Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

by Neil Russell

Christ, it wasn’t like we’d grown up together. I thought about it. “He likes beer and good-looking women. Me too.”

  The voice laughed weakly, then coughed for a few seconds. “Our mutual friend said if you didn’t mention women, you don’t know Jackie.”

  “May I ask where I’m calling?”

  “Mbabane, Swaziland.”

  “I’ve flown over but never landed.”

  “I recommend a short stay, but not in one of our prisons.”

  “I take it you have some experience.”

  “Until two this afternoon. Twelve years.”

  “Congratulations on your release.”

  “I’ll be dead in ninety days. AIDS. Half the country has it, and everybody in prison. The government says there’s no sodomy, so I figure it must be the champagne. At least I’ll go out sitting in my backyard.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that, so I didn’t try.

  “I understand you want to know about Rennie Holden.”

  “If you can, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Oh, I can. Mr. Holden’s the reason rat has been my protein of choice for the last decade. But you’ll have to wait a second, my wife needs to give me a shot.”

  When he came back on, he sounded weaker but still game. “We’ve got a rhino problem here. Not enough of them. And not enough money to protect the ones we have left. Back in the nineties, we were overrun with poachers, and you could drive all day and not see a large animal. At the same time, there were a lot of unemployed mercenaries on the continent—some waiting for the next revolution, most with nowhere else to go. Our interior ministry came up with the idea of hiring them to shoot poachers. It looked good on paper, but if you hire killers, you’ve got to expect they’re probably going to kill something.”

  “I thought Rennie Holden made his living as a guide.”

  “He did, and he was richly commissioned to bring his high-priced clients to Swaziland rather than Tanzania or South Africa. Nobody begrudged him. We didn’t have the money to compete with those other countries or the outfitters to handle the hunters if they came. Holden’s was a self-contained operation, and since he only dealt with wealthy people, they spent lots of money that he got a piece of. The poachers were cutting into his pocketbook too.”

  “How did he get into the mercenary mix?”

  “That depends on who you ask. He says he was approached by the ministry to oversee the operation. Others say he made a deal with the mercs to get them hired for a piece of their fees, then went to the poachers and offered to guide them past the protection for a share of the rhino sales.”

  “I’ll take Door Number 2.”

  “That’s both of us. There were also rumors that he’d had a wink and a nod from the government for years to shoot poachers. And that that was one of the reasons he had so many important clients to begin with.”

  “The Most Dangerous Game. Every time it comes up, people dismiss it as a myth. I’m not sure why.”

  “Because they haven’t been to Africa, where men have been hunting other men since the dawn of time. Anyway, with Holden in charge, poaching was suddenly a very safe business and far more lucrative than stopping it. So the mercs became poachers too. The problem was there weren’t that many animals to begin with, and one night a few bored soldiers of fortune wandered into a suburb of Mbabane for a little drinking and raping. When that wasn’t enough, they killed three men who dared to interfere.”

  “Family?”

  “My brother. My nine-year-old niece didn’t make out too well either. I didn’t care about the mercenaries. I went after Holden. Got him too. If you meet, you’ll notice one of his legs doesn’t bend too well.”

  “And you got twelve years for that?”

  “I killed two of his bodyguards first.”

  “So the trial was a formality.”

  “No trial at all. I ran a small auto shop, and Holden had dinner with the king. The meeting lasted ten minutes—at the palace. I didn’t get to speak.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I do have something else you might be interested in, though. Your biggest enemy is prison is boredom. I occupied my time staying up on Rennie Holden. He lives on a thousand-acre estate now. Drives a Bentley that used to be owned by Adnan Khashoggi. He also belongs to some very exclusive clubs.”

  “And you can’t do that just by guiding people to an occasional cape buffalo.”

  “Not even a lot of occasional buffaloes.”

  No you can’t. Rennie Holden was still hunting men. Only now, that was all he was hunting. Jake’s words came flying back at me. His partner turned him in because he’d been cheated out of a million dollars. And if that wasn’t enough, Markus-baby fucked the guy’s wife and left a kid for him to raise.

  I thanked Mr. Lubombo and hung up. I stared at the stars for a long time, getting angrier the longer I stood there. Rennie Holden was on that goddamn cargo ship. Smithson, the man Cheyenne Rollins had met in Perth, was there too, and who knew how many others? Coggan’s phrase was “broken patterns and nonevident relationships.” What was more nonevident than the beautiful, diminutive Lucille Brando hiring killers? This was a fucking manhunt, not a rescue. And a ship named Resurrection Bay was a tool for aggressors not victims.

  The only open question was whether Lucille had gone looking for them or they had come to her. But did it really matter? Either way, this group wouldn’t blink at shooting other men. And then there was Holden. A man settling a decades-overdue personal debt with Kingdom. Lucille had dragged me into this, not to be the hero of the moment, but to take control of the tigers after the bloodshed. Because if left to Holden, he’d do what came naturally. Kill them and sell the parts.

  I’d gone from being presumed upon to manipulated, and I didn’t like the cut of either suit. In case she were listening, I said out loud, “Lucille, you’re dead, and I’m sorry about that, but goddamn you. Goddamn you.” Then I shut off the phone and headed back to the cave. Part of me, though, had to give her a nod. There was nothing Crimson could have done to her to make her talk.

