KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (44 page)

Booger cringed.

I had second thoughts. "You didn't find anything wired to the garage, did you?"

Booger said, "No, near as I can tell, it's clean...but you scared the shit right out of me making all that racket. The bad guys are going to hear you.

"There are no bad guys here. Smokey and gang aren't here, either. The Russian wired the house with explosives hoping we'd rush in like a bunch of amateurs and get our asses blown off."

Booger scratched his head. "Well, where the hell is everybody?"

By now Zoya and Beautiful had caught up. We all entered the garage, and I flipped the light switch. Everyone winced, including Booger.

"I trust you, Booger. Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"No, E Z," he said. "You can trust me, it's just that I couldn't get inside the garage to check it."

We all stopped. "Now, you tell me."

I looked at the wall and saw what I needed to. One of the SCUBA equipment bags was missing.

"Everyone clear out," I told them. "You too, Zoya. Wait for the cops. They should be here any minute."

"Nyet," she said, firmly. "I go vith you!"

"Beautiful," I said as he walked away, "Get the Coast Guard's phone number and be prepared to call them. Also, see if Mama Lo can run an International Maritime Number on..." I recalled the letters and numbers that Rabbit had related to me early yesterday, remembering that the IMO was only one off from my own Social Security Number. "I need to know everything I can about that boat, and her owner."

"It's what," Beautiful asked, "almost 2:30 a.m. back in New York? Mama Lo won't take a call at this hour very well, E Z."

Beautiful and I had been great friends a long time — longer than Jason and me. "Don't you BS me, Beautiful. You can sweet talk her — I've seen how you operate."

He chuckled. "You got that right."

"Make it quick, will you Beautiful?" I told him. "I'm going to need the info before we get into the water."

I turned to Zoya.

"Look, Zoya," I said as gently as I could, while knowing that every second counted. "I'm not saying I can't use your help, but with you injured, we can't risk you going. You'd be more of a liability."

"No li-bilty. Flesh wound," she reminded me.

"Are you sure? Do you even know how to SCUBA?"

"Da. Vas trained SCUBA rescue in Minsk."

"Zoya, I know you want to be the one to confront the Russian — "

"No confront. Me kill."

She was already shedding her dress. As she reached for the SCUBA bag, I couldn't help but watch. She was magnificent — and I was a lucky dog.

And thinking of dogs, I wondered where my little canine lady was.

Chapter 22

Smokey Boat

Zoya and I
hurried down the coast side of the most inland pier at the marina, moving as quickly as possible considering both of us had bullet holes piercing our bodies. Funny how a little hole in the flesh can affect your entire physical state, sapping your energy, lowering your stamina. We trotted as quietly as we could on the deserted wooden pier, the two of us each wearing Cressi Orca dive knives with seven-inch blades strapped to our thighs.

We carried our masks and fins, and small, diver-sample bags. Inside the plastic, sealable bags, we'd stashed our cell phones and a couple of .45 caliber Glock 29s. When we were suited up, we'd attached the sampling bags to our BCD vests.

In addition, I carried a long-range, Phantom Carbon spear gun with one arrow. Zoya had something extra, as well. She'd trotted over to Beautiful at his Escalade and returned with a small object that now hung heavily from the neck of her wet suit. I couldn't make it out in the dark. I'd ask her about it later.

Even though about three-quarters of a mile away, we were wary of being watched from the yacht. Having a ten to twenty million dollar boat, it wouldn't be out of the question for the Russian and his cohorts to have night vision binoculars.

Beautiful and Booger followed with a couple two-wheeled carts, each carrying a single 80-cubic-foot aluminum SCUBA tank; a BCD (buoyancy control device) vest with regulator, a See-Doo Seascooter electric underwater propulsion system, and weight belts.

All combined, that's a lot of weight for each of us to carry, but once the BCD vests were inflated in the water, it would be like a swim with water wings in the neighborhood pool.

Smokey's shorty wet suit fit Zoya well, and her dead husband's fit me fine, too. We'd taken some time to bandage our gunshot wounds with shop towels, so movement was somewhat less painful.

Our plan was simple: when the shit hit the fan, we would signal Beautiful and Booger by text to set off the pyrotechnics. The ensuing fireworks display would be both a distraction and a ruse to make Karl think the marina was blowing up. That text message was already punched into both our phones — all we had to do was to wake either of the phones up, hold it above the water surface to get a good cellular signal, and push send.

At that point, the plan became a little loose.

Improvise, Marine!

