Clawback

by Mike Cooper

  Doesn’t sound like much, but far too fast for a sidewalk.

  Fortunately, this cross street was more or less clear. Waiting cars hadn’t edged much past the zebra stripe, so Rondo was able to fly through. He even aimed the left wheels through the curb cut on the other side.

  Every police officer in the city must have been headed for the Holland Tunnel. No one appeared interested in pursuing us.

  “Are we going to drive all the way to Battery Park like this?” I asked.

  “If necessary.”

  Lockerby’s voice came over the phone, which I’d returned to my ear.

  “Where are you?”

  I glanced at a street sign as we knocked it over. “Lafayette and…White.”

  “We’re almost at Barclay Street.”

  “What’s down there?”

  “I think…” Random noise sputtered on the line. “They’re going into the marina.”

  “Marina?”

  “South Cove Private Facility Keep Out Members Only.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “No guards at the gate. Looks like anyone can walk in.”

  I looked at Rondo. “South Cove Marina. You know it?”

  “Rich people’s boats. Sure. I had a client there once.”

  The street ahead was almost normal—full of cars, but moving at regular speeds. Rondo roared off the curb, right in front of a bus. The Caddy’s nose banged into the asphalt, the entire car juddering. I had an instant’s glimpse through the bus windows, astonished passengers staring out, then we were in front, the diesel horn diminishing behind us.

  Rondo accelerated, pushing the car hard now that we were back on intentional pavement.

  “Full exercise room,” he said.

  “What?”

  “On the yacht. Weights, machines—you’d think it would have sunk the damn thing.”

  “Pay attention to the road!”

  We swerved. Just missed an SUV pulling out of a parking garage.

  “Relax.” Rondo seemed a lot more comfortable on an actual street.

  And we were flying now, blowing past taxis and trucks and black livery cars. I turned my attention back to the armory, reloading several magazines, checking slides and actions. All the machinery was well kept—cleaned and oiled within a day or two. Saxon ran a tight ship.

  Rondo caught a lucky green at the end of North Moore and we swung onto the West Side Highway for a few blocks. Other cars gave way before us. I wondered just how bad the dents and scrapes looked. Ground Zero passed on the left, cranes and construction dumpsters visible through netting above the Jersey barriers. The site was dismal in the October rain.

  Another quarter mile and Rondo turned right, tires screaming, almost flipping us over. We slid to a halt alongside a row of silver bollards set into the sidewalk. Apparently the blank, modernist office cube behind them needed protection from car bombs.

  “The entrance is right up there,” said Rondo.

  “Lockerby?” I spoke into the phone. “Where are you? We’re in front of…fuck, I don’t know—wait. Malvey Street.”

  “I’m under the walkway. Should be right in front of you.”

  I looked down the street and saw Lockerby limp from behind the colonnade fronting the next block. He waved halfheartedly, then went back to shelter from the rain.

  “Let’s go.” I grabbed the duffel, fully loaded, and we exited into the downpour.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Outside a pair of diehards stood huddled next to a doorway, shielding their cigarettes from the rain. They stared at us. I glanced back at the Caddy. The side was caved in, side mirror torn away, metal detail hanging loose. The rear bumper was gone, under a deep dent in the trunk. The front grille was entirely smashed.

  “Don’t worry—my friend’s a Student Driver,” I said to them. “Some rain, huh?” We ran down the street.

  Lockerby was drenched. A streak of grit and mud ran up the back of his pants and shirt. But he was wounded, too—blood on his neck and both legs, pants dark with it. He was hunched, one arm held close to his torso in that way that meant broken ribs or internal damage or both. His bike was abandoned on the ground, dropped where he’d finally dismounted.

  “How the hell did you ride this far?”

  “Couldn’t lose her.” His voice was whispery, but he didn’t look at me, kept staring at the marina’s entrance.

  “Where are they?” Rondo said.

  “The van’s there.”

