Clawback

by Mike Cooper

  “Yeah.” Lockerby’s voice. “And the kung fu master here disarmed the other one like he was pulling a weed. Fucking beautiful.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They had plastic handcuffs, so I tied their hands to their ankles. Lockerby hit the one guy in his vest—he’s still breathing.”

  “Five down, then. That has to dent their force.”

  “Where’s Clara?”

  “I don’t know. This boat’s huge.”

  We were standing in a lounge, just inside the broken fragments of the glass doors: marble tile, ornate and heavily padded furniture, gold-framed mirrors on both walls. Fluffy towels were stacked three feet high in a brass rack. A tiny, bluish safety light glowed at ceiling height.

  I picked up the last guy’s SCAR, swapped the magazine for a full one from his belt, and lifted it into a forward ready. Rondo wiped his face and arms with one of the little bar towels.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Wait up.” Lockerby broke in.

  “What?”

  “Activity.” He paused. “There’s a door at waterline, about five feet toward the front from where you are. It’s opening.”

  “Waterline?”

  “Facing the marina, not the dock.” Another pause, and I could hear a faint buzzing whine through the yacht’s bulkheads. “It’s a, a…a garage, I guess. Small boats inside…it looks like they’re launching one.”

  I turned back to the deck. “How many? Armed? What?”

  “Three…four? One’s carrying—” He stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Fuck—”

  BAMMM!

  A car in the parking lot exploded.

  “Lockerby!” I was yelling.

  A moment, then, “I’m okay.” But he sure didn’t sound it. “RPG, I think.”

  “Get out of there!”

  “Yeah.”

  Rondo and I stared through the rain at the parking lot, a hundred yards away. I saw Lockerby appear, stumbling for the boathouse.

  Even over the pounding noise of the rain I could hear automatic weapon fire. Lockerby stopped, fell forward, then rose and continued, more slowly, in a crouch.

  “Go,” I whispered. “Go.”

  He almost made it.

  Just as he reached the corner of the boathouse, another RPG round struck, demolishing half the structure in an explosion of wood and metal. Lockerby was tossed like a rag in a gale.

  I started to run toward the dock—and the fuel tank caught fire, bursting into flame from the pipe connections at its top. Lockerby disappeared in a shockwave of fire.

  “Oh my God.” Rondo seemed to be entering shock.

  I couldn’t blame him. I was more and more wobbly myself.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay, okay, okay.” Trying to calm him and me both. “Come on. We’re here to save Clara.” I took his arm. After another moment he looked away, then down at my face.

  “I’m going to kill them,” he said. Low voice. “All of them.”

  “Forget that. Clara. She’s all that matters.”

  I ran to the next door inside, through the lounge, and kicked it open. The hallway beyond was lit by crystal sconces over teak paneling and a Persian runner on the floor. The buzz was louder, coming from behind another door directly opposite.

  Rondo reached for the knob, and I grabbed his arm.

  “Me first,” I said. “If there’s gunfire, stay out here until it stops.”

  Without waiting for him to argue, I stepped to the side and tested the door’s latch. It depressed easily, not locked. I held it down, glancing at Rondo. He went to the other side and nodded. In one motion, I shoved the door open, tucked the assault rifle to my chest, and dived through in a tuck roll.

  Bright light. I slid across the floor, came to my feet in a crouch, and swung around.

  It was a garage. A Zodiac inflatable hung from a gantry mounted in the ceiling, pointed toward a wide-open door in the yacht’s hull. A Jet Ski sat alongside. Two workbenches held tools and grease and a stack of Day-Glo life vests. Just beyond the small boats, water lapped below the edge of the door.

  The Zodiac was moving, the hoist rolling it toward the exit.

  CH-H-H-H-CKKKK!

  Bullets shattered plastic and boat parts all around me. I went to the floor again, getting behind a tackle locker against the outer wall. I looked back, saw Rondo peering in, and waved him away.

  I couldn’t fire back, not without a firm location for Clara.

