Marked for Death

by Marked for Death (retail) (epub)

  The noise was tremendous, the yacht shuddering under the recoil of the gun. A few hundred yards distant, bullets strafed the waves and the gunner adjusted his aim to accommodate their trajectory. The next volley punched the boat repeatedly, blasting holes through it with impunity, scattering debris high in the air. The men aboard the boat were ripped apart, their rag and bone corpses as full of holes as the sieve they died in. The gunner didn’t let up, firing until the belt was empty, and after he was done, all that remained whole of the boat were random chunks floating on the water and a ragged hull wallowing amid the destruction.

  Viskhan felt a tremor of pleasure go through him. Sean approached, his features set in stone. ‘I can confirm the heavy machine guns work,’ he announced, and squeezed out a smile.

  ‘Yes. Quite a show you put on, Sean. I didn’t expect my request to be taken so literally.’

  ‘That was just the appetiser to the main course,’ Sean said.

  ‘Excellent. I’m growing impatient with waiting. Send the RIB, Sean, and start softening up the landing zone for them.’

  Again Cahill strode away, issuing curt commands. To aft the RIB was already situated in the tender dock and, without seeing them, Viskhan could hear his landing team boarding it. Suicidal jihadists were the most vocal; those less willing to die kept their prayers to themselves. Viskhan remained out of sight as his quartermaster – StJohn – had by now passed around fully loaded magazines. Only once he heard the roar of the outboard motor and the RIB began a charge at the nearby beach did he approach the port rail and observe the boat’s progress. To either side of him mortar rounds began popping, and he saw their detonations as puffing clouds of raining dirt before he heard the explosions. It was only moments later that he picked out the first wail of terror, taken up a second after by fleeing beachgoers. The HMGs opened up again, this time aimed at the beach and the nearest buildings discernible through the subtropical foliage. Tracer rounds zipped in arcs over the turquoise water and flashed brightly where they struck. Grenades were launched and joined the assault on the beach, their detonations sending sand and bodies skyward. He rocked back on his heels in satisfaction: this was the spectacular 4th of July fireworks display he’d envisioned. And he’d only just got started.

  39

  The brief roar of heavy machine-gun fire made us fruitlessly duck in the speedboat. If we were the targets the bullets would have shredded us along with the boat, but our response was only natural. The machine gun fired a second time, more sustained. Because we were still alive it was safe to assume that we were not in the gunner’s sights. I bobbed up to scan the scene ahead, even as Rink returned to the boat’s controls and took us in a wide curve away. I saw enough before ducking again that hell had been visited upon a larger craft than ours, and though it was torn to pieces, much of it scattered now across the sea, it bore the decal of the Coast Guard. The boat hadn’t been a gunship but only an exploratory craft sent out to investigate the Nephilim. The servicemen on board hadn’t stood a chance, their deaths coming so suddenly they wouldn’t have had an opportunity to cry for their mothers, let alone summon help.

  We’d been working on a strong hunch that Viskhan was captaining the Nephilim, and that he had planned a second atrocity at Palm Beach: well, here was undeniable proof. It also stood to reason that Walter – and who knew how many other government officials and military officers – observing the progress of the yacht hadn’t missed the destruction of the Coast Guard boat. Those Navy SEALs, most assuredly waiting at a nearby staging post, would get the green light to take the yacht. They’d be inbound very rapidly, so our window of opportunity was slim. We could, as Walter had suggested, stand down and allow the pros to do their jobs, but I don’t mind admitting to selfishness. I wanted to kill Viskhan and his friend Cahill myself. One glance at Rink told me he hadn’t had second thoughts either.

  ‘Murderous bastards!’ he growled under his breath as he took us in a sweeping curve to the yacht’s starboard.

  Smoke trails arced from the decks of the Nephilim. I knew what they signified before the mortar rounds detonated, sending up fountains of sand and parts of innocent people into the air. A string of curses ran from me faster than the machine guns that opened up and sent a hail of bullets among fleeing beachgoers. The beach was packed with holidaymakers – men, women and children – and the casualties were many. Every innocent life taken was one too many.

