Death Mark (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 2)

by Nick Thacker

  I looked back at Elizondo. The man’s small, thin, mouth was back to its nonchalant shape. “You’re going to pay for this, Elizondo.”

  He nodded, almost reverently. “I’m sure I will. But we’re running out of time. I’d like you to stay with Shalice, to keep her company.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have an appointment.”

  He turned and walked out the door. I followed, but was met by the end of the mens’ weapons. “What’s this about, Elizondo?” I asked again.

  He turned around, faced me. “It’s about money,” he said. “It’s always about money. Your father, I hear he was told there was money involved. ‘Take me out and take over my business,’ something like that?”

  I nodded.

  “He was right. There is money here. But it’s not as easy as they think. I told you a bit about that. You don’t just walk into this business, or steal your way into it. It takes time, and even then — even when you’ve paid your dues — the big guys cut you out because they can. Because you’re competition to them, and they’ve got the government on their side.”

  I was shaking my head, not understanding. I wasn’t sure if Joey was even listening. “I don’t get it, Elizondo. What’s this about?”

  He smiled, but just shrugged. “I tried to make it work,” he said. “But I’ve got a nice life for me down in Cuba. Great house, plenty of servants. I wonder why I even ever wanted to work up here. I should have just stayed down there, just focused on the Caribbean.”

  “So go back,” I said. “I’m not stopping you.”

  “I know,” he said. “You certainly aren’t. And I will. But like I said, I have an appointment.”

  He rolled his wrist out and checked a watch he wore with the face on the wrong side of his arm. It was gold, gaudy and probably real, ugly as it was. He shook it, it disappeared into a sleeve, and then he walked away.

  One of the men with the guns slammed the door in my face while the other pointed it at me to discourage me from any funny business. I heard the first man fumbling around with a key, then the lock sliding into place.

  I waited until I assumed they’d left then slammed my shoulder into the door.

  45

  THE DOOR WOULD GIVE, JUST a bit, but it was going to take some work to break it open. It was a simple construction, just a couple sheets of plastic with a forming layer of aluminum or something lightweight sandwiched between them. Like a cooler lid, or a screen door without the screen section.

  Odd, again, that he would leave the three of us in such an unsecured room. He knew it was easy enough to break out, and it was a wonder why Shalice hadn’t already figured out how.

  “What are we going to do?” Shalice asked.

  Joey hugged her again. “We’ll figure something out,” he said. “We always do.”

  “We’re going to get out,” I said.

  “But the men,” she said. “They’ll shoot us.”

  “Those two goons?” I asked. They’re not worth the scruples he’s paying them.”

  “No,” she said. “All the other guys. There were at least forty of them. All over the place, in the rooms around us, on deck. Everywhere.”

  Joey and I looked at each other. I shook my head. “Those guys are gone, Shalice. There wasn’t anyone else on board. Maybe three guards. There were only two with us once we got up to the bridge.”

  She frowned. “Where’d they all go, then?”

  “Could be that they were on the boats,” Joey said. “He had an army with him.”

  “A navy, more accurately,” I added.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  We sat there a moment, thinking. Trying to figure it out.

  “This is weird,” Joey said.

  “Yeah. I picked up on that.”

  “What’s his move? I mean, what’s the point of all this? Grab us, stick us in here with Shalice, then leave. Why not kill us?”

  “Maybe he plans on killing us later.”

  Shalice’s eyes were wide, but I didn’t care. She’d been through the worst of it, so a few words weren’t going to hurt her.

  Joey shook his head. “That wouldn’t be an intelligent use of his resources. And it sounds like everyone’s leaving the ship. It was ghost town out there.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said.

  “And all that rum,” he added. “Just… sitting there. He’s floating a ship full of hard liquor into Charleston, all —”

  “It’s not liquor,” I said. I realized it just when he said the word. I heard liquor and something clicked. Or, rather, something didn’t click. It hadn’t added up, and I suddenly knew why.

  “It’s not?”

  “Joey,” I said. “You ever seen a rickhouse?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve seen pictures. It’s where they store whiskey for aging. Distilleries use them, and they’re just warehouses full of barrels.”

  “Like the one out there?” Joey asked.

  “With a major difference. You store barrels in a rickhouse on their side, so you can easily roll them and stosh around the insides. All the barrels out there are stacked, and the towers are at least three deep on each side. Probably so you can fit more in, but there would be no way to move any of them around, ever.”

  “Maybe it’s just for transport,” Joey said.

  “But he said they were full, remember? Fifty-three gallons each, checked them this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  When you age liquor, there’s something called the ‘angel’s share.’ It’s a percentage of distillate that’s lost to seepage, then evaporation.”

  “So the barrels wouldn’t be full?”

  “Never. Maybe they’d be close to full when they were first filled, but if that were the case we’d see a lot more of them seeping. The black lines where the planks of wood touch each other. There would be bubbles and slow, sugary distillate seeping out of every one of them.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying he’s not transporting rum,” I said. “Or any other spirit. If the stuff was brand new, each barrel was full, he’d leave them in Cuba, or wherever he’d first filled them. It’s way cheaper to store it down there than try to transport it here, get it unloaded and transported to a rickhouse, and that doesn’t even include the land cost. If he was bringing rum into the States he’d be smarter to bottle it there, then bring it in.”

