It better be ready, or we’re dead.
He guided the driver to the location of the rented yacht. “It’s over there to the right, you can stop here.”
Lucy and the boys jumped out, staring at the docked beauty. The yacht gleamed with a bright allure, sun beaming off the tall, reflective windows. A modern design with sharp balanced lines. Two young deckhands were milling about the pool and bar area. An older man dressed in whites was hosing down the deck.
Kevin decided to approach the older man, striding quickly in his direction. Lucy and the boys casually tagged behind. They crossed the retractable wooden bridge that connected the yacht to the marina and stepped onto the natural, immaculately maintained teak deck. The boys ran straight for the pool, squealing in excitement, and Lucy meandered after them. Kevin circumvented the hosed section of the deck and approached the man. He had a sun-beaten, creased face, with dark-brown freckles and matted blonde hair. A rough, seafaring look that gave off the impression that he showered with sea salt.
“Hi, I’m Kevin Voss, I have the trip booked for tomorrow. You must be the skipper?”
The man outstretched his muscular golden-brown arm.
“Hi, yeah that’s right. I’m Shane, it’s a pleasure. Aren’t you guys a little bit early, mate?” he said with a thick Aussie accent, flashing a full smile that crinkled the corners of his sea-blue eyes.
“We have to leave as soon as possible. Last-minute change of plans.”
The skipper turned off the tap and the hose sputtered in his hand. He elongated his parched lips and whistled.
“That’s not going to be possible, not all the crew is on board. There’s still supplies coming in tomorrow. We’re not ready for today.”
Kevin’s eyes darted along the deck; he needed a plan urgently. He estimated that he had an hour maximum to get away from the U.S. coastline.
“Call your company and tell them I’m willing to pay an extra five hundred grand for leaving one day early. I see you guys have a helipad on board, so you can fly in the staff and the supplies tomorrow. I’ll cover the cost.”
The skipper shook his head and shrugged. Seemed like an exorbitant waste of money, but who was he to judge.
“All right, as you wish. I’ll make a call from the control room and will update you in a few minutes.”
The skipper darted off toward the yacht’s bridge, located conveniently away from the guest’s area, providing perfect privacy. Kevin headed to the bar, where Lucy was relaxing with an umbrella cocktail while the kids messed about by the pool. He asked the young, skinny deckhand, “Hey, do you have a citadel on board?”
The deckhand nodded. “Sir, this is a considered a superyacht. We have a citadel installed deep within its interior. It contains full ballistic protection, satellite communication, and reinforced doors.”
Relief swept over Kevin’s face. His family would be isolated from any possible threat in the panic room.
“Lus, call the boys, let’s go. We’re going to see the citadel.”
She stretched her smooth, shapely legs on the sun lounger.
“You guys go ahead, I’ll wait for you here.”
He squatted down toward her. “Lus, we’re going to the Caribbean. This is a super expensive yacht. It’s crucial that you guys are familiar with the room before we cruise off.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Fine, Kevin. You’ve been so weird since we left New York. I haven’t been able to enjoy myself for five minutes.” She stood up promptly and waltzed off to call the boys.
He signaled for the deckhand to lead the way to the citadel. They walked through the yacht’s palatial interior. The staterooms contained timeless Italian furnishings, coffee leathers, and rich walnut millwork. The dimmed ambient lighting added to the elegant spaciousness. They descended a spectacular glass staircase that led to an open, lacquered wooden door, hiding a sizeable contemporary living area. Kevin knocked on the heavy door a few times, checking its level of resistance.
“Below the wood, the door is bolstered with metal plates and iron, it’s impenetrable,” the deckhand said in a matter-of-fact way. Lucy frowned and raised her eyebrows, showing her surprise at Kevin’s sudden obsession with security. They entered the room, and the deckhand started to explain all the features. Lucy and the kids, completely disinterested, slumped on the sumptuous leather sofa and switched on the massive TV display.
“I want to see how the door locks from the outside?” Kevin requested from the deckhand. They both stepped toward the external side of the entrance.
“Lus, please stay here a few minutes with the boys, until we set sail.” He quickly shut the door before she could protest.
“Lock it now!” he yelled.
The deckhand hesitated; Lucy’s screams emanated from the interior.
“Lock the fucking door now, it’s for her safety. Once we set sail they can come out.”
The deckhand reacted and bolted the door shut. Kevin leaned against the door, sighing in relief. His family would be safe if they didn’t sail on time. He followed the deckhand back to the bar area.
“Pour me a triple Macallan, please. No rocks.”
He lay down on the same sun lounger where Lucy had lain moments ago, flipped on his shades, and stared out at the endless blue.
“Here you go, sir,” said the deckhand, placing the crystal whiskey glass on a small, round poolside table. Kevin picked up the glass and took a huge gulp. Wincing, he exhaled sharply.
If they come now, this is the perfect way to go. A bullet between the eyes while I’m sipping whiskey overlooking the ocean. That’s the definition of mercy killing if there ever was one.
He chuckled ruefully to himself. Either way this went, he was where he wanted to be. Walker had sacrificed himself, and now it was his turn.
