Everybody was in the main cabin, even the prisoner. Eddy stayed close to Johnson as he always did when he was frightened. Johnson’s tanned face was chalky, despite his leatherlike skin. He knew better than anyone else aboard exactly how dangerous their situation was.
Although Johnson felt confident in the boat’s powerful motors, he knew that unless they found shelter, the wind and raging sea would eventually tear the boat from his control. If the craft floundered, even for a moment, the mountainous seas would roll it over like a toy. The cruiser would be their coffin. He used every bit of his skill to fight off their inevitable fate.
The prisoner sat on the cabin deck, his back propped against the cabin wall. His mouth had been taped still, but his eyes darted about the cabin. He too knew boats and the sea, and he was aware of what even a small mistake on Johnson’s part could do to them all. His swarthy skin was beaded with droplets of cold sweat.
“I can’t see,” Johnson said, his voice taut. “Someone will have to go out on the prow and guide me.”
Eddy’s dull eyes widened in mindless terror.
“Not you, Eddy,” Johnson said quietly. He knew Eddy’s lack of coordination would spell instant death if the youth were sent out in the howling wind and rain to try to move forward aboard the pitching boat.
Slick sat on the deck across from the prisoner, his head held down between his knees. His stomach was empty but still it rebelled against the pitching, yawing motion of the boat. Slick was in no condition to try.
“I’ll go,” Cain said before Soldier could speak. He unstrapped his gun belt and handed it to Soldier. “You watch our friend,” he said, nodding toward the prisoner.
“Better tie a safety line on yourself,” Johnson shouted over the noise of the storm. “There’s a coil of new Manila line in that locker under the map table.”
Cain shook his head. “If I did get blown off, there wouldn’t be the slightest possibility you could ever get me back in, not in this sea. Anyway the line would just get in my way.”
“Suit yourself.” Johnson’s tone indicated that he knew that Cain was right.
All of them had been outfitted with expensive deck shoes, and Cain knew that his, like the others, had been designed to provide hundreds of little pressure cracks in the sole to grip slippery decks more efficiently. He hoped the shoe manufacturer had known what it was doing. He pulled open the hatchway door to the cockpit, and water came slashing in as if someone had pointed a hose at the opening. He was soaked before he even got outside. The sound of the wind and sea was much louder as he stepped from the cabin into the open cockpit.
The wild sea was a frightening sight. The pitching boat rode between great mountains of green water. Huge swells formed up and seemed about to crash down upon them. The boat rose toward the boiling black sky as if it were on an elevator. Cain grabbed a handhold rail and hung on as they dived into the dark green pit below. The boat’s thundering engines were barely audible above the sound of the storm.
Cain clung tightly to the handhold rail at the rear of the cabin. The rain, driven by the whistling wind, stung his face and hands, and for a moment he paused, fighting an overwhelming fear, then forced himself to move forward.
He could make out the island through the driving rain. It seemed only yards away. Huge geysers of spray cascaded into the air as waves ripped against the shore. The geysers were whipped away in the wind only to be followed immediately by even higher towers of white water.
Cain prayed that they would not run into any coral outcroppings. If the bottom of the boat was holed, they would go down like a bullet.
He gripped the handrail running the length of the cabin roof and stood up on the narrow catwalk beside the cabin. He had begun to work his way forward when the sea came roaring over the side and knocked him off his feet. Water pulled against his legs. He gripped the handrail and hoped it would not pull loose.
He felt the boat rising, and the water fell away from him. Quickly, but carefully, he moved along, hand over hand, foot following foot, trying to work his way forward before the boat crashed into the sea again. He was almost to the front of the cabin when the boat twisted and dived down the slope of a mountainous wave. Pressing his head against the cabin roof, he tried to glue himself to the structure. His feet were pulled away by the rushing water, and his body seemed to be flying free, only his clutching hands saving him from death. He was completely under water and then the boat began its upward rise and he emerged from the sea, gagging on the choking salt water.
