"Why would I? I really can't afford to, can I?"
"As I said, you're an astute business man." The scar-faced man extended his hand.
O'Toole took it in a two-handed grip, his politician's instincts taking over. "You did a first-rate sales job, whoever you are."
"You know who I am, Senator." The man handed him a small card with only a ten-digit telephone number on it. "All you need to know. Thank you, and have a good evening."
O'Toole nodded. "Thanks. You, too," he said, as he slid out of the car and closed the door.
He walked to the building entrance and turned to watch as the car pulled away with a soft purr from its big 12-cylinder engine. He grinned and shook his head, whistling as he walked across the small lobby to the door that led to his outer office.
****
"I don't like it," said the man who had been in charge of the party that boarded Diamantista II. He was braced against the side of the bouncing patrol boat, watching the approach of an as yet unidentified ocean racer that was overtaking them. "He's headed straight for us."
"Want me to cut loose on 'em?" one of the men asked, holding his M-4.
"Waste of ammo," the leader said. "They're way out of range."
"Yeah, but it might scare 'em off before they get too close. We got ammo to burn."
"Shit, I guess. Go on and give 'em a burst. See if you can aim high enough so they at least see the rounds hit the water in front of 'em."
Grinning, the man emptied his magazine in the direction of the approaching speedboat.
"Good shootin'; they couldn't have missed seeing that," the leader said. "But they ain't slowed down."
"Should I give 'em a little more?"
"No. Save it. If they aren't scared off by one magazine, they ain't gonna run. Wait until you got a chance of a hit. Open this thing up. Let's see if we can put a little distance between us."
"Gonna be a rough ride," the helmsman said. "Hang on."
The boat lurched forward, beginning to skip from wave to wave. The helmsman was right. The ride went from moderately rough to bone-jarring.
"Wish we had a 50 cal," the shooter said.
"Yeah, well, might as well wish we were rich and on the beach somewhere. Gimme the binoculars," the leader said. He reached back, and one of the others put a pair of military grade 7x50 binoculars in his hand. Raising the glasses to his eyes, he adjusted the focus cups with one hand and shifted his position slightly, trying for more stability. He studied the boat for several seconds and lowered the binoculars. "Might as well slow back down," he said. "I can't see shit with all this pounding, and he's still closing on us."
The leader held on until the boat settled back into its earlier, rhythmic lurching motion. He wedged himself against the side of the pilot house, where the motion seemed less erratic, and raised the binoculars again. "Better," he muttered.
"Whaddaya see?" the shooter asked.
"It's a Cigarette, probably 50 feet. No way in hell we'll outrun that. Odd though. It's painted up like a parasailing boat. That doesn't make sense; they don't need that kind of speed. Holy shit!"
"What?" the man at the helm asked.
"It's that Barrera broad."
"Who?"
"The good-looking spic bitch they told us not to mess with. And her old man. Looks like just the two of 'em. I can't see nobody else. What the fuck?"
"What the hell do they think they're gonna do once they catch us?" one of the other men asked, laughing.
"I don't know what they think, but I know what's gonna happen. We're gonna have us a party with her tonight. She's hot, and I done put my mark on her."
"The orders were not to bother them people, I thought," the shooter said.
"Yeah, well, looks to me like they're attackin' us. We got a right to defend ourselves if they come after us, jeopardizin' the mission and all. Ain't nobody gonna know out here in the middle of the fuckin' ocean, no way. Slow this damn thing down; let's let 'em catch us. This is gonna be fun. Feel free to blow the shit outta her old man, but don't nobody touch her. She's mine, but there'll be plenty to go around for everybody once I'm done with her."
The helmsman throttled back, and the boat settled in the water. The leader watched as the other boat slowed down; it was creeping up on them now. They were no longer planing; the boat was making steerage way -- maybe four or five knots, and the ride was smoother. The leader watched as the big speedboat took up a position about three hundred yards off their starboard side and matched their speed.