  This whole area, a dozen landfill blocks sticking into the Hudson, was several feet above the river’s waterline. From our vantage at the end of the office block we had a view over the fence surrounding the boatyard. Past the parking lot and a cedar-shingled boathouse, a dock extended along the water’s edge, then out into the river along the jetties on either side. A large fuel tank sat in a neatly painted cradle at the top of the dock. The slips held a row of power yachts, big sailboats and various other seagoing palaces. At the very end, a vast, four-level behemoth towered above everything else, interrupting an otherwise stunning view of the Hudson.

  The van sat at the far end of the parking lot. No people were visible anywhere. One or two of the boats had lit windows, cheery in the gloom. Atop the big one, white-covered radar antennas turned slowly in the rain.

  “Let me guess,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Lockerby kept his gaze fixed. “The monster yacht. You can just see the name on the bow—Tangible Assets. I saw two men drag Clara into it through a door at dock level. Two others with them.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Five or six minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  I lowered the duffel to the ground and knelt, zipping it open. Lockerby glanced down, then looked more closely.

  “What’s this shit?”

  “Boy Scout motto.”

  “Damn.”

  “It’s theirs—they left it behind when they jumped into the truck.”

  “Amateurs.”

  “No.” I put one Glock in my belt, set another aside and put two magazines each into my hip pockets. “But I think they’re improvising. Something went wrong for them. What exactly happened back there?”

  Rondo took a moment to draw a breath.

  “I stopped in the library when I walked her over. Too much rain, and I had some time. We were walking through the reading room when I heard a crash, and bangs.” His voice trailed off, throat working.

  “They came in hard,” said Lockerby. His voice was bleak. “I heard the same sounds—you know, it’s true, you never forget. Knew exactly what it was. I ran out, like an idiot. Got hit as soon as they topped the stairs.”

  “It was—I don’t know.” Rondo wiped his head again, but it was more rain than blood now. “Chaos. I barely remember running through the library. I saw them shoot someone on the floor, just a guy reading a book, an instant later he, just…an explosion. Of blood.”

  “They separated Clara at the utility corridor,” said Lockerby. “Hauled her off. Rondo hit one, and the guy whacked him back, ran him into the wall. I followed them out, but they were already getting in the van when I came through the door. So I got my bike.”

  “Recognize anyone?”

  “No,” said Rondo.

  “Me neither.” Lockerby was fading, almost bent over in pain. “Soldiers, though. You can tell. Motherfuckers.”

  “Why did they take her?” Rondo raised his hands. “I don’t mean—just, I don’t get it. Why is Clara still alive?”

  “That’s a good question.” But I knew the answer, even if I didn’t say it out loud: they were using Clara to come after me. Ruthless exploitation of an opponent’s weakness. Saxon didn’t want to waste time chasing me around—now he could sit back and wait.

  Of course I’d shown up a little faster than they’d expected, and things got messy. But Saxon’s basic plan was fine.

  My karmic meter was deep into the red.

  We stood for a moment before I shook myself back into motion.

 
“All right.”

  “What are you doing?”

  I stood up and offered Lockerby the .50 cal. “You in any condition to handle this?”

  He straightened, a little, and took the rifle. “Sure.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  He hefted the M2 for a couple of seconds, then quickly ran the bolt and checked the action. A spark of vitality returned to his face. “It’s been a few years.”

  “Like riding a bike.”

  Rondo had been watching with a frown.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going in.” I looked at him. “Clara and I are coming out.”

  “Is that—maybe we should wait for the police?”

  “What if they drive that boat away?”

  We stood in silence for a few moments, staring at the vessel.

  “All right.” Rondo wiped his face one more time. “I’m going with you.”

  “No. They’re killers. You have no idea—”

  “Stop wasting time.”

  Lockerby was visibly struggling to pull himself together, barely able to walk. Rondo looked like a video game poster, all cut muscle and steely glare, blood trickling down his face. Rain fell heavily behind us. On the boat were an unknown number of ruthless and experienced soldiers, almost certainly ex-military, probably including a man who’d nearly killed me twice.

