DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series)

by Sharp, Zoe

  And Sean would be the one lying there dead.

  There was no point in arguing. Not now—probably not ever. I knew if I said anything Morton would point to the dead man’s body as proof of an effective strategy. If Sean couldn’t work it out for himself how close it had been, there was no point in me doing it for him.

  “The skipper’s OK—back in charge,” Morton said. “He’s heading back for the dock as fast as this old tub will motor.”

  Sean peered out into the darkness that surrounded us. The fog showed no signs of thinning but occasionally the glow of New Orleans lights gleamed through in patches, creating a spooky haze like distant fires. “Does he know where the hell we are?”

  Morton shrugged again. “Probably,” he said. “He just yelled at me to get off his bridge and let him navigate his own bloody ship—or words to that effect.” This last was directed at me with a sly glance, as if my delicate female constitution wouldn’t take the weight of heavier expletives.

  “Did he at least give you an ETA?” I asked.

  Morton shook his head. “And if you’re prepared to go back up there and ask him yourself, you’re a braver man than I am, Gunga Din.”

  Kipling actually wrote that it was “a better man” but I didn’t bother to correct Morton’s misquote. I turned away. “We need to keep moving,” I said to Sean. “We don’t know how many of these guys are left, or—”

  I was about to mention that we also still didn’t know how Castille had been intending to call in his extraction team. But at that moment there was a huge dull crack of sound from somewhere deep beneath us, following by a rumbling boom that echoed out across the water.

  The Miss Francis gave a lurch as if she’d struck an underwater obstruction. We staggered to keep our footing, had to grab for the nearest fixed object. A giant shiver passed through the entire ship. She began to lean to starboard, slowly veering over to that side.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “The bastard blew the bottom out of her.”

  “Stay sharp,” Sean said. “We may have company. Because if that wasn’t a bloody big signal, I don’t know what is.”

  Sixty-seven

  The skipper abandoned all ideas of getting the Miss Francis back to her berth and drove her straight for the nearest piece of shoreline as fast as he could push the wounded hull. It seemed to be a hell of a long way in the dark and murky distance.

  Castille’s charges had been placed aft somewhere back near the engine room on the starboard side. The only good thing was that losing half his C-4 mean he hadn’t been able to instantly sink her. So, although the Miss Francis was listing heavily and dragging her arse in the water like a giant drogue ’chute, the paddle steamer struggled on. The giant paddlewheel itself threshed the river behind us into froth with an out-of-balance, edgy vibration. I knew it was stupid to assign emotions to an object, but it almost felt like fury.

  Maybe I was just projecting.

  “We got company,” Morton said.

  Even as he spoke, I heard the rising buzz of an outboard motor. A Zodiac appeared, skimming fast over the slight chop with the vee of the rigid lower hull visible below the inflatable surround. There were three or four figures clinging on as they hammered towards us.

  We dropped flat to the deck, suddenly aware of being on a brightly lit target, aiming out into the cover of semi-darkness. Another Z-boat came into view, heading wide. It held another three men.

  Castille’s extraction team.

  We could not keep them off the ship indefinitely, I realised with a hollow feeling up under my ribcage. They would be heavily armed—maybe even with another of the RPGs that they’d used to such devastating effect on the Bell. We had too many civilians on board and no time to prepare a plan. We would just have to hope that these men were not prepared to fight to the death for a man already dead.

  Already dead . . .

  “Let them close in,” I said.

  It was Sean who objected. “We should take them out now.”

  “For once, I agree with Fox,” Morton said, then added, “Better to pick ’em off at closer range.”

  I bit back a comment about him knowing his own shooting abilities. “Who said anything about picking them off?” I asked. “It might not come to that.”

  “What?”

  I scrambled to my feet, leaving the M16 lying on the deck and ran back to where Castille had fallen.

  The Z-boat jinked almost immediately, carved a swathing turn that allowed the occupants all to bring weapons to bear. I could feel them tracking me as I moved, but for the moment they held their fire.

  I could only hope Sean—and Morton—would do the same.

  I reached Castille, grabbed the shoulders of his suit and dragged him away from the superstructure, turning him so he was facing the incoming Z-boats. The body was still loose, slightly warm to the touch, but awkward and heavy to manipulate. His torso was slick and sticky. I managed to heave him into a sitting position with my knee jammed into his back to stop his corpse flopping down again.

  I heard the outboard of the nearest Z-boat die back as the helmsman rolled off the throttle. They were staring right at me, and the man slumped in my arms. I pulled Castille’s head back by the hair, letting them get a good look at his features.

  The second boat swung in just beyond the first. The men on board also stared. I read nothing in their faces. I raised one hand—the hand that had been clasped around Castille’s chest—so that they saw the blood.

  Shit. This isn’t going to work.

