Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  * * * Malakoff laid in his bed, not able to sleep, the spear and its mythical powers upper most in his thoughts. He felt elated that it was now in his possession and that things had gone better than planned with the added bonus of obtaining the Nazi ledgers. He got out of bed, put on a silk dressing gown, and went back along the gangway to his study. Went straight to the bar in the corner of the spacious room, and poured himself a large brandy. The Frenchman walked over to the wall of glass, and pulled back one of the sliding panels. The hardwood deck felt good under his bare feet, as he stood savouring the cool night air. Leaning against the stern rail, he looked up into a clear star-filled sky. Raised his glass and took a swig of the fifty year old brandy, and thought what an exceptionally lucky man he was.

  * * * Through the tiny device in his ear, Dillon could hear Chapman and the others reporting in every thirty seconds. Their voices barely above a whisper, as they talked to each other. He stayed close to the seabed as he made his way towards the Solitaire. Fifty feet from her bow line, he surfaced behind a large ocean going yacht, pulled out the night vision goggles from the watertight dive bag, and put them on.

  “Chapman, can you hear me?” Dillon whispered. “Loud and clear, Jake.”

  “Vince, are you and LJ getting this?”

  “One hundred percent, loud and clear Jake.” Vince

  replied. Dillon floated there in the darkness, watching for any activity on board Malakoff’s luxury vessel. Two men emerged from the bridge; both had automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, and were smoking cigarettes. They moved along the outer gang-ways, talking to each other in French. Every twenty paces, they’d stop, and look over the rail for anything suspicious below.

  “It’s as we thought. They’re patrolling the gang-ways in twos.” Dillon said.

  “What do you want to do?” It was Chapman who replied.

  “We’ll wait. See how long it is between patrols, and if any of the others are lurking in the shadows. So keep your eyes peeled, Rob.”

  Dillon watched, and waited patiently for another ten minutes. He’d picked out Mazzarin in the shadows by a lifeboat. Zola on the uppermost sun deck, making no attempt to conceal himself. And, Kurt standing just below the bridge smoking a cigarette, an AK47 rifle slung over his left shoulder.

  He placed the night-vision goggles back inside the bag, and got ready to dive again.

  “Vince, I’m on my way. Give me sixty seconds and then kill the juice.”

  Vince confirmed, and a moment later Dillon descended to fifteen feet and approached the Solitaire.

  * * * Captain Armand used the two way radio to summon Kurt and the others on to the bridge. Pierre appeared just behind him, Mazzarin and Zola came through the hatch on the starboard side a moment later and joined them. Except for Armand, each had an AK47 rifle in their hand.

  “You two,” Armand said to Mazzarin and Zola, “go to the stern deck areas, and keep yourselves out of sight and alert.” The two former Foreign Legionnaires, nodded their understanding, and left. “Pierre. You are to patrol the port gangway, as well as the forward deck. Stay alert, because if you don’t, you will be dead.” Armand said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand towards the port side hatch.

  With an air of superiority and aloofness, the bodyguard said, “I will post myself in the vicinity of Herr Malakoff’s suite, captain. Please keep in contact.” He then turned and left the bridge.

  Armand watched as the big German left. How melodramatic, he thought with contempt, dressing up entirely in black. He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of his captain’s chair, revealing the butt of the SIG Sauer P226 pistol sticking out from the leather shoulder holster that was strapped under his left arm. His mood, like the others, was tense, as he poured a generous measure of vodka into a glass tumbler. He returned to his chair, sat down and leaned back, sipping his vodka and just staring out of the windscreen in front of him.

  * * * With the underwater lights on, Dillon dismissed all notion of getting on board the Solitaire by using the anchor line. Instead he stayed close to the keel, attaching one of the limpet mines amidships, as he swam to the stern and surfaced. Seconds later, Vince cut the power to the Solitaire.

  Dillon wasted no time, exchanging his dive mask for the goggles again, slipped out of the buoyancy jacket, and clipped it onto the dive ladder complete with air tanks. With the goggles on, he was able to see clearly and immediately spotted Mazzarin leaning over the rail. As the gangway lights went out, he shouted something to one of the others, and then walked off down the starboard side to see what had happened.