"Yeah, ya stupid bitch. Now what?" He turned to face them and waved his free arm over his head, the other hand holding the binoculars. "She's fuckin' wavin' back!" he said. "Big ol' grin on her face. Yeah, baby! You gonna like this what I got for you! Who-eee!"
Then the housings on the two outboards shattered and they went silent. A split second later, there was a loud crack.
"What the fuck?" The leader yelled. He shifted the binoculars. "There's a big black bastard crouched down amidships with a rifle. Shoot that fucker!"
The man with the M-4 braced himself against the pilot house and began squeezing off rounds, watching the splashes where they landed, walking them toward the speedboat. "Long fuckin' way out," he said. Then the back of his head exploded, spattering the leader with gore.
"Son of a bitch!" the leader yelled, wiping blood from his face.
In seconds, the man at the helm was blown through the opening on the other side of the pilot house, landing against the port side gunwale. The leader stole a quick glance at him and saw that blood was flowing freely from a hole in the Kevlar vest that covered his chest.
"Raise your hands," the leader said, dropping the binoculars and lifting his own arms above his head. "We ain't gettin' paid to die."
There was a screech of feedback, and then the woman's voice blared across the water, aided by a powerful loudhailer. "One at a time, drop your weapons over the starboard side. The man in front first. Work your way back. Make sure I can see you do it. The rest of you keep your hands in the air until it's your turn. Take more than thirty seconds, and somebody else will die."
When everyone was back in position, she spoke again. "You, by the wheelhouse."
The men looked at their leader, shifting away from him as much as they dared.
"Yeah," she said. "You. The one with the big mouth and the tiny penis."
The leader's face flushed in anger as his men sniggered.
"You have a pistol in a holster on your hip," she continued. "I saw it earlier when you were making an ass of yourself on my boat. You didn't throw it over the side. Bad boy."
The back of another man's head was blown off.
"If you don't throw it over the side by the count of three, somebody else dies," the woman said.
He pulled the pistol from its holster and tossed it over the side.
"Good," she said. "All of you, face to the port side of the boat, hands on the back of your heads." She waited until they complied. "On my command, starting with the man closest to the bow, one man at a time, lower your hands and drop your trousers. Bend over and push them down around your ankles. Then stand up straight and put your hands on your heads. Take more than five seconds each and you die. First man, drop 'em."
When the four men still alive had complied, she spoke again.
"We're coming alongside, now. If one of you moves, you'll all die."
Chapter 30
Leon Contreras was finishing his room-service dinner when the call from Jorge came in.
"What's new?" Contreras asked, hitting the connect icon on his phone's screen.
"They took him back to this cabin not far from where they shot him. Then they chained some weights to his feet and around his torso and sunk him in the swamp. They were laughing about how well the gators were going to dine tonight. Hang on. Miguel's saying something. Oh, yeah. They made a bet about whether he'd be completely gone quicker than the last one."
"What last one?" Contreras asked.
"Don't know," Jorge
said, "but it sounds like this isn't their first time."
"You got a GPS fix on the place, right?"
"Of course. You have to ask?"
"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Where are you now?"
"We followed this O'Toole character back to his office. Ryan was staying in the swamp tonight. When he pulled into the -- "
"Wait, Jorge. Who's Ryan?"
"The one they called Gator Jaw."
"Oh, yeah. Right. Go ahead."
"When O'Toole pulled into his reserved parking spot, there was this big Mercedes sitting there in the next place. Driver in front, passenger in back. He got out and got in the back of the Mercedes and sat there talking for a few minutes. Then he went inside and the Mercedes left. The guy he was talking to -- the one in the backseat?"
"Yeah, what about him?"
"We got just a quick look at his face. He's scarred like something out of a horror movie."
"Did you follow the Mercedes?"
"For a little while. I hate to sound like a dumbass, but we'd been driving all over hell and back all day following people, and we were running on fumes. Had to let the Mercedes go. We've got a plate number, though."