  Then the man furthest forward in the lead boat jerked his head to the helmsman. The outboard screamed as the throttle was jammed wide open again. Both Z-boats surged away and disappeared into the night.

  I shifted out from behind Castille’s body and let him thump back down onto the deck. When I rose I found my legs would hardly support me.

  “Jee-sus!” Morton said, getting slowly to his feet. He looked at me, at Castille’s body, and shook his head. “I take it back, Fox. You have got some serious balls.”

  Sean stood motionless, still watching the gloom that had enveloped the two Z-boats. Then his eyes flicked back to me. “How did you know they’d go for it?” he demanded quietly. “How did you know they’d back off rather than try to avenge him?”

  I remembered the way Castille’s men had avoided meeting each other’s eyes when he had strangled Ysabeau van Zant. “Just because they obeyed his orders doesn’t mean they liked the bastard,” I said. “Not enough to risk their lives for him when he was already dead.”

  Sean looked about to say more, but the clatter of feet on the deck had us all turning.

  Jimmy O’Day appeared at a run, cautious on the slanting surface. When he saw Castille lying dead at my feet, the blood on my hands, he faltered.

  “What do you want, Jimmy?” Morton asked, snapping his attention back.

  “We’re, um, taking on water pretty fast down there,” Jimmy said. “People are starting to panic. And Autumn’s still missing . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “We’ll find her,” Sean told him. He turned to me. “Charlie—”

  “No,” Morton said. The abrupt note in his voice stilled all of us. Morton acknowledged this with a wry smile, touched a finger to his bruised face. “I feel guilty I let them take her away,” he said. “I’d kind of like to be the one who gets her back.”

  Sean paused a moment, then nodded. “Good luck,” he said. “Oh, and Vic—thanks again.”

  Morton grinned at him. “No sweat, mate. Old comrades have to stick together, eh?”

  The flash of rage, a swift railing at ingratitude and circumstance, roared over me hot, fierce and deadly, like opening the door to a blast furnace. I’d been a comrade, too, and look where it had got me. Beating back that fire took a moment of inner struggle I hoped neither man could see.

  “I’ll help,” Jimmy said immediately.

  Morton’s face twitched. “No offence, kid, but you’ll just slow me down,” he said, although not unkindly. “You n
eed to help get everyone topside.” He jerked his head upwards, indicating the wheelhouse. “Looks like the skipper’s planning to hit the dock at ramming speed.”

  “You don’t understand,” Jimmy protested, sweat and desperation in his voice. “You’ve got to find her. She’s pregnant.”

  Sixty-eight

  We helped the shaken guests up from the casino to the forward deck and handed out life jackets. There were not enough to go around, but the bodyguards were largely happy to go without. As long as the principal was safe, anything else was secondary.

  I noticed Gabe Baptiste huddled inside his life jacket. For once he looked as though he’d do anything to avoid being noticed.

  Five of the hijackers were kneeling with their hands bound behind their backs, Sean and I keeping a close eye on them. For the most part they were dazed and sullen, as if they couldn’t quite work out where things had all gone wrong for them.

  There were those who wanted to leave the wounded hijackers where they’d fallen. Humanity prevailed and instead they were brought up and laid on the deck. I daresay the bodyguards who carried them were not as careful of their injuries as they might have been.

  It contrasted starkly with the gentle way they handled Blake Dyer as they brought him down from the restaurant with Tom O’Day walking slowly by his side.

  I took in Dyer’s closed eyelids, the waxy tint to his skin, and could not bring myself to go to his side. It seemed a vicious reminder of my own failure. Dyer’s hastily written note dismissing me from his service burned hot in my pocket. Without it, I would be damned, but the prospect of showing it to anyone felt like condemning myself.

  Jimmy O’Day was helping people into life jackets, flitting between them. His manner was nervous, twitchy, and did not exactly inspire confidence. Every time he caught sight of movement along the decks he froze. Every time it wasn’t Autumn, a little more life went out of him.

  He also threw worried glances towards his father, who was staring down at Blake Dyer as if he could will the life back into him. Eventually, Jimmy moved across, tentatively touched his father’s shoulder.

  “Dad, come on, these people need you.”

  Tom O’Day did not look up. “My friend needs me.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “Leave me alone, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy lifted his hand away in conditioned response, then stilled, muttered something under his breath.

  Tom O’Day looked up, eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

  “I said ‘suck it up’, Dad,” Jimmy said, louder. His head came up. “You need to suck it up.” His eyes stayed on his godfather. “Yeah, this is awful, but sitting there doing nothing to stop it getting ten times worse is no way to honour him.”

  O’Day flinched. “He’s not dead yet.”

  “So why are you behaving like it’s all over?”

  “Look around you, son. It is all over.”

