The third man screamed at the same time. He’d dropped the screwdriver and was clawing frantically at his face.
“Are you all right, Steven?” Antonia gasped.
“Yeah. What about you…what happened to him?”
“Pepper spray.” She held up the small canister, hands shaking from shock and fear.
Steven stood up, dusted himself off, and swiftly kicked the screwdriver assailant in the solar plexus to put him out for a few minutes. He walked over to his first victim, and saw blood trickling from the back of his head. He bent over him and took a quick pulse. Very weak. Might be a goner. Steven stood up and approached the tall thug, who was cradling his fractured tibia and moaning like a baby.
He squeezed a nerve meridian at the base of the attacker’s neck. The man screamed. Many of his teeth were broken or missing from the fall, and his neck was quite possibly fractured as well. Steven crouched down beside him and spoke softly.
“Who sent you?”
“No one. We just...wanted some money.”
The nerve meridian got another, longer squeeze. More screaming.
“One more try, then I’ll break your other leg and you’ll spend the rest of your life on crutches. Who sent you?”
“I...the police chief...Townsend...don’t hurt me anymore...please...”
Why was the police chief participating in attempted murder?
“Do you know who I am?”
“Argh!...no, mon...we was just told you was at the restaurant...someone saw you there...you been asking too many questions...”
Questions? So the police chief must have had something to do with the boat explosion, and he was willing to kill to protect his secret. Must be some secret.
“Okay, last one for you. Were you supposed to rob us, or kill us?” Steven’s tone was conversational, with no obvious malice.
“It’s not...you…you weren’t supposed to make it...”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Steven said. He rabbit-punched the man in the same nerve meridian, causing him to instantly lose consciousness.
Antonia had turned away from the scene. She didn’t want to watch what was happening. Steven didn’t blame her.
Suddenly, the attacker who’d gotten the pepper spray in the face lunged at Steven’s back with the screwdriver. Steven heard him, sensed his approach. He shot his right leg backwards, supporting himself with his left arm and knee, catching the islander full in the throat. The assailant dropped the screwdriver and collapsed with a sickening thud. Steven stood up, kicked the screwdriver out of reach, and leaned over him; he wasn’t going to make it. Crushed larynx. Damned fool; he should have stayed down. With his eyes messed up like that, he didn’t have a chance. There was nothing he could do about it now.
Steven stood, and walked to Antonia.
“Let’s go. We need to move. Now.”
She stared at him, lost in some other world, a vacant yet horrified look on her face as she slowly registered the bodies strewn about the little road. A low, indistinct moan came from her throat, and Steven had to catch her as she fell into his arms.
Steven supported her trembling body as they began walking down the hill. Antonia’s steps became steadier as they increased their pace. He dialed the hotel on his cell phone. Jenkins picked up.
“Can you get the shuttle to us at Sandy Ground dockside?”
“Absolutely. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Jenkins.” Steven hung up.
He turned to Antonia and held her close. She was still shaking badly and her face was deathly pale. Shock?
“These guys were playing for real, Antonia. They would have killed us. That’s what they were supposed to do,” he said.
“I know, Steven. It was just so...brutal. I…Oh God...I…”
“It was. I’m sorry you had to see it.” That was an understatement.
Antonia made a visible effort to pull herself together. She gathered her resources and started processing again. “What do we do now?”
“You have to behave normally, as though everything’s perfect.” He paused, thinking it through. “I think we go back to the hotel, I call Alfred and let him know what happened, then I check out and leave. I’ll go to the resort down the beach, and then walk back along the surf-line and join you in your room; then we’ll figure out what to do next. They obviously don’t know what name I’m using or where I am, or they would have opted to take me out at the hotel, so it’s probably safe ‘til tomorrow. By that time, it’ll be too late to track me.” It wasn’t a bad plan.
If the chief of police had his name or hotel he would have arranged for him to be ambushed on the way to the room, where it would have been a sure thing. So they only had a description. He figured they’d start looking for him tomorrow morning at the earliest – the assailants weren’t going to be providing a lot of information to anyone any time soon. Two of the three attackers were unlikely to ever speak again, and the third wouldn’t be in any shape to converse for at least a day, given the last nerve strike. He would be pretty messed up for a good while.
The shuttle arrived a few minutes later and picked them up and they traveled back to the hotel in silence. When they got to their room, Steven called Alfred and reported what had happened. Alfred said he would call Jenkins and have him check Steven out as of yesterday morning, and remove his firm from the billing ledger. Alfred promised to call back once he’d talked to Jenkins, and recommended Steven get off the island pronto. Distance seemed like a very good idea. They agreed Alfred would call again soon, and terminated the discussion.
Steven explained the situation to Antonia.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’ll see about waking up very early, and catching a boat on the beach. The same one I took here.”
She gazed emptily into the distance and made a small movement of her head, as though some inner dispute had been resolved.
“I want to go with you, Steven.” No hesitation. Clear, measured. And with a distinctly adamant tone.