A few minutes later, the skipper trotted toward him. “Mr. Voss, we have the green light to sail. When would you like to leave?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” Kevin answered sarcastically.
The skipper got the point and raced toward the bridge. Ten minutes later, they were on their way. He watched the Fort Lauderdale coastline from the edge of the yacht. A fleet of luxury sedans with tinted windows skidded into the marina parking lot. A stream of suited men sprung out with weapons drawn. It was too late, they were out of range. He had survived by a margin thinner than the skin on his balls. From here on, every moment of life was a bonus. Overjoyed, he stood up tall and spread his arms like an eagle. “FUCK YOU!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
28
Agent Walker
Walker opened his eyes as a steady humming buzzed in his ears. He was smothered in a river of blood. He glanced at the trembling Glock in his right hand and tenaciously summoned strength from the depths of his soul.
I have to bring the fight.
They would arrive to finish him off before the emergency services would be allowed to enter the St. Regis hotel suite. He dragged his shaky, sprawled arm out of the pool of blood and rested the Glock on his torso. Shakily, he unclipped his belt and yanked it out of his navy tactical pants in a single fluid motion. A throbbing, stabbing burn rippled through his upper left arm. He glanced at the open wound and choked in disgust. A scarlet hole the size of a baseball peeked through his ripped sleeve. He clipped the belt around the wound with his right arm and clenched the tip of the cowhide leather between his teeth. He yanked his head to the side, tightening the belt over the wound. It felt like a butcher’s knife stabbing him through the bone. He screamed out in pain, eyes watering and veins protruding from his neck and face.
It’s so bloody painful, I can’t take it. Hold on, man . . . hold on.
He dropped his head back into the bloody pool with a splash, dizzy from the pain.
Breathing heavily, he tapped his bulletproof vest, fingers sinking into multiple indentations in his upper chest and stomach. Even though it hurt like hell, he was buoyed by the fact that no bullet had gone clean through. He flipped over on his chest, crawling
an inch at a time on the cold stone floor toward the leader’s body. He placed his hand on the disfigured corpse.
Jesus Christ, that’s overkill.
It was a disgusting mess of blood, protruding internal organs and human waste. He maneuvered himself below the corpse with bated breath. It would be his shield. He had a full cartridge, determined to take down as many as he could. He took deep breaths, attempting to regain full consciousness. He maintained a ninety-degree angle to the front door, meaning if he lay still he could get first dibs when the gunfight went down. He knew who would be coming, and he had to take him down. It was his duty, what he was sworn to do. When he joined the FBI, he hoped of bowing out in an honorable way, whether it would be through a distinguished career culminating in retirement or succumbing in an undercover mission fighting organized crime. This was different; he was up against his own men. An undercover mission within his own organization. An outlaw, taking the law into his own hands to do what’s right.
Doing what’s right, isn’t that the purpose of the law in the first place?
He didn’t need the law to tell him what’s right or wrong; he lived by that code. To Walker, his word was his bond but he also took it one step further: his actions were his bond.
A portable radio crackled to life. “Roger one there’re reports of gunshots fired, is the target neutralized? Over.”
Walker patted down the corpse, it was such a bloody mangled mess that it was impossible to distinguish between the different pieces of clothing.
“Roger one, we’re holding up emergency services. Requesting immediate response.”
The sound of crackling went dead. He gave up trying to find the radio and concentrated on positioning himself. He gritted his teeth and battled the physical urge to succumb to deep slumber. He focused on the task at hand and recalled his military sniper training. It was all about perfect timing. He needed to remain still and camouflaged for as long as possible. He was wounded and would face the ultimate sniper’s test of endurance, concentration, and nerves. This was close-quarter combat, but the principles remained the same.
Only fire when I’m absolutely certain of a kill.
Suddenly, on the other side of the door, he heard the chilling sound of a multitude of boots moving down the corridor. He listened intently to the thudding and clicking noise, it sounded like at least three pairs of boots and one man in formal shoes.
OK, I got three men and my main target. I need to get lucky.
Throughout his career, when he’d been on the other side of the door, he envisioned the process in his mind. First, they were going to burst through the front door, which is known as the fatal funnel and for good reason. Normally, the blaze would go down at this point, resulting in fatalities. This time, it would be different. He would make it more challenging based on the way they entered. He envisioned their training; the first officer would get the signal by a tap on the shoulder and would immediately cross the doorstep and charge toward the opposite wall. The second officer would then enter in a different direction than his colleague. Then the third and fourth officers would enter and go in different directions. To keep the process simple, the direction chosen by the first officer could never be regarded as wrong. The rest of the team would work off of that as the starting point. He knew that if the first officer went for his direction, the chances of him surviving longer than a few seconds were slim. Shortly, there would be a set of eyes and a muzzle in every corner of the lounge. Their goal was to overwhelm and dominate on entrance, the proverbial “shock and awe” strike.