  “I know what I’m doing,” I said. “You don’t.”

  “Clara’s my friend.” He said it with absolute finality.

  I sighed.

  “Fine,” I said. “Ever fired a handgun before?”

  We didn’t have much of a plan. We probably couldn’t even count on surprise, though Lockerby swore they hadn’t seen him because it was open terrain between us and the boat.

  I found my bluetooth earpiece and we rigged the phones, same as Zeke and I had used at Riverton. I gave Rondo one of my extras. No use worrying about calls being traced now.

  “If you have a chance, drop it in the water when we’re done,” I said.

  Lockerby picked out a firing point behind the car parked closest to Tangible Assets. “I could pitch the stun grenades in,” he said. “But that seems kind of dumb, with you two inside.”

  “I’ll take the flashbangs. If you decide to pick someone off, make sure you’re aiming at the right targets, okay? No Pat Tillman bullshit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And stay behind the engine block. They’re carrying SCARs—those rounds will go right through the rest of the car.”

  He chose to look offended. “I know all that.”

  “Rondo, your only job is to haul Clara out. I’ll handle the crew.”

  “Yes.”

  We could go over it one more time, or we could get it done. “Right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Lockerby went first, long gun concealed in the duffel bag. He walked like an old man, limping, bent at the waist—none of it an act. No security appeared. He made it across the parking lot.

  Nothing happened.

  “Okay,” I said, and Rondo and I stepped out. We walked together, shoulders hunched, moving fast like we just wanted to get into our dry cabins. Rain fell steadily. An air horn sounded from the river. Ahead of us Lockerby suddenly disappeared, dropping out of sight.

  On the dock we kept moving, then slowed at two boats distant, like we’d reached ours. The whole way I’d scanned Tangible Assets, seeing nothing—no faces, no cameras, no one standing guard.

  On the other hand, it was 150 feet long and there were four decks, most of which had long swooping stripes of reflective black windows. An entire company of infantry could be hiding inside, watching, fingering their triggers.

  Rondo stepped back from me, and I gestured at him. We pretended to argue for a moment. Then I stomped off, heading further out the dock. Rondo watched me go, standing still, then shook his head and jogged after me.

  I know it was weak, but I said we didn’t have time to plan.

  He caught up to me just as I reached the edge of the dock, a foot from the hull of the huge yacht. It rose steeply, a wall of white and blue—and that was the idea, because we’d now be much harder to see from anywhere on board.

  We immediately went left. The stern had a low platform, almost at waterline, where passengers could swim and put on their scuba gear and cast fishing lines. This was to be our egress.

  “All clear,” said Lockerby in my ear. Rondo should have been hearing the same thing, on conference. “I’m not seeing any movement.”

  I looked at Rondo. We were on no-unnecessary-noise protocols. He shrugged. I nodded, pointed…and we went over the edge of the dock, dropping onto Tangible Assets.

  The open-planked decking held two pool chairs, a cocktail table bolted in place, and a stainless-steel gas grill. Under an overhang, double doors of dark, smoked glass led into the lowermost deck of the yacht’s interior. The rain was a constant noise, splashing and draining out scuppers below the gunwales.

  “All’s quiet.” Lockerby, barely audible over the rainfall, even with the earpiece jammed into my ear canal.

  So far so good. Maybe this would be easy. I stepped toward the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  T HUMP!

  A shape leaped from the second deck, just above us, landing alongside Rondo and pulling him down. Simultaneously the door in front of me slammed open. Another man bowled through, bringing his assault rifle up to my center of mass.

  “Shit!” Lockerby.

  I dived forward and right. Bullets tacked across the deck. Since I was close, I punched out and struck the man’s leg as I skidded on wet planks. He stumbled.

  I crashed into the other door. As I rolled to my feet, I glimpsed Rondo in midthrow: he’d somehow spun his assailant into the air, the man aimed headfirst for the rail.

