"Irina wanted to be cutting up your corpse by now, didn't you, Irina? Not sitting here talking. Her force is depleted too now, so we may be at a stand-off, Mexican or otherwise. Who's going to make the first move? Before the cops come and sweep us all up? Won't be long now."
Goran's face had settled on an exaggeratedly disappointed look, the look of someone who had no doubt his kid had screwed up again.
"My very daughter. You make me ashamed."
"You made me like this." She tossed her hair, but it was so glued down by sweat that barely a single thick strand moved limply.
"I did not make you a monster. You do not even follow our traditions, or speak your native tongue with pride."
"I am not you. I don't have to pretend to be like you."
"The blood. You chose to love the blood."
"I learned all from you, dear Papa. You have corrupted me. If I am corrupt. Did you not think I watched when you tortured? Watched and learned? I learned from the best."
"This is nonsense! I do not ever tell you to kill without reason. Torture has a reason. Perhaps gathering of information, perhaps punishment, or a message to others. But your torture is for no reason, just for enjoyment. I did not teach you to kill for sport..."
Goran's voice softened and filled with sadness. There was a certain tenderness there that he had never shown any of his victims, Brant thought.
This was the time. While Goran's emotions about his daughter's lost innocence weighed on him.
Brant said, "Listen, Goran, all I want is to take my niece home. Let us walk out of here and you can settle your family problems without strangers to muck it up. Just give me my niece, and that blond girl there – she's worthless to you. Any other innocent girls you have stashed, or coming. Then Colgrave and I will leave the ship and you'll never see us again."
Goran stared at Irina, his eyes misting.
The air in the saloon was sour and metallic.
"Go," said the Serb. "Take them."
His lieutenant stared at him for a second, then his gun barrel wavered. The boss had spoken.
"Kit, help your friend," Brant said. His voice level. He kept his gun on Sarge, kept his gaze locked with his old comrade. There was nothing worse than betrayal. Sarge's eyes flashed anger – and fear that his wagon had been hitched to the wrong star. For seconds, he and Irina and Goran simply stared.
Kit snapped out of her trance. Freedom's call had sunk through the barrage of words Brant and Goran and Irina had expended. She helped Anne Marie up off the sofa, lifting her bodily until her feet were on the deck, then using her own body to maneuver the smaller girl robot-like toward the door. Colgrave waited for them, then the three edged closer to the exit. They moved slowly, avoiding threatening motions. Brant continued to cover his former sergeant, while Irina and Goran engaged in their intense staring contest. Meanwhile, Goran's lieutenant had slowly swung his pistol to bear on Irina's wounded companion.
Brant saw it happen. A shadow passed over the girl's sweat and make-up streaked face. Her fragile coalition was failing at the most important moment. Brant was supposed to have taken care of everything, but now the crucial move opportunity had come – and it was going, fast. Once the hostages were out the door, the odds were much less in favor of Irina and her loyal Boris. She couldn't count on the old sergeant – his loyalty had been attached to cash results, and right now there didn't seem to be a lucrative outcome. All he had to do was lie low or make for the second doorway, and it was just Irina and her father and the two loyal but battered retainers. Irina's face reflected the thoughts that swirled within her as she watched the end of her campaign approach, leaving her no better off than before, if not dead. The insanity that had always lurked behind those lustful, alluring eyes all at once bubbled up to the top.
Brant saw it happen.
Instead of talking, Irina's finger tightened visibly on the Beretta's trigger and – even as Kit, Anne Marie, and Colgrave reached the door – she started shooting.
Sarge sank into a crouch and brought up the muzzle of his HK.
Brant had no choice. And he was a split-second faster. His first brief burst took Sarge in the chest and scattered him like a bloody mannequin, arms aspread, onto the bulkhead. He swung the barrel slightly and thought he saw Boris take a couple slugs, but then he launched himself toward the door as Goran and his man returned Irina's wild fire.
Brant reached the opening and covered his exit with a last burst from the HK, not sure whether he hit anything at all, but desperate to spray enough lead to dissuade aiming or pursuit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the women stagger outside the door…
Damn it, no!
