Scarne
remembered the silencer. That might be his only advantage. With agony in every
movement, he slipped his left hand into his pocket and pulled it out and put it
between his teeth. Then he put the gun in his left hand, which would barely
close, and using his right clumsily screwed on the silencer. He was debating
whether to head for the boat sounds, or wait and try to finish Keitel and
Garza. Then the car chirped and its headlights flashed. He swung around and in
the dim light saw Garza pushing the remote on a set of keys.
The
two men, perhaps 10 feet apart, saw each other for only a second. Garza raised
his shotgun but Scarne’s pistol coughed first. He heard a grunt. The shotgun
boomed and Scarne was hurled back against the cars, his side burning with pain.
He fired at the flash of the big gun, twice, and rolled off the side of the road.
He wondered why he wasn’t dead, then realized Garza must have been using slugs.
The heavy bullet had taken a chunk out of his side. A pellet spread would have
splattered him all over the landscape. Where was Keitel? He crawled over to
Garza, who was lying on his back staring up with one eye open. The other eye
was a bloody crater.
Scarne
lay prone next to the body and heard the footsteps of a man running and the
metallic clack of a shotgun being pumped. Keitel presumably hadn’t heard
Scarne’s silenced shots and was looking for a target at eye level. He would
also be loath to fire without knowing where Garza was.
Scarne,
head down so that his eyes wouldn’t give him away, listened to Keitel’s steps
slow. He must see something lying in the road. Now! Scarne raised his gun and
shot Keitel twice in mid-body. The man screamed and sank to his knees, jamming
the shotgun into the dirt, where it went off and spayed bits of dirt and rock
into Scarne’s face, momentarily blinding him. Now Keitel saw Garza’s bloody face
and red hate boiled in his eyes. He raised his gun, his mouth open in the
beginnings of a howl as he pumped another shell into the chamber. Scarne got to
his knees and quickly put a bullet into the howl.
Keitel
pitched forward on the body of his partner.
Scarne
slowly got to his feet and looked down at the two dead killers.
“Checkmate,”
he said.
CHAPTER
52 – ‘WHAT DID YOU DO?’
Scarne
was having trouble breathing. But he knew he was lucky to be breathing at all.
If it wasn’t for the deer, he would have driven into their ambush. It was a
miracle they hadn’t killed him anyway. His wounds weren’t mortal, but he
couldn’t take much more damage. He was leaking blood and losing strength. But
he hurt in so many places, it wasn’t that bad. The body couldn’t concentrate on
one particular pain.
With
only one round left in the Bersa, he needed more firepower. With a useless left
arm, the pump shotguns would do him no good. He rolled Keitel off Garza and
patted him down. Nothing. He tried the Cuban. Only the shotgun. The car! He
went to the open trunk, and had just started rummaging around when he heard a
large marine engine rumble to life. Scarne decided. He turned and sprinted down
the road. One bullet would have to do. Or, rather, the fact that his opponents
wouldn’t know there was only one.
He
stumbled twice. Each time the breath whistled out between his teeth and it was
a struggle to rise. They must have heard the shotguns. No matter. They would
assume it was Garza and Keitel. He was counting on the element of surprise. If
his exertion didn’t make him bleed out first.
He
almost ran full tilt into a small shack that loomed out of the dark. Light
drifted around the edges of the structure, which appeared to be nothing more
than a fishing cabin. He heard voices and harsh guttural laughter from the
water side of the shack, which was on a spit of land. He could hear boat
sounds: the low coughing of an idling engine; wooden piles knocking; water
sloshing; the almost lyrical twang of straining hawsers. He slid along one wall.
More voices. Russian? And Ballantrae’s. He was arguing with someone but sounded
slightly defensive.
Scarne
went through the minor agony of removing the silencer. It had served its
purpose but would slow the bullet; now accuracy and killing power were all that
mattered. He edged his head around the corner of the shack. What he saw helped
make up his mind, while at the same time greatly reducing his chances of
survival. A large modern sport fishing yacht was tied up at a small dock under
a bright light. There were five men arranged in a rough semicircle around Alana
and Ballantrae. One of them was Boyko. Two others were just climbing onto the
boat, straining with the weight of a large black metal cooler. They placed it
against the gunwale near the rear of the boat. One of the men lifted its lid
and looked in, grimacing. The boat was rocking and some water sloshed out of
the cooler. The man looked at Alana and Ballantrae and smiled. But he closed
the lid after a sharp rebuke from Boyko.
Scarne
weighed his options. None were particularly promising. Two of Boyko’s men
carried short-barreled automatic rifles. The others had pistols in their belts.
He could rush the boat, kill the nearest man, take his weapon and try to shoot
it out with the others. It was suicide. He might get one or two, but certainly
would be cut down by the others and get Alana killed in the process.