Walker lay absolutely still, partially concealed by the corpse, and tightened his grip on the Glock. He aimed it toward the entrance with bated breath. The front door burst open with a loud thud. The first officer charged into the apartment and headed straight beyond the large pool of blood where Walker had lain moments ago. Virtually in the same instant, the second officer charged through the door and went left. Walker positioned himself and aimed his head high under the corpse’s armpit. The next guy was going to be coming his way, he would hold his fire as long as possible. A third officer, with an outstretched weapon, charged in Walker’s direction. He took four steps toward the corpse before noticing the exposed barrel. Walker exhaled and released a singled shot.
BANG.
The officer was flung backwards from the force of the head shot. The fourth officer was already standing in the entrance. Walker shrugged off the corpse and leapt to one knee, aiming precisely for his moustache. The moment he crossed the doorstep, Carter’s tailored suit and impressive frame were unmistakable. He looked at Walker, awe transforming his face. He was caught by the element of surprise. The last person he expected to see was Agent Walker.
BANG, BANG, BANG.
Walker fired a volley of shots. Carter’s face exploded in sprays of blood and tissue like a dropped watermelon on a hard surface. Walker didn’t wait for him to hit the floor, he immediately concentrated his fire at the first and second officer’s. The element of surprise now gone, a heated volley of gunfire exploded on the suite. A bullet pierced Walker’s shoulder.
“ARRGHHHHH!”
He dropped the gun with a loud clank. It was followed by a round of bullets from both directions that hit his upper midriff. He was thrown violently against the wall and lay on his back gasping for air, his fiery brown eyes dulled, stripped of tenacity and strength. He coughed hoarsely, blood spurting from his mouth.
My vest definitely got penetrated this time, it’s over.
He heard footsteps coming in his direction. He closed his eyes with gritted teeth; a bullet to the head was forthcoming. He could no longer maintain consciousness, he’d put everything he had into the fight. It was time to drift off. He heard the men say, “Holy shit, it’s Agent Walker.” He lost consciousness.
29
Cruising
Kevin watched the U.S. coastline steadily disappear from view. He emptied the whiskey glass and propped down on the sun lounger.
What the hell am I going to do? Keep running until the money runs out?
It was a matter of how many days he could buy himself and his family. It was unsustainable, the kids needed to have a future. A chance at leading a normal life.
No, running isn’t an option. I have to end this once and for all.
Dorothy was probably long gone, he would have to trigger the failsafe himself. That would be the first step in his plan, an irreversible damaging blow to his captors.
He pulled the laptop out of his briefcase and looked out at the choppy ocean water. A whitish-grey seagull was on the prowl for its dinner. He felt like the fish, hunted from above. Its only chance for survival was to swim away.
How can the fish strike back? It’s physically impossible.
Anything other than escape would mean certain death. Nature would take its course. He stood up and watched closely, intrigued by the hunt. The bird swooped in low, opening its mouth a few centimeters above the water. Any second, the fish would be in the clasps of its yellowish hooked beak. Suddenly, the ocean water frothed behind the seagull, revealing an enormous pair of jaws. They closed over the bird in a single fluid motion and quickly disappeared into the dark blue abyss.
Holy shit!
He jumped to his feet and ran to the yacht’s edge.
“Hoy, mate, did you see that? That’s a great white shark right there. Pretty uncommon over the coast of Florida, but they’ve been popping up lately. Completely blindsided the bird, real predator,” the skipper said, standing outside the bridge.
Kevin shook his head in disbelief.
“Unbelievable! First time I’ve seen something like that.”
The question that played on his mind was whether the shark was the main predator or the seagull picked the wrong fish that managed to intentionally maneuver its way near a bigger and more dangerous predator. Then with perfect timing, it eliminated its main enemy, the seagull, by proximity to the shark, swimming away unscathed. He preferred that theory; it was far-fetched but possible.
He leaned back down on the sun lounger and flipped open his laptop. He connected to the on-board Wi-Fi system. It was pretty slow, but it would do. The laptop hummed, connecting to the VC network.
DC9 check row, eliminate line 8. Delete.
He triple-checked the process and clicked the delete button without hesitation. It was done: the Et Decem tailored mining software no longer yielded any advantage. At least his legacy was secure. In an instant he had changed the rules of the game. They would hunt him and his family aggressively and at all costs, but with a minor difference. They would seek to forcefully coerce him to recreate the mining software, either by torture or threatening his family. What they didn’t know was that he was prepared to commit suicide if they got anywhere near them again. It was the only definitive solution to end this. The other scenario was that they no longer needed his mining software because they already owned enough Voss Coins to manipulate the market. In that case, they were going to wipe him and his family from the face of the earth. They also sought to control Intelias, another key advantage. It wasn’t clear who was running the show at Intelias anymore, John was just a puppet. Dark days were coming; they would find a way to achieve their objectives. They always did. Stalling the mining software wasn’t enough. He closed his laptop and fully reclined on the sun lounger. He had to find a way.
“What a monster, hey? We got more 5,000 great whites back home on the east coast. Have you been to Australia before, mate?” the skipper asked, taking a seat nearby.
“Yes, I’ve been a few times, actually, always enjoyed it.”
He shot up in the sun lounger, recalling the video broadcast with the masked man in Tokyo. The background view of the Sydney Opera House and the Circular Quay area flashing through his mind.
The Voss Coin Page 22