Kit!
He splattered lead into the saloon, no longer caring who stood in the way.
They'd made their beds, now it was time to lie in them.
As he turned, he was forced to step over the fallen girl. Sprawled in the corridor, her arms outflung and resting in a spreading crimson puddle, she resembled a discarded doll. Looked like she'd taken a stray shot to the head just as she reached the doorway.
It wasn't Kit.
Kit and Colgrave were heading for the outside hatch at the end of the corridor. Kit saw her friend lying across the deck and hesitated, then started to turn back, but Brant waved her off.
There was nothing they could do for her now.
Behind them, inside the saloon, there was still more shooting. A shout from Goran, suddenly cut off, and then there were a dozen more rapid shots. An eerie silence followed.
They didn't wait to see if anyone would emerge from the carnage.
THIRTY-NINE
Brant swung the outside hatch wide and began herding Kit and Colgrave through, out of the corridor and onto the open deck. There was ringing in his ears from all the shooting. Quickly, he reloaded with a fresh clip. It seemed very cold outside, a lake breeze kicking up and whipping through them.
"Wait." Colgrave pushed past the shivering girl, Glock in hand, and said, "I'll watch our rear. Wouldn't want to lose her to a straggler."
She turned to face the hatch opening, and then the single flat report reached them, full of plate metal reverb. For a second Brant was disoriented. Had the shot come from somewhere on the deck?
"Where?" He shielded Kit with his body, bringing up the machine pistol. "Where is he?"
Colgrave sighed and turned halfway back toward him. The right side of her jacket was shredded between the vest elements, and blood splattered the door and bubbled up in the frayed hole. She sagged into Brant's arms.
The bullet seemed to have torn through her between armpit and breast. He swung her out of the line of fire, but by then someone was shooting fast and too accurately. Slugs splattered into the metal bulkhead and Brant felt tiny rust projectiles rake his exposed skin. He flattened and took both Kit and Colgrave with him.
"Kit, take her."
The teenager had snapped out of her trance with the shooting and now she hauled Colgrave back inside the hatch and down to the corridor floor behind the reinforced bulkhead. Brant blindly returned fire around the corner, a long burst that sounded like a purr. The HK's slide racked open and he popped the empty clip and replaced it with his last one.
"Goddamn it, Brant! Fucking die!"
The voice.
Pure, hateful rage.
He had no problem recognizing its owner.
"Should have left town, Zim. I already set the ball rolling. It won't be long before it catches up to you."
He examined Colgrave's wound quickly. Serious, but not fatal. Provided they got her out. Her eyes were glazing a little from shock. She held her Glock loosely.
The voice called out, "I'll be gone, but I'm taking you with me."
Slugs clanged all around them. Kit squealed and covered her ears. Colgrave grimaced and tried to bring her gun up, but her eyes spoke of impending unconsciousness.
Brant heard Zimmerman's brass cascading to the deck. He wasn't far and he wasn't conserving. Brant fired t
wo short bursts and threw himself out the door, hugging the floor plates. Then he fired twice more, aware of the machine pistol's lightening load. He reached back over his niece and gently tugged the Glock from Colgrave's loose grasp.
"Kit, I'll cover you, but you have to take her down that way. There's a metal step-ladder up to the next deck. Go up-"
A barrage of shots from the outside passageway made them lower their heads. Zimmerman was shooting blind and making up for it with brass.
"He can't see us," Brant said. A steely look washed over Kit's eyes. She was coming around. "Go up that ladder down the hall and wait for me when you get to the other deck. I'll keep him busy."
"Then what?" Her chin trembled, but she had it under control.
