by Nick Thacker
“Because they’re not our friends.”
“How can you —“
Joey cut himself off as soon as he saw it.
At the bow of the boat, standing on the rounded covered section on top, stood a man, his legs firmly at shoulder’s length apart, one hand holding the deck rail of the speeding motorboat.
In his other hand he held an assault rifle.
“Shit.”
“Shit’s right,” I muttered.
“What’s the —“
“You and Shalice get belowdecks, stay out of sight, and wait for —“
“What’s going on?” Shalice’s voice cut through the night air, rising above the increasing roar of the approaching watercraft.
“Shit again,” I said. “You two need to stay down. No sense letting them know there are three of us here. They’re here to talk to me.”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. My boat, my rules.”
“We can’t get belowdecks without being spotted.”
He was right. “True. Okay, just stay up here. It’ll give you a perch to listen from, and if you’re careful about it maybe even a good line of sight onto their —“
My world suddenly lit up with the brightness of a million suns.
“Dammit,” I shouted. They had opened fire with a massive light, one of the coast-guard-quality million-candle-power bulbs that could be focused on a target from over a hundred feet away.
And they weren’t even close to a hundred feet away.
The light burned my eyes, blinding me.
“What the hell,” I heard Joey say from next to me.
‘Don’t move,’ a voice said, booming out from a speaker system from somewhere on the smaller craft. ‘We see you — all three of you. Do not attempt to escape. We need to talk.’
“Yeah,” Shalice said. “Sounds like that’s all they want to do.”
“Never know,” I said. “They might just need to chat with me about something.”
I saw Joey’s face, met his eyes. Don’t tell her, I silently pleaded. He nodded.
I turned back to Shalice. “Stay up here, just like they said. Don’t let Joey do anything stupid.”
She nodded. “Want me to call the cops? Or Coast Guard?”
“Can’t get cell service out here,” I answered as I stepped onto the first stair. “And there isn’t a radio on the top deck to get the Coast Guard. Just hang tight, stay cool.”
I walked down the stairs onto the main deck, wondering the whole time if I had time to get to my cabin and grab one of the pieces I kept on board at all times. I had a few to choose from, everything from a couple smaller .380s to my trusty .45-caliber Glock.
I knew, however, that the answer was no. They were already preparing to board, and I had a feeling the guy standing like a pirate at the front of their boat was more than ready to pop off a few rounds. I walked over to the port side, stood at the rail, and held my hands up.
“Keep ‘em up, Dixon,” the guy with the gun said. “Don’t worry about helping us board — we’ll take care of that on our own.”
He was right, as almost immediately after he’d said it I saw two more gentlemen throw ropes over to the Wassamassaw from the smaller boat. The boat was unnamed, unmarked, and painted black. Great. They were in the business of staying out of sight.
I wondered if they were pirates, but thought it seemed a little unlikely that they’d be targeting yachts and smaller vessels that weren’t in a shipping lane, and American boats at that. Pirates these days were far smarter than the general public wanted to believe, targeting ships that had strayed off the beaten path for whatever reason, and specifically focusing on large pulls — ships carrying valuable cargo that could fetch a hefty sum on the black market.
The pirating industry, I’d been told, was alive and well, but it was rare to see or hear anything about them in the States — it was too far from the markets for the bastards to risk it.
So these men weren’t here to loot my boat. They weren’t here to hold me hostage, demanding an ungodly sum of money to warrant my release. They were here for something else entirely.
Something that was probably related to this latest operation I’d found myself in.
“Hello, Mason,” a voice said.
I turned, my hands still above my head, and looked at the man who’d boarded. He was short, squat even, but seemed like he could handle himself well. A bowling ball made of pure muscle.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I need to know that you’re not going to make a move on Rockford Elizondo.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” the man said. “I guess we’re done here.”
I frowned. “Really?”
The man smiled. “No asshole, we’re only getting started. You know how these things work. You’ve been in the business a long time, Dixon. You and your old man.”
“What do you know about my old man?”
“That doesn’t matter now,” the man said. “I’m employed by the guy you’re supposed to be trying to kill. He’s very interested in not getting killed.”
“So you kill me, he’s safe? That it?”
The man shook his head. “No, Dixon. It’s not that simple. Again, you know how this stuff works.”
I shook my head. “No, I guess it’s been too long. Why don’t we have a drink, talk about it like gentlemen?”
He smiled. “Thank you, Dixon. I thought you’d never ask.”
He motioned with his pistol for me to start walking.
“I’ll follow you. Hope you have something worth drinking in there.”
13
NATURALLY HE WENT FOR THE Johnnie Walker Blue — the overrated scotch that I keep on display in the lighted liquor cabinet. It really was meant for display. I’m not a scotch guy, really, and I’m certainly not a showy fellow, so having anything that costs more than a Benjamin in my liquor cabinet means it’s either got to be really good or was a really nice gift.
