Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
From her vantage point, she saw another armed guard heading for the doorway. He didn't see her in the shadows, and she felled him with two fairly quiet shots. Then she whirled and almost collided with another guard. His face registered surprise even as his arms brought an Uzi to bear with amazing speed and dexterity.
But Colgrave was already in a stance and a 9mm semi-jacketed hollow-point was in the chamber, so he was no match for her and two slugs took him out and over the railing. She missed the splash below because she was swinging around again to check for more approaching gunmen.
Inside, she could hear more single-shot gunfire, then an eerie quiet.
Jesus, what's happened?
She waited seconds – precious seconds – and then made for the hatch, which had swung shut after the guard had been flung through it.
She only had one thought in her mind.
Brant.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The thought that she was the Joker in this deck also blazed through Colgrave's mind as she burst through the hatch doorway. It was made out of thick metal, reminiscent of a bank vault door, only rougher with painted-over rust and other assorted bumps. The corridor extended out in front of her, but the first two doorways on her right were open, and she thought the gunfire had come from there. It was too late to suppress noise, so she walked boldly, her gun cocked and her mind as blank as she could make it, as she had done on the numerous big busts for which she'd been a member of the shock team, as they called them here. She advanced down the corridor until she was just a couple feet from the open door. Her slice of view was small from that angle, but she could see overturned furniture and broken lamps everywhere. The furniture consisted of mismatched sofas and armchairs and some straight-backed chairs, which indicated the cabin was laid out as a ship's saloon, a sort of living room for the relaxation of passengers and crew. In this case, given the crew's quarters nearby, this would have been where crew members could play cards and watch movies or just relax away from their bunks. But now several tables had been flipped, and broken lamps littered the floor. A large-screen television sat miraculously unscathed and unlit on a stand in a far corner. Unfortunately, like everything else in the saloon, the living occupants were not relaxed.
On the thinly carpeted deck, Digger was a goner, his head burst open like a spoiled pomegranate, his scarecrow arms floppy and loose in death.
Trying to stanch a bleeding hole in his shoulder, one of Goran's lieutenants sat in a corner, oblivious to the fist-sized wound in his lower belly.
He'll be gone soon.
Colgrave tried to bring her machine pistol to bear on the others, but the barrel wavered when she couldn't decide who needed to be covered.
Sarge was half-hidden behind a teenage girl that had to be Kit. She seemed strangely calm. Or traumatized.
On a stained sofa, a blond girl lay chained. Her eyes were open and glazed, but she wasn't dead. Brain-dead. Comatose or simply overwhelmed by the bloodshed.
In the opposite corner, the Serb himself, Goran, stood with another one of his lieutenants, both of their faces bloody. The thug held two pistols aimed at the cabin floor. One was empty, its slide all the way back, but he seemed oblivious. The other was presumably still loaded.
Near the center of the cabin, Brant stood alone, his Glock pointed at Sarge.
Irina was halfway between them, behind an overturned sofa. She held a gun, too, a black Beretta 92F, but hers pointed at Goran. Kneeling behind the sofa was another thug, bloody left arm hanging uselessly at his side. In his right hand, a Glock pointed at Brant.
Colgrave settled for Irina in her sights. Her instinct said the girl held the key. And the rest of the cabin's occupants were too spread apart to cover effectively. If gunfire broke out, it would be a slaughter.
Air was sucked out of the cabin as if by a vacuum. Sound became tinny and distant. Colgrave's field of vision was like an inverted telescope.
Goran was smiling, his right hand held palm up as if offering candy. "We are in a stand-off, no?" He nodded to his lieutenant and his two guns.
"Everyone stay where you are," Colgrave said. Her voice was raspy, her throat dry.
"Don't be a fool," Brant said harshly. "Back out of here and let us settle it." His voice was full of pent-up rage.
She wasn't sure who he meant by us.
He was dangerous, she realized. There was something she wasn't grasping. "It's too late for you to settle it alone. I signed on because I believed in the outcome. I'm staying."
