Jorge waved a hand and took a seat. William glanced at the table where he’d seen the packed marijuana pipe the last time he was there. Jorge offered the chair across from him. “Like to sit down?”
“Sure,” said William. He took a seat.
Jorge grimaced. “I don’t think the woman . . . her name was Hanna? She’s not diving today . . .”
“No, I know. She’s not. I wonder if you’d answer a few quick questions for me.”
“Sure . . .”
“Do you know David Sausa?”
Jorge merely blinked for a moment.
William elaborated. “He’s the CFO of a company called Grantham Ltd. The planned wreck yesterday was owned by Grantham, a division of Seascape.” William held up the brochure. “Seascape is on this brochure.”
Jorge’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Oh sure, Seascape. They absorbed Ship Divers a few years ago. We still use the sign, though, the name.”
“But you don’t know Sausa? Never heard of him?”
Jorge shrugged. “I run the books for the dive school. All that other business stuff, that’s Mr. Penninger. He goes to the meetings and all that.”
“You remember the man who was killed down here a couple years ago? In Coxen Hole? Lacomb?”
“Maybe you should talk to Jodi. He’ll be back soon . . .”
William dropped the brochure into his bag and slipped out the small laptop. His hand brushed the assassin’s gun there. “Can I use your Wi-Fi? Just for a minute?”
“Ah, sure . . . okay . . .” Jorge rummaged through a drawer, then came up with a piece of paper and read off the password.
William hopped on the internet and did a bit of searching. He found an article on Charles Lacomb’s murder.
Lacomb was middle-aged, slightly overweight. After a bit more searching, there was Sausa and Lacomb, smiling together in front of a yacht. The picture accompanied a press release for Seascape.
William showed it to Jorge and pointed to Sausa. “So you’ve never seen him before? Looks like they were friends. In business together, at least.”
Jorge was growing anxious. “Sir, I don’t think I can help you. Maybe you should . . .”
William lifted a hand. “You’re right.”
He closed down the laptop and gathered his things. He stopped in the doorway on his way out, thinking about Lacomb’s murder. How it seemed to be the event which had set a lot of this in motion. Sausa had begun to gather a private police force to protect his Caribbean interests, then got greedy and involved with smuggling and human trafficking.
“Mr. Penninger usually goes to the bar after work,” Jorge said. “Maybe you can talk to him there.”
“Which bar?”
He blinked. “The one you’re talking about. La Cueva. That’s where Alexandra works.”
“You know Alexandra?”
Jorge nodded. “Sure. She’s Mr. Penninger’s girlfriend.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
William hustled toward the Maritime Terminal. He had less than three hours to catch the last ferry to the mainland. He called Mateo as he walked.
Mateo seemed happy to hear from him. “Change your mind?”
“Sort of. Can you come back for me?”
“On my way.”
The sun was setting as Mateo pulled up and William got in the car. He gave Mateo the directions and the Garifuna man pulled away without a word.
Mahogany Bay slipped out of view as they drove toward Coxen Hole.
They passed a fork in the road where a statue guarded a nature preserve called Mayan Eden. William recognized it as Shakyamuni, sitting cross-legged, with one hand pointing up, one down, in a gesture of protection.
They made another turn and headed towards the West End, the low sun flickering behind the lush trees.
Mateo slowed along a street with shanty houses. This was the neighborhood William had seen days before. Local Garifuna people watched as the vehicle rolled through. They passed a rundown supermarket then wound the circular streets of Col Loma Linda until Mateo found the house he was looking for.
William handed over some of the cash he’d gotten from Hanna, payment from Sterling.
The young man who emerged from the house was built like Mateo, long and lanky. Deon met with Mateo in the yard, and glanced at William as they spoke.
They went inside.
William watched some children playing futbol in the street. Nearby, three girls played rayuela, a Honduran version of hopscotch. One of them gave William a look, then turned away.
The men came out of the house. Deon hung back on the lopsided porch, Mateo carried two bags to the car. He stopped near the girls and said something to them which made them laugh. Then he slipped behind the wheel.
He set the bags on William’s lap. William could feel the weight of the ammunition inside the brown paper.
They left Col Lomo Linda, Deon watching them go.
“Thank you,” William said.
The atmosphere in the car was heavy. Mateo was surely disappointed to find that Deon was still dealing in the black market. All William could think about was that if it hadn’t been for Rene meeting Deon, and his name coming up in the email to her father, perhaps none of this would even be happening. Life pivoted on the most minor of things.
A few turns later, they were on the outskirts of the small city. Two hours left until the last ferry.
Mateo pulled into La Cueva, little more than a two-story shack in a dirt lot, surrounded by jungle. A neon sign flickered in the window, advertising Corona beer. There were a few cars and trucks, several motorcycles.
Mateo circled round back and left the engine running.
William sat for a moment, staring out at the building. Then he put on the bullet proof vest Mateo’s nephew had sold them.
Lacomb had been forty-four years old. According to the DNIC, he’d left La Cueva bar at one in the morning with two women. He’d been waiting for his taxi to take him and the women to West End when two men assaulted him. They stole his phone and shot him in the head. He was taken to Roatán Hospital where he’d been pronounced dead on arrival.