My JW Blue, as it turned out, fell into the latter category. A gift from someone I can’t even remember when my late wife passed away. That was the funny thing about gifts — the ones you remember aren’t the most expensive, but the most meaningful. I’d have remembered the hell out of someone who’d gotten me her favorite drink rather than their own.
If they’d have known me any better they’d have opted for a bourbon, or a rye, or even just a plain ‘ol American whiskey. But scotch has zing to it, a certain je ne sais pas. It says ‘I bought you a gift that’s expensive because I want you to remember that I bought you an expensive gift,’ rather than ‘I bought you this because I know you well.’
Whatever.
Regardless of the history of the items in my liquor cabinets — the good-sized one here, the minuscule one back at my apartment, and the massive, impressive one at my bar — I don’t want schmucks drinking my stuff.
Especially if they’re not paying for it.
“That’s a $150 bottle of scotch, my friend,” I said to the newcomer on my boat.
The squat man looked at it as he poured two glasses, then lifted the glass up and looked at through the light.
“It is fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked. “How they can charge so much for swill like this?”
“It’s just blended,” I said, “but it’s a well-known distillery. They can get away with it.”
He scoffed, then set the bottle back on the shelf in the cabinet. At an angle, so the label faced the wrong direction. I made a mental note to fix that later before it started driving me nuts.
“I can fetch about $30 a pour at my bar for that.”
“For this?”
“It’s not a common request, believe it or not. And by pricing it high, I turn their attention on the lower-priced — and better — options.”
He nodded in approval.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He sniffed, then smacked the scotch in his mouth after sniffing and sipping a finger of it. At least he seemed to know his wh
isky. I wondered if he was a drinker at all or if it was all for show.
“I normally don’t drink on the job, Dixon,” he said as he took another smaller sip. “But considering the company, I figured I could stand to indulge a bit.”
“Keep drinking. Have all you want,” I said.
He laughed. “It would make it easier to get rid of me that way, wouldn’t it?”
“How else can I get rid of you?” I shot back. “I’m normally pretty good at boozing up the clientele, but something tells me you’re not going to fall for any tricks.”
“Good,” he said. “We’re on the same page.”
“What do you want?” I asked again.
“I want you to back off Elizondo,” the man said.
“I am off” I said. “I’ve done nothing so far. Don’t really have plans to.”
“Correct,” he answered. “And I thought we could talk about the logistics of it down here, to keep it that way. Like gentlemen.”
I thought about, then took a sip. “Well, listen, er —”
“Franzen,” the man said. “Jacob Franzen.”
“Okay, Mr. Franzen,” I said. “You’re here because you want me to not kill some guy, but there are guys who really want me to kill that same guy, and they’re willing to pay me —”
“Three-hundred thousand,” he said immediately, cutting me off. “Yes, I heard about that.”
“It’s a lot of money. You offering me that much to not kill him?”
He shook his head and smiled. “No, I’m afraid not. My boss doesn’t have the resources to begin to pay off all the other men who want him dead.”
“Right,” I said. “So you can understand my conundrum, I’m sure. On one hand, I stand to make a lot of money. On the other hand…”
Franzen leaned forward a bit in the couch across from me. His legs parted a bit to allow for his roundish gut to fall between them. “On the other hand,” he said, “you stand to not die.”
I leaned my head back. Why does this shit always happen to me? Everything about Franzen told me he was telling the truth. Everything told me he was a player, and possibly a major one, or at least a man playing for a major player. His boss, the man I had been instructed to kill, was now threatening me not to kill him.
Crazy world we live in.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“If you don’t comply, yes.”
“But… everyone dies.”
He laughed. “Sure, Dixon, everyone dies. But my boss was very clear about the timeframe.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sunday. I keep hearing that. What’s Sunday, and why’s it so damn important to this Rockford Elizondo guy?”
He shook his head. “Listen, Dixon. The only thing you have to worry about is making sure Elizondo stays alive until Monday morning. That’s it.”
“Great. So I’ll make sure to cross out ‘kill Rockford’ from my planner.”
Franzen laughed again. “That’s just it,” he said. “You see, Elizondo, after hearing a little about you, figured it would make more sense to have you on our side with this whole fiasco.”
I squinted with one eye. “What — what are you talking about, Franzen?”
“I’m talking about making sure my boss doesn’t die.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I got that. We already talked about that.”
“No,” he responded. “We talked about you not killing him. Now we’re talking about making sure he doesn’t die. Before Saturday.”
“Wait — you’re telling me you want me to protect him?”
He nodded. “My boss is convinced you’re the right guy for the job.”
“But the other guys are threatening to take my bar away if I don’t kill him —”
“And we’re threatening to kill you. If Elizondo dies.”
Shit. Something about a rock and a hard place fits here, I thought. But I’d honestly rather be between a rock and a hard place.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Shit.”
He nodded. “That’s about the extent of it, yes. It’s a shit deal, but it’s the deal.”
