Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (38 page)

Zola glanced round in Dillon’s direction, pulling
hard on the cigarette. He was still holding the white pencil
like stick to his lips as the silenced Glock coughed twice as
Dillon shot him in the chest. He crumpled onto the dive
platform, slid over the edge and dropped headfirst three feet
into the water.

There was hardly a splash, but Mazzarin heard it
and started back along the gangway towards the stern.
“Hey, Zola, where are you, you okay?”
“Yes,” Dillon called back in French, “I’m fine; I just
slipped on the wet deck.”
At that moment, Rob Chapman appeared in the
inflatable, about fifty feet off the starboard side. Rowing
aimlessly around in circles, and singing very loudly and out
of tune.
Mazzarin immediately looked around, and the next
instant, Dillon could hear him running off up the gangway
towards the forward section to find out what all the
commotion was about.
“Well done, Rob. Keep up the good work.” Dillon
whispered.
Dillon unzipped his wetsuit jacket, and tucked the
Glock back inside. He then hauled himself up the ladder
onto the dive platform, and lost no time in moving quickly
across it, up the steps and along the main stern deck area to
get to the cover of a large stowage locker.

Kurt, sitting on a chair outside Malakoff’s bedroom
suite, the Russian AK47 rifle across his lap, heard the
commotion outside through the open porthole at the end of
the gangway, and frowned. Stood up, and went and listened,
before going out to investigate what was happening.

Pierre appeared from around the corner on the port
side, just as Dillon was crouching behind the stowage locker.
He moved cautiously, in the near total darkness towards the
edge of the main deck, the AK 47 was already in his hands,
the safety catch in the off position.

“I’m over here, I’ve found something.” Dillon replied
in faultless French, and as the Frenchman started to turn
around, Dillon was already standing up behind him, his
arm extended, the silenced Glock in his hand. He fired, and
shot him once between the eyes.

Dillon, immediately moved forward, checked that he
was dead, before dragging the body back across the deck,
and concealing it behind the stowage locker.

He’d heard no other sounds, apart from Rob
Chapman out on the water, and Mazzarin shouting at him
to get away from the Solitaire. He had not heard Kurt
come silently out through the hatch. But, as he stood up
and started to turn around, became fully aware of the burly
bodyguard standing not more than four feet away from
him, the AK47 pointing at his stomach. At that moment,
the Solitaire’s power generators cut in, and as the gangways
were once again flooded with light Dillon winced through
his night vision goggles as the magnified light blinded him.

