by Linda Ladd
Novak kept his attention on the marinas. He tried to get into the killer’s mind. What kind of boat would he prefer to use for his deadly missions? Probably not a sailboat like Novak’s. Probably something faster and sleeker, but not too fast and not too sleek. Nothing noticeable or memorable. He’d want something dependable, something with lots of horsepower, something that would get him away from his crime scenes in a hurry, without looking showy or remarkable. He would not draw attention to himself in any way. He would want to blend in, but he would need a home base large enough to stow his canoe and his weapons. And that place would be on his boat. Novak started searching below for vessels with clamps on the hull or stern designed to stow a canoe. Most likely, though, the guy would keep the canoe hidden under a tarp.
Novak watched until his eyes burned with fatigue. He was near exhaustion. Boaters were moving about everywhere now, sitting on their stern decks, some barbecuing, some having cocktails with friends. Novak dismissed any craft with more than one person aboard. The Mayan would work alone. No witnesses. No survivors. He would want to make sure nobody could describe him to the authorities. Might be the reason he was after the girl. She had seen him, up close and personal, when he had killed Diego Ortiz, attacked her, and knocked her into the sea. She could describe him. Novak could, too. He’d seen him in that car, would now recognize him anywhere. The Mayan was a phantom, a mystery to everybody. He would want to keep it that way. So Novak began skipping over the crowds and paying closer attention to the deserted craft or those with a single person on deck.
Two more hours passed, and Novak barely moved, not until he heard a soft tap on his door. Then he came out of his chair fast, the Ruger off the table and gripped in his hand. He moved to the door. He didn’t peek out the eyehole, not with this guy. That might get him a bullet through the eyeball. It could be Jenn or it could be a maid. He pressed back on one side of the door. “Is that my steak?”
Jenn would know the appropriate response. Unless she was being forced to betray him, with a gun held to her head. That was unlikely, not with Jenn’s skills, but Novak never took chances. Her voice came back, very low. “Yes, sir. Well done with sautéed onions.”
Novak unhooked the chain, then the dead bolt, but he still held the gun on her as she entered. He closed the door and reset the locks.
“What the hell, Jenn? Did he come back?”
“No. I brought you that steak, onions and all.” She grinned. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”
“What about the kid?”
“She’s fine. Watching Mexican soap operas. Happy as a lark. She was painting her toenails pink when I left.”
“You shouldn’t be here. It’s too risky. Were you followed?”
Jenn scoffed. “Whatta you think, Novak?”
“I think you should’ve stayed in the safe house like I told you to.”
“I don’t answer to you. You came to me for help, so stow the caveman attitude. Besides, you need someone to spell you on surveillance or you’ll get careless and miss your target. I had Marisol describe him to me in detail right before I came up here. I can watch while you get some sleep. And don’t tell me you don’t need sleep. Your eyes look shot all to hell.”
Novak just stared down at her. She was right. He was dead on his feet, so tired he could barely think straight anymore. He needed to close his eyes, all right. He hadn’t had much sleep—next to none, in fact. On the other hand, he needed to find that boat before the Mayan found him. “Okay, thanks, Jenn. Sorry I got you mixed up in this.”
“It’s my job to mix it up with bad guys. I’m ready and able to help you. Just like I was the last time. But I don’t want a partner who’s dead on his feet and making mistakes.”
Novak stared at her some more. She looked good—fresh, beautiful, tough. She was one of the few women he’d gotten close to since Sarah had died. Jenn hadn’t wanted anything from him back then, just some companionship, but no commitment. But they liked each other. She had known from the beginning how he felt about his dead wife. She hadn’t made demands. That’s the way she had wanted it five years ago. That’s the way Novak still wanted it. He watched Jenn pull a white Styrofoam box out of a brown paper sack and place it down on the small table in front of the bar.
“Better eat this before it gets cold. Then get some shut-eye while you can. You look like crap, Novak. You need to clean yourself up and lie down and quit arguing with me. I brought you some shaving gear.”