  An RIB, bristling with armed men, roared from a tender docking bay at the rear of the yacht and swept in a direct line for the shore. The bastards were on a mission to kill more innocent people.

  We could have chased them, opened up on the crew with our MAC-10s, but Rink powered back on the motor, sent the speedboat towards the yacht. If we were sighted we could end up destroyed by the heavy machine guns as easily as the Coast Guard boat, but all weapons were currently aimed landward. If our boat had already been spotted then we’d been disregarded as just another couple of vacationers out on a pleasure cruise – there were other boats previously scudding about nearby, most of them now making beelines in the opposite direction. We got to within twenty feet of the yacht before a figure appeared at a deck rail above us. It took the bearded man a few seconds to process what he was seeing, make up his mind we were dangerous and raise his gun. By then I’d already let rip with my machine pistol. He was dead without ever firing a round.

  Our boat and the Nephilim bumped hulls. As I covered him, Rink grabbed for a hanging buoy rope and went up it with simian ease. He swarmed over the rail and I heard his MAC-10 blaring. Who he shot at I didn’t see, but it was apparent he’d won the brief gunfight when he leaned over the rail and gave me the all clear. I slung my MAC-10 on its shoulder strap, then grabbed for the rope, my soles bracing the hull as I dragged myself upward hand over hand while Rink covered my ascent.

  Safely on deck, and MAC-10 back in hand, I covered fore and Rink took aft.

  ‘We’re up against it, brother,’ Rink said, stating the obvious, ‘but we have to stop ’em hurting any more civilians. If we spot Viskhan, he goes down, but right now those gunners are the real threat. We have to take ’em out and give those poor folks on shore a chance to escape.’

  ‘So let’s do it,’ I said, and we advanced together along starboard for the front of the yacht, Rink keeping an eye on our six while I concentrated ahead. Our recent gunfire had been buried under the cacophony coming from portside. But we had to make sure that no sentries had been set to watch for incoming threats on our side, or on the upper decks. Even as we advanced I caught the drum of footsteps overhead, and also movement inside the yacht. A door opened, and a man rushed out. His back was to us: I’d no compunction about shooting him in the spine, and he sprawled dead on the deck. He had been armed with a machine pistol similar to ours. I grabbed it, slung its strap on my left shoulder and advanced again holding both guns like a Western gunslinger.

  Rink gave the corpse a nudge with his foot, rolling the man to study his features. His wasn’t a face familiar to us: some unknown punk bought by Viskhan to do his dirty work. We continued on, the blaring of the heavy machine gun on the prow drawing us towards it. As we neared the front, we had to take more care. The upper levels swept back sharply from the prow, offering clean and aerodynamic lines as well as a clear view over the lower deck from the bridge. Anyone standing above us would have us in their sights before we knew they were there. I spun, stepped backwards, staying tight to the wall as I took a quick look. I caught the shadow of movement, but then whoever had cast it had moved. Mortars popped. The HMG at aft continued its hellish roar, but the one forward momentarily stopped shooting, probably so another ammunition belt could be fed into it. I snuck out for a look.

  The HMG’s tripod mount had been bolted to the foredeck. One gunner sat with his feet straddling the tripod while a second man knelt alongside him, feeding the greedy gun’s appetite for destruction. They were in the process of reloading, and confident that they faced no opposition. As the gunner searched for new target
s on the beach, swung the barrel round on his choice of victims, I emptied the clip of one MAC-10 in him and his pal. My rounds didn’t have the same devastating effect as the larger projectiles they were sending towards the beach, but they did the job of chewing up their soft flesh.

  Until that point we’d avoided detection – anyone who’d spotted us was dead – but slaying the machine gun crew tipped the scales. Instantly the battle switched from land to sea. A figure in paramilitary-style fatigues and bulletproof utility vest leaned out from concealment, and his eyes widened a fraction in recognition a split second before he fired at me. I jerked back, and his bullets tore up the deck and rail I’d momentarily been standing in front of. I hadn’t come face to face with him before, but had heard how Rink had rearranged his features when they tussled at the port. The guy’s misshapen nose and bruised eyes gave up his identity.