“Drop your weapon, Mr Dillon, and remove the
goggles.”
Dillon felt the barrel of the AK47 against him and,
without protest, did as he was ordered.
“Now kick them both towards me. Slowly now.”
Kurt bent down, picked up the Glock and the goggles, not
taking his gaze from the former army intelligence officer for
a second.
“I like your choice of pistol, Mr Dillon. In fact, I
like it so much; I’m going to use it to kill you with.” Kurt
backed away towards the stern rail, smiling. “I would
normally get this over with quickly. Say, with a bullet to the
head. But, I’m going to make an exception in your case.”
The German’s voice was as hard as tungsten steel.
“I should have killed you, that first time on the cliff
top. But you have a nasty habit of surviving, Mr Dillon.
I think a bullet to each kneecap, will not only stop you
running away, but will ensure that you feel maximum pain.
Then, I am going to leave you to bleed for a while, kill
your three friends, starting with that idiot in the inflatable,
and then come back and finish you off very slowly. Herr
Malakoff, will approve of this.”
“Well, bully for old Malakoff, I’m surprised that he’s
not out here himself.” Dillon said defiantly.
Rob Chapman, watching through the night vision
goggles, at the scene unravelling on the stern deck. Had
seen Kurt come out through the hatch, and had never felt
so useless in his life. His frustration at hearing every spoken
word, and not being able to physically help Dillon was
overwhelming.
Mazzarin was leaning over the starboard side, AK47
pointing in Rob’s direction, telling him in no uncertain
terms what would happen if he didn’t clear off immediately.
Chapman wasted no more time, and started to pull hard on
the oars.
“Jake, You look as if you could do with some help,”
Chapman whispered. “Move back against the bulkhead
now. Nod, if you hear me.” Dillon moved his head, and
the next moment, Chapman threw a stun grenade at the
Solitaire.
Kurt heard the object land onto the teak deck with a
dull thud, no more than twelve feet away from him. As he
turned to see what it was, Dillon rolled backwards, towards
the cover of the bulkhead, immediately curling himself into
a ball, covering his ears with both hands, and closing his
eyes tightly shut. A second later, the grenade went off with
a deafening sound, and blinding white light. Sending the
confused bodyguard backwards over the rail, and onto the
dive platform six feet below. He landed heavily on the deck,
his left arm snapping backwards on impact.
Dillon stood up cautiously, a little shaken, but
otherwise unharmed by the grenade’s detonation and he
was instantly aware of Mazzarin’s footsteps coming up
the gangway towards him. He remained cloaked in the
shadows, pressed up against the bulkhead, until Mazzarin
was standing in front of him, in the middle of the deck.
Dillon watched, as the Frenchman stood looking
around him. Then he went to the rail, looked over, and saw
Kurt laying on the dive platform below. Mazzarin started
towards the steps, Dillon saw his opportunity, moved with
cat-like stealth and was behind the former legionnaire
in an instant. The other man didn’t have time to look
around, or even know what was happening, death was
instantaneous, and then his body went limp and he dropped
on to the wooden deck. His neck broken, with one quick
bone crunching jerk sideward. Dillon stood over the body,
glanced down at the crumpled heap at his feet, and said
quietly, “Three down, and three to go.” He then picked up
the AK47, and threw it over the side rail into the harbour.
Looking down, Dillon could see Kurt lying
awkwardly; face down, on the dive platform below.
Although, he appeared to be unconscious, Dillon still went
slowly down the steps towards him to retrieve his gun. At
the bottom, he moved cautiously around the inert body,
looking for the Glock, and found it not more than two feet
away, bent down to pick it up, and had his legs kicked out
from under him.
“Thought I was dead, did you, Dillon. Well it takes
more than a stun grenade, and a dislocated shoulder, to kill
me off. And now, prepare yourself to die, because I’m going
to kill you with my bare hands.” Kurt told him through
clenched teeth. He was now towering over Dillon, about to
put the steel toe-cap into his groin.
Dillon spun round on his back, rotated his body
through three hundred and sixty degrees, just like a break
dancer does, and with the momentum of this he was able to
roll backwards and flip himself into a crouching position,
only just avoiding Kurt’s boot, which kicked at nothing
more than fresh air. Dillon grabbed it with both hands,
lifted, and sent Kurt reeling backwards. He landed heavily,
arms flaying to break his fall. The pain in his left shoulder
so intense, that he almost passed out.
Dillon was never totally certain what happened
afterwards because everything moved so fast.
Kurt, somehow found a second wind, and was on his
feet in an instant, his right arm sweeping Dillon’s extended
left to the side, the Glock discharging into the deck. Dillon
tried to manoeuvre himself into a more advantageous
position, but Kurt moved quickly, side stepped, and
immediately closed in on the Englishman. His arm went
around Dillon’s neck, and then he started to tighten his grip.
Dillon dropped the pistol on to the deck, brought both hands
up, and grabbed a hold of the German’s sweaty forearm in
an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his windpipe.
“So, you’re the best they’ve got, are you? Well, not
for much longer, English.” Kurt mocked, as he wrestled
Dillon down onto the deck, his arm still locked around the
Englishman’s throat.
“If you’re going to do it, big man. Do it, don’t talk
about it.” Dillon goaded, dug his fingernails into Kurt’s bare
flesh, and after a second or two, the pressure was relaxed.
He broke free from the crushing grip that he’d found
himself locked in, and immediately scrabbled to retrieve
the Glock, rolled over and turned to face the other man,
pistol whipping him viciously across the side of his face.
Blood immediately started to flow from the deep slash to his
cheek, running down the side of his face, over his chin and
splashing onto the deck beneath him.
Dazed by the blow, Kurt had to use all of his
remaining strength to stand up. By which time, Dillon was
already on his feet and moving in on him.
“Hey, big man. You’re looking a bit shaky on your
feet, there. Perhaps you should call one of your friends for
help?” Dillon said disparagingly, and then added, “Oh,
but I almost forgot. Most of them are already dead, aren’t
they?”
Kurt twisted round, and with rage running through
him, lurched forward and pushed Dillon backwards towards
the edge of the dive platform. It was the last thing he ever
did above water. Dillon let himself go straight over, taking
the German with him.
As they went into the water, Dillon held on tight to
the other man, pulling him down with him, all the way to
