by Glenn Meade
“What are you going to do with me?”
Shavik’s brow glistened with sweat as he tossed the MP5 aside and started the engine, which idled with a steady throb.
“Nothing. On second thought, it’s better that you stay.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“That wasn’t my intent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe someday you will. Meantime, I can only ask your forgiveness.”
“I can never forgive someone like you.”
“Stranger things have happened.” He took hold of her arm, lifting her gently out of the powerboat and onto the jetty.
“You’ll be found, no matter where you run to, Shavik.”
“No doubt.” He looked at her, as if he meant to say something, but seemed to think better of it. “This is where we must say our goodbye. Your mother was right, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“About good and evil, love and hate. That we can unleash whichever one we choose. And in the end, we’ll all pay the price of our sins.”
“You said there was something I should know.”
“Did I? I think you know it all now. So whatever it was, it must have been of no consequence.”
Carla thought she saw the strangest thing, a swell of emotion in Shavik’s eyes, as his hand reached out to touch her face, but she pulled away.
He let his hand fall. “No matter what you think of me, I wish you a long and happy life.”
He took a cell phone from his pocket, as the sound of heavy footsteps came running down the jetty, the sirens very close now, the noise static, as if they’d pulled up at the house.
“By the way, there’s a man renting a cabin at the marina. He goes by the name of Billy Lubbock. Tall, dark, about thirty. He may try to kill your friends. Call and warn them, and tell the police. But be quick, there may not be much time.”
He tossed the phone at Carla just as the running footsteps came closer, and Ronnie appeared out of the fog, a machine pistol in his hand.
The moment he saw Shavik he roared, “Get down, Carla!”
She ducked, sliding away, and Ronnie opened up, stitching the boat with rounds, gouging lumps out of the fiberglass.
Shavik weaved and ducked, moving behind the controls as the gunfire erupted.
A split second later the powerful Mercury engine snarled to life like an enraged animal, and with a tremendous surge the boat roared off into the fog.
• • •
TENNESSEE
The cell phone on Regan’s nightstand vibrated on silent.
A silky hum that shook the phone at least a dozen times, shaking the glass of water next to it.
When no one picked up, the noise ceased.
Moments later, the cell started to vibrate again.
It seemed to go on forever, trembling on the nightstand, but no one answered . . .
• • •
DELAWARE BAY, CAPE MAY
Ten minutes out to sea, in thick fog, Shavik had the weather radar on, knowing the marker buoy was near.
He throttled back, killed the engine, and then there was only a deep silence, the boat drifting, the sea all around him choked by a wall of fog. He took a cell phone from his pocket and was about to punch in a number.
“All things come to those who wait, remember?”
He spun round. Arkov stood there, supporting himself by the side of the boat, the MP5 in his hand. He looked pale as death, a vengeful sneer twisting his face.
“Don’t they, Mila? It’s hard to kill a bad thing.”
“You never spoke a truer word.”
“Where’s the woman?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“A long story, as they say.”
“You let her go?”
“Yes, I did.”
A terrible rage lit Arkov’s face. “You fool. She’s the last witness. Are you insane?”
“You could be right. But I think I lost my reason long ago.”
Arkov raised the MP5, his finger flexing on the trigger, but then he seemed suddenly confused, aware of his surroundings as he stared wildly around him at the wall of thick fog. “Where the devil am I?”
“A question I’ve often asked myself, Boris.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“We’re waiting at the buoy marker. I was about to call Felix to make sure it’s safe to proceed. Or did that bump on your head make you forget our plan?”
The boat was drifting. Out of the fog Shavik spotted an old rusting marker buoy looming ahead. It jutted at least eight feet out of the water, bobbing on its float, rocking with the motion of the sea. The powerboat bumped hard against it.
Arkov lurched.
Shavik saw his chance and kicked Arkov below the knee and he grunted with pain. A fist cracked into Arkov’s jaw and he went down, his body slamming against the boat’s gunwale.
Shavik wrenched away the MP5 and heaved a dazed Arkov up by the arms, dragging him onto one of the leather seats.
“It’s time for you and me to have a serious talk.”
Arkov defiantly spat his reply, blood staining his lips. “About what?”
“Lana Tanovic, among other things.”
• • •
TENNESSEE
As Billy moved into the boy’s bedroom, something flickered past him.
What the . . .
A moth. His heart skipped, and he almost pulled the Kimber’s trigger.
Even for a pro, he had to remind himself: muscle memory. Finger off the trigger until ready to fire. Swearing, he moved over to the bed.
He stared down at the sleeping boy.
One shot.
One shot and the kid would feel no pain, his cortex severed.
The darn moth flew past again.
Get lost!
He placed the gun barrel close to the back of the boy’s neck.
Gently, he cocked the hammer.
Sweet dreams, amigo.