When she sat down in the chair he’d just vacated and placed her eyes to the binoculars, Novak did what she said. He was hungry now that he smelled the food, and he was dead on his feet. She was right about that, too. It felt like three months since this ordeal had begun. So he ate the T-bone steak and the baked potato smothered in butter and the salad and drank the double coffee, and then he got up and lay down on the couch near Jenn. He remained fully clothed and kept the gun right beside his hand. The Mayan was not a guy to underestimate. He might be figuring out that Novak’s next move was stealing his boat. Novak would be stupid not to consider that. But he had to rest, even if for only a few minutes. Forcing himself to relax muscles that had been tense for hours wasn’t so easy. He stretched out full length on the oversize sectional’s chaise and lay still and stared up at the pale yellow stucco ceiling, listened to the air conditioner click on. The minute he shut his eyes, he slept.
Chapter Thirteen
Novak slept like a dead man for going on four hours. Jenn sat guard at the binoculars and glimpsed neither hide nor hair of the Mayan or anyone remotely resembling his description. As soon as Novak opened his eyes, he rolled off the chaise, wide awake and wary. Jenn glanced at him and then went back to watching the boats. He stood up, stretched his stiff muscles, and then walked into the bathroom, showered, washed his hair, brushed his teeth with the new toothbrush Jenn had provided, and got dressed in clean civilian clothes, also from Jenn. Dark blue denim shirt, 3X XLong, and a pair of faded jeans. Socks and a new pair of black Adidas running shoes. She thought of everything. He stared at the dark whiskers covering his jaw but didn’t shave. He did not want to look like the photograph Li Liu had taken in the jungle camp, just in case the Mayan had found it and had enough smarts to put Novak’s face on a wanted poster. Novak was on the run now.
When he got back to the living room, Jenn still sat motionlessly at the open balcony doors, attention glued on the marina below. “Thanks, Jenn. I mean it. I needed that break, if I’m going to outlast this guy.”
“You were out for the count and it was beginning to show.” Jenn stood up, swiveled her head around, and rolled her stiff shoulders. She stretched her arms up over her head. Her shirt hiked up and revealed her toned and tanned midriff. Novak knew her body well. He knew from experience how firm her flesh was, how soft her skin felt, how she tasted, how she smelled, and how she responded to his touch. He caught his thought process right there and averted his eyes. No time for that, but he wished there was. He transferred his gaze out to the long piers and docked boats and kept it there.
“Unfortunately,” said Jenn, “I didn’t see anybody who looked remotely like the Mayan or any boat that looked the least bit suspicious. I did see, say, a thousand tourists all dressed alike and traipsing around everywhere. Not many men showed up walking by themselves. Couples, families, groups of girls—lots of them. Nothing out of the ordinary. Now that you’re awake and fresh as a daisy and might be a functioning human being again, I’m going back home and make sure the little lying princess is behaving herself. She’s probably scared by now and thinks we’ve abandoned her out there all by her lonesome. I’ll take the Harley and leave you the Hyundai. You’ll have better cover with it.”
“Okay. Watch out for Marisol and her drama. Did you check out any of her story?”
“Found out that Marisol was registered at University of Miami for a semester. Left abruptly right before finals. Sounds like that part was true.”
Novak hesitated for a second, but he went ahead and said it. �
��The last thing I want is for you to get hurt, Jenn. And not just because you’re coming through for me.”
“Why then?”
“You know why.”
Jenn studied his face for a moment. “Well, ditto right back at you. But right now, we’re stuck with her, and you know it. Who’s gonna take her into their fold with a serial killer hot on her trail? Nobody but you, Novak. You just concentrate on being careful. And please, hurry up and get this guy. I can think of better things we could be doing.”
Novak could, too. Maybe not the same ones she was thinking of. Probably not the same ones. “Just be careful,” he said, “and keep the burner phone close. I’ve got the distinct feeling something’s gonna happen and happen soon, and it’s not gonna be good.”
“Me too. But I’m always ready to move. You know that. Quit worrying about me and take that blasted SOB out. You’ve got the sniper rifle, right?”
“Yeah. Loaded and ready.”
“Well, use it on him, for God’s sake. This guy’s got a whole string of cold-blooded murders to answer for. The death penalty’s probably too good for him.”