He considered her statement. She would be in danger any time she was close to him as long as this was in play, which made the possibility of their staying together impossible in his mind. He explained that to her.
“I know,” she replied. “But I can stay in the same town, and you can still visit, eh? And it would be convenient to book a hotel under the magazine’s name, no? What you secret agents would call a good cover?”
Steven shook his head, dismissing the idea. She looked him in the eyes and nodded, silently imploring him to reconsider.
Shit. Steven hated to admit it, but she was right. He had many more options if she was with him – at least with him at arm’s length. And anyone hunting for him would expect a single man, not a couple, so there was a natural misdirection in there being two when his hunters were only expecting one.
He considered the assailants he’d left in the street. Even if they managed to deliver a coherent report on the attack, all they could know was that he’d picked up a date for the evening – not an uncommon event in lush tropical vacation hideaways. He weighted the pros and cons, and decided that as long as he kept moving and avoided arousing suspicion, as he had with his questions on the island, there was virtually no real risk attached.
But the danger element didn’t sit well with him. Enough people had been hurt by being associated with him. He was extremely reluctant to take that chance with Antonia. Steven regarded her pretty but resolute face. He could tell she’d already made up her mind, and was busy calculating how long it would take to wear him down and convince him of the merits of her decision. He already knew her well enough to understand she’d be intractable on this, so he finally capitulated, recognizing that resistance was futile.
He sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal, then. I’ll catch a boat off the beach, and we can meet up in St. Martin later. Didn’t you say your friends had a villa there?”
“Yes. I’ll call them first thing.” Her face brightened. �
��I can take the ferry over tomorrow.”
He looked at her and smiled. “Well, you get your wish, my friend,” he said. She looked at him quizzically. “You’ll see me without a goatee sooner rather than later.”
His cell rang again. Alfred told him to go to the front desk and pay in cash. At once. Pack up and leave. He told Alfred his plan, who was okay with it as long as Steven was gone by morning.
Steven fished out Jean-Claude’s contact card and dialed the number on it.
“Allo.”
“Jean-Claude? It’s the beach guy from Anguilla. I need a pick-up tomorrow morning on the same beach, about six or thereabouts? I have an early flight.”
“Bon, no problem.” Jean-Claude paused, calculating. “Early morning pick-up is hundred and fifty dollars. Is okay?”
“That’s fine. See you at six a.m. on the beach.”
Steven went online for one last time and looked at his e-mail. There was a message from Stan:
[OC Register reported this evening that you’re not dead – the police finally figured out it was the boat washer. You’re famous again.]
Great. When it rains… He disconnected, packed his gear, gave Antonia his laptop, and made his way to the front desk. Jenkins had sent the night man off to run an errand, so it was just the two of them. He paid his tab and Jenkins thanked him, handing him a receipt with yesterday’s date on it; made out to Steven Malone. He told Jenkins he’d arranged for a pick-up on the main road, and thanked him for all the hospitality.
Steven walked up the drive, and once out of sight of the main hotel, he circled around and headed down the beach to Villa #9. Antonia was waiting for him, apparently fully recovered from the incident and the shock of being so close to such sudden brutality. She threw her arms around him and kissed him like he’d been absent for a month. When they finally disconnected, he pulled his hygiene kit from his duffel and held it up.
“Shaving time,” he declared.
He went into the bathroom and shaved the goatee. It came off easier than he’d thought it would. He had a slight tan line, but that would blend in after an hour in the sun.
Steven came out of the bathroom. Antonia cocked her head to one side, and then to the other. She squinted at him. Crinkled her nose.
“Hmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmm. Can you put it back on?”
He grabbed her, threw her onto the bed, and kissed her again. She seemed amenable. More than. It was a long night.
At five a.m. the bedside alarm went off. Steven got up, meditated, and prepared to leave. He woke Antonia and assured her he’d meet her that afternoon, and wrote his cell phone number on the a sheet of paper with the hotel’s logo embossed across the top. He folded it carefully, and handed it to Antonia.
“I’ll see you in a few hours. Buy a black baseball hat and wear it on the ferry. That way, if for some reason I lose my cell, I’ll see the hat from a distance.” He was wearing his red St. Martin hat.
“Steven, I’m worried about you. I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said.
“Everything will be fine, honey. We’ll be together in just a few hours. Try to get over on the three o’clock ferry. That’ll give me some time to take care of a few loose ends,” he said.
“Goodbye, my pirate prince.”
“Goodbye, Antonia.” Steven glanced at his watch; he’d be hard-pressed to get to the beach in time. He slipped out the door to greet the dawn, leaving the most beautiful and passionate woman he could ever imagine for the cold uncertainty of the future. What an asshole, he concluded. Why couldn’t he just drop this now? Homicidal islanders and Peter’s face immediately dominated his consciousness, and he remembered why that wasn’t an option.