"That's okay. You guys did well. Even if the plate number goes nowhere, we can probably find Scarface again through O'Toole. Come on in and get some rest."
"Thanks. Soon as we get some gasoline. Do me a favor?"
"Sure."
"Order us a few beers and a couple of burgers, please."
"Will do. See you soon."
****
Less than a minute after Connie had ordered the men to drop their trousers to hobble themselves, Lightning Bolt was tied alongside the patrol boat. Paul and Connie boarded their prize while Sharktooth covered the four prisoners. They found Kathy and Frank on the sole in the bow, wrists and ankles shackled with handcuffs and mouths duct-taped. Paul unlocked the cuffs with a key that he found in the pilot house, and Kathy tore the duct tape off her mouth.
"What's -- "
"Shut up, Kathy. Not now," Connie said. "Get in the boat with Sharktooth."
Kathy wobbled to her feet and worked her way back along the side of the boat. Taking Sharktooth's extended hand, she climbed aboard Lightning Bolt.
"What's wrong with Frank, Kathy?" Paul yelled.
"He's been in some kind of trance ever since this happened. Won't move, won't talk."
Paul dropped to one knee next to Frank and reached down, taking his wrists, one in each hand. With his back to Frank, he drew Frank's arms over his shoulders. Pulling Frank up to a sitting position, he tugged on his arms until Frank was snug against his back. Then Paul rose to his feet and shuffled back to where he could rest Frank against the starboard side of the boat, facing away from Sharktooth's boat. Paul held him there and clambered around him, getting into Lightning Bolt. He reached both hands under Frank's limp arms and clasped his hands in front of Frank's chest, lifting and dragging him aboard Lightning Bolt.
While Kathy began to try to rouse Frank, Paul went back up toward the bow, where Connie handed across the two duffle bags that held the things that had been taken from aboard Diamantista II.
"Done?" Paul asked.
"Almost," she said, a look on her face that made Paul cringe. She pulled a pistol from the waistband of her shorts and walked back to stand in front of the leader, who grinned at her.
"We meet again, lover boy," she said.
He puckered his lips, as if for a kiss, and with one smooth motion, she struck. She rammed her pistol into his mouth with her full weight behind the blow, knocking him back against the side of the boat. He shook his head and tried to stand, then thought better of it and looked up at her for direction.
"You're learning," she said. "Stand up. I'm not done yet."
He rolled back to his feet, hands still on top of his head. He bent slightly from the waist and turned his head to the side, spitting blood and teeth onto the deck.
"If you ever get to kiss a woman again, your teeth won't bruise her lips," she said, stepping back a few feet and continuing to aim the pistol at his face. "Now, very slowly, please, put your left hand flat against the side of the boat, about a foot from your hip."
He did as she ordered, looking puzzled.
"You know what's coming next?"
He shook his head, not noticing that she had shifted her aim. The pistol barked. He screamed and jerked his ruined hand away from the side of the boat.
"Hold it out so I can see it," she said, the pistol aimed at his face again.
He raised the bloody mess that had been his left hand and held it toward her. She studied it for a few seconds.
"Nine millimeter hollow points do serious damage," she said. "That'll teach you to keep your hands to yourself. Now drop your boxer shorts."
"What?" he moaned, fear in his eyes for the first time.
"You heard me. I want to see if I was right. Do it!"
He dropped his one good hand to his waist and worked the shorts down over his hips.
Connie laughed. "It's so tiny," she said. "No wonder you're ashamed of it. Does it work just like a real one?"
He didn't answer.
She shifted her weight and delivered a snap-kick that drove the ball of her right foot into his groin with enough force to lift him off the deck. He doubled over and collapsed at her feet, clutching himself and moaning.
"That should keep you from bothering any more women for a while, but I don't think you could do much harm with that little thing anyway."
