baldwin's yelled, the sound of the engine in his ears, the exhaust filling his nostrils. "I don't know anyone named Orlock."
The Impala jerked forward. Baldwin screamed and squeezed his eyes closed as the front end of the car passed over his head. He opened his eyes and stared into the tread of the left front tire, now inches from his face.
The engine growled above him.
"Tell me where Orlock is or they'll be wiping you up with a mop," Macklin hissed.
"On his boat. He's on his fucking boat, okay?" Baldwin exclaimed. "He's going to Costa Rica."
"Why?"
Baldwin was silent.
"Two seconds, scum, and you're dogshit on my tire."
The engine revved hungrily. "Okay, okay, he's gonna pull a Robert Vasco," Baldwin said, his voice cracking. "All his money is safe in Swiss banks, so he's running. He wants t
o be out of the country before the cops are able to get past me to him. He's going to disappear into South America and die a wealthy man."
"Not if I can help it." Macklin stood up, pulling Baldwin up with him. The lawyer's head smashed against the underside of the car. Baldwin let out a sharp, guttural cry of pain. Macklin lowered him a few inches and then suddenly yanked him up again. Baldwin's head hit the car with a metallic thud.
Macklin released Baldwin, leaving the dazed, limp lawyer shaking on the ground, and got into his car on the passenger side. Mort slipped the gear into reverse and sped backward out of the garage.
As unconsciousness closed in on Baldwin, he thanked God his car was all right after all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brett Macklin's helicopter streaked westward, chasing the setting sun across the Pacific's blue, frothy swells in search of Orlock's yacht, the Profiteer.
While Macklin peered out the window, scanning the ocean, Mort guided the chopper south of Catalina Island, which loomed several miles to their right against a purple sky.
"Brett, pretty soon it's going to be too dark," Mort said.
Macklin kept his eyes on the water skirting past them. "He's not going to slither away, Mort. We're going to find him."
"Maybe Baldwin lied. Maybe this is a wild-goose chase."
"No, I can feel it. Orlock's out there."
"Where out there?" Mort groaned to himself.
Macklin heard him but made no comment. Orlock won't escape, Macklin thought. This time Orlock will pay for his crimes.
Macklin's eyes narrowed on a white dot in the distance. Yes, it has to be. He nudged Mort and pointed. "That's him."
"How can you be sure?"
Macklin slipped on the leather gloves in his lap. "I'm sure," he said, picking up a rifle from the floor.
He slid open the window and stared down the rifle's sight, following the one-hundred-foot yacht's wide wake to the stern, where he could see the word Profiteer behind a wet bike secured to the ping platform.
"All right, Mort, it's showtime," Macklin said with a grim smile. He strapped on a wide brown harness that had three carabiners, looped metal clasps, dangling from it.
Macklin had ordered the equipment from Shaw in case the law couldn't get near Orlock and Macklin would have to seek justice himself. The equipment was for an assault on Orlock's mansion. But, Macklin realized, the open sea was much better. No witnesses. No danger of being identified. No police to intrude.
"It's going to be tricky, Brett," Mort said. "He's going about twenty-five knots."
Macklin picked up the rifle again, sticking the barrel out the window and sighting the upper deck, close to the wheelhouse. "Then we'll just have to slow 'em down."
He squeezed the trigger.
The tear-gas canister burst out of the rifle and whistled down to the yacht, missing its target and hitting the launch crane. The smoking canister clattered to the deck floor and shrouded the yacht's stern in thick, eye-stinging fog.
"Damn," Macklin hissed, taking aim on the wheelhouse again. "Get me closer, Mort, and keep her steady."
A man emerged from the wheelhouse, firing a machine gun at the helicopter. Mort veered away, the machine gun a flickering spark on the Profiteer's deck.
"No!" Macklin scolded Mort. "Stay on her ass."
Mort, realizing the futility of arguing, reluctantly brought the helicopter to bear on the yacht again. Macklin adjusted his aim, centering the sights on the turtleneck-clad gunman.
Macklin fired, the canister slamming the gunman through the wheelhouse window. A second later, billows of tear gas rose from the wheelhouse and the yacht slowed.
"Okay, let's get on top of them," Macklin said, dropping his rifle on the floor and opening the door. A burst of cold wind rushed into the helicopter, chilling their skin.
"Brett, are you sure you want to do this?" Mort asked.
Macklin ignored him, yelling over the whir of the chopper blades and the rush of sea air. "Bring her down as close as you dare over the stern, then get up and keep your eyes open."
Mort nodded. "Be careful, Brett."
Macklin smiled. "I will." He slipped a .44 Magnum automatic in his harness, pulled a gas mask over his head, and dropped one end of a nylon rope out the window. The rope spilled out, dangling seventy-five feet below the chopper and disappearing in the gas cloud on the Profiteer's stern.
He snapped a carabiner to the rope, which ran through the metal loop on down between his legs. Holding the rope tightly, Macklin backed out of the helicopter, pausing with his body hunched outward and his feet planted firmly against the doorframe.
