Scorpion Strike

by John Gilstrap

  As he visualized the overgrown roadway in his mind, his gaze shifted to the other end of the maintenance room. He could almost see the Peg-Board to the right of the door, where he knew he would find the keys to every one of the golf carts—the bell staff called them “tycoon taxis.” The carts conducted guests from the check-in desk to their rooms, and later to just about anywhere they wanted to go on the property. Two of them would be parked under the porte cochere in front of the Plantation House, but the other six or eight would be pulled into the squatty pole barn that was hidden from curious eyes. The keys were kept locked up because kids came to the island with their parents, and kids were born with the ability to sniff out joyrides that never ended well for the equipment involved.

  Keeping his fingers across the flashlight’s lens, he made his way to the door and scooped all of the keys from the board and into the front pocket of his khakis. You never knew which cart would be parked in front and which would be blocked in. Plus, why make it easy for the terrorists to get around?

  Jaime had installed a heavy-duty dead bolt on the back door because it was so secluded from view, and he worried about vandalism. Tyler couldn’t remember seeing Jaime use the door even once. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

  The bolt slid smoothly from its keeper, and the knob turned easily. Tyler pulled on the knob while pushing with his shoulder to keep the door from bursting open or squealing on rusty hinges. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when the heavy steel panel pushed open with only the faintest whisper of a scraping sound.

  He killed the flashlight as soon as the door was open, and peeked out with one eye through the tiniest crack he could manage. The wash of the pool lights provided enough illumination for him to see where he was going, which meant that there was enough illumination for others to see him going there.

  He widened the opening just an inch or two at a time and scanned the full range of his vision over and over again. He could hear the movements and muffled conversations of the prisoners and their captors, but saw no faces. Back here, he was easily ten feet below the level of the pool deck, making the shield of the shrubbery even more effective. When he finally stepped clear of the doorway and still saw no one, he decided that his greatest enemy now was noise. He watched the placement of his feet as he moved down the sidewalk toward the pole barn with the tycoon taxis.

  To his left, the pool filter equipment kicked on and damn near made him scream. With the cover of extra noise, he picked up his pace. He figured the farther he got from the assholes, the less critical was the need to be quiet.

  Of course, that presumed that all the bad guys were clustered at the pool. For all he knew, the island was crawling with them.

  Don’t get cocky, dumbshit.

  The sidewalk behind the pool dropped even lower down the hill. Immediately before the gate in the hedges, which would lead him back out to the common area of the resort, he took a sharp right into the blackness of the palm tree archway that ultimately led him to the pole barn. He wondered if the guests had any idea of how much effort and money it took to give the impression of a natural habitat. These were details on which Baker would make no compromise.

  Again using his fingers to filter the light, Tyler dared quick flashes so he could see enough to navigate, and finally, there they were. The tycoon taxis reminded Tyler of World War II photos he’d seen of planes lined up on the deck of an aircraft carrier. They sat nose-to-tail in two perfect columns, each plugged into a charging station on the adjacent wall. The first cart in the closest column sported an inconspicuous 12 on its nose. Tyler dared a full blast of illumination from the flashlight as he hunkered down on the concrete floor between Cart 12 and its neighbor. He pulled the bundle of keys out of his pocket and sorted through them till he found the one with the corresponding number. He separated that one out, snuffed his light, then tossed the rest of the keys back into the darkness.

  Tyler stood, slid behind the wheel, and slid the key into the ignition. The electric cart started silently, thank God. He reached down to the front of the seat, rocked the transmission lever into the forward position, and eased his foot onto the accelerator. The brake kicked out automatically, and he was on his way.

  The tycoon taxis all came equipped with headlights, but Tyler didn’t dare use them. Instead, he did the flashlight finger trick again until he was free of the overhanging foliage and into the open night. There, the cart path was illuminated by dim overhead floodlights that were hidden in the trees, so camouflaged that they were truly invisible during the day, and barely provided navigable light after dark. The point of the lights, Baker had explained, was to provide safe walkways, not safe streets.