  ‘StJohn,’ I told Rink.

  He had been covering our backs and watching for anyone leaning out from the upper deck. He half-turned to nod acknowledgement, but without compromising his attention. ‘Maybe I should’ve taken the time to finish that fucker off last time we met, saved us the effort now.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll happily put in the effort given the chance.’

  ‘You ain’t wrong, brother,’ he said.

  Another figure emerged from the same doorway as the guy I’d felled with a shot to his spine, and stared in confusion. Again this guy was struggling to process what was happening, and that we were enemies. Before he ever came to a conclusion, Rink fired. The guy jerked and shuddered at the impact of bullets and then fell gracelessly against the starboard rail. He wasn’t dead, but neither was he fit to continue the fight. Nevertheless, Rink put him down permanently. Another guy witnessed his death, and didn’t waste any time figuring us out. He leaned out from the open doorway and fired at us, spray-and-pray-style. The bullets came wickedly close to hitting Rink, and I also felt the snapping impact off a ricochet tug at my baseball cap. I’d forgotten I was wearing the damn thing. I swiped it off, didn’t need to bother with the shades; I’d already lost them somewhere between SoBe and here. Bullets chewed the rail to my rear: Dan StJohn or somebody else was moving past the fore cabin, trying to pin us down with crossfire.

  Rink pinned down the shooter in the doorway while I crouched and prepared to confront StJohn. If we stayed put we’d be caught in an exposed position. I glanced up. The deck overhead was clear and there was a handy set of steps offering access only a few feet from Rink. I gestured to him, and he got the message. Staying close to the wall, he laid down a barrage of bullets that impacted the door frame where the other shooter hid. He deliberately stopped shooting. I swivelled on my heels and put my back to the rail just as the gunman bobbed out to shoot at Rink. The angle I’d made between us offered him up as a bigger target. I fired, both MAC-10s this time. It was a blistering hail that forced the shooter back inside, hopefully wounded. Immediately Rink went up the steps, and I was on his heels as soon as he gave me the all clear. I lobbed the first MAC-10 away, flinging it so it went over the lower deck rail and into the sea: I’d emptied the clip. I had extra magazines stuffed in my pockets, but the empty gun was a hindrance I didn’t have time, or a spare set of hands, to reload.

  I swapped the gun I’d kept from left to right hand, estimating the number of rounds in its clip. Not many. But enough to save our arses while Rink reloaded: he did so perfunctorily. Once he was done, I dropped the clip on my gun, slapped in a fresh one and chambered the first round. Seconds had passed. Already the dynamics of our enemy had shifted. Below us and to the front I could see the two machine-gunners I’d slain, and also a hint of movement directly below: StJohn again? I fired down, forcing whoever was below us to dive through the doors of the fore cabin. A second later he was firing up at us through the cabin’s ceiling. Few of the rounds made it through, and those that did had lost their killing force, but the impact of the others made the deck shudder beneath my feet and I danced backwards, pressing up against Rink. He braced his feet, steadying me. I took stock of our surroundings.

  I’d have bet bikini-clad girls were the usual occupants of the deck on which we stood. I couldn’t see evidence of the last party held there, but imagined nubile young things reclining on the comfortable loungers while Fedor Stepanov or Mikhail Viskhan ogled and pawed them. I imagined champagne and canapés, and shrieks of laughter – maybe shrieks of pain if it was one of those parties. That was as wide-ranging as my perusal went before I rushed across to the portside and leaned out for a quick check on numbers down there. Viskhan had arranged his people along the length of the deck so that they could maintain a constant barrage of the beach and the presidential compound beyond. There weren’t as many left aboard as I’d feared. There were three mortar crews, two individuals with grenade launchers and two men at the aft HMG: the odds weren’t insurmountable. Then again, I’d no way of telling how many were inside, or had moved across to starboard to confront us. Viskhan, Cahill and StJohn were nowhere to be seen. A brief pang shot through me; what if Viskhan and Cahill had abandoned ship before they’d reached the war zone? I doubted it, because the RIB had headed directly for shore and Viskhan didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. Besides, the chopper wasn’t there for decoration alone. It would be the choice of getaway vehicle should the Coast Guard surround the Nephilim.