He jogged along the beach, and rounding the point, saw a boat approaching. Jean-Claude was on time and ready to go. Handing him the duffel and laptop, he hopped aboard, and after a quick reverse maneuver they were skimming along towards St. Martin at every bit of the thirty knots the skipper had boasted about. They’d be there in fifteen minutes at this speed. Steven handed Jean-Claude the $150 and looked over the flat, placid waters.
“Where’s the best cup of coffee on St. Martin?”
~ ~ ~
The phone rang and rang in Griffen’s office at 7:15 as he walked through the doorway. He grabbed it.
“Mr. Griffen?
“Yes.”
“It’s Townsend. I’m afraid I have bad news. The men that were chartered with handling the issue we discussed met with some resistance.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Griffen snapped. “Speak English.”
“One of them is dead, one’s in a coma, and the third is also hospitalized in critical condition. He hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“You picked the wrong guys, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Let me make a call. I have a friend who may be interested in helping. I’ll call you back.” Griffen called Sergei, and relayed the information.
Sergei was intrigued.
“He took down three men? That’s impressive. Perhaps his military background was more extensive than his records indicate. Hmm. Anguilla, correct? I’ll see about getting some assistance there today. Let me have your associate’s number. I shall call him directly. Let him know to expect me.” Sergei jotted down the number and hung up.
Griffen called Townsend back, and told him a friend who ‘specialized in handling complicated situations’ would be in touch within the hour.
Griffen had never been genuinely worried in twenty-plus years on Wall Street. Now he understood how it felt to be unsure of the ultimate outcome of a situation he was involved in.
He didn’t like it one bit.
Checkmate: Chapter 4
When he got off at the dock in St. Martin, Steven pulled out his Blackberry and activated it, checking for a reception. Bingo. The signal came in nice and clear, so he could communicate online. That was a plus.
He explored the quiet streets until he found the small café Jean-Claude had recommended, ordered coffee and a croissant, and mulled over his next move in the dangerous game that was unfolding. Getting out of the Caribbean seemed like a prudent step now he realized the head of Anguilla’s police force was corrupt enough to condone murder in order to shut him up. Besides which, his mission there was essentially accomplished since Alfred now had the goods on the investors.
The two wild cards were the company in Moscow and the company in Argentina. He needed to understand their roles in the fund makeup if he were to build a complete case. That they were dirty was a given; but he didn’t understand in what manner they were dirty, and that was a piece of information he needed to nail down.
Argentina was a lot closer than Moscow, he figured; so maybe going to South America wouldn’t be a bad call. He could hire a private investigator and find out what the deal was in Buenos Aires. Maybe Spyder or the rest of the gang would have some bright ideas.
He checked online, and immediately identified one big problem. All the flights from St. Martin to anywhere but France went into the U.S. system; which he certainly had to avoid, especially now he was alive and presumably actively being sought by Homeland Security. He doubted they’d be scanning the globe for him, but avoiding American soil and an American test of his new passport and identity seemed prudent.
He could fly to Paris, and then back-track to Argentina, but that meant twenty-two hours in the air. Tough one. He’d have to figure that out. Also, he needed to get a lead on a sharp Argentine PI who could work quickly, and with discretion. That would likely be another significant hurdle. He knew the country was still in turmoil from the constant disruption of its chronically unstable government, but beyond that, he really had no idea how to proceed.
Then there was the mystery of the boat and the partner. Was the partner taken out – killed by Griffen or some other player associated with him? Was the whole thing a cover-up? That’s the way it was apparently playing out at this point. It was the only explanation that made any sense, given the heavy-handed
tactics they were using to prevent any serious investigation from occurring. People didn’t usually kill unless there was a lot at stake – that seemed elemental. But what was being covered up? It seemed that there were more questions now than ever. Every time he peeled a layer off the onion, more presented themselves. He had the uncomfortable sensation that he was missing a critical chunk of information.
Steven sipped at his coffee and watched as the town groggily came to life, pedestrians reluctantly emerging from their homes and dawdling their way to work. Island living was clearly slower paced than on the mainland, and nobody seemed in any particular hurry to get anywhere.
His thoughts turned to Antonia. How could he keep her out of harm’s way? He knew she wanted to stay proximate to him, and he’d given his word, but was that really smart? It was selfish from his standpoint to bring her into this. Of course, it was selfish from her standpoint to want to be near him. The whole thing was one big ball of self-interest. He supposed that’s what made the world go ’round.
Steven found it difficult to accurately assess his feelings for her. How much of his attraction to her could be attributed to being in an exotic place, away from the humdrum rules that bound their lives, and how much was real? He didn't think it was a simple holiday infatuation, but with all that had happened in just a few short days, how could he be sure what he was feeling? She was an astounding woman, unlike anyone he’d ever met; strong and smart, incredibly passionate, possessed of a diabolical sense of humor, and completely in sync with his rhythms. So how was he going to deal with this little unplanned hitch in his grand plan? She was flesh and blood, and if he slipped up she could become another casualty. He had enough blood on his hands at this point. The last thing he wanted was to endanger Antonia.
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