Franzen downed the rest of the glass and set it on the edge of the bar. No coaster. I’d have to clean up the wet ring of condensation after he left.
“I don’t like that deal,” I said.
“That’s cute, Dixon. Sorry it doesn’t fit your agenda. Hate to break it to you, bud, but that’s the deal. Keep my boss alive, and we keep you alive.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said, clenching my fists. “I — I won’t do —”
The punch hit me much quicker than I’d expected. It also hurt a lot more than I’d expected. The guy was pure muscle, I guess, and he was certainly in shape enough to move quickly.
I licked my lip and felt the beginnings of a massive welt forming. I was on the floor somehow. The punch and the whisky combined, perhaps. Or he was just that damn strong and knew how to use his hips to throw a hell of a punch. I crawled forward a bit on the carpet, trying to get to the other chair next to me to pull my self up.
“You son of a —”
The next hit was from a foot, and it landed in the soft part of my stomach.
I felt and heard the air leaving my insides as I crumpled down onto the carpet. Shit, I thought again. Shit. This is not going well.
“Dixon,” the man said, not even breathing heavily. “I didn’t want to have to tell you more than once. But this is something you’ll learn from me.”
He walked over to me, stepped over my prone body, and reached down for the glass of scotch on the end table next to my chair. He downed the rest of it, then set it by his glass on the edge of the bar.
“I don’t like to repeat myself. I really don’t like to repeat myself when I know for a fact that the person understands me just fine. So when I do repeat myself, it costs.”
I looked up at him, still catching my breath.
“It costs a lot, Dixon.”
He swung his foot back and sailed it — perfectly aimed — right into the exact same spot he’d landed it before. The oof that escaped my lips was nothing compared to the feeling of everything inside of me trying to get out at once. I wanted to vomit, scream, and crawl away all at the same time.
Instead, I just lay there, pitiful, staring up at the bowling ball of a man who’d single-handedly laid me out and decimated me.
“It’s going to cost you, Dixon, but consider yourself lucky. We’re only going to take some collateral this time. Next time, it’s their life.”
I didn’t have time to contemplate — or understand — what he was talking about before the swinging foot wound up and came back down.
This time it landed just under my eye, sending me rolling backwards and into the chair behind me. I made it through about a half roll before everything went black.
14
I GROANED. TRIED TO MOVE. Groaned again.
Dammit, I’m getting old.
My neck hurt, which was relatively normal, but as soon as I tried to turn it to the side a sharp flash of pain shot down my spine. I yelled, cursed.
My hands worked, so I used those to try and massage the kinks from my neck. The pain, apparently, was far deeper than a simple muscle-based massage could mend. I wondered if my neck was broken, but after writhing around on the carpet and shifting to a sitting position, I realized I was fine.
Just in severe pain.
I stood, keeping my balance by holding onto the chair. I looked around at the living room. Two empty glasses of scotch sat on the edge of the bar in the corner, the liquor cabinet closed but the bottle still spun out at the wrong angle, the label hidden from view.
Then I remembered what had happened.
I wanted to hustle, to move quickly, but I couldn’t. I could barely move at all, so it was enough to shuffle toward the door and the stairs, then pull myself up slowly. Carefully, steadily, I made it to the top deck, the smaller area above the main deck that held the three deck chairs and a table with an awning cover over all of it.
Joey was still there.
Alone.
“J — Joey,” I said. “You alright?”
He didn’t respond.
Shit.
I walked over, still shuffling slowly so as not to upset my aches and pains any more than needed.
“Joey,” I said again, louder this time. “Wake up.”
He was facedown on the deck, the hard floor smashed against the side of his face. I tried to get closer and bend down, but my back wouldn’t let me. Instead I just stood there, standing over him, useless and unable to help.
Finally he stirred.
“Joey, where’s Shalice?”
His girlfriend’s name seemed to wake him even further, and his eyes shot open. He groaned, loudly, then grabbed at the side of his head.
“They knocked me out,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
“Someone else came aboard and came up here right after you and that other guy went down below. They — they forced me up against the railing and took Shalice.”
I cursed. “Any idea where they went?”
He shook his head.
“How long ago?” I asked. I didn’t know how long I’d been passed out, but I figured it had been longer than Joey.
“Not sure,” he said. “I — I just remember them grabbing her. She screamed, and I tried to fight back.”
“You were unarmed.”
“Yeah, well screw that. I wasn’t going to let them just…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t need to. I knew what he meant.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I think so. Shook up a bit, but I’m not injured. You, on the other hand —”
“I’ll be fine,” I answered. “Don’t worry about me. Listen, Joey —”
“We’re going to find them,” he said quickly. “We’re going to kill them, Mason. I’m going to personally rip that asshole’s fu —”
“I know,” I said. “I know. I’m with you. We’ll get her back. They took her for collateral.”
Joey stared at me like I was insane. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
I walked closer to him, my hand on the rail. The wind felt nice, but nothing else did. All of it sucked. Ruined. A waste of a beautiful night.