Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  William clutched Hanna and tried to keep them hidden, but close enough to see as the man ran by. William couldn’t identify who it was, only that it was one of the two white men.

  There was a shout. One of the guards, with a Spanish accent, ordered a man to “get up, get up!” Nothing after that for a few seconds, then another burst of footsteps, fading down the trail.

  They waited. A tense, full minute passed.

  William started to move.

  “No,” Hanna pleaded, and grabbed him.

  The night had grown utterly still and quiet. The silence was broken by the crying of a child. Oh God no. But he listened further, and thought he heard the low tones of a reassuring parent carrying up from another bungalow. The gunfire had surely alarmed the whole place.

  More shouting, suddenly, in the distance. The crack of a shot, far off, the sound rolling up the hills. A moment later, he heard the sound of a motor boat come to life.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. He sprang up from the hiding place and headed towards Sterling’s bungalow, keeping low, in the shadows. He rounded the structure until he came to the front door, which was left open.

  He moved cautiously inside, his heart beating so hard it seemed to block out his hearing. Gun smoke hung suspended in the humid air, smarting his eyes.

  Arnold Sterling was lying in the middle of the floor in a pool of blood. He’d been shot multiple times, his body torn apart, his white clothes now dark crimson. A large chunk of his head was missing, brains oozing out.

  William gagged. He gathered himself and walked around the kitchen island where he found the second man, slumped against the cabinets. His leather vest was open, the bullet wounds bleeding out. He stared at William, his chest jumping as he tried to breath. His mouth moved, like he wanted to say something.

  “Shhh,” William said.

  “Will? William?” It was a harsh whisper, coming from behind him. Hanna had followed him.

  He left the dying man and ran to the door, catching her. “Don’t . . .” he said, but she came in anyway, staring down at the mess of Arnold Sterling.

  Then her eyes found him. She looked calm and in control. “I’m going to see if the others are alright. The family.”

  “He’s gone,” William said. “David. He’ll either leave the island now, or he’ll get more of these guys and he’ll hunt us down. Which means we’ll have to leave. Or face him. Unless I stop him first.”

  She only looked at him. It wasn’t distance he saw in her eyes, but resolve. “I’m going to go see if I can help them.”

  She walked out.

  William let her go, then continued to venture through the bungalow. The man in the kitchen was dead now.

  He searched the remainder of the bungalow until he found Sterling’s second guard on the porch. The guard had a string of bullet wounds from his lower gut up to his face. The last one had punched out his eye.

  William returned to the kitchen and bent over the first dead guard on the floor. He took the AK from him and searched his pockets. There was no wallet, no money, nothing. The guy was in his early twenties. He wore a pair of Reebok sneakers, brand-new, which stood out compared to the rest of his ragged appearance.

  William slipped the bandolier of ammunition over the man’s head, having to alter the position of his body to do it. The ex-cop in him protested — this was a crime scene and he was contaminating evidence. But there would be no investigation here. Not tonight, anyway. And not by the local police. If anyone came it would be the national police.

  He went through Sterling’s pockets and found his wallet. He located Sterling’s cell phone on a nearby table. Moving with what felt like a kind of numb automation, he returned to the porch and got the second rifle and ammo. The guns were heavy, slung one way and the other over his shoulders. The carbines were still hot, burning against his skin. It didn’t bother him. His mind felt clear.

  At the doorway he noticed something he hadn’t seen coming in: drops of blood on the floor. They trailed down the steps and onto the beach trail.

  He followed them down toward the water, passing by where he and Hanna had been hidden.

  William jogged to the dock and ran to its end.

  The driver who had brought him and Hanna over on the water taxi was lying dead in the gazebo, a single dark hole in the center of his forehead.

  William gazed out at the dark ocean. The sun had set on the other side of the island but the moon was rising above.

  David had at least a ten minute head start. But he was wounded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  William spun around as footsteps shook the dock. One of David’s guards was at the beach end. He opened fire.

  William dropped and rolled, feeling the bullets tug the air inches from his head. He hid himself behind a bench in the gazebo as the guard continued to shoot, splintering the dock. William slid his finger through the trigger loop of one of the AKs.

  Looking beneath the bench, he could see the guard, coming his way. The guard fired again, an X-shaped burst of flame in the night. The bullets ripped holes in the bench and chewed up the dock.

  The guard stopped shooting and William popped up and pulled the trigger. The guard instantly fired again, but his shots went wide as he toppled over and fell into the water with a splash.

  William stayed still, breathing fast, holding steady.

  He looked at the bungalow lights twinkling from the thick, shifting vegetation. Voices came from different directions.

  He got walking, keeping back from the edge as he approached where the guard had fallen into the water. When he thought it was safe, he carefully peered over the lip of the dock.

  The guard was floating below, face down.

  Now you’re a killer again.

  He found Hanna with the family Sterling had welcomed earlier that day. She met him in the doorway of the family’s bungalow and William handed her one of the AKs. She took it without a word.

  “It’s a coworker of Sterling’s,” Hanna said about the family. “They’re on vacation, down here for the planned wreck, and helping him look for Rene.”