  Suddenly, Zola appeared out of the darkness. Dillon was aware of footsteps descending the metal steps towards him, and eased back under the water, placed the regulator back in his mouth and floated just beneath the surface. Zola paused halfway down and lit a cigarette. The flame from the lighter dancing in cupped hands. And then, he was standing on the edge of the dive platform, just above Dillon’s head. His outline rippling above the water, not more than six feet away. Dillon took out, from inside his wetsuit jacket, the watertight dive bag containing the silenced Glock, surfaced without a sound on the far side of the dive ladder, took it out, and extended his arm. He then seized his moment and gently squeezed the trigger, twice.

  Zola glanced round in Dillon’s direction, pulling hard on the cigarette. He was still holding the white pencil like stick to his lips as the silenced Glock coughed twice as Dillon shot him in the chest. He crumpled onto the dive platform, slid over the edge and dropped headfirst three feet into the water.

  There was hardly a splash, but Mazzarin heard it and started back along the gangway towards the stern.

  “Hey, Zola, where are you, you okay?”

  “Yes,” Dillon called back in French, “I’m fine; I just slipped on the wet deck.”

  At that moment, Rob Chapman appeared in the inflatable, about fifty feet off the starboard side. Rowing aimlessly around in circles, and singing very loudly and out of tune.

  Mazzarin immediately looked around, and the next instant, Dillon could hear him running off up the gangway towards the forward section to find out what all the commotion was about.

  “Well done, Rob. Keep up the good work.” Dillon whispered.

  Dillon unzipped his wetsuit jacket, and tucked the Glock back inside. He then hauled himself up the ladder onto the dive platform, and lost no time in moving quickly across it, up the steps and along the main stern deck area to get to the cover of a large stowage locker.

  * * * Kurt, sitting on a chair outside Malakoff’s bedroom suite, the Russian AK47 rifle across his lap, heard the commotion outside through the open porthole at the end of the gangway, and frowned. Stood up, and went and listened, before going out to investigate what was happening.

  * * * Pierre appeared from around the corner on the port side, just as Dillon was crouching behind the stowage locker. He moved cautiously, in the near total darkness towards the edge of the main deck, the AK 47 was already in his hands, the safety catch in the off position.

  “Zola. Where are you?” The Frenchman demanded, as he peered down towards the dive platform. “I’m over here, I’ve found something.” Dillon replied in faultless French, and as the Frenchman started to turn around, Dillon was already standing up behind him, his arm extended, the silenced Glock in his hand. He fired, and shot him once between the eyes.

  Dillon, immediately moved forward, checked that he was dead, before dragging the body back across the deck, and concealing it behind the stowage locker.

  He’d heard no other sounds, apart from Rob Chapman out on the water, and Mazzarin shouting at him to get away from the Solitaire. He had not heard Kurt come silently out through the hatch. But, as he stood up and started to turn around, became fully aware of the burly bodyguard standing not more than four feet away from him, the AK47 pointing at his stomach. At that moment, the Solitaire’s power generators cut in, and as the gangways were once again flooded with light Dillon winced through his night vision goggle
s as the magnified light blinded him.

  “Drop your weapon, Mr Dillon, and remove the goggles.”

  Dillon felt the barrel of the AK47 against him and, without protest, did as he was ordered.

  “Now kick them both towards me. Slowly now.” Kurt bent down, picked up the Glock and the goggles, not taking his gaze from the former army intelligence officer for a second.

  “I like your choice of pistol, Mr Dillon. In fact, I like it so much; I’m going to use it to kill you with.” Kurt backed away towards the stern rail, smiling. “I would normally get this over with quickly. Say, with a bullet to the head. But, I’m going to make an exception in your case.” The German’s voice was as hard as tungsten steel.

  “I should have killed you, that first time on the cliff top. But you have a nasty habit of surviving, Mr Dillon. I think a bullet to each kneecap, will not only stop you running away, but will ensure that you feel maximum pain. Then, I am going to leave you to bleed for a while, kill your three friends, starting with that idiot in the inflatable, and then come back and finish you off very slowly. Herr Malakoff, will approve of this.”