  I led the team back down the mountain at a sharp pace. Even under a full moon, it was too fast, but I was trying to work off some of my fury. Finally, Fat Cat just stopped, and the others did too, gasping for breath. When I realized they weren’t behind me, I went back, but the detective waved me on. “I don’t know what your problem is, but get it out of your system before one of us ends up paying a price because you have your head up your ass.”

  That should have pulled me up short, but it didn’t. It was irrational, of course, but even professionals lose their cool. It’s why there are dead professionals.

  When they got to the boat, I’d already stowed my gear. I wasn’t any less pissed, but I was on top of it. I filled everybody in on my conversation with Mr. Lubombo. Fat Cat beat me to the bottom line. “And you can’t broadcast a massacre. I get it. So now what?”

  “What I hate more than anything. Make it up as we go along.”

  But Fat Cat wasn’t quite finished with my attitude. “I just want to clear up one thing. Are you angry because you were handled or because of who did it?”

  “I’ve been dancing on the head of this pin since the night Chuck and Lucille were murdered. I don’t like being the last guy invited to the party and expected to clean it up.”

  Fat Cat wasn’t cutting me any slack. “Welcome to the world, Rail. But in case you haven’t noticed, the woman’s dead. D-E-A-D, dead. So grab your emotions by the balls, stuff your ego in your Rolls, and lead. That’s L-E-A-D, lead. We signed on to follow you, remember?”

  He was right, and I told him so. Then I placed a call to the Black Group tech center in London and told them they could all head out for a few pints—on the company.

  “Thanks, sir, but the team will be disappointed,” the supervisor said.

  “I’ll make it up to everybody at Christmas.”

  “Those, sir, are the magic words. Good night.”

  *
* * *

  45

  Jack Daniel’s and Uriah Heep

  Eddie had tipped the rental agent to load a few bottles of Jack Daniel’s aboard. I don’t like booze anywhere near a mission, but this wasn’t a crowd that had an alcohol problem, and if he wanted to celebrate on the way home, I couldn’t argue. Now, he broke open the box and handed quarts around. “Pour half on the deck,” he said. “It’ll look and smell like we’ve been at it all day.”

  “Pour out Jack?” blurted Wal-Mart. “Not gonna happen,” and he searched around until he found a Tupperware container to take his excess. The other three poured enough Old No. 7 sour mash around to get the boat and themselves really stinking, then we baited the hooks and stuck the rods in the deck holders.

  “Make sure none of those lines get in the water,” said Eddie. “It might get a little wild.”

  “How about some music?” said Fat Cat. He fooled with the radio, getting mostly static until a loud, clear voice broke through the night. “Hey, assholes. Wake the fuck up. Mo Pidgeon here holding down Subic Bay. Passed out in Lottie’s and when I woke up, the fleet was gone. Jesus, I can’t tell you how much I miss Captain Shitheel and the United States Fuckin’ Navy. So wherever you assholes are, here’s another blast of classic rock while I do a few lines of Manila prime and this little babe here gives me a blow job.”

  “So much for Armed Forces Radio,” I said.

  Fat Cat laughed. “Man’s been on the air as long as I can remember. Parents used to beat their kids if they caught us listening, except they had it on in the next room. He must have some powerful equipment because it always sounds like he’s right next door. Buckle up your Nehru jacket, he plays some really old shit.”

  Just as Cream blew into “White Room,” Eddie brought the Chris to life, headed out of the lagoon and turned up the coast. As we rolled north, the Kinks and Country Joe were each able to get in a song, and I’m sure they could hear us coming all the way to Honolulu.

  As Mo Pidgeon introduced Uriah Heep and “July Morning,” Eddie turned the corner into the harbor, and yelled, “I always wanted to direct. Roll film.” I didn’t have time to tell him we were shooting digital before he opened the throttle and accelerated toward the sub pens. The Chris’s nose came out of the water and Coggan and Wal-Mart brought their cameras up while Fat Cat sang with Uriah and swigged Jack.

  Eddie spun around the first LST, then proceeded to slalom through the rest of the rust buckets without coming off the gas. As we exited from behind the Resurrection Bay II, Wal-Mart fired two flares over the Samudra, and Fat Cat dialed the music up to ear-bleed.

  As I was wondering what Kingdom Starr Defense was thinking, they showed me. Five 150-million-candlepower xenon searchlights hit the Chris, turning it into a tanning bed. Everybody abovedecks was blinded, and I crouched low in the cabin and pulled a blanket over my head to preserve my night vision; In the several acres of bay between the two ships, Eddie zigged, zagged, slowed, sped up and threw the cruiser into turns that had the railings underwater. The men handling the Samudra’s lights tried to keep up, but lost us more often than not. Uriah was heading into their final crescendo, when two Zodiacs appeared and flanked the cruiser’s wake.