Then she grabbed her purse and left him standing there without saying goodbye. When the door closed behind her, Novak reset all the locks and sat down again in the chair in front of the binoculars. Night had fallen now, the sea black and impenetrable once more, the light posts along the piers and busy street blinking on. Novak was getting antsy. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the guy was anchored somewhere offshore like before. Maybe he had a second canoe to bring him ashore. Deep down, though, Novak trusted his instincts. The Mayan had gotten to a car and found them, and in record time. He had to have come by sea. Novak went by his hunches. He wasn’t giving up on his gut, not yet.
So he sat in sheer silence, listening to the traffic passing on the street below.
He stared into the marina until his eyes crossed, scanning for men who walked alone or relaxed on a boat alone. If the killer didn’t expect Novak to go after his boat, he would still consider himself the stalker, the one with the advantage. He probably wouldn’t take undue precautions to secure it, either. He was here to find and kill Novak and the girl. He had seen them. He knew they were somewhere in the vicinity. The killer was probably salivating at the idea of obtaining a couple more scalps. Wouldn’t get much with Novak’s military cut. He didn’t know the full extent of Novak’s military past, probably only what he got off Li Liu’s phone and computer. Therefore, it stood to reason that he didn’t know who he was up against. That was a good thing.
Almost an hour later, a guy who looked a hell of a lot like the Mayan finally showed himself on the stern deck of a midsize ocean yacht in the third row of the hotel’s marina, a few degrees to the right of Novak’s vantage point. The guy was a good match: same height, same weight, same light tread. The stealthy way he moved was the giveaway.
The sea was calm. The evening was quiet, except for the crowd gathered at a beach party somewhere, their cheers and cries muted and far away. The tide was low. Novak clicked about a dozen photos of the guy as he walked to the foot of his gangplank and took some time searching the street above and the surrounding boats. He had a pair of binoculars, too. Novak’s fingers itched with the desire to pick up the rifle propped beside him and put the assassin in his crosshairs, pull the trigger, and put him down for good. It took a minute or two to conquer that impulse. He wanted to know more about him first. He wanted to know who he answered to and why they wanted Marisol dead, so much so that they’d chase her all over the Caribbean. After about ten more minutes, the Mayan went below, stayed there about thirty minutes, and then came up top, crossed the gangplank, and jumped down on the floating dock. Then he headed at a swift clip up the pier toward the street.
Novak took a few more pictures of the boat and the killer. The yacht had its name painted in reflective letters: Calakmul. Novak wasn’t familiar with the word, but it sure as hell sounded Mayan. Maybe Jenn could translate it. The boat claimed Cancun as its port city. A nice steady craft, but similar to dozens of other boats tied up around it. White with red stripes, a popular color choice; maybe a hundred other boats in the marinas pretty much matched it. But it was the exact type of boat Novak had figured the guy would choose. It looked fast and sleek and powerful enough to get somebody away from a bloody crime scene, all engines full steam ahead. It was bigger than the Sweet Sarah but not as large as most yachts. It would be comfortable for one or two people, maybe three, maybe even half a dozen, but Novak bet nobody still living and breathing had ever stepped aboard. A floating torture dungeon—that’s what Novak would probably find when he got below on her. He was going to enjoy sending it to the bottom.
Relieved that he finally found his prey, Novak shoved the Ruger into his back waistband, settled his shirt down over it, and took off. He had to get down to the grounds before the Mayan made it to the parking lot. He wanted to see where he was going and he wanted to get a piece of him, up close and personal. If the killer had a home base nearby or a contact who was feeding him Marisol’s coordinates, Novak was going to put them out of commission. He took the stairs down to the ground, three at a time, swinging around the landings at each floor and moving about as fast as he could move. He felt good, refreshed, and ready to roll. He had him now, and he wasn’t going to lose him. He exited the hotel at the side door to the parking lot where Jenn had left the Hyundai. Cars were parked everywhere, giving him lots of cover, so he darted in between them, his attention focused across the street and latched onto the concrete steps up which the Mayan would have to climb to street level. He hadn’t appeared yet, so Novak hightailed it to the car, fired it up, rolled it out of the parking space, and stopped at the end of the row. He idled there, half hidden in shadows, his eyes glued on the steps across the highway.