  “Give it up!” I shouted. “Police will be all around this barge in two minutes!”

  “Fuck off.” Another burst of gunfire. I hunched into my narrow shelter.

  The gantry’s whine stopped. A moment later, I heard the Zodiac drop to the deck, then slide out, splashing into the river.

  “Assalamu alaykom, keef halak?” I called out in my grade-school Arabic.

  “Silas? Matha?” Clara’s voice, weak.

  “Ayna anta?”

  “Fi ep markeb.”

  In the boat. I risked a look over the top of the locker. The inflatable bobbed just outside. Clara lay inside, silver binding her legs and arms. Duct tape. And at the doorway, about to jump aboard, was Saxon. In one hand was an M4, the military’s standard assault weapon. In the other he held a small box, connected to the bulkhead by a cable.

  “All I want is the girl,” I yelled. “Put her back inside, you can go.”

  Instead, Saxon fired all his remaining rounds at me—one long burst. The wall overhead basically imploded, demolished by the fusillade. The locker rocked as it was slammed by bullets that, fortunately, were stopped by the steel facing. Dust and shards of plastic showered over my head.

  A clunk. I looked out again, warily. Saxon had tossed the carbine into the Zodiac. As I emerged, he tore the cable from the wall and threw it and the box into the river.

  “Don’t come after me.” He wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’ll kill her if you do.”

  “No—!”

  Too late. He hopped into the inflatable, and a moment later the outboard roared into life.

  “What’s going on?” Rondo, calling through the door.

  Saxon glanced up at me, a pistol in one hand. I ducked back inside, followed by two shots cracking into the wall, wide and wild.

  It’s impossible to aim a handgun from a small boat.

  “Clara!” Rondo appeared beside me. Outside, the outboard rose in volume, and we could hear the Zodiac start to move away.

  “We can’t chase him with the Queen Mary here,” I said. “By the time we find the bridge, he’ll be in Nova Scotia.”

  Sirens rose in the distance, getting closer.

  Rondo and I saw the Jet Ski at the same time.

  “Get it into the water!”

  Rondo ran over and bent down, looking at the little mechanical sled the Jet Ski sat on. A track led to the door.

  “I can’t see any way to make this move.” He looked ready to tear the machinery apart by hand.

  “Shit.” I remembered the cable box Saxon had thrown to the fishes. “Saxon wrecked the hoist before he left.” Smart.

  Rondo stood up. “We can’t let him get away!”

  “That thing must weigh five hundred pounds. How can we get it out?”

  He glared, started to say something, then bent down and tried to push the Jet Ski toward the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Come on, let’s talk to the police. Maybe they can get a helicopter over here.”

  “Not in this weather.” Rondo set his feet, braced, and gave a tremendous, vein-popping heave. The Jet Ski moved, about a quarter inch.

  “Fuck!” His face went dark with effort. He tried again—and the craft abruptly jerked out of its cradle, crashed to the deck, and slid forward. Breathing like a steam engine, Rondo kept moving, shoving it forward, until it tipped over the sill and dropped into the river.

  I pulled on a dark green life jacket, slung my rifle over it and looked through the doorway.

  “I’m going!
” Rondo said.

  “No. It’s a one-seater.”

  “I want to go!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Look, have you ever killed anyone? Do you even know how to use this thing?” I tapped the rifle at my side. “Stay here. You want Clara back, let me handle Saxon.”

  I stepped out, got a foot onto the Jet Ski, and almost toppled into the river as it slid away from the yacht. I jumped, banging onto the seat, nearly losing the SCAR. The key was in the ignition. I turned it, punched the start button and the machine rumbled to life.

  “Tell the cops everything,” I hollered. “Get a lawyer, but don’t play games. Not worth it.”

  If he had any sense, Rondo would do exactly that: surrender, spend a day in an interrogation room and then go home. He’d probably start getting movie offers five minutes after his picture showed up in the news.

  Or at least reality TV. He’d be fine.