  Eddie shouted, “Grab on to something!” and I felt a surge of power as he headed directly at the Bay. I braced for the turn but was still tossed across the cabin when it came. At its apex, I rolled to the door, regained my feet, mounted the steps and hurled myself into space, hoping the water was where I’d left it. I landed on my back and disappeared into the murky sea, shocked as always by the cold of the Pacific. I was shocked even more by the burning in my eyes and nose. The Bay was sitting in an ocean of fuel.

  I quickly checked that my Colt and Maglite were still buttoned into my cargo pockets. They were. Then, seeing only the moon overhead, I allowed myself to drift to the surface. It wasn’t much better there. The fumes were strong enough to sear my lungs.

  Eddie was still racing around the harbor, firing flares and dodging lights and Zodiacs, but he had taken the action well away from me. I used a smooth breaststroke to cover the twenty yards to the Bay’s hull, hoping none of the fireworks landed nearby.

  The gash was bigger than I thought, but it was also more treacherous, the peeled-back steel plates rusty and jagged. And then, I felt rather than saw the searchlight coming and dropped back under before I could take a full breath.

  The beam stopped directly over me and sat there. Eyes on fire, I kicked a few yards left and started to ascend, but the light moved too. My lungs were beginning to ache, and I grabbed my nose to prevent involuntarily inhalation. Another light appeared, crossing the first. I couldn’t go backward, the ship was there, the searchlights had me bracketed, and the moon might as well have been the sun. I was dead.

  My chest screaming, I dove and swam as hard as I could directly at the Samudra. My vision began to blur as oxygen deprivation set in. Your body will not allow you to hold your breath until you black out, so it was going to breathe for me pretty soon if I didn’t do it myself. I broke the surface, trying not to gasp too loudly. I was stunned by how far my adrenaline had taken me. Too far, but at least the fumes weren’t as bad. Then, here came Eddie, music and all, followed by the Zodiacs. I took in all the air I could and dove.

  This time when I got to the Bay’s hull, I didn’t waste time assessing. I stripped off my T-shirt, threw it over the rough metal, pulled myself up and leveraged myself inside. I fell several feet and into eighteen inches of fuel-fouled water, and something slithered past my face that I was glad I couldn’t see. A moment later, a searchlight swept over the gash with my shirt still hanging there. As it passed, I reached up and pulled it in.

  Then I heard gunfire. A lot of it, and the searchlight on the gash disappeared. I stood and saw Eddie firing off another flare, then he pulled alongside the Samudra and turned off the music. His challenge was as clear where I stood as if I had been aboard. “Hey, kill those lights, motherfucker!”

  The voice that called back was calmer, but not by much. “Shut the fuck up and identify yourself. And turn off those fuckin’ cameras.”

  Guns or no guns, fucks and motherfuckers, nobody can intimidate Eddie. Ask any of the airlines that fired him. “Fuck you. Call a cop.”

  I saw some of the searchlights go out, but one stayed on the Chris. Then the voice said, “Jesus Christ, is that you, Saleapaga?”

  “Get that fuckin’ light out of my eyes,” Fat Cat roared. “Who’s talking?”

  “Perry Duke.”

  “Jesus Christ, the LAPD send you all the way out here just because you shot your baby’s mama? Whatever happened to desk duty in South Central?”

  “You were never funny, asshole.” Duke signaled somebody, and a volley of shots ripped into the water. “What are you doin’ out here?”

  “In case you forgot, you’re in my backyard. My daddy was bringin’ me here to fish when I was four.”

  That stopped Duke for a moment. “Who’s with you? More sheriff assholes? Goddamn it, turn off those fuckin’ cameras.”

  “A&E’s doing a special. Samoan with a Badge. This here’s the crew. We just got a call that we’ve been picked up for a series, and we’re celebrating. What do you think of that, asshole? I’m a star.”

  “What are you doin’ with that phone?” Duke shouted.

  “Textin’ my undersheriff. Tellin’ him who I just met on the high seas.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Too late. You got a lot of fans. They’ll love seein’ you in that outfit. How many times did you wash out of SWAT? Five? Six? Must feel kinda like when you used to play dress-up with your sister.”

  Duke’s voice was cold. “I suggest you follow the Zodiacs around to the ladder. And don’t give them a reason to blow your asses away.”

  “You were never too bright, so maybe I should explain something. What we’re shootin’ is going live to the editin’ room. Right now, ten guys in LA are watchin’ this and making sure your face is color corrected. So, go f
uck yourself, Duke. We’re gonna go catch ourselves some fish.”

  With that, Eddie jammed the throttle forward again, and the Chris headed toward the open sea. Perry Duke didn’t move, but neither did the Zodiacs. Round one to the good guys. I had exactly thirty minutes.

  I felt my way into the interior of the ship and turned on the Maglite. I was getting light-headed from the fumes, and I didn’t understand how anybody could be sitting out here and not know they were on top of a bomb. I followed the stream on the floor to the starboard side fuel storage tanks. Someone had opened a valve on the first tank, and a steady flow of #2 diesel was running across the deck. Numbers two and three were the same.

  I tried to put what had happened to my wife and child out of my mind and focus. Whoever had done this probably wasn’t expecting to die, so he had an escape route somewhere. And he wasn’t going to have a lot of time, so it had to be close to zero hour.