"Good girl." He smiled. "If I don't get there soon, go up one more level. You should be near the bridge then, where they steer from, and-"
Colgrave moaned and suddenly she was awake, too, and he thought for the first time there was a chance he'd get them both out. They'd made it through everything, and now there was Zimmerman. Brant hadn't asked Kampmann for back-up, only a wipe team, and now he regretted it. He finished giving Kit and Colgrave instructions and nodded. Colgrave was unsteady, but with Kit's help she half-stood, half-crouched, and before he could tell them to go they were running for the ladder. Brant emptied the HK, hearing the slugs tear through the wooden paneling of the cabin doorways. Zimmerman was probably ducking outside to avoid the covering fire, not realizing that his quarry had split up and started to climb the ship's superstructure from the inside.
Brant switched to the Glock. Zimmerman fired a probing round, and Brant used the pause to chase Kit and Colgrave. They had disappeared through the cut-out rectangle above and should have reached the middle deck by now. Brant gambled on his theory that all Goran's and Irina's thugs had been called into action and neutralized below. If any had staked out the bridge, then they were finished.
Brant reached the skeletal ladder and propelled himself up even as Zimmerman fired again down the corridor. It wouldn't be long before he'd realize he had been outflanked from above, but he would give chase. He couldn't afford to leave any of them alive, could he? Cop or no cop.
Brant reached the deck, where Kit and Colgrave crouched behind the partition that kept people and crew members from falling into the open trapdoor through which the stairs ascended. Another ladder behind them led up to the next deck.
Wasting few words, he directed them to climb the second ladder and make their way along the exterior of the ship to the wheelhouse – the bridge, from which the ship was steered. He had to gamble that there wouldn't be a crooked ship's officer there, or a thug in Goran's or Irina's employ. Goran's army had either been killed in the firefight or had fled into the night and, he assumed, Irina's loyal lieutenants had as well. Brant was willing to chance it.
About the time Kit and Colgrave should have reached the wheelhouse, Brant was attempting to outflank Zimmerman and draw him away from them. He scuttled in the opposite direction, heading toward the fore end of the ship's superstructure. He popped open an exterior hatch and found himself out in the cold December night again. A stiff lake breeze had worked itself up and sliced through his jacket. He reached the railing and peered over the edge. There was a flash of movement down below and he deliberately bounced the Glock against the railing lightly, causing a metallic echo that would draw attention. Then he headed back toward the rear of the superstructure, hoping to draw Zimmerman away from where Kit and Colgrave had climbed upward. There were stairs both inside and out of the superstructure, and it would be best to keep Zimmerman outside.
He reached the rear of the superstructure. Looming above him and located behind the ship's wheelhouse, was the squared-off black metal funnel stack painted in the colors of the shipping company. It said CLESSIDRA and showed a stylized hourglass. Though he'd never heard of it, somehow it seemed to fit. The ship's registry would be something neutral, Liberia, the Caymans or the Bahamas, Panama, something like that. A thick tendril of white smoke puffed through the stack and into the cold air. Any later and the ship might have sailed into the dark Lake Michigan night, never to be seen by him again.
Brant headed noisily for the rear of the superstructure as Zimmerman's steps pounded below, pacing him from the lower deck. It would take Zimmerman precious seconds to climb the stairs and he'd be a good target doing it, outlined on the steps. But Brant wanted to climb higher himself, to the bridge deck. He grasped the cold railing with one hand and hauled himself upward.
As Brant reached the higher deck, he heard Zimmerman cautiously climbing up to where Brant had just been. He gambled on his memory and made for the aft railing. This ship, like many of its type, had been fitted with a large bright-orange freefall lifeboat. It rested like an oversize float on a rack of metal skids mounted at a severe angle over the center of the ship's stern, dangling over the harbor's black water. Forward of that, below the wheelhouse, the squat hulk of an old-fashioned lifeboat – the kind that swung out on davits – hugged the deck just below the 240-degree glass pane view screens of the bridge itself. Kit and Colgrave should have reached relative safety there, as long as Zimmerman was distracted enough to track Brant first. The question was how much head start Zimmerman had on the rest of the cops surely headed this way.
Brant made sure to get his attention by firing once at Zimmerman's shadow as it emerged from the cover of the steps. His spent brass zinged past and clattered onto the deck. Before Zimmerman could return fire, Brant dashed toward the several gray rungs set into the side of the squared funnel stack and climbed. When he reached the hatch he'd noticed earlier, he twisted the latch wheel until the thick metal door swung open. He heaved himself into the dark compartment and disappeared inside, leaving the hatch open like an invitation.