  I accelerated into the river, after Clara.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A squall of rain pelted down so hard it knocked the earpiece out. I squinted into the murk. Saxon was just disappearing around the end of the jetty, accelerating in a high plume of river water. Jersey was a thousand hazy lights in the distance. The Jet Ski was absurdly loud. I couldn’t even hear the rainfall on the river. I twisted the throttle, all the way, and the craft sprang forward with such a lurch that I almost fell off.

  How fast were we going? It felt like ninety miles an hour—Saxon a few hundred yards ahead, me on an intersecting tangent, catching up but barely. Even the middle of the river seemed crowded at that speed. Rain stung my face. We swerved around a Circle Line tourist boat—what’s a little precipitation to the midwesterners?—dodged a bedraggled sailboat, shot past a maniac in a rowing shell. I think our wakes swamped him, but he shouldn’t have been out anyway, the idiot.

  The Manhattan skyline flashed past on our right. Long docks, mostly empty. Thank God for the rain—otherwise the news helicopters would be all over us, live video streaming to millions.

  As we passed the Chelsea Piers, I finally closed enough distance to shout at Saxon. He saw me, but there was too much noise for any kind of communication. Instead, he raised the M4 and fired a burst in my direction.

  When the hell had he reloaded?

  Missed by a mile, of course. I couldn’t risk shooting back, not with Clara in the boat. She wasn’t visible—lying on the bottom, I assumed—but my bullets would go right through the canvas pontoons.

  I didn’t know where Saxon was going, but he must have had a destination, and there was a good chance he’d have backup waiting there: Friends? Guns? Or friends with guns. No matter what, another bad outcome.

  Only one thing to do. Grind my teeth and keep the throttle as high as possible. The Jet Ski hydroplaned, almost out of control. Bucking and pounding on the waves, I pulled a little ahead of Saxon. Ten yards, twenty…I glanced back. He was glaring my way. I raised one hand, just long enough to give him the finger, then yanked the steering bar sideways. The Jet Ski reared like a horse, didn’t quite swamp, and after a split second, when it recovered its footing, roared straight for the Zodiac.

  It was a truly stupid move, the only positive aspect being that every other option was worse. Saxon may not have believed I’d do it, at first—he didn’t turn away for a couple of seconds.

  And then it was too late.

  I struck the inflatable dead center. By chance, at that instant, the waves had slammed me down and bounced the Zodiac up—so instead of riding up and over the pontoon, the Jet Ski smashed its nose and stopped as abruptly as if we’d run into a seawall. I rocketed off the seat, thrown forward like a crash-test dummy, and about as gracefully.

  It was only luck that I didn’t fly right over the damn boat and land in the water on the other side. Instead, I slammed into Saxon himself, standing conveniently in the way. We collapsed onto the bench. The Zodiac almost tipped over as the steering swung wildly. The outboard’s screw came out of the water, screaming.

  The action got a little hazy for a few moments. Saxon and I had both been half knocked out, and we grappled and punched at each other on autopilot. He landed a pair of useless strikes on my chest, which the life jacket absorbed. I tore at his ear, and he tried to bite my hand. Blood was running down his left arm. We both had submachine guns but couldn’t spare the seconds it would take to find the trigger and point the barrel.

  Saxon recovered faster. Despite the bending, rocking surface of the Zodiac’s bottom, he managed to stand up, then kicked me in the neck. I went down hard. He kicked me again, lost his balance as the boat swayed, and recovered by bracing against the steering column.

  “You crazy motherfucker,” he said, and pulled the M4 from behind his back, where our struggle had tangled it up. “They said you’d be easy.”

  Unfortunately, we weren’t going to have a long, chatty discussion. Saxon gripped the carbine, aimed at me and started to pull the trigger.

  For an instant, I saw Death.

  But we’d both forgotten somebody.

  Clara, trussed like Houdini, had wormed her away across the base of the boat. On her back, hands and legs taped together. Just as Saxon corrected his aim, she curled her legs to her chest, then kicked out, as hard as she could—right at his knees.