It'd be about midnight by the time we made it out to the yacht. At that late hour, if we were lucky, they'd be asleep with only one or two lookouts.

Since we wouldn't actually be swimming that much, we had plenty of air in the single tanks, and the Seascooters were fully charged. The quality of the air was a little questionable, being compressed in the tanks for over a year and a half. They should have been drained completely and recharged, but we didn't have that kind of time. Hopefully, the good air that went in them hadn't turned bad — O2 has a habit of escaping through microscopic holes. I don't need to tell you that breathing pure nitrogen sixty feet underwater might be a little unhealthy.

We'd done a thorough once-over of the outsides of the SCUBA tanks back in the garage and saw no corrosion and decided they were good to go.

The night was quiet, as was the water along the unused back pier, softly lapping on the nearby shore and the pier support posts. The big yacht was about three-quarters of a mile out from where we were going into the water. The Seascooters would make over three miles per hour without head current, so we were looking at about a fifteen minute trip, give or take a few, depending on conditions and complications that might arise.

Just before we went into the water, we sat side by side on the pier, looking over and adjusting our equipment. I finally made out what Zoya had hanging heavily from the neck of her wet suit as she pulled it off and reattached it to her belt. It was a fragmentation grenade — an old MK 2 from the Vietnam Era.
Old
but potent; it had over double the 15 meter effective range of the modern M67's. Of course, you have to throw it twice as far to be safe or have cover that will withstand the blast. At first thought, I figured she had it for the same reason I used to keep duct tape in the ol' Shelby — had no idea what she might have to use it for, but it's there in case it comes in handy. Then, a realization made me shiver.

"Why the grenade?" I asked her.

"A gift for Kirill," she said, coldly looking over her harness and equipment.

It was the first chilled moment we'd had. I wasn't about to jeopardize my friends' lives.

"We've got lots of friendlies on that boat — hostages," I told her, my tone harsh. "That's why we're going out there. This isn't about killing Karl — that's secondary. If you think it's any different than what I'm telling you, you're staying here. I can't jeopardize those lives. Do you understand me?"

"Da," She said, "Kirill vill not hurt anyone no more. I make sure your friends safe." She looked up at me. "I promise."

Beautiful's cell vibrated and he took the call. In a minute, he told us, "It was Mama Lo. The Yacht in question is a 120' Sun Ark owned by a business conglomerate made up mostly of European and Middle Eastern investors — with a nice mix of both Russians and Saudis."

"Sounds like it's them," I said.

Zoya agreed.

I told Beautiful, "Call in the cavalry in about fifteen minutes."

"Got the Coast Guard number plugged into my phone," he returned.

"Then don't forget to call Lt. Legend," I reminded him. She would be pissed as hell about the late notice, anyway — let alone no notice at all. I did have an out: she'd said to call her when we "really needed her." We didn't really need her, yet.

Then terrible news came.

Booger trotted up. "E Z! I heard whining a minute ago," he said, breathing hard, "and I went to investigate. Jazzy's over by your boat — looks like a knife wound in her side. Looks real bad, E Z."

There was absolutely no time for me to go to her — kick me as hard as you want to — I had no time for my dear companion, even if she were dying. There were four other lives at stake.

"Listen, Booger. Gather her up. The vet's business card is in my wallet — I left it in the tux jacket in the garage. It has the phone number and location for the emergency veterinarian clinic on it. Take her in, please!"

"You got it, E Z," he said and sprinted back up the pier.

I asked Beautiful, "You can handle setting off the pyro by yourself, can't you?"

"Will do, E Z," Beautiful said with a nod.

Now, I had one more very good reason to even the score with Karl.

After carefully slipping into the bay, Beautiful bid us farewell, and we quietly rode the little Seascooters away from the pier.

We used our snorkels to conserve air, staying on the surface close to shore and out of direct line-of-sight from the big yacht. Zoya followed me just behind and to the seaward side.

We hoped to get to the boat and climb aboard without the assistance of our friends' pyrotechnics. But, if there were guards posted on deck or at the controls in the cockpit, we'd need the diversion. After aboard, we would disable all defenders quietly and find and rescue Smokey, Dolly, Jada, Ol' Corky and Rabbit — we just hoped they were there and okay.

On our way out to the yacht, I had a lot of time to think. I decided that when this mess was over, no matter what the outcome, I'd get packing. I didn't know where I'd be going, yet. I only knew I had to get away to where others wouldn't be collateral damage because of me.