Brant was gambling on his memory of ships similar in design. And he was gambling on Zimmerman's lack of knowledge.
Inside, the storage compartment was dark and narrow, and low, encircling the ship's exhaust stack. The four cylindrical metal pipes, each about three feet in diameter, were lashed together and rose vertically from below the floor extending to past the ceiling. Even though they were covered in asbestos lagging or some newer fire-retardant material, the pipes were quite hot to the touch, and Brant felt the skin on his hand almost sizzle when he leaned on one to steady himself.
Shit!
He pulled his hand away and made his way forward into the dark crawlspace.
Brant felt his headache spike, finding himself entombed in the sheet metal funnel stack, plunged into utter darkness and unable to turn his body in any direction. The storage space was split into upper and lower compartments, the upper space clogged by large spools of rope or cable. He faced half-sideways and half-forward, crouched, and began inching around the super-heated pipes. The space in the lower compartment not taken up by the funnel stack itself was tightly packed with stored equipment and tools and dark shapes Brant couldn't make out. Wiring snakes leaned down from the deckhead above and protruded from the bulkheads in all directions, and if there were lights, he couldn't see them. Noisy vent fans swirled hot, oily engine room air around him, adding to his disorientation.
The tunnels.
The memory was tangible. Brant's pores leaked sweat, which dribbled into his eyes. It had been a long time since he'd been in a tunnel or any similar enclosed space. Though he could stand at a crouch for now, this was enough akin to Cu Chi to rattle him. Any forward progress would be made on his knees, crawling. The sweat poured off his skin and he couldn't tell if it was the old fears or the heat emanating from the metal walls that enveloped him on all sides.
He moved in the only direction allowed him – a snaky, cramped and intimidating low-ceilinged passageway around the heated pipes.
Behind him, past the curve of the hot cylinder pipes, he heard Zimmerman pulling himself into the tight space, and then the low passage itself, with measurably less zeal. Zim was grunting, his breathing harsh and ragged. He hadn't kept in the
best of shape.
Brant had gambled on Zimmerman's need to cut all loose ends, and the fact that – as far as he knew – Brant could disappear once inside the ship's less public passageways. He couldn't afford to let Brant shimmy out of his grasp. The cop took the bait.
Zimmerman suddenly shouted in pain and fright.
The heated surface of the pipes.
He'd burned himself much as Brant had, but now, along with his breathing, there was also a wheezy litany of pain expressed almost but not quite under his breath.
He's whimpering.
Brant moved with increased urgency through the tunnel-like passage, intentionally creating enough ruckus to keep Zimmerman informed – and interested – in his location.
Zimmerman was no more than eight or ten feet behind him, but stranded in the dark and invisible behind the pipes' curvature. Brant crawled through scattered heaps of stored items and moved further away. As silently as he could manage. He heard Zimmerman whining, breathing heavily, and once again swearing as his skin contacted the heated pipes.
"Brant, you motherfucking sonofabitch-" Zimmerman's voice faded, replaced by his ragged breathing. Then there was an ear-splitting report from his pistol and the muzzle flash gave Brant a split-second look at the confines of their prison. The slug bounced metallically back and forth before burying itself in something soft, perhaps one of numerous spools of rope.
"You fucker, you fuck-"
Zimmerman's blind anger swirled like an ocean swell, but Brant heard desperation and fear between the repetitive words. Silently he melded with the darkness and the stacked storage, keeping the curvature of the funnel pipes always between himself and the enraged cop. Now Zimmerman was swearing and whimpering again, alternating between his mind-numbing anger and the claustrophobia Brant knew exhibited itself even as the cop felt himself squeezed – crushed – by the narrowest part of the compartment's crawlspace. Brant chuckled loudly and kept his head low, whispering. "Come and get me, Zim, come on, it's just a little further down this tunnel, you coward."
Savage Nights Page 33