In the silence after he cocked the hammer, Billy heard it, a low throb, like a cell vibrating. It rang and rang.
Then came another sound.
Distinct.
No mistaking that sound.
Another hammer cock.
Right next to him.
Then he felt it.
A cold barrel prodding the base of his neck.
“Uncock your gun, mister.”
He glanced behind him, felt the sweat already drip from his brow.
Regan.
In a silky nightdress.
A silvered revolver in her hand.
He didn’t expect that.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Billy didn’t answer.
“You’ve sure got a way with words, mister. But I guess so do a lot of lying thieves. Are you a thief, here to rob? Because if you are, there’s nothing to take. I already deposited the day’s takings.”
Billy avoided the questions. “How did you know I was here?”
“I was watching you from my window. I saw you creep over here. Creep being an apt word.”
“Why’d you watch me?”
“What is this, forty questions? Because I liked you. Because I felt a little lovestruck. Big mistake. But just as well I watched. Now what do you think you’re up to, mister?”
Billy grimaced. Another mistake, hitting on her. But not one he couldn’t recover from. He thought fast, every nerve in his body taut as violin string.
“Take that gun away from my neck or I’ll kill him, I mean it.”
“You’d really do that? Kill a child?”
“Try me.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Why kill a child just to rob me?”
Pause.
Billy was losing patience. “You ain’t listening, are you? I said do as I say or he’s dead.”
“I guess it really doesn’t pay to bumble with the B, does it?”
Billy almost smiled. He liked her. Pity. “Nope. That was a good line.�
�
“Easy to fall for a good line.”
Billy’s fingers felt greasy on the .45. He was ready to squeeze the trigger. Regan wasn’t moving. She had guts, facing him off, he’d give her that.
The boy stirred in his sleep, gave a soft moan.
Billy nervously licked his lips. “One last time. Take the gun away. Or else they’ll be scraping the kid’s brains off the wall. That’s a promise. Now I won’t say it again.”
He could almost feel the silence. Heavy, racking.
Nothing happened.
Billy moved his arm just a touch, tightened his finger on the trigger, a hair’s breadth away from pulling it. She must have seen it.
“I mean it. Don’t test me.”
More silence.
At last, Billy felt the pressure of the gun tip ease off his neck.
She was doing what he told her. He almost let out a sigh but held it in.
“Lay the gun down, Regan. On the bed, next to me.”
“Who are you?”
“Just do it.”
He glanced out of the corner of his eye. Regan laying the gun down. Billy saw her hand move, and he turned slowly, keeping the .45 on the base of the boy’s skull.
As she lay her gun down, Billy tensed, brought up his .45 quickly now, all in one fluid motion, and aimed to shoot her.
But the woman was quicker.
The revolver came up again out of nowhere and exploded, the .38 round hitting Billy in the temple, drilling out the other side of his skull, making an abstract painting on the wall with his brains.
Josh startled awake, recoiling in the bed, already screaming with shock, just in time to see Billy slump on the floor, his body twitching, blood fauceting from his head wound.
Regan clasped Josh, her arms going around him, hugging him close, trying to calm him. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”
She let her revolver fall to the floor and saw Billy, eyes wide in death, staring up at the ceiling.
A moth danced across his face, became trapped on the silky wet blood.
She stared down at his wide, lifeless eyes.
“Know what? It doesn’t pay to bumble with a redneck, either, mister.”
86
* * *
The sea fog was no more, just a cool breeze, a vast ocean.
Seagulls shrieked as the Coast Guard cutter killed its engine and drifted alongside the rusted marker buoy.
The officer scratched his head, mystified.
A guardsman held out a grab hook and pulled them closer, securing them to the marker buoy, bobbing in the gentle swell.
Weird, thought the officer.
Really weird.
He’d seen a few sights in his day but this one sure beat them all.
The man’s body hung from a rope tied to the top of the marker buoy. His shoulder was caked in dried blood, his blue face bloated.
He’d been shot, maybe badly beaten, too. Tied to the dead man’s chest was a briefcase, a rope laced through the handle and strapped securely around the body.
“Can you get the briefcase?” asked the captain.
A guardsman used a knife to cut through the rope securing the case. It took a while before he got it free and then he handed the case to the officer, who found it locked.
One of the men handed him a crowbar and he broke open the locks.
Inside was a ledger of some sort, a handwritten note taped to the cover. A Mac laptop below it, and something small, protected in bubble wrap and sealed with scotch tape.
The officer pulled off the scotch tape and tore at the bubble wrap.
A memory device inside.
As he read through the note taped to the ledger, his skin tone bleached almost white. Stunned, he looked back up at the guardsman.
“Get me the Cape May police on the radio.”
87
* * *
BELGRADE
It was late afternoon that same day when Mila Shavik’s plane touched down at the city’s Nikola Tesla Airport.
