Requiem for an Assassin (27 page)

H
OW’S IT COMING?”
I said, into the wireless earpiece I was wearing.

“Good,” Boaz answered. His words were slightly slurred, and I understood it was because he was talking without moving his lips. “A lovely afternoon. So far no one who looks like a sentry.”

“I can see you now,” I said, and it was true, his Hawaiian shirt was impossible to miss, even without the binoculars. That was part of the point—he looked like the antithesis of someone trying not to be spotted. If you’re going to be noticed anyway, you’re better off hiding in plain sight.

I was kneeling in the back of Kanezaki’s van. The van was configured for cargo, not passengers, and had no seats beyond the two in front. We were parked nose out in the yacht club parking lot. Naftali was diagonal to us, facing us from twenty feet away. Both vans had a pair of fake plates magnetically attached over the real ones. Layers again.

“Good, good, everything is good,” Boaz said, taking his time, a fishing pole slung over his shoulder, the camera pack and the bolt cutter case hanging off his back, the Nikon dangling from his neck. He was wearing a baseball cap and shades, a sensible enough precaution against the strong tropical sun. The blond wig protruding from the back and sides of the cap would be a little more difficult to explain on practical grounds alone, but it would certainly throw off witnesses. The rest of us were similarly attired.

I watched him go down the first perpendicular pier. With the binoculars, I could make out the names of a few of the boats, but not many. I didn’t see
Ocean Emerald.

“Don’t see it yet,” I heard him say, and watched him turn around. He walked back to the main pier, then repeated the operation on the second perpendicular. I scanned the area, looking for anyone reacting to him. Everything seemed okay.

I watched him walk down the third perpendicular, then the fourth. I started to get nervous. What if they’d put to sea? Maybe Hilger got spooked, decided they’d been in Singapore too long, put the boat in north to Malaysia, south to Indonesia. Or he’d changed the boat’s name somehow. Or Kanezaki’s intel was off…

Boaz walked to the very end of the pier and made a right on the last perpendicular. He strolled slowly along. The bows of the boats were facing toward me, and so was Boaz, as he examined their sterns.

“It’s here,” he said, continuing to walk to the end of the perpendicular as though appreciating all the lovely yachts. “Halfway. I just went to the other side of it.”

“I’m on my way,” I said. I stepped out of the van, a fishing rod in my hand, the coveralls concealing the HK on my thigh, my heart starting to kick with adrenaline.

I crossed the parking lot, my pores immediately yawning open in the sticky heat. Ahead of me was a red brick building; behind it, I knew from the satellite photos, a swimming pool, from which the sounds of children’s laughter carried over to me now. Two Chinese men in golf clothes came through the doors to the club, presumably heading to a nearby course. They ignored me as they passed.

I walked straight down the access road to the pier, my head swiveling as I moved, searching for danger, so far spotting none.

“No sentries I can see on the craft,” Boaz said, avoiding the
b
’s and
p
’s and
m
’s that would force him to purse his lips.

“Roger that,” I said. Near the second line now.”

“I think this is a good location to take a few photos.”

I kept moving, looking for problems. Several of the boats had little parties in progress on their decks, prosperous middle-aged Chinese and foreign men in white captain’s hats, women in shorts and bathing-suit tops, the smell of beer and barbecue, the sounds of carefree laughter. I passed several people moving to and from the main clubhouse, everyone in shorts and boating shoes, suntans and white smiles. Life was good for these people. Not one of them gave me even a second glance.

I passed the fourth perpendicular. I could see Boaz now, halfway down the fifth. He had erected a tripod with what looked like a professional photographer’s auxiliary light set atop it, the light set in the center of a large metallic umbrella, the whole thing connected to an exceptionally large rectangular battery pack. He was working the controls of a device the average person would assume was a light meter.

“You ready?” I said.

“Ready.”