Cain’s target was a heavy metal stay wire running from the foredeck to the radio antenna on the cabin roof. The wire was bolted to the deck in front of the cabin’s front windows. He reasoned that if he could get to it and hold on, it would provide a secure hold against the force of the water. From that position he could see the island, and Johnson could see him. If they were to have any chance at all, he would have to try for the wire.
Once again the boat plunged, and he fought to save himself from being washed away. He steeled himself to make the attempt for the wire as soon as he felt the hull start to rise on the next wave. He knew he would have to abandon his handhold and take several steps across the slippery foredeck. If he miscalculated, the water would rip him off the boat and out of existence.
He felt the prow begin to rise. The water flowed away. He started to move, surprised that the pull of gravity was so strong on the ascent. His legs felt like lead as he forced them ahead. He uncurled his hands from the rail and pushed off.
Suddenly it seemed as if they were on top of the world, as if they had escaped the madness of the sea and had risen above it, but Cain knew the boat had reached the crest of a huge wave. He took another step and slipped.
As he fell sideways, the boat began to tip downward. Like a maddened crab, he scurried for the wire, grabbing it just as the prow fell into the boiling green water.
Tons of water washed over him, the force of the water threatening to cut his fingers away from the wire. He was under water and could not breathe; he had not taken any air before the water hit, and his lungs pained him in protest. His strength was ebbing, and he knew he could not take much more punishment.
He blinked the stinging salt water from his eyes as the hull rose up on another large wave. He wrapped his legs around the wire and forced himself to examine the shoreline of the island. It seemed as though they had not moved since they had first seen it. Then the boat dived again, and the water engulfed him.
Rising out of the sea, Cain again blinked the salt water from his eyes and peered once more at the dark form of the island. It seemed as if part of the shore was swinging free in the waves. He wondered if the painful dunkings were causing him to hallucinate. The water poured over him once more.
As they came up again, Cain tried to find the place he had seen. But the shore all looked the same until all at once the land again seemed to move. It had to be the hidden gate, moving back and forth in the raging water—movement which meant it had come loose in the storm. The opening was only thirty feet ahead and it looked alarmingly narrow.
Cain gulped a lungful of air as the prow dived into the slashing green water. He came up sputtering. They were moving slowly, and in a moment they would be up to the opening. Cain knew that Johnson would have to be more than a master seaman to turn the boat and slip through the opening without having the craft turn over—he would have to be more than good, he would have to be lucky. And it all had to be done on hand signals from Cain. Any mistake and they were all dead.
Cain turned and looked in the window at Johnson. Because of the water the boatman’s face was distorted as if he was being viewed through a fun-house mirror, his face a twisted, elongated thing, his expression varying with the flow of water over the glass.
The water rushed over Cain again. He felt his arms tiring and his hands were numb As they broke out of the wave, Cain knew the time had come. His eyes found Johnson’s, and he gestured violently, indicated a sharp turn to the right. Then he grabbed again fo
r the wire.
To Cain’s horror, the boat turned quickly and a huge mountain of water rose to the left like a giant green hand, poised to smash down on the boat below. He flinched and clutched the wire, his eyes fixed on the swinging gate. The prow hit the camouflaged gate and drove it before the boat as they surged into the small harbor. The monster wave smashed behind them with a deafening roar, as if nature screamed its anger at their escape.
The boat rocked so violently that Cain thought for a moment that they would capsize anyway. He hung on as the boat pulled him roughly, his hands clutching the wire. Then, suddenly, it was calmer. He wiped his eyes, trying to clear away the wetness, but the driving rain made it just an ineffectual gesture. He squinted to see.
The “harbor” was even smaller than he had imagined, only about two hundred feet long and no more than fifty feet wide. And although the small body of water was protected by sand and rock outcroppings and the small hill of the island, the wind was so violent that white-topped waves boiled on the “protected” surface.