  “So what’s inside the barrels?”

  “Who knows,” I said. “But it’s not going to be any good for us, whatever it is. Help me with this door.”

  Joey walked over to the chair, a utilitarian piece of metal and cushion, and lifted it over his head. “I think we can just break the handle off,” he said. “This isn’t the most secure room.”

  “You can say that again,” I said. I watched him do. He lifted it higher, aimed for the handle, then swung down with a solid amount of force. The loud crash rang throughout the room, but I wondered if it could be heard out in the hallway.

  Or maybe they’ve already left, I thought.

  Joey hit it again and the handle popped off, crashing to the floor and bouncing around a few times before it came to rest against the curtain separating the toilet from the rest of the room.

  He tried the door, but it was still locked. “Damn,” he said, “I thought that would work.”

  “It did work, Joey,” I said. “It’s just stuck. Here, move over.”

  Joey stepped to the side and I stepped back a few feet from the door. I focused on the area just to the right of where the handle had been a moment ago, then pulled my foot up and back. I kicked as hard as I could, careful to land my foot flat against the door. The door popped open easily, and I was staring at the room just across the narrow hall.

  “There,” I said. “Let’s go. Help Shalice.”

  He was one step ahead of me, holding Shalice around the waist. She was able to walk, but she was tired and weak, and she didn’t turn down the help.

  We
stepped outside and turned left. I hoped we could get back upstairs without any trouble, but I had no idea what was happening down here in the first place. If Elizondo had wanted us locked up, he hadn’t taken a lot of pains to ensure we were. That meant we were either not important to him or it didn’t matter anymore.

  Because no one’s left on the ship, I suddenly found myself thinking. Because they’re all gone already, because…

  I smelled another whiff of fuel as my squeaky shoes hit the floor. The open passageway that led to the large interior storage space must have wafted some air up and into my nostrils.

  “Smells like gas,” Joey said.

  “Yeah, it’s been like that the whole time I’ve been here,” Shalice said. “I’ve had a headache since they brought me here.”

  I froze.

  Voices.

  One was over a handheld radio, the other was from the man operating the radio. “Yes sir,” he said. “Confirmed, four minutes thirty-seven seconds. Over.”

  I listened, then crept forward. The voice was right around the corner. Inside the warehouse of barrels.

  What in the world?

  I listened another few seconds, trying to determine whether the man was alone. I couldn’t hear any other voices, or movement whatsoever. I turned back to Joey, brought my voice down to the barest whisper. “I’m going to see who this guy is. Probably one of the guards. Stay here with Shalice.”

  He nodded.

  I walked out into the warehouse, knowing that the tower of barrels to my left would keep me out of sight for another few seconds. I slowed, crouched, then leaned sideways to get a look at the man.

  It was one of the guards who’d accompanied us to the bridge and then back down here with Elizondo. His rifle was sitting on the floor next to him, but it was on his right side, away from me. He was kneeling on the floor and holding something in his hands, like a tablet of some sort. I couldn’t recognize an iPad from a graphing calculator, but I knew this was some sort of touchscreen apparatus. The screen glowed bright, lighting up his features. It was encased in a thick rubbery rectangle, and I imagined it would be capable of surviving a fall from the top of one of these towers without much trouble.

  Time to make my move, I told myself. The guy was busy, programming in something related to what Elizondo had told him over the radio. ‘Four minutes thirty-seven seconds.’

  He finished, frowning once and then nodding to himself. He held the device in one hand while gripping the radio in his other. He brought the radio up to his mouth. “Sir, we’re live. Give me the signal.”

  46

  I HEARD THE VOICE — ELIZONDO’S — crackle back immediately over the radio. “Good. Five seconds… three. Two. One. Set.”

  “Set.”

  The man pressed a button on the screen that I couldn’t see, then hit another sequence of things with a fat index finger. Finally, he put the radio down and used both hands to press the device flat against the front of one of the barrels. It held in place, but he watched it for a second to be sure. Another nod.

  Time’s up, buddy.

  I rushed him. It was easy, really, since he obviously had no idea I had even been standing there, and he was only five feet away from me. I tackled his head, holding on with the crook of my elbow around his neck, and gave him a perfect wrestling move to the ground. He fell on the gun, which was even better. I threw one of my long legs over his torso and squeezed, holding him tight, and tried to grab at the rifle with my free hand.

  I realized quickly that he was stronger than me and a bit more fit. He writhed sideways like an alligator, trying to spin me off of him, but I held fast. I wasn’t hurting him though, and that was a problem. I could hang onto him as long as I wanted but it would do absolutely no good if he wasn’t going to pass out.

  He tried to bite at my arm, but I had it below his chin. He tried kicking me with the back of his boot, but again my legs were safely out of the way. It was a standoff, and neither of us was going to get the upper hand anytime soon.

