Florida Firefight (18 page)

Logan was uncomfortably quiet for a moment. “What about sharks?” he finally blurted.

Hawker looked at him, incredulous. “What the hell do you mean, sharks?”

“You know goddamn well what I mean—those big ugly bastards with fins and teeth.”

“You did three tours on Nam and you're worried about
fish?
” Hawker burst out laughing.

“They didn't have fucking sharks in Quang Tri!” Logan yelled in a whisper. He snorted in disgust. “You don't get out enough, Hawker. You need to start seeing some movies; no shit. If there's a white shark within two miles of here, we might as well kiss our asses good-bye, because those bastards are
bad
. Must have noses like fucking bloodhounds—”

“For God's sake, Logan, don't worry.” Hawker spat in his mask, rinsed it, then backed into the surf. “The Colombians are probably going to kill us anyway.”

“Thanks!” Logan called after him.

“It's just that it's hard to believe an FBI agent is afraid of a fish.”

“I don't work for the damn government!” Logan yelled as Hawker disappeared into the surf. “When are you going to get that through your thick skull! I'm just a—” Logan didn't finish. Hawker had already disappeared into the water. Logan pulled the mask down over his shaggy hair. Mumbling to himself, he followed Hawker into the night sea.

It was a mile swim through windswept waves and a strong southerly tide.

When they were less than two hundred yards away, Hawker saw the deck lights of
Demonio Del Mar
flare briefly as one of the Whalers was lowered.

Hawker had hoped they would send both boats. The fewer people to deal with on the yacht, the better off he would be. He sculled water and watched them load the skiff with men and weapons. The engine fired, and the Whaler, carrying four men, pounded off toward White Horse Key and the rendezvous with Graeme Mellor on the
Castaway
.

Silently Hawker wished his friend luck. But he had a feeling Logan and he would need even more luck.

The yacht was a black mountain before them now, lifting and rolling on its ground tackle. The two men grabbed the anchor chain and rested there, lifting, rising and falling with the sea.

“How do you feel?” Hawker asked in a whisper.

“Great. The damn sharks had me worried. I've got it made now, though.” Logan's mask was propped on his forehead, and he was smiling.

“Good. Swing around and let me get the stuff out of your pack.”

Hawker removed four time-detonated incendiary bombs. They had magnetic bases and would latch easily to the steel hull of
Demonio Del Mar
. The sheet bodies of the bombs were filled with fifteen hundred grams of thermate, a composition that burns for nearly two minutes at 2150 degrees. Thermate can burn through a solid inch of armor plating. Hawker knew the bombs would sear through the hull of the yacht as though it were butter.

“You get these mounted under the bow area. I'll take the other two and mount one amidships and the other toward the stern.” Hawker studied the soft green glow of his watch. “We'll give ourselves … sixty minutes.” The bombs had timer switches, and the men ground the dials almost a full turn clockwise. “Start …
now
.”

Hawker let the current carry him toward the back of the boat. He pulled his mask down and dove. It was like diving into ink. He had to do everything by feel. The bottom of the boat was slick with moss. There was the glass-shard edge of barnacles. Hawker caught hold of the starboard drive shaft and clamped one of the bombs forward of it, under the engines. He surfaced, took two deep bites of air and locked the second incendiary bomb under the wide stern section.

It was 2:11
A.M.

He kicked himself forward to the bow. Logan was waiting. “We've got to get up that anchor chain—and we've got to make it quick and quiet. I'll go first. For all I know, a guard will be looking right at me as I pull myself onto the deck. If you hear any firing, get the hell back to Panther Key—quick. You got it?”

Logan nodded. “Are you sure this little submachine gun will still fire after the soaking it took?” He motioned with his head toward the Ingram strapped to his shoulder.

“Anybody's guess,” said Hawker as he began to pull himself up the anchor chain.

“Comforting,” said Logan. “Very comforting.”

The chain was slick, and the links cut into his hands, but Hawker finally made it to the top. He grabbed hold of the pulpit railing and hauled himself over the bowsprit onto the deck.

He unslung the Colt Commando automatic and lay on his belly. Directly in front of him was a heavy mound of canvas: probably emergency anchors and line. Hawker slid in tighter behind its cover and waited.