The Mayan reached street level a minute later. Novak lifted the binoculars and got his first good look at the guy’s face when he passed under a light. He looked like a Mayan, all right. Novak was pretty sure he had ancestors who had come straight out of the ancient Yucatan jungles—Tulum, maybe, or Chichen Itza. He was small in stature, looked five feet five inches or so, light on his feet, wiry and strong, and probably as quick as he was stealthy. He had sneaked up on the guards and made short work of them in bloody, horrendous ways, without a single alarm sounded.
The guy walked at a casual pace now, not soliciting undue attention. He was dressed like any other tourist around, in stone-washed denim jeans and a plain black T-shirt. White sneakers. His hair was long and straight and black as the nocturnal ocean behind him, and held back at his nape. He had a small backpack slung over one shoulder, probably where he kept his ritualistic green obsidian blade and maybe a few bloody scalps. Novak had no doubt that this guy was a born psychopath, a stone-cold killer who enjoyed his work, went about it in a workaday fashion. Didn’t matter who, didn’t matter when, didn’t matter where, and didn’t matter if it was a man, a woman, or a child. Quiet, personified brutality. At that moment, Novak decided that he had to kill him. But first things first.
Novak needed to know where the guy was headed. His biggest fear was that the killer had already tracked the girl to Jenn’s safe house. Once Novak got the two women out of the way and knew they were safe, he could get the Mayan at his leisure. Maybe he could catch him unawares on the boat and get a few answers out of him before he died. Somehow he didn’t think so. Better bet might be to take his boat, pick up the women, and get the hell out of Mexican waters. He could come back for the Mayan on his own.
Novak watched the Mayan cross the street and stride down the marina’s parking lot. Halfway to the back, he stopped and looked around and then headed at a fast clip for the back row. He stopped beside the same white Subaru Outback that Novak had last seen on the streets of Chetumal. He unlocked the car by clicking a keychain from some distance away, a brand-new vehicle, it looked like, probably leased under a false name. Novak watched the guy get in and start the motor. The lights flashed on, and he rolled out toward the hig
hway.
The vehicle was plain, nothing out of the ordinary. This guy knew how to blend in like a native Mexican and do his deadly work like the ghost of a Mayan priest. And what he was doing was killing for hire. Not for long, not if Novak got his way. The women were safe for now, and Novak had all the time in the world to stalk his stalker and take his time taking the guy out.
The Outback pulled out into traffic and headed south toward the beach party. Novak wanted to find out if the Mayan was really employed by Arturo Ruiz. See if Marisol’s story held up. He was having trouble believing any man would want to take out his own daughter. Novak was going to find out the truth. He waited until three cars had come between him and the Subaru, and then he pulled out and kept his eyes glued on the guy’s taillights. He drove the speed limit, sure as hell not wanting to be picked up by the cops. So did the Mayan.
In time, the Mayan hung a right off the highway and pulled into a pharmacy parking lot. He parked in front, got out, shopped around five minutes or so, paid, and came back out carrying a large sack. Then he turned out onto the main drag until he got to the area with all the nightlife. It was crowded, everybody on the sidewalks laughing and having a good old time. Not long after, Novak watched him turn left into an Applebee’s restaurant. The place had lots of customers coming and going. Novak drove past the entrance and turned around at a gasoline station down the street. He drove back and pulled into Applebee’s by a different entrance.
Parking in the shadows along the street, Novak watched through the restaurant’s big plate-glass windows as the killer chose a booth, one in which his back would be against a wall and from where he could see the Subaru. He ordered from the menu and then took some time punching numbers into a cell phone. He sat there for some time, staring down at the screen, and then put the phone down when his food arrived. He ate alone and quickly, staring down at his plate. Occasionally, he glanced out at the car. After he was done, he was given a sack of carry-out, after which he paid for the meal, left the building, and returned to the Outback. Just a normal tourist out for dinner.