It seemed like the man had ignored basic safety protocols — in a dangerous area at night with valuable possessions — and paid the ultimate price. The police considered the murder motivated by theft, and in the original report, claimed that they had suspects and would begin making arrests.
They never did.
Instead, Sausa had done his own investigating. He’d found out who the criminals were and pitched a deal; establish his own police presence to combat crime in a Wild West fashion — by playing police, judge, and executioner. Sausa became a perverse hero.
La Cueva was undoubtedly where he’d met Alexandra, who was probably already pimping young women — the type who’d been on Lacomb’s arm the night he was killed.
“She’ll be protected,” Mateo said softly.
“I know.”
The vest was heavier than William remembered. It fit snugly across his chest, up under his arms.
He loaded the bullets into the magazine, one by one.
A Jeep pulled into the lot and stopped on the far side of the bar, out of view. Doors opened and closed. Voices rose in the dusk, men laughing. Then a burst of music as the front door opened.
William slapped the magazine home. He checked the chamber and looked at Mateo.
The man’s face shined in the eventide. “Why are you doing this?”
William withdrew the last item from the bag. He took a breath, like he was about to go under water, and pulled the black mask down over his face.
“Because no one else can.” Then he got out of the car.
He walked to the bar and opened the front door.
There were bathrooms off the entryway vestibule and he entered the men’s room. It was hot in the room, hotter than outside, and the insects were buzzing like mad. There was a urinal and a single open stall.
William checked the weapon one more time. The s
ound suppressor was screwed on, the proximity token clasped to his wrist. He was sweating in his mask, the Kevlar vest heavy as stone. He could turn away now. Leave and catch the ferry and travel to the mainland.
He saw the faces of the men he’d killed. Kevin Heilshorn and Jeremy Staryles. They were joined by new ghosts. The one he’d shot on the dock at Royal Playa. The men he’d gunned down at Sausa’s hideaway cabin.
They were like holes in his chest, black spots on his soul.
But if he turned away now, how many more women would be assaulted? How many would suffer because no one did anything? Funi would likely never bear children, her chance at motherhood stolen. Nicole would likely battle addiction, plus a lifetime of nightmares.
William breathed through the mask, feeling his heart rate ease.
He couldn’t let it just be.
He stepped out of the bathroom. He pushed through the vestibule door and entered the bar.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
There were several tables towards the back, and a line of booths in the gloom. To the right, a long bar with backlit bottles that shined like candy. Maybe a dozen patrons, three belly-up to the bar, the rest scattered among the tables.
Every head turned his way. Alexandra had her back to him, standing at the cash register, counting money. Blues music played over distorted speakers. A set of stairs climbed out of sight. The place smelled like sweat and liquor.
When the first man moved at the back of the bar, William fired without hesitation.
Fupp Fupp Fupp. The impacts flung the man against the wall. The guy beside him was getting out a gun.
William walked towards the table, one hand on the grip, the other steadying the large semi-auto custom weapon, aiming for center of mass.
Fupp Fupp. The second guy dropped to the ground beside the table, howling with pain.
He wore Reebok sneakers.
Alexandra moved in William’s peripheral vision, going for something beneath the bar. William swung the weapon. Alexandra cried out as a bottle shattered beside her head.
One of the barflies dropped to the ground, one ran for the back with his hands over his head, the third bolted for the front door. The rest hid beneath tables or dove for any cover they could find.
William stepped behind the bar and aimed down at Alexandra. She crawled away until she ran out of room. He found the sawed-off shotgun mounted over the sink and grabbed it. He knocked some bottles to the ground and set it on the liquor shelves.
Alexandra’s men could be among the remaining customers, hiding. But he didn’t think so, the patrons were dressed in working clothes; only ordinary people were left
“Everybody out,” William said through the mask.
One man got to his feet and ran bent-over for the door. William tracked his movement with the gun.
“Now,” William said to the others. “Go.”
They got message and more men ran out. Alexandra twitched and William stabbed the gun at her. “Stay right there.”
He pulled out one of the plastic ties. “Stand up, turn around.” She did as he asked and he kept his eye out for more of her men as he pinned her against the cooler. “Put this around your wrists.”
“Fuck you.”
He set the gun down and grabbed her arms. She was strong, and stamped on his foot. He went for the gun as she spun on him and hit him in the chest with her head. William stumbled back, tripped on something beneath the bar and fell.
Alexandra landed on top of him. Her hair was a tangled blonde mess clinging to her reddened face. She tried to get the gun away from him.
The barrel singed her hands and she pulled back. He bucked her off and got back on his feet. She climbed onto the cooler and vaulted the bar.
William got his aim and tracked her as she ran to the stairs.
He fired.
The first shot missed — her legs were a blur as she took the stairs two at a time. He fired again and the wood exploded behind her. He’d been trying for a non-fatal shot and missed twice. The door at the top of the staircase banged open.
Now his heart was beating hard.
He took the sawed-off from the liquor shelf, broke the barrel from the stock and dumped out the shells, threw the gun in the sink and turned on the faucet.