"This is a wonderful surprise," Goran interrupted. His accent-honeyed tone oozed sarcasm. "Yet, here I see my daughter aiming a gun at me." He looked down. "And Boris, my faithful employee, watching your back instead of mine. What of it Irina? What is all this?"
Irina said nothing. The gun barrel didn't waver.
Sarge spoke in a growl. "Stay awhile, Sergeant. Colgrave, was it? Stay a while, this is bound to get good. We have a little situation here, and it's not gonna be easy to sort it all out. Messy." Sarge's HK seemed to be loosely aimed at Kit now.
What the hell was going on here?
Goran laughed a crazy titter of a laugh. He moved his foot away from where his man Vasily lay dead. The high-velocity 4.6mm slugs from either Brant's or Digger's HK had stitched a random pattern of bloody holes across his torso and back. "Just like in American movies, eh? What do they say? The Mexican stand-off? Why Mexican, eh? Why not Armenian? Why not?" Then he rattled off a line of words that blended into one, aimed at his daughter. "Irina? Did you not hear me?"
Irina was breathing fast and hard, as if she'd run a quick mile. Her hair was greasy with sweat now, plastered to her head. She lifted her hand and made sure the Beretta was leveled directly at Goran. A sultry little smile appeared on her lips, making the dark look in her eye all the more frightening. She wore the appearance of a rain-soaked pit-bull now. Madness gleamed in her eyes. Her garish eye make-up, starting to run with sweat, accentuated the effect.
Colgrave swore under her breath.
A loose trigger finger and everybody in the cabin would die. It would only take seconds to turn the chamber into a charnel house.
***
Brant held his HK loosely, figuring they had to know his clip was almost depleted. Goran's other lieutenant, the one who wasn't dying quietly in the corner, held a pistol in each hand, but one was clearly empty.
Goran was visibly shocked by Irina's act, though he seemed to be thinking about what to say next. Realizing perhaps that there was a fine line between saying something that would anger his daughter and turning her into his ally again. If that were even possible. Brant didn't think so.
Kit seemed physically unhurt, though there was some sort of paralysis in her expression. The blond girl chained on the sofa did not seem to be aware of anything that had happened. He wasn't sure the gunfire had even registered. Her eyes were open, blank and staring into a distance only she could see.
Only breathing, labored or hurried, could be heard in the cabin. In the corner, the wounded Serb soldier entered his death throes and twitched for a few seconds before hunching sideways. No one seemed to notice. Or care.
Digger was dead. And Brant was almost certain Sarge had been responsible. Where had he come from? It was as if he had appeared magically on the ship. Surely neither he nor Colgrave, nor Digger, had seen Sarge board the vessel.
Which meant Sarge had been here all along. His communication from the club was a fake, and he'd killed Smitty nearby. Brant could have kicked himself. He'd taken the sergeant at face value. Clearly a mistake.
It was time. The silence had lasted long enough. Now there was only talking. And shooting.
Brant said, "Before we blow each other away, let's get some cards on the table." He stared at Sarge, still squarely in his sights. Nobody was going to move just yet. There were too many things to say, topics to cover. Either that, or there was nothing left to say. He wondered when the shooting would commence. Kept
his finger curled heavily on the trigger.
Prayed he could hold everyone still with his voice.
He said, "I started putting the pieces together when I realized Goran the Serb had no idea who the hell I was when I approached him about my niece. If there hadn't been a direct connection to Goran, I would have believed it was a random thing, her kidnapping. But Irina made sure I'd see a connection to her father. Didn't you, Irina? You made sure I would go off on a rescue mission he had no reason to expect. You played me just right, except for one thing. You didn't think I'd go right to him – that's what made me realize he didn't know me. But otherwise, I was doing your dirty work, wasn't I? First I defended myself against his attack dog and got my hands dirty, but immediately after that I went on the offensive and wiped out his Lake Drive house staff. Somehow you made sure none of the men posted at the house were loyal to you, though. In fact, you counted on me and my blind anger, and I came through. You knew even if I went to the police I'd get no help. It would all get shoveled to Zimmerman, and it would end right there."