About fifty yards from the mouth of the inlet, we got our bearings, set our compass course and put in our regulator mouthpieces. We released some of the air from our BCD vests by the push valve attached next to our regulators, decreasing buoyancy, and dove to a depth of about fifteen feet so as to not cause even the slightest surface disturbance. To ensure our course stayed constant, we watched our depth gauges and compasses while propelling ourselves along with the electric Seascooters.

After another eight minutes, we eased to a stop. I passed my Seascooter to Zoya and added a tiny bit of air to my BCD so that I rose slowly to the surface without effort, just the top half of my mask above water.

We'd planned perfectly — I was looking at the 120 foot, black-hulled luxury yacht from fifty yards away. By now, Beautiful had called the Coast Guard and Lt Harper Legend, and Booger had gotten Jazzy Brass to the ER veterinarian. I took a moment to say a silent prayer for my intelligent, gentle and loving companion. I did this
thing
whenever we were apart for very long — I communicated telepathically with her. I know, it sounds nuts. But, if nothing else, it made me feel better. I hoped that somehow Jazzy was tuning into the common mind's ethereal matrix, picking up my caring vibrations, and she was somehow comforted by them.

Okay, enough of the sentimental hocus pocus.

Before submerging, I scanned the large boat's topside for sentries and lookouts.

I could see only one. He stood with one foot up on the transom, gazing back at the marina from which we came, an AK-47 in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.

It was at this time that I wished we had a more modern M 67 hand grenade with only a fifteen yard casualty radius. If we did, I would consider tossing one in to do away with the lone guard, and then coming out of the water, guns blazing.

Still it would be risky, especially if Smokey and company were being held on deck someplace behind the bulwarks and not in a cabin below.

Then a second guard stepped from the far side of the cabin and walked to the bow. He knelt at the end, also fired up a cigarette and peered out.

I deflated my BCD enough to slowly descend back to where Zoya waited.

After giving her the A-OK signal with my thumb and forefinger, I took my Seascooter back and we proceeded.

Within thirty-five yards, I began to make out the shadowy hull before us in the dark water.

When we reached our destination, we attached all our equipment — save mask, snorkel, fins and equipment bags — to the Seascooters. For a moment, we breathed through our regulators while I used a marker board to convey our next step. After reading it, Zoya nodded and gave me the okay sign. We were about to discard our scooters, tanks and other equipment into the dark depths, hoping they wouldn't be required again. The bottom this far out averaged only thirty feet. In a pinch, we could free dive down, recover our equipment and beat fins out of harm's way.

But I grabbed Zoya's arm before she let go when I caught sight of something at the stern of the boat's hull. Rabbit'd had a better idea — in the dark water, I could see a BCD vest with a SCUBA tank wrapped around the prop. We swam over to it. So Rabbit had been aboard, and probably was still there.

With our equipment tied around the propeller, if the Russian and his henchmen tried to flee, they wouldn't get far, whether or not they'd killed us. And, if we made it out alive and needed to recover the equipment, it wouldn't be nearly as difficult as free swimming to the ocean floor.

We hung our shoulder harnesses, and then wrapped them around the propeller, taking care not to make hard surface contact. Metal to metal sounds and vibrations can be heard and felt from great distances in water, and we needed to keep the element of surprise in our favor.

When I gave Zoya the thumbs up, she began the next stage of our plan. She hooked her mask and snorkel on the equipment, released her regulator and swam to the surface beside the boat's stern accommodation ladder.

I kept the spear gun, pistols and phones in the sampling bags. She surfaced just below the guard on deck.

"Help me!" she said, panting frantically. "Me lost, not swim vell."

Staying submerged, I'd found a good tactical position to the side and waited.

Her body was pulled halfway out of the water, her hand grabbed a ladder tread from the bottom for leverage, and then she reentered the water abruptly, pulling the guard in with her.

But she didn't leave the man to me. She took him deeper, maneuvered around to his back and held onto his arms, impeding their efficient movement. They sank into the twenty-five feet of dark water and out of sight.

I wondered if she'd even thought about using her dive knife that was strapped to her thigh. I hoped an explosion wouldn't come from the deep, and that she'd be the one to come back up.

She had given me time to move to a better firing position and catch the guy posted at the bow before realizing his partner was underwater and he alerted the rest of the boat.

I surfaced with my long-range spear gun ready, found the bow watch edging around the narrow ledge at the side of the cabin, and gave him a quick but silent ride into the hereafter.

The spear rose more in its flight than I expected. Instead of striking him in the middle of the chest, it caught him in the center of his open mouth, just as he was about to call out a warning.

Not bad
, I thought. "Suck my spear head, asshole," I said under my breath.