by John Lansing
Jack’s grin was tight as he pulled up the anchor, started the engine, and headed north toward Marina del Rey.
“There’s a towel in the head,” he said over the roar of the engine. Angelica walked into the dimly lit cabin, throwing an appreciative look back at Jack as she closed the bathroom door behind her.
He was running on pure adrenaline from the rush of the assault. Because of the natural curve of the landmass, he chose to power into deeper water for a more direct route home. The lights of the Terranea resort shone like a beacon in the distance. Jack could see a cargo container ship moving from San Diego north in his direction, but it was still in his rearview.
Then the deep thrumming of a high-powered boat turned his stomach to water. He glanced over his shoulder but couldn’t make out the cigarette boat on the dark horizon. Hassan was running without lights. Jack instinctively reached for the radio and then remembered that his equipment had been smashed to hell after the attack in the marina.
He pushed the throttle to max, checked the load on his Glock, and pulled the .22 from his ankle rig. As Angelica walked out on deck with a towel wrapped around her hair, he handed the gun to her.
“You know how to fire one of these?”
“It’s not over?” she asked fearfully. Yet in the next moment the slight crack in her resolve turned to ice. She unwound the towel and threw it over one of the deck chairs. “It’s just point and shoot,” she said with the ease of a mob wife. “Uncle Frankie,” she said by way of explanation.
“Right.”
Jack pulled out his cell and handed it off. “Dial 911 and have them patch us through to the Coast Guard.”
She dialed the phone and then looked up. “No bars, Jack. We’re in a dead zone.”
“Not on my watch.”
Jack vowed not to let that reality come to pass.
47
Hassan had untied the cigarette boat while he fired one-handed at Nick. Turning the engine over, he threw the throttle into reverse and roared away from the dock and the killing range of Nick Aprea’s bullets. He knew he would have seen Jack’s boat pass if it were going south, and so he headed north, knowing it was just a matter of time before he outran them. He popped a fresh clip into his AK-47 and made sure his pistol was fully loaded.
Hassan planned on killing them both, torching Jack’s boat, and then disappearing until things settled down. Maybe a trip to Detroit, visit his brother. If he shaved his beard and dyed his hair black, he’d look like just another Middle Eastern cabdriver, he thought.
He was doing fifty knots and skimming over the water when he decided to delay his report to Malic. The boss was probably just sitting down to dinner, so why spoil his big night? He could see the lights of Terranea ahead as he rocketed across the calm ocean, the wind whipping his copper-red hair.
Up ahead in the darkness, he spotted the faint glow of green and red running lights. He smiled at how close he was. It was finally time for the kill.
* * *
Jack was out of options. Hassan would be on their tail inside of three minutes. To the right were stark cliffs and the black rocky shore. No way, no time, to beach the boat and make a run for it. They’d get cut down like animals. If they were forced to jump ship, Hassan could pick them off like fish in a barrel. To the left was the open sea. The cargo container ship was gaining ground and would arrive about the same time as Hassan, blocking them in. Jack knew he’d be outgunned in a straight-up shooting contest.
The cargo container ship was twelve hundred feet long and a hundred feet tall, and plowed through the waves at a frightening twenty-five knots. Jack suddenly had an idea. Forget about being boxed in. He killed the lights on his Cutwater 28 and abruptly changed course. He headed straight for the massive ship.
* * *
Hassan saw the green and red lights blink out, then the change in Jack’s direction, and corrected his own course accordingly. He stood strong at the wheel, weapon ready.
“What are you doing, Jack?” Angelica asked, seeing the monstrous superstructure looming ahead, dwarfing their craft.
“An end run.”
Jack headed straight for the bow of the cargo ship. His cabin cruiser maxed out at twenty-eight knots. There was no room for error.
Angelica snapped a look behind them.
“Here he comes, Jack.”
“Hold the wheel and keep the heading.”
Angelica stepped up without argument. Jack braced himself, assumed a balanced stance, and fired.
* * *
Hassan came flying up on the port side, hitting Jack’s wake, and let out a wild spray of bullets that landed high. In contrast, Jack’s rounds found the windshield of the cigarette boat. Stung by the explosion of shattering glass, Hassan pulled up sharply. He’d have to come around again for a second assault.
“Jack!”
They were on a collision course with the container ship.
Switching his focus, Jack grabbed the wheel from Angelica as the looming hull and Jack’s boat moved dangerously close. Jack’s angle of attack had to be perfect. The spray being kicked up by the container ship showered their boat’s windshield and side windows, rendering them all but blind.
Jack pulled hard on the wheel.
He cut in front of the behemoth.
The sheer mass of the ship blacked out what little light there was.
Angelica let out a cry.
Jack held his breath.
His engine strained against the current.
And then they were on the other side.
Jack’s cabin cruiser cleared the lane seconds before the big ship crushed them. The wave thrown up by the massive hull propelled Jack’s boat forward and out of harm’s way.
Jack cut to the left toward the stern of the ship, and five hundred feet down he turned his bow toward shore, threw his boat into neutral, and waited.