  Joey was there. He must have heard it, or been expecting it, but he was suddenly standing over us. I watched him step right up to the guy and look down at him, then at the tablet stuck to the barrel wall, then back to me. He kicked, a quick, tapping thing with just the point of his shoe.

  But it worked. It hit the guy right in the eye and he howled in pain. I felt him weaken a bit and I took advantage of it by tightening my own grip on his neck. He coughed, trying to breathe, and I knew then that I had him.

  Joey kicked again, this time for the other eye. The man was defeated now, and he knew it. He stopped struggling, just laying there for a moment. I refused to let it alter my approach, and I tightened around his neck even more.

  Another fifteen seconds passed and he was out. No breathing. No movement.

  I groaned.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I wanted to take him myself. You ruined it.”

  Joey smiled and held out a hand, helping me up. Shalice was there in the doorway, watching, her eyes wide.

  “It’s okay,” Joey said. “We’re okay.”

  She swallowed, looked from me to the dead guy to her boyfriend and then nodded quickly. Then she looked at the tablet on the barrel.

  “Four minutes and some change,” Joey said. “I’d be willing to bet we don’t want to be anywhere near here when it gets to zero.”

  “I won’t take that bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  I grabbed the man’s rifle while Joey reached for his radio. I held the assault rifle in one hand while I rummaged around on his belt with my other hand. I was looking for anything that might be helpful to us, keys or information or anything.

  I found handcuffs. I took them and stuck them in my wet pocket and then stood up and nodded to Joey and Shalice. “Back the way we came. Run.”

  They didn’t need any more encouragement. Shalice looked awkward wearing nothing but a bikini, but she was fast. Joey had to hustle to keep up, and they made it through the interior of the barrel storage area twenty paces before me.

  “Head up one level,” I said. “Main deck. Find a way to get off the boat.”

  “Where are you going?” Joey asked.

  “I’ve got an appointment.”

  47

  I TOOK THE STAIRS TWO at a time and made it to the bridge about thirty seconds later. I walked in the same door I’d been through twice already, looked to the right, and saw Elizondo fiddling with something on a console.

  I shot him, twice. Right in the back of his left leg. No hesitation.

  He crumpled to the floor, coughing and seething. He scrambled around looking for something to fight back with, but I rushed over and stepped on his arm. I looked down at him. “What the hell is this, Elizondo?” I asked.

  He sputtered. “I — I told you…”

  “This is your little way of telling everyone else what you think of their system, isn’t it?”

  He glared up at me.

  “This is just a little toddler acting out, huh? A rich kid who didn’t get his way?”

  “It’s not… like —”

  “It’s exactly like that. Except you’re richer and and crazier than a toddler.”

  “You’re not going to kill me,” he said. “You can’t.”

  “I could,” I said. “You’d better believe I could. I want to. I’ve done it before. Guys like you are better off dead. Really. No sense waxing philosophical about it.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Well, you know, I’ve had a little time to think. About thirty seconds on my way up here from down below. Here’s what we’ll do.”

  I grabbed his wrist and yanked it, hard. I took the handcuffs from my pocket and slammed them onto his wrist and then onto the metal post that held up one leg of one of the consoles. It had been mounted into the frame of the ship itself, so I knew it would hold just fine.

  “Wha — what are you doing?” Elizondo asked. His deep, brooding eyes glistened in the darkness, reflecting
the blinking lights and dim glows of the apparatus and consoles I couldn’t even begin to understand.

  “I’m making sure you get to lay in this bed you’ve made, Elizondo.”

  I looked out the front window. Saw the ship stretching out in front of me, the black waters of Charleston Harbor in front of that, and the lights in the city off in the distance. We were moving fast, heading right for the port.

  Heading right for a group of ships clustered around the dock. There were Handymax size, ranging from just smaller than the Rummer to about twice the size.

  “No — you don’t understand,” he said, nearly whining now.

  I nodded. “But I do. I’ve got about three minutes to figure out how to stop this ship, buddy. You want to help me out?”

  He glared.

  “That’s what I thought. I’d recommend just sitting there quietly, then. Could be a long three minutes.”

  I looked around. The wheel, the thousand buttons and knobs and levers. The throttle.

  The throttle.

  That was easy enough. I didn’t know if a ship like this could be stopped properly by simply cramming to throttle back, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t too worried about breaking anything. This ship would be on the bottom of Charleston Harbor inside an hour.

  I yanked it backward. The ship groaned, creaked. I thought I heard popping sounds, either from the flexing of tons of steel working against physics, then de-stressing into their new locations.

  The ship slowed immediately. We were floating, so we were still moving, but we’d slowed considerably and still were.

  Next step.

  I looked around, trying to find a button or a knob or something simple. I found it near the wheel, right off the right side of the console everything was mounted on.

  Anchor.

  I punched it, hard. Didn’t hear anything at first, but then a louder, deeper groaning sound.

  Come on, I thought. Two-and-a-half minutes.

  I was guessing, but I figured I had at least that long. I hoped I had at least that long.