  “She was my babysitter,” said the boy, who was about ten. The rest of the family looked shell-shocked, but the boy was calm. “She was pretty good,” he said.

  The family had gathered in the main room. The woman was pale and drawn, hunched over a laptop as she furiously pecked at the keys.

  “We called the police,” the man said. He was sitting on the couch with his daughter in his lap. The daughter was maybe twelve, and looked scared.

  “The police said to sit tight,” Hanna told William. “Did you . . . ?”

  William put his arms around her. “I shot one of the guards,” he whispered. “The other is gone with David, I’m pretty sure.”

  She hugged him back tightly.

  She whispered in his ear, “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

  “I love you,” he said. Then he pulled away and left.

  * * *

  William untied the water taxi and jumped aboard. He found the key in the ignition and cranked the engine to life.

  The water burbled out behind the vessel and he pushed the throttle forward. If its driver was still at the resort, he wasn’t coming out of hiding.

  The boat putted away from the dock. William gave it more gas and it sliced through the tranquil surf. The moon bathed the bay in a tropical glow.

  He came in slowly to the Oakridge harbor, keeping an eye on the shore. David might be waiting. He’d had head start, but William wasn’t worried.

  On the trip across the bay he’d put a few ideas together. David and Sterling were business partners of a sort, or, at least investors in the same project. William bet that they were behind the planned wreck somehow. They wanted to increase business into the Bay Islands.

  But there was more to the story than Sterling and his associates trying to breathe new life into tourism. They seemed to employ a private security service, almost their own police force. Drugs and robb
eries associated with the cruises were hurting the stock. Police inattention, or corruption, didn’t help.

  William steered the water taxi towards an open dock. The vessel bumped softly against the pilings and he hopped off onto dry land. He tethered the boat and made his way cautiously along.

  The dock bordered a concrete retaining wall and he could just see over the lip of it. There was a small harbor shack with dark windows, and another building that housed the Royal Playa front desk. The buildings were along the edge of a large parking lot which serviced the harbor and resort together.

  William eased along the berm towards the stairs and pulled out Sterling’s phone.

  Shielding the light from the screen, he pulled up Sterling’s contacts and searched for the name David.

  It was near the bottom of the list.

  David Sausa.

  No other information besides the number. William placed his thumb over the call icon and paused.

  Then he pressed the screen, starting the connection. He held the phone to his ear and peered over the berm.

  There was a ringing near the far end of the parking lot and William ducked out of sight. He waited, but the ringing stopped. The call had not connected — David Sausa had hung up.

  William put the phone away, then ventured another look.

  He heard voices and saw shadowy movement near one of the vehicles. It was splattered with mud, but there was no doubt it was the same Nissan Pathfinder from the house in First Bight.

  There were multiple men beside it. They fanned out, looking around.

  William tensed, doubting he could protect himself down on this rickety dock beside the water. He felt like his luck had run out. He considered slipping into the water.

  But he closed his eyes for a moment, two hands holding the rifle.

  Someone was nearing, their feet crunching in the dirt. They were close, they would have a view of the harbor by now and might see the boat. Too late to hide beneath the surface now.

  A car door opened, and someone shouted. The footsteps faded away. William waited a moment, then dared one final look.

  Sausa and another man with short, spiky black hair were getting into the Pathfinder. Of the two other men with them, one might’ve been from the bungalow. The other wore a Los Angeles Lakers jersey.

  They all piled in and the Pathfinder’s lights flicked on.

  William dropped out of sight again, his heart thumping. He waited until he heard the engine roar and the tires popping over the dirt and gravel. He gave it as long as he dared, then ran up the stairs to the parking lot and found his motorcycle.

  The helmets were looped through the steel cable they’d bought earlier. He didn’t have time to fiddle with the combination. He dug into his pocket for the key and brought the motorcycle to life. He tore out of the lot with the rifle slung over his back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Not wearing a helmet was a bad idea. The bugs pelted his face like pebbles. He held on, gunning the engine until he could see the taillights up ahead.

  Oak Ridge Road forked and the Pathfinder veered right. No one was out, the road empty, and they rounded the far end of Calabash Bay. William remembered the front-desk clerk’s words — this was the overland way to the resort. The idea that they were returning to the resort filled William with dread.

  No streetlamps out here. Only the dark jungle and thick clouds of insects. He spat out a bug as he let off the throttle. If they saw his headlight they might react.

  He slowed to a stop and then went to work on the steel cable lock. The sweat was pouring down, the motorcycle engine already hot, the night air clogged with humidity. The bugs swarmed his eyes and his ears. For a moment he felt like screaming, but it passed. He finally got the lock free and Hanna’s helmet tumbled away. He caught it deftly out of the air and reconnected the lock. He slid his helmet over his head and got going again. This was fucking nuts.

  The Bight Road T-junctioned at Diamond Rock Road. If David Sausa and his crew had been headed west, they would’ve followed the other road. So they’d taken a right turn here. He sped up a bit after the turn until he caught a glimpse of the taillights remembering: if he could see them, they could see him. He could only hope they were too focused on their own driving, distracted. But despite his wishful thinking, the chances they’d made his tail were already good.