He carried a briefcase and a Samsonite overnight bag, his false passport in the name of a British businessman. He passed through immigration, entered the arrivals hall, and was met by two muscled thugs who escorted him to a waiting black Mercedes. An hour later it pulled up outside the entrance to the private mountain estate in Novi Sad.
Ivan Arkov came out. He looked under stress, his sour face haggard in the sunshine. “Boris?”
“He didn’t make it.”
The old man’s mouth pursed, a flicker of emotion in his watery eyes, red from lack of sleep, but other than that he displayed no outward sign of grief, as if his son’s death were simply an unpleasant cost of doing business. “You have what’s important, Mila?”
Shavik held up the briefcase. “It’s all here.”
• • •
They sat at a table by the far end of the pool. Two bodyguards on duty at the other end, out of earshot.
The old man massaged his temples. “Boris’s body?”
“He died at sea. I was lucky to make it out alive.”
“And the woman?”
“She escaped. It was all over the TV.”
Shavik looked at the old man. “It seems the cops have put everything together. The bomb, our rackets. How we tried to kill her and the others.”
Arkov’s thin lips tightened with displeasure. He looked out at view of the Danube, peaceful scenery all around.
“We’ll still take care of her. This time I’ll arrange it myself and there will be no more mistakes. You disappoint me, Mila.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I’d like to believe that.”
“It won’t happen again because you and me are over, Ivan.”
“That tone in your voice. It’s disrespectful. I don’t like it.”
“You’re not meant to.”
Arkov stared back, not used to insolence. “Be careful with your manners. With Boris gone, you’re my successor. You’re about to have what you always wanted. Don’t throw it away, Mila.”
“You can keep it. Do you know something else? For the last thirty years I feel as if I’ve been someone I was never meant to be. Does that make sense?”
“What’s wrong? Did Boris’s death hit you hard?”
“Hardly, I killed him.”
Arkov’s eyes lit with rage.
Shavik’s left hand was in his pocket in an instant, something pointing from it, the outline of a gun barrel. “Take the garrote from your pocket, Ivan. And that Walther automatic you like to carry in your inside jacket.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Actually, I think I’ve found it. Lay them on the table. Speak one word or make a sudden gesture and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes, and that’s a promise.”
Arkov considered, then did as he was told, laying the Walther down first, then the garrote.
“What’s your game?” Arkov demanded.
Shavik moved the garrote aside, took the Walther, and laid it on his lap, out of view of the bodyguards. “Shall I tell you what I know?”
“About what?”
“My life. How you destroyed everything dear to me. How you killed my father. You were afraid he’d tell the truth in court and ruin you. So you made it look like suicide.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Boris told me. Don’t deny it. He told me how you ordered him to kill Lana Tanovic along with the others at the camp. You even wanted me to kill Carla Lane . . .”
“The women, yes, we’re talking about Bosniak scum, but not your father—”
“Tell me the truth. Speak it now. Or I’ll kill you this instant.”
There was no mistaking the steel in Mila Shavik’s voice. His eyes looked infinitely dangerous. He leaned closer, his finger on the Walther’s trigger, as he said in a hoarse whisper, “I said tell me the truth.”
“You father would have ruined me. I could have had you killed, too, but I chose not to, Mila. I’ve always had a fondness for you. Always.
”
“For that I’m supposed to be grateful?”
“You’re a better man than your father. He was weak.”
“He was an honest man.”
“All honest men are fools.”
Shavik smiled. It was the coldest smile the old man had ever seen. “Then you’ll appreciate what you’re about to see. Open the briefcase.”
Arkov opened it.
Inside was a red brick. The old man’s complexion turned bone white.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“That one way or the other, Ivan, you’re going to hell.”
Openmouthed, Arkov stared back at him.
“Everything’s gone to the feds. We’re finished, Ivan. But I’ll give you a choice. You can go to hell now, or you can go later, when the authorities are done with you. Your choice.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know more than you think. Carla Lane is my daughter. You wanted me to kill her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play the innocent, Ivan. You’re too old for that game. You knew Lana Tanovic had my child, didn’t you?”
“Of course I knew.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“It was my business to know once you joined the clan. But I must say, you having a brat by that Bosniak whore surprised me. Killing her would have been the ultimate test of your loyalty.”
“I may be past the point of no return, but you’re sick, Arkov. The sickest of them all.”
“Did you tell her the truth, about her being your daughter?”
“Why burden her with hate and anger? Why destroy her life the way you destroyed mine? I’m right—you don’t miss much. And here’s another thing you won’t miss.”
“What?”
“The bullet that’s about to kill you.”
“You’re deranged, Shavik. You’ll never leave this house alive.”
“That was never really part of my plan.”
Rage lit the old man’s face, a ferocious anger that sounded like a snarl as he grabbed for the gun.
Shavik shot him in the face.