  “Do I go fast or do I go slow?” he asked himself aloud. The instant he heard it, he realized that there was only one reasonable answer. While moving quickly might attract more attention and increase the risk of a wreck, going slowly increased the time that he’d be in some asshole’s gun sights.

  Fast, it would be.

  * * *

  Anatoly Petrovich Ivanov climbed the stairs of the main house’s magnificent sweeping staircase two risers at a time. The fine hardwoods and the grass paper wall-coverings were lost on him, as were the fine details of the cut crystal sconces and the bauble-coated crystal chandelier. Baker Sinise was a rich guy who catered to clients with rich tastes. Yeah, he got that, but none of the opulent flourishes contributed to Anatoly’s mission, so they were all irrelevant. He didn’t care about protecting the objects and the art, but he had no interest in destroying them, either. His mission was a simple one: to leverage Baker Sinise to perform the task that only he could perform.

  It was a mission that would be rendered vastly more complicated if what India had told him was, in fact, the truth: Sinise was not here. How could that happen? How could their intelligence have been so wrong?

  The stairway to the third floor of the Plantation House—to Sinise’s living quarters—lay hidden from casual view behind a door that appeared to be a wall panel that was no different than all the other walnut paneling that adorned the Plantation House. It was already ajar, no doubt because members of his team had neglected to close it behind them. And what would have been the point?

  These stairs were steeper, but only slightly narrower than those of the grand staircase, probably to allow for the passage of furniture and such. As he neared the top of the steps, he could hear the voices of his team churning through the events of the evening. The fact that they were speaking in Russian piqued his anger. Why did mercenaries have such a difficult time following the simplest of rules?

  “English!” Anatoly yelled before he’d emerged from the stairwell. “For God’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you?”

  As Anatoly crossed the threshold into Baker Sinise’s private quarters, he didn’t even try to hide his admiration. If it was possible to be even more over-the-top opulent than the public spaces, then he’d managed to achieve it. Every polished surface gleamed, and every square inch of fabric-covered surfaces was spotless. “My goodness,” he said. “It seems there is a lot of money to be made in the weapons trade.”

  “Tolya,” said Gerasim Kuznetsov. “You need to see this.” He stood next to Viktor Smirnov, who somehow had beaten Anatoly up to the third floor after discovering the bodies of their comrades. Together, they had gathered around a teak dining table that could easily have seated ten people comfortably, fourteen if they touched elbows.

  “Damn it, India,” Anatoly snapped at Kuznetsov. “English and no names. These commands are not complicated.”

  “I’m sorry,” India said. “You’re right, I should have known better.”

  For his part, Viktor Smirnov—Delta—stood silently, apparently hoping to project an air of superiority. He held a smartphone in both hands, and from posture alone, Anatoly knew that they had been looking at pictures.

  “Let me see,” Anatoly said as he approached them. He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers for Delta to hand over the phone.
r />   The other man hesitated, but ultimately complied. “Notice the skill of these wounds,” he said.

  Anatoly had probably seen more dead men in real life than he had in pictures, so he felt no emotional reaction as he took in the images of his dead operators. They lay on what appeared to be a bathroom floor, surrounded by halos of uncoagulated blood that had spilled from their gaping knife wounds.

  “It appears that they were murdered as they entered through the back door of the bungalow,” Viktor explained. Younger than most of the other operators, and therefore less experienced, he appeared somewhat shaken. “There was some blood spray on the drapes and walls of the bedroom, near the veranda doors, but the final slaughter took place out on the veranda itself.”

  “So, they dragged the bodies inside?” Anatoly said. He thought it was an obvious conclusion, but it was always best to be sure of these things.

  “And stripped them of all their equipment and weapons,” Viktor reminded. “These are not the actions or skills of your standard tourists.”