Hassan was seconds behind Jack but too late to follow. From his vantage point it looked like the steel monster had swallowed Jack’s boat. But he wasn’t sure. He changed course and powered slowly toward the rear of the ship, hoping to surprise Jack when the cargo ship cleared the lane.
* * *
It all happened in a second. The hundred-foot wall of steel was there and then gone.
Jack throttled forward, hitting the double wake at the stern of the ship. His boat went airborne and splashed down hard, sending Angelica sprawling. Jack flew toward Hassan’s craft to ram it.
“Hold on, Angelica. Grab on to something,” Jack shouted.
* * *
Hassan hit the power and lurched forward as Jack’s boat cut across his wake, missing him by inches.
Hassan cut a hard power-right, sending a shower of water onto the deck of Jack’s boat. Jack white-knuckled the wheel and fired his nine-millimeter, tagging Hassan in the thigh.
The strong man howled but did not go down.
Jack set a direct course for the Palos Verdes Peninsula.
“Stay down,” he shouted to Angelica over the sound of the engines and the increased roar of the cigarette boat.
Angelica got up on one knee, hugging the side rail.
Hassan’s boat nosed closer, ready for the kill.
He raised his AK-47. He had a clean shot at Jack.
He didn’t see Angelica, though. She emptied her pistol at her jailer, praying for a solid hit. One of her bullets found its mark, slamming into his shoulder.
Hassan growled but held on to his automatic tightly. He fought through the pain, lifted his AK again, and let loose. Angelica dove to the deck as Jack’s boat was assaulted.
Jack pulled hard on the wheel as Hassan’s bullets splintered wood in a straight line across the stern of his boat and then lurched upward, puncturing the propane tank on the hibachi grill, which saved Jack’s life but burst into flames.
* * *
The sky
lit up, and then pools of light played over the water as a thousand-candle spotlight on the undercarriage of a Coast Guard helicopter moved in, sweeping patterns over the deadly scene playing out below.
The flames on the Cutwater 28 were gaining in intensity.
Hassan was coming in for the kill.
Jack’s boat was now a floating torch heading straight for the cliffs.
“On a three count we jump,” he shouted.
Angelica grabbed Jack’s hand as flames licked their heels.
“Hell with the count,” she shouted, and pulled him up and over the side.
The two splashed into the dark icy water and slipped below the surface.
Hassan flew past, chasing the boat. He emptied his clip into the cabin cruiser before realizing there was no longer any pilot. He throttled back, did a tight turn, and scanned the water.
He ignored the disembodied orders from the PA system on the helicopter to turn off his engine. Instead, he drew his pistol and fired at the chopper, causing it to pull up and away. He cruised forward, hunting for his targets.
The chopper’s searchlight crossed Jack and Angelica’s position in the water as it banked around and Hassan now had them in his sights.
He raced forward and was hit in the face by a high-powered spotlight flying toward him at incredible speed.
Captain Deak Montrose and the Coast Guard’s armor-plated gunboat sliced through the choppy water on a direct course.
Momentarily blinded, Hassan yelled, “What the fuck!” He smashed the throttle forward, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and rocketed away. If he couldn’t shoot Bertolino and Cardona, he sure as hell could cut them to ribbons. He saw them bobbing in the distance, and he straightened his heading.
Deak assessed the situation and ordered his men to fire. Heavy-duty rounds from mounted machine guns strafed the side and then the back of Hassan’s cigarette boat as it flew past.
One hundred yards from Angelica and Jack and closing. Hassan was losing blood and wanted theirs.
Angelica squeezed her arms around Jack’s neck as they bobbed in the water. Jack computed the depth they’d have to dive to in order to clear the propeller blades of the cigarette boat.
Another prolonged burst of machine-gun fire from the Coast Guard’s gunboat punctured one of Hassan’s full tanks of gas.
It ignited.
The fire spread to the second tank of gas.
* * *
The force of the first explosion lifted Hassan and the million-dollar craft out of the water. The second percussive explosion lit up the sea and the night sky in a mushroom cloud of death. It tore apart man and boat. Shrapnel, flames, and chunks of debris rained down on Jack and Angelica, who were forced underwater to escape the onslaught.
The chopper’s spotlight moved in a slow circle where the pair had gone under.
More fiery debris splashed down like napalm, but no bodies appeared.
The spotlight probed the area.
The ocean rippled with the downwash of the chopper’s blades.
Jack and Angelica broke through the water’s surface into the spotlight, spitting water, coughing, and fighting for breath.
The sound of the chopper was thunderous, but Jack couldn’t mistake the sound his boat made running aground against the rocky shore. He spun in time to see the sky lit up by the third explosion of the night.
Jack pulled Angelica in tight, amazed at her strength, relieved he had saved her life, and happy to be alive.
* * *
Deak piloted his armored vessel into the pool of light. His men carefully pulled Angelica and then Jack out of the water and onto their able craft. The young sailors handed Angelica a blanket and politely averted their eyes until she was wrapped, warm, and safely strapped into one of the rear seats with a bottle of water.