  “Well, bully for old Malakoff, I’m surprised that he’s not out here himself.” Dillon said defiantly.

  Rob Chapman, watching through the night vision goggles, at the scene unravelling on the stern deck. Had seen Kurt come out through the hatch, and had never felt so useless in his life. His frustration at hearing every spoken word, and not being able to physically help Dillon was overwhelming.

  Mazzarin was leaning over the starboard side, AK47 pointing in Rob’s direction, telling him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t clear off immediately. Chapman wasted no more time, and started to pull hard on the oars.

  “Jake, You look as if you could do with some help,” Chapman whispered. “Move back against the bulkhead now. Nod, if you hear me.” Dillon moved his head, and the next moment, Chapman threw a stun grenade at the Solitaire.

  Kurt heard the object land onto the teak deck with a dull thud, no more than twelve feet away from him. As he turned to see what it was, Dillon rolled backwards, towards the cover of the bulkhead, immediately curling himself into a ball, covering his ears with both hands, and closing his eyes tightly shut. A second later, the grenade went off with a deafening sound, and blinding white light. Sending the confused bodyguard backwards over the rail, and onto the dive platform six feet below. He landed heavily on the deck, his left arm snapping backwards on impact.

  Dillon stood up cautiously, a little shaken, but otherwise unharmed by the grenade’s detonation and he was instantly aware of Mazzarin’s footsteps coming up the gangway towards him. He remained cloaked in the shadows, pressed up against the bulkhead, until Mazzarin was standing in front of him, in the middle of the deck.

  Dillon watched, as the Frenchman stood looking around him. Then he went to the rail, looked over, and saw Kurt laying on the dive platform below. Mazzarin started towards the steps, Dillon saw his opportunity, moved with cat-like stealth and was behind the former legionnaire in an instant. The other man didn’t have time to look around, or even know what was happening, death was instantaneous, and then his body went limp and he dropped on to the wooden deck. His neck broken, with one quick bone crunching jerk sideward. Dillon stood over the body, glanced down at the crumpled heap at his feet, and said quietly, “Three down, and three to go.” He then picked up the AK47, and threw it over the side rail into the harbour.

  Looking down, Dillon could see Kurt lying awkwardly; face down, on the dive platform below. Although, he appeared to be unconscious, Dillon still went slowly down the steps towards him to retrieve his gun. At the bottom, he moved cautiously around the inert body, looking for the Glock, and found it not more than two feet away, bent down to pick it up, and had his legs kicked out from under him.

  “Thought I was dead, did you, Dillon. Well it takes more than a stun grenade, and a dislocated shoulder, to kill me off. And now, prepare yourself to die, because I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.” Kurt told him through clenched teeth. He was now towering over Dillon, about to put the steel toe-cap into his groin.

  Dillon spun round on his back, rotated his body through three hundred and sixty degrees, just like a break dancer does, and with the momentum of this he was able to roll backwards and flip himself into a crouching position, only just avoiding Kurt’s boot, which kicked at nothing more than fresh air. Dillon grabbed it with both hands, lifted, and sent Kurt reeling backwards. He landed heavily, arms flaying to break his fall. The pain in his left shoulder so intense, that he almost passed out.

  Dillon was never totally certain what happened afterwards because everything moved so fast.

  Kurt, somehow found a second wind, and was on his feet in an instant, his right arm sweeping Dillon’s extended left to the side, the Glock discharging into the deck. Dillon tried to manoeuvre himself into a more advantageous position, but Kurt moved quickly, side stepped, and immediately closed in on the Englishman. His arm went around Dillon’s neck, and then he started to tighten his grip. Dillon dropped the pistol on to the deck, brought both hands up, and grabbed a hold of the German’s sweaty forearm in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his windpipe.

  “So, you’re the best they’ve got, are you? Well, not for much longer, English.” Kurt mocked, as he wrestled Dillon down onto the deck, his arm still locked around the Englishman’s throat.

  “If you’re going to do it, big man. Do it, don’t talk about it.” Dillon goaded, dug his fingernails into Kurt’s bare flesh, and after a second or two, the pressure was relaxed. He broke free from the crushing grip that he’d found himself locked in, and immediately scrabbled to retrieve the Glock, rolled over and turned to face the other man, pistol whipping him viciously across the side of his face. Blood immediately started to flow from the deep slash to his cheek, running down the side of his face, over his chin and splashing onto the deck beneath him.