  He collapsed. The carbine jerked toward the sky, and I saw a trail of bullets in the rain. With one last, volcanic surge of adrenaline I launched myself at Saxon, struck his hip with my head, and knocked him clean off the boat.

  I scrambled up, slipped, grabbed the steering wheel. The Zodiac swerved sharply. I straightened and stared at the water.

  Where was the bastard?

  Clara kicked me in the shin. Oh, right. I bent down and tore the tape from her hands. She undid her legs herself, as I went back to searching the waves.

  “Thank you,” I shouted, over the spray and rain and engine noise. “You are amazing.”

  She pulled herself up and grabbed me around the chest.

  “I thought I was going to die,” she said into my ear.

  “Me too.”

  It felt like she was crying. I held onto the wheel with one arm and hugged her with the other. “You’re all right now,” I said. “We’re safe.”

  “Where is he?”

  If I knew, I’d have tried to run him over, wouldn’t I? I kept searching the dark water. “Don’t know.”

  A sudden blast of engine noise. We swung around, and there he was—on the goddamn Jet Ski. Fucking Christ, the man had more lives than Jack Bauer. I fumbled for my SCAR, wondering if we were about to go through the same crap again, in reverse.

  But no. Maybe he was hurt. Maybe he realized Clara was loose, and it would be two to one. For whatever reason, he simply turned and gunned the Jet Ski away from us, disappearing toward the west, exhausted by the whole business.

  I knew how he felt.

  “I think I’m going into shock,” said Clara.

  “Hang on until we get to shore.” I found the Zodiac’s throttle, put our backs to Saxon, and headed for land.

  We could have taken the boat out at Hell’s Kitchen, but who knows what people there might have seen of our high-seas duel? I didn’t want to get dragged into explanations, dissembling and police custody just yet. Instead, I motored another two dozen blocks farther north, finally pulling in at the 79th Street Boat Basin.

  Before we arrived, I dumped the SCAR into the river. No need for the attention it would draw.

  Most of the marina’s hundred-plus slips were full. 79th Street is the only city facility willing to let people live on their boats year round, and there was a long waiting list. Myself, I can’t see the draw—puttering around your tiny cabin in cold gray weather, cooking on a propane one-burner, trying to sleep to the lullaby sounds of tugboats, barge traffic, foghorns and booze cruises passing by. But for many, the romance of the sea is stronger than common sense.

  The rain hadn’t let up. Thunder crashed. No one seemed to be outside to see us tie off at the outer
dock, though warm light glowed through windows of a number of the docked boats.

  Clara was shivering, hard.

  “Can you walk?” I’d lifted her from the Zodiac, and stood her up on the slippery wooden boards.

  “I’m sorry.” Teeth chattering.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “You told me to stay at the apartment. With Rondo. But I left.”

  “Forget it.” She could barely stand. “You need medical attention.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t argue.” I put her arm around my neck and we shuffled along. “In fact, we need to let the police know you’re here.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “Once they start asking you questions, you won’t get out for days.”

  Which was more true than she knew—or I hoped she knew. “I’ll deal with it. We’re not putting you on the wrong side of the law.”

  “But you have to—” She stumbled on the end of a boat’s line, sloppily hitched to the dock cleat.

  “What?”

  “It was the same man. The one who attacked me in the park.”

  “Saxon. I know.”

  “You have to get him.” Clara stopped, swung to face me and held my shoulders with both hands. “He cannot be running around loose.”

  “The police?”

  “You.” She stared into my eyes, intense, almost febrile. “You can do it. They can’t. Not soon enough.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but—”

  “You.” Abruptly her grip weakened, and she started to fall. “Promise!”

  What could I do?

  “Okay, fine, I promise. But only if you take care of yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes closed, and she collapsed, limp. Good thing I was ready, or she might have gone into the river again.

  The marina’s entrance was a hundred feet up the dock. I lifted Clara into a fireman’s carry and jogged toward civilization.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “You left her there?”

  “Only once the paramedics took over.” I didn’t like how defensive that sounded.

  “I hope she lives.”