  “Only if you stop fighting and give up on it,” Jimmy said, his voice low but fierce. “Are you going to throw away everything you’ve worked towards here? That’s not the man I know.”

  O’Day gave a flick of impatience. “You have no idea what I feel right now, Jimmy.”

  “Don’t I? You forget, Dad, I’ve spent a long time in your shadow, watching how you work. The tougher things get, the better you like it.”

  “This is not just some business deal,” O’Day said. He lowered his voice, aware of an audience. “Blake might die. So might—”

  “Autumn’s pregnant, Dad,” Jimmy said flatly, cutting across his father’s words.

  That finally seemed to penetrate through the layers to register in Tom O’Day’s grief-struck mind. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He swallowed, then said, “Who . . .?”

  “Who do you think?” Jimmy said, flushed with anger now. “So, if not for me, do it for her. She needs you. We all need you. So, like I said—suck it up and get out there.”

  Tom O’Day did not move. For a while I thought he wasn’t going to. Jimmy stood over him, hands clenched into white fists at his sides until eventually he let out a ragged breath, started to turn away. But as he did so, O’Day reached out and caught his arm, used it to pull himself to his feet. He patted Jimmy’s shoulder without a word and walked forward.

  I watched the change come over him as he neared the huddled crowd in the bow. The movement of the deck had become more erratic as the stern of the Miss Francis dug deeper into the water and she listed further over. But Tom O’Day’s step acquired bounce and confidence.

  “Thank you for staying calm, folks,” he said. “Our skipper is doing his best to bring us as close in to shore as he can, but it looks like we’re gonna make landfall with a bit of a bump, so you might want to hold on to something solid.” He paused, gave them a slow smile. “Maybe not quite how we planned this evening to go, but a hell of a thing to tell your grandkids, huh?”

  It didn’t raise a laugh. But, as people reached for the nearest immovable object and clung to it, maybe just a little of the gathered tension had gone.

  Jimmy picked his way aft to us. His face was twisted with anxiety.

  “Anything from Vic—has he found her?” he asked without much hope.

  Sean shook his head. Jimmy looked about to cry.

  “Keep your eye on this lot and I’ll go look,” I said, nodding to our captives. “Once we hit the shore things are going to get chaotic.”

  I handed the M16 to Jimmy and unshouldered the MP5K I’d taken away from Castille. The shorter weapon was easier to use for close-quarter work. We couldn’t be sure all the hijackers were accounted for. Without knowing their original number it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Maybe we shouldn’t have let Morton go below decks alone . . .

  “I’ll come with you,” Sean said. And when I glanced at him he added, “Someone to watch your back.”

  I nodded, took in Jimmy’s wretched expression.

  “Is your father . . . the father?” I asked, feeling awkward about it.

  “What? God, no.” Jimmy’s eyes flashed. “It’s mine,” he said, defiant. “We’ve been seeing each other for a year. Who do you think put her name forwards for the PR job?”

  “Did your father know?”

  “Of course not. We were going to tell him tonight—at the party—that we’re going to get married.” The fire seemed to go out of him, his voice turning forlorn. “He likes her—admires her. I thought maybe I’d finally be doing something he’d be proud of.”

  I didn’t point out that parental approval was a terrible reason to get married. “We’ll find her,” I said.

  I turned, found Sean waiting for me. We stumbled back along the sloping deck and ducked into the lower bar area. Anything that wasn’t bolted down had slid to the lower side of the room.

  I pushed through the service doors into the stairwell. The increasing angle gave the space a surreal quality. Going lower went against every instinct for survival. We descended anyway.

  I glanced back at Sean, following me down. There was an unreadable expression on his face and he was watching me.

  “You OK?” I asked. Better than silence, but still a stupid question. He had not been OK for a long time.

  Sean stopped. His head gave a little jerk, not quite a nod, not quite a shake either.

  “Something Jimmy said—about Autumn being pregnant.” His eyes flicked over me and he was frowning. “There’s something . . . I can’t put my finger on it,” he said at last, frustrated. “Something about that. All I get are fragments. It means something I feel I should know.”

  My heart rate accelerated. “Oh?”

  He pinned me with an ice black gaze. “Is there something I should know?”

  Shit. How do I answer that, Sean? Do you really want the truth?

  “I was told not to force memories on you,” I said. “To let whatever was going to come back do so in its own time.” And to leave whatever was never coming back well alone.

  He turned into me, crowding me
, close enough for him to hear the hitch in my breath, the lurch in my pulse.

  “I remember a child,” he said suddenly, intense. “A little girl . . . Emily, or Emma . . .”

  The blood was thundering in my ears. “Her name was Ella,” I said. “She was the daughter of a principal—someone I was protecting. Apart from that she was nothing to do with me.”

  She wasn’t ours.

  He stepped back. I was unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed—either at the action or the line of questioning. I felt my shoulders sag.