Cain motioned to Johnson, guiding him toward a berth between two boats tied to a small dock. The dock was built close to a strange-looking structure constructed into the base of the island’s hill. Some of the netting and material used to conceal the place now flapped free in the wind like a thousand rags on a hundred wash lines.
The boat rocked in the wind as it moved slowly toward the berth. Cain could see no sentries. And he knew it would be unlikely that any were posted. Only madmen would venture into a storm like this.
Johnson could see the opening at the berth now. Cain relaxed his hold on the wire, noticing that his hands were raw and bloody where the wire had bitten into the skin. He ignored the sting in his hands and used the handholds to guide himself back along the catwalk to the cockpit. Finally he hopped down and stepped into the dry cabin.
Johnson fought the effect of the wind as he eased the boat into the berth between the two other craft. Eddy stood at his side, wiping off the condensation from the window so that Johnson could see.
Soldier looked at Cain. “That was a close thing,” he said.
Cain knew it was Soldier’s way of thanking him. He nodded in response. He was soaked through, and water dripping from him had made a large wet stain on the carpeting in the cabin.
Cain picked up his gun belt and buckled it on. He checked the weapon; a specially made .44-caliber pistol with an extra long barrel. He had designed it himself. It was a hard-hitting gun, and the length of the barrel gave it accuracy at a distance. He checked the cylinder. The bullets were soft pointed and hollow ground; the type called “dum-dum” and forbidden in war as inhuman. On impact the bullet would burst inside the target. It was Cain’s favorite ammunition when mercy played no part in a prospective job.
Slick checked his machine gun, slamming the bolt back and arming the weapon. He smiled weakly, his skin still ashen gray. Cain knew Slick would recover fully as soon as his long legs had been planted on firm earth for a few minutes.
The prisoner’s eyes were on Cain as the ex-cop spoke in a low voice to Soldier and Slick. “Let’s not buy any more trouble than we have to,” he said. “There are fifteen of them, and because of this damn storm there is no way we can get off this island for a while. So if we can do it easy, let’s do it that way.” He paused. “Basically all we want is their prisoners, if they have any, and information about the missing boats. If we can get that, we’ll let the bastards go. They are somebody else’s problem.”
“Suppose there is no easy way,” Soldier said.
“Then it is going to get very rough out.” Cain’s voice was flat and icy.
TWELVE
The big cruiser bumped against the dock. Johnson whispered a warning to Cain as a shadowy figure ran from the concealed work shed area toward the prow of their boat. The man, dressed in a wind-whipped rubber poncho, quickly secured the bowline to a cleat on the dock. Then, bent against the wind, he walked to the back of the boat.
The men inside the darkened cabin were silent, watching his movements. Slick slipped off his canvas bag and laid the machine gun on the deck. He drew a long thin-bladed knife from a sheath strapped against his lower leg. Although his face was still gray and puffy, his eyes were suddenly alert, narrowed and deadly, like a hawk watching its prey. He stepped next to the hatchway door.
The man outside secured the stern line to a thick post at the rear of the narrow wooden walkway between the boats. Then he swung his legs into the cockpit and hurried toward the cabin. His arms and hands were concealed beneath the long poncho.
“What the hell is …” His words were cut off as Slick’s long hand came out like a snake, ripping up into the man’s throat. His eyes widened. Slick pulled him, forcing him up against the wall of the cabin. They struggled. The man opened his mouth, but his scream was silent. His vocal cords had been severed. He jerked, rolled his eyes up into his head, and collapsed. Slick let his body slump to the floor. He made a quick expert jerking motion with the knife, finishing his victim.
Slick looked up at Cain. “I would have done it the easy way, man, but he had his hands out of sight.” Slick lifted the poncho. A pistol lay in the dead man’s open hand. “I thought so,” Slick said softly.
“Now we only have to worry about fourteen,” Soldier said.
Cain nodded. He knelt next to the still twitching body and began to pull off the rubber poncho. Water and blood spilled from the folds of the garment and soiled the carpeting. Cain heard a strange noise and turned quickly. Eddy was retching. He stood in a corner, his back to them, his thin body shaking with fright.