Soon Logan came huffing over the bow, dripping water. He collapsed belly-first beside Hawker.

“Son of a bitch,” he gasped. “I haven't worked that hard since Special Forces training.”

Hawker held up a finger for silence. As he had expected, there were guards on the deck. From around the port walkway, a figure in a dark coat was coming toward them. The guard approached warily, like a field dog that sees a snake.

Hawker cupped a hand around Logan's ear. “Don't fire unless you absolutely have to.”

Logan nodded.

From the ankle sheath Hawker drew the Randall Attack/Survival knife. The blade was seven inches of hand-finished steel, honed like a razor on both sides.

The guard was coming closer. He had heard them. The weapon in his hands was either a rifle or a shotgun. In the darkness Hawker couldn't tell for sure.

Five paces away the guard stopped. He studied the mound of canvas curiously. He reached out with the long gun, as if to move the canvas. Quicker than Hawker thought was possible, Logan grabbed the barrel of the gun, jerking it away. Hawker was already in motion. He caught the guard by the hair, spun him and plunged the knife through the soft underjaw area into the man's head.

The guard trembled in Hawker's arms, like a dying fish, before collapsing to the deck. The corpse made odd gurgling noises.

“One down,” whispered Logan.

Crouched and ready, the two men moved across the foredeck toward the wheelhouse. The wind was churning harder now, and the yacht heaved and yawed. A sharp rain began to fall, blown into a flat, bulletlike trajectory by the wind.

Inside the wheelhouse was the sudden flame of a lighter as two men fired their cigarettes. Hawker waved Logan in behind him.

“If we can,” he whispered, “we'll tie them and gag them.”

They never got the chance to try. Just as they got to the hatchway, lightning exploded, illuminating the deck in a searing light.

Hawker saw the men's eyes widen in understanding as they each jumped for their automatic rifles. Hawker swung through the doorway as Logan's Ingram chain-rattled in a twenty-round burst. The Colombians slammed against the steel bulkhead, dying—but not before one of them pulled some kind of alarm.

There was a loud siren wail, whipped away by the storm wind.

Lights flashed on. Men poured from below decks like ants from a damaged hill. There was shouting in garbled Spanish.

“We are in for some shit now!” Logan whispered hoarsely.

Hawker didn't have time to answer. Something ricocheted past his head. Slugs traced their way along the deck from two sides. Hawker dove from the wheelhouse, rolled and came to one knee, the Colt Commando thudding against his shoulder.

One Colombian screamed and grabbed his face. Another Colombian was kicked backward over the railing into the green sweep of sea.

Logan had taken the port side. His submachine gun spewed fire, and three more Colombians fell.

From above them on the fly bridge, Hawker heard the sound of running feet. He pulled himself up the ladder, then ducked as a .357 slug peeled the paint away above him. He locked his arm around the ladder, popped in a fresh ammo clip, then jumped to his feet, spraying the fly bridge.

The man with the revolver stumbled backward, spinning. A flare of lightning showed that his white uniform was dotted with red. He clutched desperately at a canvas sun shield. The canvas ripped away as he plummeted ten feet through the wheelhouse's slanted windows.

From the top deck Hawker had a fair view of the entire deck. A dozen or more Colombians had taken cover behind the raised aft cabin. They had Logan pinned down with heavy automatic weapons fire. The occasional clatter of the little Ingram told Hawker that Logan was still alive.

Because of the swim they had to make, Hawker had removed the Star-Tron scope. But the Commando wasn't noted for its accuracy anyway; the barrel was too short for any kind of sharpshooting.

In the olive drab pack he wore, Hawker found one of the M34 incendiary/fragmentation hand grenades. The serrated steel body was heavy in his right hand. The grenade was filled with 425 grams of white phosphorus that would burn at 2700 degrees for a full minute. Hawker would have four to five seconds after pulling the pin before the grenade exploded, and the fragmentation kill radius was as much as thirty meters.

“Stay low!” he yelled down to Logan.

“Do I have a fucking choice? Those bastards have me covered like stink on shit!”

“Not for much longer!”