Then,
the decision was taken out of his hands. Boyko said something to the man
standing by the tub, who put on a pair of heavy work gloves, visibly shuddered,
and reached into the tub. It took him several minutes to get hold of whatever
was in the tub, which appeared to slip from his grasp as he cursed loudly.
Boyko laughed and said something that brought cackles from his men. Finally the
other man wrestled a pinkish-grey eel-like creature above the lip of the tub,
where it wriggled obscenely and started exuding slime, which dripped all over
the deck.
“Jesus
Christ!”
It
was Ballantrae. Alana’s hands went to her throat.
The
man holding the creature struggled to maintain his balance in the slime at his
feet. Scarne knew what it was. Noah Sealth had described a hagfish in great
detail. Scarne also knew what was coming. Alana’s eyes were wide with terror.
Insanely, he recalled how he went to Florida thinking he was on a wild goose
chase. Well, now there was nothing for it.
Scarne
stepped out and pointed the Bersa at the man with the hagfish.
“Put
it back in the tub.”
Everyone
froze and all heads turned his way.
Startled,
the man with the hagfish slipped on the dripping slime. It was a classic
pratfall and his back hit the cooler, which overturned and sent its contents
across the deck. Scarne saw three other hagfish slither toward the stern. The
man who fell lost his purchase on his captive and it came to rest on his chest.
He screamed and twisted away as the prehistoric fish plopped to the deck and
slid toward its companions, where they all wriggled madly gasping for oxygen in
the ghastly pool of water and slime collecting in one corner. Everyone, including
Scarne, watched the horrible tableau for a second before the other men brought
up their weapons.
“Hold
it!” Scarne shouted. “I’ll kill the first man that moves.”
They
stopped, but Boyko, facing Scarne, smiled.
“You
are a brave man,” he said, in excellent English. “But only one. We are five. I
don’t doubt your ability with that popgun. You bested those two maniacs we left
behind to kill you. I thank you for that. Saves me the trouble. You will notice
we have four of these monstrous fish. Two of them were for Mr. Garza and Mr.
Keitel.”
There
was a curious look on Ballantrae’s face. He could add.
“Grotesque
creatures,” Boyko went on blithely. “But a fitting payback for Maria Brutti,
don’t you think? I have no love for the dagos but they will be very grateful for
the gesture. What’s that saying, ‘What’s good for the goose is good for the
gander?’ Maybe, now, things will get back to normal in Seattle.”
“What
the hell are you talking about, Andriy?” Ballantrae’s voice had a wheedling
edge of panic. “Kill him and let’s get moving.”
“Let
the woman go,” Scarne said. “You’ve won.”
Boyko
gave him an appraising look.
“She
is not innocent.”
“She
had nothing to do with Maria Brutti. And what happened afterward was not
intentional.”
“Perhaps
you would like to explain that distinction to the Brutti family. I would not.
But it is of no consequence. I want to make a statement, for the Bruttis and
myself. We are not to be trifled with. You East Coast people have no respect
for us in Seattle. When word of this gets out – and I will make sure it does –
it will be good for business. Call it a marketing ploy.”
“You
won’t live to see that business. Here’s the deal. Your lives for her. I will
see that she is punished. But not this way. You have Ballantrae. I don’t care
what you do with him.”
Ballantrae’s
mouth was working, but no sound came out. He started to move toward the boat’s
ladder but two men blocked his path.
Boyko
shrugged.
“The
woman asked me to spare your life, but Victor wouldn’t hear of it. He knew you
would follow her. If it’s any consolation, she was a very unwilling bait. You
want to rescue her. There is something between you. That is a pity. I, too, am
a romantic. But she is too dangerous. She knows too much. If she can, she will
do everything in her power to avoid punishment. She will further entrance you.
Even if you mean what you say, she will hire the best lawyers. Perhaps plead
insanity, or childhood abuse. I have found out some things about her. The
Bruttis want vengeance, not an interminable series of appeals through your
appalling legal system. My way is better.”
“Don’t
be a fool. She has undoubtedly made provisions. Ballantrae, too. It’s all on
paper somewhere, or on disks.”
“He’s
right. If anything happens to us, you will go down.” Ballantrae had finally
found his voice, although it was none too steady.
The
thrashing on the deck was getting louder. Boyko looked amused.
“Victor,
a moment ago you wanted to kill him. And now he’s your new best friend?” He
turned to Scarne. “Unfortunately for you, the Government now values my
patriotism and is willing to overlook some misdeeds. But this is getting
tiresome.” He looked pointedly at Scarne’s weapon. “That is a small gun. A
Bersa, no? I have one myself. We heard many shots. You may have reloaded, but
no matter. You can’t shoot all of us.”