  Anatoly turned to Gerasim. “What do we know about these tourists, India?”

  Gerasim Arturovich lifted the pad that normally resided in his shirt pocket and read from handwritten notes. “This comes from the registration sheet. They are Stephen Terrell and Alicia Crosby, unmarried. They are from Norman, Oklahoma, and have no food allergies.”

  Anatoly cocked his head. “Why do I care about food allergies?”

  Gerasim smiled, acknowledgment that they had known each other a very long time. “You asked what we know about them. I just told you everything.”

  “Are there photos?”

  “None that I have seen. And, of course, there is no photographic security to monitor.”

  “Why ‘of course’?” Viktor asked.

  Anatoly explained, “Baker Sinise touts the lack of cameras in his marketing materials as a way to lure celebrities and others who want to rest assured that their private moments are, in fact, private.”

  “No accidental paparazzi,” Viktor translated.

  “Exactly.” Viktor had no need to know the deeper details of their mission yet, so Anatoly decided not to explain to him how given Baker Sinise’s other business, the last thing the old man wanted was photographic evidence.

  “Do what you can to find out who Mr. Terrell and Ms. Crosby are. I’d like their photographs at the very least. And something about their backgrounds. Let’s find out how a couple from Norman, Oklahoma, become talented knife slingers. I give that to you, Vik—” He blushed. “I mean, Delta.”

  “We need to go out and find them,” Viktor said. “Punish them.”

  “Not at night,” Anatoly said. “We have too much else to do.”

  “But they killed—”

  “They will pay for the killing,” Anatoly snapped. “I promise you that. But first we need to get the prisoners secured. As long as they are gathered out in the open, it’s too easy for them to wander off. I’m sure that we’ve lost a few already. Once the bulk of them are secured, we’ll have the manpower to go searching. But not until daylight. It’s not as though they can go far. This is an island, after all.”

  “How long until they are ready to segregate the prisoners?” Gerasim asked. He hadn’t been down at the pool deck for quite some time.

  “Within the hour,” Anatoly replied.

  “That’s going to be a risky time,” Viktor said. “It only takes one or two to panic, and we’ll have a revolt. We’ll have to shoot half of them.”

  “It’s always a possibility,” Anatoly said. “Surely, we have proven by now that we mean what we say, and that the price of disobedience is very high. I guess we will soon see.”

  “The chances of panic would drop significantly if we kept families together,” Gerasim said. “You know that I’ve never believed in that part of the plan. Husbands and wives should remain together.”

  “This is the third time you’ve mentioned it since last night,” Anatoly said. “Your objections are noted.” He turned to Viktor. “You owe me information on Mr. Terrell and Ms. Crosby.”

  Anatoly turned back to Gerasim as Viktor left the room. “How did we miss that Sinise would not be here?”

  Gerasim shook his head gravely. “I have no idea.” Then he smiled and picked up another piece of paper from the table. “But we know where he is.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “WAIT. STOP,” JONATHAN SAID. HE RAISED HIS HAND TO BRING them to a halt. The moonlight lit their trek well enough to keep them from running into trees or falling off a cliff. “Is that a motor?” They’d been following a rough trail, and since their first steps on it, he’d been worried about encountering vehicles.

  The others stopped. “Is what a motor?” Hunter asked.

  “Shh.” In the distance, beyond their field of view, Jonathan could make out the whine of an electric motor.

  “I know that sound,” Gail whispered. “It sounds like a golf cart.”

  “One of those golf cart taxis they used to take us to our room on the first day.” It was nice to hear Lori speaking for the Edwards family now.

  “They’re coming to get us,” Hunter said. He headed for the jungle to the left. “We need to get out of sight.”

  “Okay, Gunslinger, what say you?” Jonathan used the alias that Gail had disliked for years, but couldn’t shake because it was such an apt description of her talents.

  “I think it might be nice to have wheels,” she said.

  “See?” Jonathan said, flashing a smile. “I knew this trip would bring us closer together.”