Hawker jerked the pin out, counted a quick three, then lofted the grenade overhand toward the aft cabin. The M34 exploded just before it hit, showering the deck with blinding white light.

The screams were terrible to hear. The Colombians not on fire dove headlong into the stormy sea. The stern of the vessel was encased in a roaring chemical fire.

Hawker swung down to the main deck. Logan was waiting, the Ingram balanced on his hip, covering him.

“Let's make this quick,” Hawker shouted.

Shielding their faces from the intense heat, Hawker and Logan made their way along the outside of the trunk cabin, then swung into the safety of the below-decks passageway. There they rested for a moment, catching their wind.

“I hope whatever it is you're after is worth all this shit,” Logan said and snorted, half laughing. He took a soaked plug of Red Man from its green foil pack and bit off a wad. “Chew?”

“I gave it up when I stopped playing baseball.” Hawker reconsidered and took the plug, adding, “But I just decided to start again.”

The two men spat, grinning.

“What the hell are we after, anyway?”

“You'll see,” Hawker said. “If we can find it.”

They kicked open doors one by one and flipped on lights, moving down the passageway. Forward of the engines, the passageway formed a T. Halfway there, two Colombians in khaki military dress jumped out. Hawker and Logan dropped to their bellies simultaneously, firing. One Hispanic fell to the deck, his face blown away. The other crumpled to his knees, fumbling for something in his pocket. Hawker watched the grenade arching toward them as if in slow motion.

Logan dove for an open door. Hawker dove for the grenade. In one motion he caught it, cocked his arm from hip level and drilled it back at the guard.

The explosion rattled the boat and showered them with paint, dust and flesh.

“You must have been a hell of a baseball player,” Logan whispered, sticking his head up.

“No,” said Hawker absently. A room at the end of the hall had caught his attention. “If I'd been any good, I'd be in the majors right now.” He stood and studied the door. A sign read:
AIR STATION, NO ADMITTANCE
. He tapped Logan with a back of his hand. “Hey, this might be what we're looking for.”

Side by side they approached the door. Hawker stopped for a moment and checked his watch. It was 2:30
A.M.

They didn't have much time: only thirty-odd minutes. At Hawker's nod, they kicked the door open and jumped into the room, weapons vectoring; ready.

Hawker was stunned.

The huge mulatto, Simio, stood near a stack of aluminum scuba tanks, glowering at them.

Medelli lay dead on the floor, blood pooling from the bullethole in his head.

In the far corner of the room was a generator attached to a complex series of rollers and colored tubes. Anton Nuñez Guillermo, his St. Nicholas face flushed, stood beside the press, a 9-millimeter parabellum in his right hand.

“It seems I have underestimated you, Mr. James Thornton Hawker,” he hissed. “But I assure you it will be the very last time. Now drop your weapons, gentlemen. Drop them and kick them away.”

Slowly, then, he raised the automatic and pressed the barrel against the head of the woman in the chair beside him.

Dr. Winnie Tiger looked at Hawker briefly, then turned her eyes away.

twenty

“I see you two know each other,” Guillermo said with a smile, releasing his grip on the Indian woman.

Hawker tried to catch her eye. He hoped she would give him some signal, some expression, to let him know she was all right. But she kept her head down, hands clamped tightly together.

Guillermo moved a few steps closer to Hawker and Logan. He motioned to the corpse of Medelli on the deck. “This has been a troublesome week for my organization,” he said. “First, my operatives told me that Mr. Medelli had been cheating me. But worse—much, much worse—I was told that he had decided to try and take over
my
organization.”

Guillermo studied Hawker with cold brown eyes. “And then you came to my very door, Mr. Hawker. A clever fellow. A very clever fellow.” He chuckled softly. “I must admit that I fell for your little story. But I am a careful man, Mr. Hawker. I decided to check out your background through other sources. Fortunately one of my people on Mahogany Key had been keeping an eye on you. A close eye.” He shrugged. “And so I decided such a delicate situation required my personal attention.” He motioned toward the corpse again. “I've already taken care of Mr. Medelli. Now it is your turn, Mr. Hawker. It is time for you and your burly friend to die.”