Johnson’s angry eyes were fixed on Cain. “Murdering bastards,” he said, his voice low and raspy, revealing his complete fatigue from the exhausting ride. “You could have taken him alive. You didn’t have to kill that man.”
“Couldn’t risk him crying out or shooting one of us.” Slick said it in a kindly way, as if patiently explaining something to a child. “There was no other way, believe me.”
Johnson’s strained face twitched in anger, but he said nothing more.
Cain watched the boatman. He wondered if the man’s emotional state might constitute a threat, a life-endangering threat. Cain’s mind worked like a machine, his thoughts based only on logic, cold and without emotion. He wondered if it might not be practical to cut Johnson’s throat too, but then decided that if such a drastic measure had to be taken, it would be done only after he was completely convinced that Johnson was a danger to them.
Cain slipped into the rubber poncho, poking his head through the hole in the center, disregarding the blood that stained the garment. He threw the hood over his head. “I’ll go out and look around. If anyone sees me, they’ll think I am our friend there.” He nodded at the body on the deck.
Cain stepped out into the howling wind. The velocity seemed to be increasing, and he had to fight to keep from being blown down as rain ripped against his rubber garment. He climbed up on the wooden walkway between the boats. The boat on the far side was a large cruiser like their own. The other was a dismasted motor sailer.
Something about the boat tickled his memory; there was something familiar about it. Cain squinted against the rain and studied the craft for a moment. An involuntary wave of horror swept over him as he recognized it. It had been moored next to them at San Bonaparte. His mind was suddenly filled with vivid recollection of the Drake family; the loving, quiet parents, and the children, especially the children. It had been their boat, and now they were all gone. His throat tightened, and he had to remind himself that he was a professional who had seen death and death’s results many times, not only in the violent netherworld in which he now lived, but also at other times in the land of the innocent. He knew he would lose his edge of efficiency if he allowed himself to react emotionally. Memory itself could be a trap, especially if the imagination conjured up pictures of sharks. As he had trained himself to do, he dismissed all further thoughts of the Drakes from his mind and concentrated on the busine
ss ahead.
He fought against the force of the wind and rain and stepped up to the main dock. A crack of light was coming from the structure built into the base of the hill. He presumed it was the outline of a door. There was no one moving around. He tried to peer through the rain at the top of the hill. If a guard had been stationed there, he was gone now. Nothing could last very long outside in the kind of storm that was building around them, and there would be no use for a guard since the weather made it impossible for anything to go upon the raging sea and live.
Cain knew they would have to take fast action. It wouldn’t be long until the men inside the structure would begin to wonder what happened to their comrades. Only fools would avoid the safety and comfort of their hideaway.
He moved quickly back to their boat, stepping into the cockpit and slipping back into the darkened cabin. “There is nothing going on out there,” he reported. “We’ll have to move fast. They’ll be expecting their men to join them.” He paused for a moment and then decided to tell them the bad news. “By the way, we are moored next to the Drakes’ boat. They have taken down the mast, but I recognize the boat.”
“Oh sweet Jesus,” Slick said, his eyes suddenly sad.
Soldier said nothing, but Cain heard the little gasp as the big man reacted.
“You are lying!” Johnson’s voice was filled with anger. “You are lying!” His words rose almost hysterically.
Cain looked at him. Johnson’s face showed he was near the breaking point from exhaustion, a frame of mind that made men reckless or careless. The boatman’s bloodshot eyes stared at Cain.
“I’m sorry,” Cain said evenly, “but it is the Drakes’ boat.”
Johnson rushed toward him, and Cain set himself to meet his charge; but the boatman ran past him, throwing open the door and stepping out into the driving rain. He was drenched instantly. He stood there, the rain splattering off his head and shoulders, his eyes fixed on the hull moored next to their own boat.
The Mark of Cain Page 14