  The sound of the motor was getting closer. From around the curve, a brief flash of white light illuminated the path, and then went out. Whoever the driver was, he didn’t want to use his headlights.

  “How do you want to do this?” Gail asked.

  “We’ll flank the road and hit him with white light as soon as we see him. Frankly, I think it’s one of us—an escaping good guy.”

  “If you’re wrong?”

  “We’ll have a shoot-out.”

  This was one of very few times that Jonathan had performed anything close to a hot operation without his lethal friend and fellow operator, Brian Van de Muelebroecke, aka Boxers. He would have liked the shoot-out line. As it was, Gail just took her place on the opposite side of the path without saying anything.

  There was nothing special about the SureFire light clamped to the muzzle of his M4—just a white light with about a bajillion lumens. To get nailed in the eyes with bright white—

  The cart turned the corner into view.

  Jonathan brought his M4 to his shoulder and his thumb found the rubber button on the back end of the light. Both his and Gail’s lights erupted at the same time, and night became day times two. In the initial two seconds, Jonathan noticed two things. One, the driver wasn’t armed. Two, the driver was a kid. A teenager.

  The driver let out a startled yelp and steered the golf cart into the ferns and bushes that lined the path. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled. “Please don’t shoot!”

  Jonathan killed his light, and Gail redirected hers so it was no longer in the kid’s eyes.

  The driver hopped off the cart and started to run into the jungle when his feet tangled and he face-planted. “Please don’t shoot. Please!”

  “Hush!” Jonathan snapped. “We’re good guys. We’re escaping, too.” He spoke more loudly than he wanted to, but he had to break through the kid’s panic. He thought he actually recognized him. “Your name’s Taylor, right?”

  The kid rose to his feet, but he didn’t approach. “Tyler,” he said. “Stratton. Tyler Stratton.”

  “Your father works here, doesn’t he?” Gail asked.

  Tyler’s head whipped around to Gail. Apparently, he hadn’t realized she was standing there. “Works here? Yeah, sort of, I suppose.”

  “Owns the place, right?” Jonathan prompted.

  Tyler cocked his head. “How did you know?”

  “It’s not like you keep it a secret,” Jonathan
said. “Is there any female between the ages of eighteen and thirty that you haven’t hit on with that as your lead-in?”

  A smile bloomed on the kid’s face. “It works.” He pointed at their weapons gear. “Where did those come from?”

  “Their former owners,” Jonathan said. “Where were you going in the cart?”

  Tyler said nothing. He was gauging them.

  “It’s not a hard question,” Jonathan said.

  “Trust is hard to come by on a night like this,” Gail said. “We understand.”

  Tyler still didn’t want to answer.

  “Where were you going in the cart, Tyler?” Jonathan pressed.

  From behind: “I guess this means it’s safe to come out?” Apparently, it had been too long since Hunter had heard the sound of his own voice.

  Jonathan ignored the other man as he kept his eyes focused on Tyler.

  “So, there are more of us?” Tyler said, noting the approach of the Edwardses. At least he said “us.” Jonathan took that as a good sign.

  “I imagine there will be a few more, too,” Jonathan said. “People don’t like to be caged.”

  “You don’t understand,” Tyler said. “They’ve separated kids from adults. If anyone tries to get away, not only will they shoot the one who’s running, but they’ll shoot the whole family.”

  “Oh, my God,” Lori said.

  Jonathan looked to Gail, who winced.

  “That sounds like a bluff to me,” Hunter said.

  “And to me, it sounds like a damned clever strategy,” Jonathan countered.

  “We don’t need a smart enemy,” Gail said.

  “Any clue what any of this is all about?” Jonathan asked Tyler.

  “No. But if it has something to do with my stepfather, they’re gonna be pretty pissed. He’s not here.”

  Jonathan waited for the rest.

  “He’s over on the mainland. Some overnight business meeting that came up suddenly.”