the bottom. Kurt struggled to get free, his lungs already
starting to feel like they were going to burst. He rolled over
and tumbled in a futile attempt to get away; but, Dillon
was in his element, able to hold his breath for at least four
minutes.
At first Kurt struggled very hard indeed, feet kicking
and arms flaying around in all directions, but quickly he
weakened. Finally, he was still and Dillon let go of the lifeless
body, which hovered belly-down, just above the seabed. It
rolled over, and unseeing eyes stared back at him through
the murky water. Before Dillon started for the surface, he
unbuckled his weight belt and tied it around the dead man’s
waist. His own lungs now very nearly at bursting point, he
kicked off and let himself float gently back up. As he broke
water, he took in great lungfuls of air.
Through the tiny earpiece, came Rob Chapman’s
voice. “You okay, Jake?” He could see Dillon clearly
through the night vision goggles.
“I’m okay.” Dillon replied breathlessly, and waved
at Chapman in the inflatable.
“So how many of them are left?” Chapman
whispered.
“Malakoff and the Captain. Everyone else has been
taken care of. Permanently.” Dillon said, and started to
climb the dive ladder.
“Jake, it’s Vince. Just a little reminder, that you
have no more than five minutes before the harbour master
gets suspicious about the CCTV, and calls in the security
company to check it out. Get your skates on, chap.”
“I’m already working on it, big man.”
He moved silently up the steps to the main deck area,
keeping close to the shadows. Making his way along the
gangway until he came to the hatch that Kurt had appeared
from earlier. He glanced quickly around the opening, and
saw that there was no one in the brightly lit corridor.
Holding the Glock down by his side, he went through the
hatch, and was moving towards the port side in a second.
As he came up to one of the doors, he stopped instantly, and
could hear someone talking very quietly inside the room.
The door was almost fully open, giving him a clear view of
the person sitting at the large desk. It was Malakoff, talking
to one of his helicopter pilots on the phone, the silver chest
open in front of him.
Malakoff finished the phone call, picked up the
documents that were laid out on the highly polished desk
top, and placed them all inside the chest. Closed and locked
the lid, yawned and got up, went to the mini bar and poured
himself a large brandy. Dillon didn’t hesitate. He moved
silently into the study and was standing at the side of the
desk with the chest under his arm when Malakoff turned
round to see him standing there.
The tumbler fell silently to the floor, smashing into a
million tiny fragments, and the look of disbelief crossed his
face. “It cannot be, you should be dead? I’ve heard shouting
and silenced gunfire.”
“All mine, I’m afraid. Your boys didn’t even get one
round off. In fact, they were a complete walkover, can’t
believe how easily they all died.” Dillon kept his voice low,
and monotone.
“This is a lie. You would not have got the better of
my bodyguard, Kurt.” Malakoff looked at the Englishman
defiantly.
“Your bodyguard, is now minding the fish at the
bottom of the harbour.”
“You will never get off this boat alive.”
His arm outstretched, Dillon kept the Glock trained
on Malakoff’s heart as he backed out of the room. At the
doorway, he turned and ran up through the corridor towards
the hatch. Malakoff, was already coming out through his
study door behind him, a Walther PPK in his hand. He fired
once, the noise shattering the otherwise silent night air, and
the bullet going wide and slamming into the metal structure
just above Dillon’s head. Dillon turned and loosed off three
silenced rounds at Malakoff, who immediately took cover
behind the door to his study.
Dillon went through the hatch and out onto the portside gangway. By now, Captain Armand had armed himself
with an AK47, and had come down from the bridge.
He was making his way along the gangway from the
forward section, the only sounds that could be heard were
his own footsteps on the teak decking. He saw a figure move
out of the shadows up ahead of him towards the stern.
“Who is that?” Armand demanded.
“Armand, Stop him. It’s Dillon, he’s got the chest.”
Malakoff shouted.
Dillon didn’t hesitate, but kept to the shadows,
running as fast as he could, and then jumping over the upper
rail into the harbour below. He dived down, swimming a
little awkwardly with the silver chest under his arm, went
under the hull towards the dive ladder. Surfaced, and was
immediately aware of two things, Kurt’s body floating just
below the surface like a jellyfish, and Armand standing on
the upper sun deck. The captain spotted him at once, and
started firing the AK47 on automatic at the water around
him. He unhooked his buoyancy jacket from the ladder and
let himself sink down to the seabed. He slipped back into it,
put on his fins and dive mask, clearing the mask with a quick
release of air from the regulator. He placed the chest into
the dive bag, all the time aware that Armand was firing at
him from above, and he moved away from the illuminated
water around the Solitaire towards the safety of darkness as
fast as possible. After a minute he surfaced, Chapman was
already on the lookout, he spotted him through the night
vision goggles, and roared out of the darkness towards him.
Armand instantly heard the outboard engine, but
couldn’t see where it was coming from, could only guess
the general direction of it. He’d put another full clip into
the AK47, was about to start shooting blindly again, when
Malakoff appeared outside on the gangway.
“Stop. You idiot, do you want to bring every armed
policeman in Jersey to the waterfront?” Malakoff stormed
up to the captain, and wrenched the Russian rifle out of
his hands. He paced up and down the gangway, furious at
having been outwitted by Dillon.
“What are your orders, Monsieur?”
“They’re all dead, Armand. Every last one of them.”
Malakoff said, looking out across the harbour. He then
instructed the captain to check for any damage and make
ready to sail, and then stormed off up to the bridge, leaving
Armand standing in the gangway alone.
Chapman circled around Dillon once in the inflatable,
and then killed the outboard. The small craft slowed enough
to allow the Englishman to grab hold of the line, and reel
himself in to the side. He immediately handed Chapman the
dive net, before slipping out of the buoyancy jacket, and
taking off his fins. Once these were on board, he hauled
himself into the inflatable.
Dillon looked back at Malakoff’s luxury power
cruiser, and the flashing lights of the security patrol vehicle
heading towards its berth. “I think it’s time to get the hell
out of here,” he said, looking at the Omega Sea Master on
his wrist.
Chapman started the outboard, pushed the throttle
as far forward as it would go, and the next moment they
were speeding away from the Solitaire, into the darkness of
the harbour.