"You're crazy, Brett," Mort bellowed.
Macklin, straddling the rope, winked and pushed off. He slid down the rope quickly. He enjoyed the illusion of being stationary, the ocean raising the boat up to him, offering Orlock on a one-hundred-foot, narrow platter.
The rope suddenly ran out, slipping through his fingers. Macklin dropped through ten feet of thin air into the tear-gas cloud. Without warning, he crashed onto the hardwood deck.
Macklin lay stunned, curled up on the deck, pain buzzing in his legs, fireworks bursting in his eyes. So this is what it's like to be a raindrop. The sound of bullets clamoring for him brought him to his senses. He tumbled like a bread roller along the floor, the bullets cutting a trail across the wood inches from his body.
He bolted to his feet and yanked out his .44 Magnum automatic in one motion, catching sight of a figure staggering in the greenish haze near the cabin directly ahead. Macklin squeezed the trigger, the Magnum spitting slugs through the smoke. The bullets hammered into the figure, skipping him across the floor like a hand-tossed stone skimming the surface of the water.
Macklin dashed to the cabin wall and pressed himself against it. His heart throbbed in his throat and he felt slightly queasy. A ticklish feeling pinned him to the wall for fifteen seconds. Fear. C'mon, Ace Commando, you can't chicken out now.
Taking a deep breath, he slid to his left toward the cabin door. He hesitantly reached out for the latch and pulled it open. No gunfire exploded through the doorway. That means nothing, Macklin thought. Whoever is inside might just be waiting to see the whites of my eyes.
Pivoting on his right foot, he spun in a crouch facing the open door, his gun ready. He saw a lavish living room, complete with piano, wet bar, plush couches, and dark wood bookcases lined with volumes. A stuffed swordfish was mounted, midjerk, on the wall above the bar. Pictures of Tinseltown pirates, from Errol Flynn to Robert Shaw, hung around the cabin.
Macklin entered the cabin slowly, moving toward the low door directly in front of him. He stepped down the two steps leading to it cautiously and thought about how much he hated closed doors and what they might hide. The abrasive sound of the chopper circling overhead was reassuring. At least he wasn't alone.
Pressing his shoulder to the door, he twisted the handle and burst into the dark passageway. He froze, listening for a sign of lurking danger. His face was hot in the gas mask, his warm breath trapped inside.
He crept slowly forward, waiting for someone to leap out of an adjoining room. An explosion behind him shook the passageway. A single split second of understanding, long enough for Macklin to realize a gun had been fired, preceded the two bullets. They pounded into his back, shoving him forward onto the floor. Flat on his stomach, his consciousness swirling and his body numb, he desperately tried to suck in breath as darkness closed in on him.
Mort buzzed above the yacht, worried. He hadn't seen any sign of Macklin for several minutes. That wasn't good. The tear gas had dissipated, and he could see the launch crane swinging out over the water, a single figure in the motorboat. It had to be Orlock.
Damn. Mort flashed on the front-mounted three-million-candle-power searchlight Stocker had stolen from an LAPD Air Support Unit allocation. A bright beam of light sliced the darkness and concentrated on the speedboat slapping the surface. A man in a yellow life vest cowered in the light, unclasping the launch ties.
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Orlock—it had to be Orlock. Mort switched on the loudspeaker.
"You're not going anywhere, Orlock," Mort's voice boomed down from the sky. Orlock settled behind the wheel and twisted the key, the outboard motor sputtering to life.
"Damn it," Mort said to himself in frustration. "Where's Brett?"
The launch sped away from the yacht, cutting a sharp swath in the water.
"Orlock is escaping in the launch," Mort barked into the mike, following the boat with the searchlight.
Macklin lay motionless in the passageway, Mort's words vaguely registering in his throbbing head. He felt the floor shudder under the weight of approaching footsteps. Macklin steadied his breathing, willing his head to clear.
The footsteps stopped. A hand gripped Macklin's shoulder and turned him over. Macklin pumped three shells into the man's gut. Blood burst out the man's back, splattering the walls.
The gunman staggered back, blood bubbling from his stomach, his face drawn into an expression of confused surprise. His half-closed eyes asked, How?
"Flak jacket, asshole," Macklin hissed, driving his foot into the man's bloody midsection. The man's face bloated and his stomach imploded with a squish, swallowing Macklin's foot.
The man toppled backward and Macklin heard the wet slurp of his foot being released. The body landed with a dull splash in the puddle of blood.
Macklin sat up slowly, his back rigid with pain from the impact of bullets into the flak jacket concealed under his jumpsuit.
Reaching out to the wall for support, Macklin was able to pull himself into a standing position. He stepped around the gunman's corpse and forced himself to move quickly back up the steps, through the main cabin, and out onto the deck.
Yanking off his gas mask, Macklin turned to his right and saw his helicopter hovering above him, its searchlight trained on a motorboat racing through the night toward Catalina.