He looked at his niece. Kit was standing unsteadily, her eyelids fluttering. This had all been too much for her. She'd managed to survive against incredible odds, both her captivity and now this wild gunfight. But she was in danger again, and Brant had to stall, hoping his words caused the desired effect. He turned back to Irina's smirk.
"That Sergeant Colgrave decided to buck her boss and help me was unexpected, but you could still make it work. Your team had to move a little faster, that's all. Irina, you wanted me to take down your father so you could step into his organization as new head, right? You knew everything, all the sources your father's group has used to gather the valuable information he sells to the government, his contacts, everything. You wanted a free hand in playing with your own toys because you knew how much your father despised what you do in your secret rooms, right? He may be a tough guy, but he's not into wholesale slaughter, not if he can turn a buck. So when Kit landed on your doorstep as roommate, talking about me and what I'd done in the war, and maybe some of the strange things I've been into since then, you started to hatch a plan, didn't you? You even dragged my brother into it, promising him – what? A cut? And you strung him along with a combination of sex and drugs. I saw you at the motel, keeping him in line with the sex, and you probably left him a few lines of blow, too. You used my brother and caused him to sell his own daughter for some kinky sex and some money and some promises – of what? Shared revenue from your new organization? You led him to sell his own daughter."
Kit shook her head, no. She heard the words, but didn't believe them. She was more aware than she seemed to be.
"My brother got a nice payment for pushing her into your web, didn't he?" Brant spoke to Goran, but watched Kit.
Goran couldn't help smiling. "He was cheap. She would bring much more on the market. He was scum."
"For you to say that, he had to be pretty low, all right," Brant agreed. "I'm sorry, Kit. I hate like hell telling you this about your father."
Kit spoke. A hoarse whisper, nothing more. "He's dead. I… Saw her kill him. She did it right when we… He was-"
"I know, Kit. I found him. I don't think he knew anymore what was right and wrong." Brant's eyes turned to slits. The coldness radiated from them and lanced toward Irina. He continued, "Ralph was a nuisance because he wanted more. More drugs, more money. Maybe just more sex. But he was a thorn in your side. And you had plans for him that you carried out just today, didn't you? But to do it in front of his daughter. That's just too cold even for a monster like you."
Sarge said sarcastically, "Where is all this going, Loot?"
"I'll get to that. After we talk about Goran's sweet deal here, the deal Irina wanted for herself. She needed somebody else to help me and guide me. A little research and my brother came up with Sarge here…"
Sarge said, "What? Be careful what you say."
"That's right, don't look so surprised. I'll get to you. Before that, there's Goran. He's been untouchable since he sold out his people back in the Balkans years ago. I'm not sure how he did it, but he was able to set himself up in business with almost no obstacles standing in his way. And when there were obstacles, somebody in Washington – and somebody here – took care of whatever problems came up. You liked how his bread was buttered, Irina, and you knew there was a good chance you could substitute your loaf for his.
"I don't know how you spied on your father, but you were able to arrange to take over – somehow, you cleared your coup with his masters in D.C., making sure they knew your future intel would be legit and as useful as his was. Probably you turned a couple of his trusted sources and lieutenants. And then, you needed a patsy, somebody to do the exterminating. That's where I come in. And my old friend, Sarge."