She turned and put her left hand on the boat's gunwale and vaulted the side, landing gracefully in the cockpit of Lightning Bolt. She held Paul's gaze for a moment, and said, "Now, I'm ready."
She cast off the bow line and Paul cast off the stern. By the time she got back to the helm, the boats had drifted a couple of meters apart. She pressed the three starter buttons, one at a time, and watched the oil pressure gauges until the engines settled into a rolling idle. She pushed the three control levers forward and pulled away from the patrol boat.
Once they had gone a few hundred yards, Sharktooth stowed his sniper rifle and took out his satellite phone. "Gotta let Clarence know we finished," he said, settling into the aft cockpit seat. "You know the way home."
"What are the Lewises up to?" Connie asked Paul.
"I helped Kathy get him into the V-berth below while you were ... well, anyway, she's trying to get him to come around. He's still catatonic. Probably his PTSD."
"So she didn't see any of that?"
"No, thank goodness."
They were silent for a minute. Paul finally asked, "Was that necessary?"
"I don't know that necessary's the right word. But he had it coming, and more besides. You saw what he did to me after he knocked you down?"
"I think you evened the score. For both of us."
"Maybe. But you and I both know that wasn't his first offense. Think of all the other people that he and men like him have abused. You know I'm right."
"Oh, I know. I can't say I've been there; no man can. But I've been close enough. And more than once. I think I understand."
"Didn't you ever give in to the temptation to square things up a little?"
"I wish you hadn't asked that."
"You don't have to answer."
"I just did but don't make me tell you more, please."
"No. No. I'm sorry you saw me like that. That's me at my worst, I guess."
"That's what I married you for."
"My worst?"
"And better. You'll be okay. Don't let yourself overthink it."
"I know. Thanks, cookie."
"You're welcome, skipper." He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. She rested her head on his chest and blinked back a tear.
"Did you tell Kathy?" she asked, after a while.
"About the warrant?"
"Yes, about that."
"No. It wouldn't change anything. I'll let Noah Johnson have the pleasure. I'm retired; I don't have to do the shitty parts
of the job anymore."
"You'd feel shitty about arresting them?"
"A little, to be honest. They don't strike me as evil people -- just greedy."
"You're a real prize, Russo. You know that, don't you?"
"My boss tells me every so often, when she's feeling mellow."
"Yeah. She should tell you more often."
"How are you feeling about the Lewises?" Paul asked.
"Same. Maybe even more so."
"How's that?"
"Well, you know most of the stuff I've done. I could have turned out like her if things had gone differently."
"Nah," Paul said. "No way. You're underestimating yourself."
"I'm serious, Paul."
"I am, too. You're way better at running a con than those two."
She smiled up at him. "You're no slouch either. We sucked them right in, didn't we? Did a real sales job on them."
"We did. We make a hell of a team. What do you want for supper when we get home?"
"Peanut butter sandwiches. I need comfort food."
Epilogue
The next morning at Sharktooth's villa overlooking Portsmouth, Dominica ...
"What a breakfast!" Noah Johnson said. "Thanks, Maureen. You, too, Sharktooth, for inviting me. I won't have to eat again until I get back to Miami."
"My pleasure," Sharktooth's wife said.
"Jus' a little snack," Sharktooth said, "keep you goin' 'til dinner."
"When are you taking the Lewises back to Miami?" Paul asked.
"Oh, they're back, already. We ended up borrowing a Learjet to fly down here yesterday. It was confiscated from some drug lord. The rest of my team took them back last night. I stuck around to wrap things up with you and the local authorities. Any word on what happened to the kidnappers?"
"Mm-hmm," Sharktooth said. "Our friend from Martinique picked them up. He often works with the police there. They didn't learn much from them, except that they work for a U.S. based private security company called SpecCorp, and they were sent to capture and interrogate the Lewises. Whoever hired them wanted to know all about the cartel the Lewises were working for. None of these people knew who SpecCorp's client was."
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 22