Deak immediately headed back to the marina. An EMT unit was standing by to transport Angelica to Saint John’s Health Center.
“The bird will stay put until emergency vehicles arrive and contain the scene. Sorry about your boat.”
“Worth the sacrifice,” Jack said, glancing back at Angelica, who was staring mindlessly out over the water. He had seen that look before. Shock had finally set in.
“Got a call from your friend Detective Nick Aprea. Sorry I missed your text. It’s hard to hear sometimes out on the water.”
Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “You are the man.”
“Nick’s going to meet us at the marina, said something about unfinished business. Said you’d understand.”
Jack did. It was time for payback.
48
“How’s this for timing?” Nick said to Jack. “The fat lady’s singing.”
Jack and Nick were standing in the foyer on the third floor of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel. Music could be heard bleeding through the doors of the Catalina Ballroom.
Jack’s hair was slicked back from his time in the water. He was still dressed in damp black clothes, and his five o’clock shadow was pushing thirty-six hours. Nick looked the worse for wear, having splashed down himself. Neither one of them gave a rat’s ass. They were hopped up on adrenaline, ready to grab the prize. These were the moments they lived for.
They had conferenced with the event’s security team, who were off-duty police officers, already on high alert because of the dignitaries in attendance. Everyone understood the play; all the exits were covered. The only thing they asked for was discretion.
Jack and Nick agreed. A simple arrest. By the book.
The placard on the easel next to the door announced the “Downtown Redevelopment Gala.”
The guests of honor: the Vargas Development Group.
A rotund soprano from the L.A. Opera was regaling the crowd with an over-the-top rendition of Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
Classically trained singers trying their hand at pop music felt like fingernails on a chalkboard for Jack. But he wasn’t there to critique the music. Then again, he couldn’t help himself.
“A thousand damn dollars a plate. I’ll bet the chicken was as bad as the music.”
“Let’s go see,” Nick said with boyish fire in his eyes.
They stepped through the double doors and waited in the back of the ballroom to let their eyes adjust to the dimmed lights and get the lay of the land. A sea of black ties, white tablecloths, and pastel gowns filled the room.
Uniformed waiters were placing crème brûlée in front of the diners. Wine and coffee were being poured, and all eyes were on the soprano, who held an impossibly long note.
And there—Jack lasered in on the raised podium—was the man of the hour.
Malic al-Yasiri.
The devil in a three-thousand-dollar tux, his face still infused with the blush of success.
* * *
Being recognized for excellence by the mayor of Los Angeles was a personal best, Malic thought. He glanced down at the honor the mayor had presented him with: a simple sculpted piece of glass with his name embossed in gold. It filled him with pride. It helped him brush aside his annoyance at Hassan for not keeping him in the loop. He trusted that one of his pressing problems had disappeared by now. He would be more discerning when picking his women in the future. But everyone needed a bit of recreation, he told himself. The rules were different for powerful men.
He thought of his wife, Kayla, and again was forced to temper his anger. Her lack of respect would not be tolerated in the future.
Losing the Matisse was a minor setback, one that would be rectified. If he was capable of achieving citywide recognition in a two-year period, his future was limitless. His face was sure to grace the real estate trade publications, and that alone would thrust him onto the national stage. The media coverage and connections made at tonight’s gala guaranteed his future.
* * *
Jack wondered if he was enjoyi
ng himself too much as he watched the dog-and-pony show playing out on the stage. Nah. Malic al-Yasiri was basking in the limelight, unaware that his wife had turned on him, that he’d never walk his daughter down the aisle, that his loyal soldier was dead, his million-dollar boat destroyed, and the glass award sitting in front of him would ultimately raise more money than its worth on eBay, because he was about to be exposed as a notorious killer.
Raul sat at the B-table, swollen and glassy-eyed, nursing his bandaged hand, which Jack knew was throbbing despite the drugs he was taking.
As the guest of honor, a smug Philippe Vargas shared the power table with the mayor and the cardinal, whose spot-lit red vestments oozed salvation. The mayor leaned over and whispered something amusing into his fine girlfriend’s ear. He winked and then stepped in front of the podium. He was all smiles and goodwill as he adjusted the mic and gave thanks to the opera singer, eliciting a subdued round of applause.
Two cloth scrims hung on the wall behind the mayor. One depicted a black-and-white panoramic photograph of downtown Los Angeles from the 1920s.
The second scrim, hanging directly behind His Eminence, depicted a modern downtown skyline, in vibrant color, with the Vargas Development Group’s new project digitally overlaid and magnificently highlighted front and center.
Jack’s money was on Malic jackrabbiting. The man wasn’t going down without a fight. Too much ego, he thought.
After twenty-five years of law enforcement Jack still didn’t understand the fight-or-flight response. The criminals never got away, he mused. They rarely won. In the high-speed car chases that played in a loop on the local news, the bad guys never escaped, and they watched a lot of television.
Lieutenant Gallina and Tompkins stepped quietly through the ballroom doors with arrest and search warrants in hand. Gallina gave Nick the go-ahead nod. This was one time Gallina, a political animal, had no desire to take the lead.