Before Sarge could open his mouth to deny or complain, Brant continued. "I thought you hitched a ride too quickly – you were never that chivalrous, Sarge. Then you mentioned knowing more about Goran than was obvious. When I thought about it later it made you likelier to be on the inside. And you were all for me showing you those pictures, weren't you? That was an additional hook you could set in me, provided by me. You fed my interest in Goran from the beginning. What was in it for you, Sarge? Just cash? A piece of the pie? A piece of Irina? She's shared pieces of herself with a lot of guys, if that web cam setup I saw and heard being used is any indication. You would have wanted all three, I bet. Once Irina had you in, she probably regretted it, but you made yourself useful. Tonight, for instance. My guess is you killed Smitty once you got him away from us. Probably shot him in the back and dumped him somewhere right here on the docks. Strictly business. Evening up the odds a little, in case the old unit worked too well together. In a firefight, you might have ended up shooting a bunch of Irina's thugs, isn't that right? Then there was Colgrave. That was a bad one you didn't predict. If you weren't careful, you'd have to kill a cop. Not something you wanted to do, less you could secure your back. After all, you still have connections in the department. You're an ex-cop – last thing you wanted to do was end up in one of their investigations. But Colgrave being so eager to play off the books, that was good for you, wasn't it? Colgrave, hand me your HK."
Colgrave looked at him, shocked. What did he want? To disarm her? She tightened her grip on the machine pistol.
"Step over here, Colgrave, and hand me the HK. Have you used it yet? No, you've been using your silenced Glock. I'm glad I gave you that silencer. It saved your life." Slowly, so as to not cause a trigger-happy response, she stepped closer and handed him the gun.
He asked her, "Cocked?"
Colgrave nodded.
"My guess is, Sarge removed the firing pin. Right, Sarge? Remember, you took a few minutes to dig up the extra HK machine pistol? That was when you did it. It was guaranteed to get Colgrave killed the moment she got herself into a firefight, wasn't it?" Brant aimed the HK at Sarge, pulled the trigger.
Tension in the room threatened to erupt into gunfire and chaos, but somehow the quiet held.
Click.
In the tense, still air, the sound of the useless hammer was loud and accusatory.
Sarge hadn't even flinched.
Brant continued, "Once rid of Smitty, you'd be here to back us up, but what you were really planning to do was frag us, right Sarge? You'd done that before, too. Your record before and after the Rats was spotty, and I found out why even though the records are sealed. You were suspected of fragging at least two officers. For some reason, you liked me and I survived my time in your unit."
Sarge smiled. "You were as blood-thirsty as I was. And you took your own chances."
"I wasn't blood-thirsty," Brant corrected. "I was loyal to my unit and to my country."
Sarge snorted.
Again, the tension in the chamber seemed to crest.
Brant switched gears. If every twitchy finger was planted as solidly within the trigger guard as his, then they were all within a half second of death. He turned slightly to address Gor
an. "Don't just take my word for it. Check how many of your men left alive here really work for you."
Goran laughed, though his voice was strained. "It only matters who in here works for me. The rest of the ship is in my hands, as well." Goran's lieutenant aimed his gun at Brant.
Sweat collected on his brow and trickled down his cheeks, chilling him like melting icicles. Goran wanted the shoot-out. Maybe he'd grown up on cowboy movies. Maybe a decade of war in Bosnia had turned him into a daredevil gunslinger. Maybe he was insane. Brant headed him off, hoping his words would have the right effect. His HK's barrel still pointed at Sarge, who still covered Kit. Sarge's interest was controlling Brant, and Kit was the key.
"See, Goran," Brant said, "you're no longer in command, your daughter is. Everywhere else aboard this tub, I bet her men have killed your loyal troops. Slit their throats nice and quietly, probably. The one place she couldn't manage on her own was the house. She knew there would be too many guys with guns there, and that's where I came in – and I took that bait. But she couldn't trust any of your men who promised to flip, either. She kept her own inner circle together with sex and drugs, and her growing webcam business that also bankrolled her coup. If she couldn't pay as much as you, how could she manage to win over your men? With me on her side, she only needed a few. Kit had told her some of my attributes, as a much younger man, so she figured I'd take you all out. And she was close to right, that was the first thing I wanted to do. But she didn't figure on this ship, Goran. And how you'd cut and run in the face of my – our – opposition."
Goran's features were a slide show of emotions. Anger, insult, fear, a remnant of fatherly love, but then anger again.
Savage Nights Page 32