  There was a distinct lack of response from the sea: I had to assume the Coast Guard and Secret Service had been ordered to stand down and leave the yacht to the incoming SEAL team. On shore I could imagine heroic actions underway, with innocent victims being evacuated to safer zones while defenders struck back against the armed landing party. The deserted RIB wallowed in the low surf, and I couldn’t determine a terrorist from a defender on the beach for all the drifting smoke. Distant rifle fire competed, barely audible because of the racket still emanating from the yacht. Mortar rounds and grenades arced beyond the beachside shrubbery, now exclusively targeting the Mar-a-Lago estate. Those rumoured bomb shelters would be very handy additions to have access to for those within the members’ club and presidential retreat.

  I sent a blizzard of bullets along the port rail, and lessened the intensity of the bombardment by half. Those nearest the front of the yacht would have been aware already that they were under attack, but those at aft had been blissfully ignorant. Now the fuckers knew! They began seeking cover and, I bet, swapping out their unwieldy weapons for sidearms and rifles. I’d just invited all their fury to come down on our heads. But that was fine; Rink and me were in the business of fighting. Innocent holidaymakers in shorts and sun lotion weren’t.

  Directly behind us was an open doorway. It led into a once sumptuous living area, one now littered by the refuse of men who couldn’t care less about its appearance. Towards the rear of the room a swing door allowed access to mid-ship. Through it came the voice of a man organising a response to us. I recalled Sean Cahill’s sibilant voice from when Trey and me played dead at Indian Creek, and was positive it was he. I was tempted to go through the room and find him, but that would be walking into a trap.

  ‘Up and over,’ I suggested to Rink.

  ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay on this level and draw their fire. Take out that other machine gun post, brother. If it’s still in action when the SEALs arrive they might not chance boarding, they’ll just strafe the fuckin’ yacht with their own cannons.’

  His fear was the same as mine, and he was correct. The HMG had to be shut down. He winked at me, and I nodded: platitudes were unnecessary. I swarmed up a ladder, and was peering inside the bridge within a few seconds. It was currently deserted. I couldn’t resist the opportunity, so pushed inside and emptied the remainder of a clip into the array of high-tech controls. I slapped in a fresh mag, gave it another short burst and watched sparks fizz and pop, and smoke rise from the console. Unsure if it was enough to disable the yacht, I kicked and hammered at other levers and knobs. Below me there was gunfire, and I caught the shrill yelp of somebody injured.
The intervening walls dampened the blare of the aft HMG, but it didn’t trivialise the weapon’s destructive efficacy. It got me moving again. Going along the top deck was leaving me open to shots from below so I went through a door from the bridge into a narrow corridor. Even there in that utilitarian space the décor was plush, and the carpet underfoot so thick it absorbed my jogging footsteps.

  It also absorbed those of the man coming inside from a side door.

  I ran directly into Mikhail Viskhan and we rebounded, each of us juggling our weapons. He fired first.

  40

  It was only minutes between the first mortars streaking towards the beach and Viskhan shooting at me. But in the intervening space hundreds, more like thousands, of rounds had been fired. The majority of those bullets would have been spent in surf, sand and foliage, only a small number of them hitting fleshier targets. I was lucky that the first to strike me glanced off the mound of my left forearm and didn’t embed in my face, Viskhan’s target.

  I’d clashed with him as he emerged from the door, and my MAC-10 had been knocked aside, but I wasn’t without my full senses despite the jarring impact. Even as he rocked back, hauling up his pistol, I lunged and swept up my left arm just as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet intended for my skull went overhead, burying itself and a sliver of my forearm in the ceiling. I backhanded the MAC-10 into his chest but it slapped harmlessly off a bulletproof vest he’d donned. Still, it forced him sideways, and his next bullet to fly wider again. I brought my gun fully around and pulled the trigger. Vest or not, the impacts kept him from aiming, and blood spattered the wall beside him.