“But
I will shoot you, Andriy.” Scarne smiled coldly. He centered the barrel on
Boyko’s face. He felt unafraid, detached.
The
Ukrainian leaned back against the side of the boat and crossed his ankles, in a
pose of resignation. And he smiled back.
“My
friend, if you know who I am, you will also know that I did not rise to the
position I have attained by being afraid to die. Nor will I live long by
showing fear to my men.” He nodded and his men began to fan out. “Now do what
you have to do. It will change nothing for the woman after you are dead.”
Scarne
knew it was over. The bluff had failed. He turned toward Alana. She had not
said a word the entire time. Now she saw the look in his eyes and said, “Do it.
Please.”
The
loud crack of the single shot refroze everyone. The wind had died. The smell of
cordite was strong in the muggy nighttime air. Guns were raised as Scarne let
his drop to his side. He would have been cut in half but for a sharp order from
Boyko. One of the men said something quietly, almost reverently, that Scarne
couldn’t understand.
“Mother
of God, what did you do?” Ballantrae cried.
Scarne
walked toward Alana, who had crumpled to the deck. A gunman moved to block him
but backed away at a gesture from his chief. Scarne bent down. Her eyes
followed him. There was a small, almost delicate, hole in her blouse above her
left breast. She was still alive, barely, a testament to her iron will. Her
mouth moved slightly. Then it was still. Her pupils began to expand. The very
last thing that Alana Loeb saw on earth was the first man she loved. Scarne
felt someone take the gun from his hand. Boyko checked the magazine.
“So,
that’s how it was,” he said.
Ballantrae
looked at Alana’s body. There was triumph in his face.
“So,
you hated her too, Jake. She could do that to a man. Didn’t figure it out to
the very end, did you? I caught on a lot faster. You fucking sap.”
Scarne
was very tired. It was Boyko who broke the silence.
“You
are a fool, Victor. The man had one bullet left. He spared the woman a painful
death. It’s your bad luck he didn’t have another to use on you. Although I
doubt he would have bothered.”
He
barked an order. One of his men moved behind Ballantrae and pinned his arms.
Another grabbed Scarne. He hardly felt the pain in his shoulder.
“Andriy,
we can work this out.” Ballantrae’s legs were buckling. “I have your money.”
“Please,
Victor, kindly shut up. For the very first – and, God willing, the last – time,
I can say this is not about the money.” He looked at the terrible writhing mess
on the deck. A cruel grin cracked his face. “They appear to be fading, although
with such creatures, who can tell.” As if on cue, the hagfish began making
sucking, smacking sounds. “In any event, they undoubtedly need nutrients.” He
looked at Ballantrae and sighed. “So many eels, so few orifices in a man. Well,
we shall have to make do.”
Boyko
turned to Scarne. “You deserve better than what awaits this piece of trash.” He
spoke rapidly to the other men. Scarne’s hands were quickly and efficiently
bound behind his back and two of the gunmen roughly pulled him off the boat and
prodded him down the dock with automatic rifles. He glanced back to see the
others stripping the screaming Ballantrae and forcing him into a fishing chair.
Scarne thought wildly that he had been right. Victor’s hairy legs would look
ridiculous in golf shorts.
“What
are you doing? Oh, God no! Jake, do something! Please, please. Help me!”
Boyko’s
men marched Scarne down the shore around a small bend where encroaching foliage
almost reached the water. Behind them an inhuman shriek pierced the night. One
of his captors said something and both men laughed. Scarne tripped on a root of
some sort and pitched onto his face. One of the men reached down, effortlessly
pulled him to his feet by his collar and pushed him forward. The screams on the
boat diminished with distance and finally, after a few chilling wails, stopped
entirely. Normal tropical nighttime sounds slowly began to fill the void as
animals and insects again went about their business. Death sounds were nothing
new to them. Scarne looked at the small waves breaking on the shore.
“Kneel.”
Scarne
sank to his knees in a small depression filled with mud and water. Dozens of
tiny fiddler crabs scurried a few feet away from him then stopped. In the
moonlight their claws, waving in unison, seemed to be bidding him goodbye. But
for his bound hands he would have waved back. So he just laughed. The two
gunman exchanged glances.
A
huge bug landed on his face and began lapping. Sweat? Probably blood. He could
feel warm rivulets running down his flanks. He wondered which perforation they
were seeping from. He looked at the foliage to his left, only a few feet away.
He would never make it, and even if he did, he was in no condition to fight the
thick roots that made up the bulk of the shoreline. And then there was the
matter of his arms being tied. Idly, he wondered what kind of mangroves they
were, white, black or red? Alana had taught him how to tell them apart by their
leaves. Funny pillow talk. Florida has lost most of its mangrove forests, she
told him. The trees are considered endangered species.