  The wind thundered past his helmet, the Honda whined between his legs. Each time he saw the taillights he backed off a bit. They were plunging into the jungle, playing cat and mouse further east. Nothing was out here but tangles of vegetation and fruit trees and creatures in the night. This was what they warned the tourists about — the east side of the island.

  A sign indicating Paya Bay Resort blurred by. Diamond Rock Road became Camp Bay road. If he remembered from his directions, they were close to Old Port Royal, and the way into the national park. But as he bulleted through the thick darkness, he snatched sight of taillights fading down a cut through the jungle and grabbed the brakes again.

  He putted back to the path, just a muddy strip that looked better suited for mountain bikes than SUVs.

  He turned in.

  The mud sucked at the tires and splattered his legs. The nose of the bike dove down at one point and mud splashed up over his helmet. His heart trilled with alarm, thinking that the water could damage the AK. The Honda was a low rider, so he was able to touch down with both feet and push the bike backwards out of the mud hole.

  Every muscle strained and stretched as he continued over the jungle trail, bouncing over tangled roots, his helmet slapped by branches, each plunge into the mud worse than the last.

  He decided to ditch the bike. The road was too treacherous and they might hear him coming. He had no idea how far ahead they’d gotten, but it couldn’t be by much. The island was narrowest in the east and Camp Bay Road traveled along its northern edge, so the ocean was close.

  He found a relatively flat spot, killed the engine, tore off his helmet and listened.

  For a moment, nothing; creatures in the deep brush, crickets singing in the trees. Then William thought he heard the Pathfinder. He pushed the bike into the bushes. He got the rifle out in front of him and jogged a ways along the muddy trail.

  He heard men talking. Doors opening and closing. Footsteps. Keeping tight to the treeline, he crept along until he ran out of road. It opened to a clearing where a small house overlooked the sea.

  Lights were being turned on inside. Shapes moved past the windows. But not everyone had gone in — William saw smoke rising from the corner of the house and spotted one of the guards having a cigarette, or a joint. The one in the Laker’s jersey.

  Then he heard the sound, faint but unmistakable, a slap across someone’s face. His mind quieted, his heart stilled.

  He could hear a woman softly crying, the sound just audible above the surf lapping the beach.

  It reminded him of Alkaev, striking the young woman at the school.

  He thought of Sausa in his chiffon robe, standing over the drugged and naked girl on the bed. The terrified family at the resort, the blank stare of the young girl on the couch.

  William stood fully upright and walked towards the house, pointing the AK. He didn’t conceal himself. The guard saw him and went for his gun. William squeezed the trigger. The man jiggled like a puppet and collapsed.

  William turned his gun on the front door. At the same time he heard another door open on the opposite side of the house, and he started around, keeping his eyes on the windows.

  He heard footsteps, and heavy breathing. When the second guard stepped out to fire, William pulled the trigger again, his mind blank. The man spun like a top, hit the ground and was still.

  There was a porch on the north side, nice view of the water. A face appeared for a moment — David Sausa — then ducked out of sight.

  William opened the screen door and went inside. He was very aware of the quick footsteps inside the house.

  “I’m not armed!” Sausa shouted.r />
  William kicked open the next door and stepped through, the tip of the rifle leading the way.

  Sausa was standing in the middle of the small room, hands in the air. On the bare plank floors, three young women were sitting, their hands and feet tied, duct tape across their mouths.

  “We were letting them go . . .”

  One of them was the young woman from last night. The one who’d disappeared from the hospital after William had left her there. She was on her side, eyes closed. Hog-tied, wearing only underwear and a small halter top. Dirty, her clothes stained with dried blood.

  “We don’t do this,” Sausa said.

  One girl was clearly American — the girl from First Bight — another was also white, a third was darker skinned. Teenagers.

  “We don’t do this at all,” Sausa babbled. “This was totally a precaution. We treat them well . . .”

  William wasn’t really listening. The place was small; the main room, a corner kitchen, a simple table and some chairs in the other corner. A place to hide out.

  “Where’s the other man with you?”

  Sausa’s eyes widened a little, and he closed his mouth. William had a second to notice Sausa bleeding from a cut hand. Then one of the doors burst open and the man with the spiky hair stepped out, firing.

  The shots missed, shattering the window behind William. He returned fire, clipping the man in the shoulder. The man fell to the ground and dropped his pistol.

  Sausa bolted out the front door, leapt the short steps and ran for the Pathfinder. William followed, stopped, kicked the pistol out of the way and pointed the AK at the man with the spiky hair.

  The man stuck out an arm, terror on his face. “Don’t! Don’t! Please, my name is Booth, the mayor is my cousin, I have children, it’s not what you think . . .”

  William left him and sprinted out the front door.

  Sausa was turning the Pathfinder around. William opened fire, bullets punching a line down the side of the vehicle. He switched and aimed for the tires. He squeezed the trigger and the gun clicked.

  Sausa hit the gas and the Pathfinder tore away, throwing dirt and mud. It bounced down the jungle road and out of sight.