  The glass above me shattered, shards blowing inward. Lockerby?

  “Careful!” I screamed.

  “No problem.” His voice was calm.

  I could barely hear anything else amid the drumming rain. The rifleman was up, swiveling, seeking a target, five feet away. I went down again as he fired, this time stitching the dock next to us. But no good—he was tracking my fall, the barrel less than a second from lining me up.

  The gunner jerked and fell, arms flying out. Lockerby must have found his range. The SCAR continued to fire, his finger caught in the guard, as it swung wildly across the deck. Bullets spanged off metal, chunked into wood, shattered plastic.

  “Holy shit!” I went forward, trying to get under the rifle—anything to avoid the full-auto spray.

  An enormous splash, audible even over all the other noise. I glanced sideways, saw Rondo in a crouch. Nobody else. His opponent must have gone into the river.

  Then I collided with the gunman, the two of us banging into the door, falling. I landed on top, jammed an elbow into his throat, grabbed the weapon’s barrel. It burned my fingers, but I yanked it free and tossed it away.

  “Down!” Lockerby, louder. I didn’t move, confused—wasn’t I already down?—then I saw Rondo leap for shelter under the overhang. Flashes of gunfire from deck two, above. Wood chips exploded from the deck boards. I rolled away.

  “Two men up there.” Lockerby was in control again.

  “No shit,” said Rondo.

  “Lost my pistol,” I said, more to myself. I’d dropped it somewhere in the melee. I started to rise.

  “Body armor,” said Lockerby in my ear. “And concealed behind the pillar. Can’t sight them.”

  Sudden shooting from inside the doors. Rondo and I were trapped—couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go backward, and in about two seconds the firing would cross on our positions.

  “Lockerby!”

  WH-O-O-O-MP!

  The grill’s propane tank exploded. The fireball blasted one recliner completely off the deck, but that was fortunate, because the chair struck me on its way, shielding me slightly and knocking me down again.

  “Fuck.” Rondo’s voice, in the earpiece, no
t loud. I couldn’t see him. “Good one, Lock.”

  Being in the open, right under the shooters above us, was certain death. I went forward instead, crouching and sprinting toward the shattered door.

  And as I did, I glimpsed Rondo, in peripheral vision, leaping from behind the other chair, upward. The second deck was eight feet above us, the top of its rail three feet more. Rondo went up like LeBron James, grabbed the rail and in one motion chinned himself, kept pulling, and rolled over the top.

  No time to be amazed. As I went through the door, a figure came into focus on my left—gray, armored vest, submachine gun. If he hadn’t still been stunned from the propane blast, I would have died. Instead, I had an extra fraction of a second to get close. I went low, under the weapon, then slashed up with one arm, knocking the barrel aside.

  Guns are better, but once you’re inside, they become a hindrance. Still, the man was good. He brought his knee up, hitting me sharply in the chest. I kept my arm strike going, over and down, catching his gun’s stock and yanking it into a brief hold.

  He pulled the trigger, and I felt the burst course through the weapon. The noise, so close to my body, was deafening. Somewhere, more glass shattered and fell.

  Desperate, I grabbed him around the waist, shoved, and tumbled us both to the floor. By pure luck his head struck the hard tile first, and I sensed him go woozy. I released the submachine gun, raised slightly, and smashed him in the temple with my forearm.

  My brain, running behind, realized that several single shots had been fired above us.

  “Lockerby?” No need to maintain radio silence now.

  “You all right, Silas?”

  “Is Rondo still alive?”

  “Sure.”

  And as if coordinated, the man himself landed on the deck right outside the door, dropping like a paratrooper from the sky. He didn’t roll, but took the shock entirely in his thighs, grunted, and swung around, looking for me.

  I stared at him. “What happened?” He’d jumped into the laps of two experienced warfighters, both shooting to kill with automatic weapons. I couldn’t understand how he’d survived.

  “One guy popped up when I came over the rail, and Lockerby shot him.” Rondo shrugged.