He saw a cell phone he assumed was Alexandra’s sitting beside the register and left it there. Then he ran around the bar and toward the stairs. There was a landline phone mounted to the wall. There could be another phone on the next floor and she might use it. Pressing against the wall he aimed up the stairs, then thought better of it. He exited the bar through the front door.
One of customers was running away on foot — William saw just the flash of a shirt disappear down the road. Most of the vehicles were gone, except for the Jeep and a small tan car — Alexandra’s Chevy Cavalier. He stuck close to the building as he rounded to the back trying to get a glimpse of the upper floor.
William saw Mateo in the car and pointed up at the second story. Mateo nodded and drove round. “Watch the front door,” William said. He was so hot in the mask now, his face burning up. He tore it off and tossed it in Mateo’s open window before Mateo pulled away.
He found where the telephone line came in from the nearest pole.
The monkeys screamed in the jungle. They seemed louder than usual, as if they knew.
William snipped the line.
Now Alexandra was trapped up there. She didn’t have her cell phone and there was no landline left. Nowhere to go.
He opened the back door onto a storage room. A cooler hummed in the gloom, restaurant-sized cans stacked on plywood shelves, empty liquor bottles piled in a box. On top of one of the piles, a bottle of bourbon. He unscrewed the cap with one hand and took a long drink.
He opened the next door and was back in the bar, this time beneath the stairs.
The clock was ticking for the ferry. There was no time to wait her out if he wanted off the island tonight. He envisioned himself with Alexandra and Penninger as his prisoners, on route to the mainland where, under pressure, they would throw everything on David Sausa and the prosecutors would have a case. Murder, sexual assault, drugs, human trafficking. Maybe DNIC would move it to the head of the docket. Maybe justice would be done for once.
He heard moaning, and a scraping sound. One of the two men he’d shot was crawling for the front door, trying to get out.
William stepped closer and the man fired his concealed weapon. The surprise shot took William in the chest, knocking him down.
He lay on the floor, momentarily stunned, looking up at the lazily twirling ceiling fan. He gasped for air until his lungs finally expanded. He reached for the gun which he’d lost in the fall.
The top stair creaked with Alexandra’s weight. William snatched up the gun and fired up under the stair case, three rapid shots that exploded through the tread from the underside.
Alexandra tumbled down to the main floor, a tangle of arms and legs.
He got to his feet. The man on the ground fired again as William jumped away.
He tucked beneath the stairs a moment, then ran back out through the storage room. His chest felt as if he’d been hit by a car. He rounded the building, ran through the front door and straight for the fallen man, kicking as he reached him. The man’s pistol went flying.
William stood over him, panting for breath, pointing his gun at the thug’s head. The man was bleeding from his stomach. William stepped there and applied pressure. The thug screamed and grabbed William’s ankle.
William yanked free and walked to where Alexandra lay at the foot of the stairs. She wasn’t shot. He’d aimed in front of her, and it had thrown her off balance. She might be bruised, or have broken an ankle, but she wasn’t shot. Just stunned.
He rolled her onto her stomach and cinched the plastic ties tightly around her wrists. Dragged her to one of the chairs, sat her down, took a second tie and fastened her bound wrists to the chair.
“Anybody upstairs?”
She g
lared at him, her hair clinging in strands to her face.
Now that things had quieted down, he thought he could hear movement. He left Alexandra and walked up.
His gear was heavy, his legs tired, but he felt . . . he wasn’t quite sure how he felt.
Numb, maybe.
The hallway at the top was out of level, everything cantered at a slight angle as if the building were sinking that way. “Hello?”
Room after empty room with no more than a bed and a crappy-looking bureau in each. Like an old-timey saloon from the American West, men drinking whiskey at the bar while bed springs creaked overhead.
A young man was sitting against the wall in the last room, holding a gun on William, his hands shaking. He had dark curls and a goatee.
“Easy.” William took his hand from the gun and held it up. “Easy, man. Go easy.”
Korey looked haunted, his expression a contortion of fear and anger.
“Hey,” William said, “I’m here to help you.”
Korey wasn’t convinced.
William took a cautious step into the room. “Put down the gun.”
There was a noise from downstairs. William backed away from Korey. The kid just stared down the hallway at him, the gun in his shaky grip.
* * *
Alexandra was on her knees, dragging the chair, presumably headed for the cell phone at the bar. She didn’t look at William as he crossed the room, floorboards creaking. He took out his own phone, dialed the Roatán police.
When Conchella answered, he told her that there was a shooting at La Cueva. “Somebody tied up the owner, Alexandra. And there’s an American here, too. Alexandra is recruiting prostitutes, trafficking for David Sausa.”
“Who are you?”
He ended the call and stepped behind the bar, considering another drink. As he pulled down the bottle of bourbon, he noticed the photos above the register, tacked together in a collage.
He grabbed one and ripped it down. It was a shot of Alexandra and Penninger, standing together in front of a large boat. The boat was called the Banzai.
He remembered seeing that boat at Ship Divers.
William stuffed the picture in his pocket and left the bar.
Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul Page 21