  Dazed by the blow, Kurt had to use all of his remaining strength to stand up. By which time, Dillon was already on his feet and moving in on him.

  “Hey, big man. You’re looking a bit shaky on your feet, there. Perhaps you should call one of your friends for help?” Dillon said disparagingly, and then added, “Oh, but I almost forgot. Most of them are already dead, aren’t they?”

  Kurt twisted round, and with rage running through him, lurched forward and pushed Dillon backwards towards the edge of the dive platform. It was the last thing he ever did above water. Dillon let himself go straight over, taking the German with him.

  As they went into the water, Dillon held on tight to the other man, pulling him down with him, all the way to the bottom. Kurt struggled to get free, his lungs already starting to feel like they were going to burst. He rolled over and tumbled in a futile attempt to get away; but, Dillon was in his element, able to hold his breath for at least four minutes.

  At first Kurt struggled very hard indeed, feet kicking and arms flaying around in all directions, but quickly he weakened. Finally, he was still and Dillon let go of the lifeless body, which hovered belly-down, just above the seabed. It rolled over, and unseeing eyes stared back at him through the murky water. Before Dillon started for the surface, he unbuckled his weight belt and tied it around the dead man’s waist. His own lungs now very nearly at bursting point, he kicked off and let himself float gently back up. As he broke water, he took in great lungfuls of air.

  Through the tiny earpiece, came Rob Chapman’s voice. “You okay, Jake?” He could see Dillon clearly through the night vision goggles.

  “I’m okay.” Dillon replied breathlessly, and waved at Chapman in the inflatable.

  “So how many of them are left?” Chapman whispered.

  “Malakoff and the Captain. Everyone else has been taken care of. Permanently.” Dillon said, and started to climb the dive ladder.

  “Jake, it’s Vince. Just a little reminder, that you have no more than five minutes before the harbour master gets suspicious about th
e CCTV, and calls in the security company to check it out. Get your skates on, chap.”

  “I’m already working on it, big man.”

  He moved silently up the steps to the main deck area, keeping close to the shadows. Making his way along the gangway until he came to the hatch that Kurt had appeared from earlier. He glanced quickly around the opening, and saw that there was no one in the brightly lit corridor. Holding the Glock down by his side, he went through the hatch, and was moving towards the port side in a second. As he came up to one of the doors, he stopped instantly, and could hear someone talking very quietly inside the room. The door was almost fully open, giving him a clear view of the person sitting at the large desk. It was Malakoff, talking to one of his helicopter pilots on the phone, the silver chest open in front of him.

  Malakoff finished the phone call, picked up the documents that were laid out on the highly polished desk top, and placed them all inside the chest. Closed and locked the lid, yawned and got up, went to the mini bar and poured himself a large brandy. Dillon didn’t hesitate. He moved silently into the study and was standing at the side of the desk with the chest under his arm when Malakoff turned round to see him standing there.

  The tumbler fell silently to the floor, smashing into a million tiny fragments, and the look of disbelief crossed his face. “It cannot be, you should be dead? I’ve heard shouting and silenced gunfire.”

  “All mine, I’m afraid. Your boys didn’t even get one round off. In fact, they were a complete walkover, can’t believe how easily they all died.” Dillon kept his voice low, and monotone.

  “This is a lie. You would not have got the better of my bodyguard, Kurt.” Malakoff looked at the Englishman defiantly.

  “Your bodyguard, is now minding the fish at the bottom of the harbour.”

  “You will never get off this boat alive.”

  His arm outstretched, Dillon kept the Glock trained on Malakoff’s heart as he backed out of the room. At the doorway, he turned and ran up through the corridor towards the hatch. Malakoff, was already coming out through his study door behind him, a Walther PPK in his hand. He fired once, the noise shattering the otherwise silent night air, and the bullet going wide and slamming into the metal structure just above Dillon’s head. Dillon turned and loosed off three silenced rounds at Malakoff, who immediately took cover behind the door to his study.