I turned onto the fifth perpendicular and began heading toward Boaz. The gloves Kanezaki had thoughtfully provided were in my pocket, and I pulled them on as I walked. I set down the fishing pole, then reached inside the coveralls and came out with the HK. I held it along my leg, the muzzle of the suppressor past my knee, and kept moving in. I wished there were some cover or concealment, but the terrain was what it was. I hoped Boaz’s ray gun was as good as he claimed.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” I said, still walking casually toward him. “Go.”

A
T FIRST,
Dox thought the hot flush was a fear reaction. After all, a sadistic sociopath he’d provoked to murderous rage was athwart his chest, a second away from gelding him. The only thing that could have surprised him at that point was the wonder that he’d managed not to piss himself.

But within a half-second, he understood it wasn’t a hot flush, although he had no better explanation. It felt like he’d touched a burning lightbulb, except not just with his fingertips, but with his whole body. Then, before he could even complete the
What the fuck?
thought he was forming, his entire body was on fire, like someone had doused him head-to-toe in kerosene and set him alight. He howled in agony and writhed under Fester’s knee. Then Fester was off him, shrieking, rolling on the deck as though his clothes were ablaze and he was trying to put himself out.

Dox strained against the chains, sure he was on fire and utterly confused about where it had come from and why he couldn’t see the flames. He managed one coherent thought—
Out of the frying pan, into the fire
—and then all he could do was howl and hope it would be over soon.

A
SECOND AFTER
Boaz engaged the device, a cacophony of shrieks emanated from belowdecks on the boat. Among them, I recognized Dox’s baritone roar, and was seized with conflicting emotions: relief that he was alive, horror at the level of pain that could have produced that agonized wail.

I stood there, helpless, the HK in front of me now in a two-handed grip, waiting for someone to stumble off the boat so I could shoot. Nothing happened. If anything, the screaming got worse.

In my peripheral vision, I saw movement on the adjacent craft. I glanced left and right to confirm there was no danger. Civilians, looking out from their boats now to see what was causing the ruckus.

“What’s happening over there?” a Caucasian man yelled in English from the boat to my left.

“Police matter, sir,” I called back in my best command voice. “Please just stay on your craft and keep your head down. There could be shooting and I wouldn’t want you or your family injured.”

The man disappeared without another word.

The screaming went on.
Goddamnit, why aren’t they trying to get off the boat?

“Turn it off!” I said. “They must be stuck belowdecks. I’m going in.”

“It’s off,” I heard him say. In my peripheral vision, I saw him pull a pistol from a bellyband. I half turned to him, but he was pointing the gun at the boat, not at me.

“Stay there,” I said. “We might need heat again.” I jumped onto the deck and moved to the stairs.

The screaming had stopped. I paused at the edge of the entrance, glanced down, and pulled my head back. With my eyes adjusted to the glare outside, I couldn’t see what was below. I pulled off the shades and jammed them in a pocket.

Another quick peek. Nothing. Still no screaming.

There were only six stairs. I leaped over all of them and landed in a squat on the deck below. I pivoted, the gun out, tracking for danger. Still nothing. I was in a narrow corridor. There were three doors, all closed, all on my right, all with small windows.

I moved up next to the first of them and snuck a quick peek through the window, then away. Nothing.

I checked the second one the same way. Again, nothing.

I checked the third. Dox, lying on his back, in shackles. A bald guy, his face covered in blood, holding a knife, staggering toward him.

I grabbed the knob. It was locked.
Fuck.

I stepped to the side, closed one eye to ensure that if I got hit with debris I’d only be half-blinded, brought up the HK, and fired three rapid shots into the door jamb inside the knob. The HK whispered and kicked in my hands. Wood splinters exploded past me.

I stepped back and launched a front kick just to the side of the knob. The door blasted inward. The bald guy spun to face me. I put two rounds in his chest. He staggered back to the wall and crumbled to the deck.

There was no one else in the room but Dox. I knelt beside him, the gun up, facing the door. “How many others on the boat?” I said. “Do you know?”

“One other,” he grunted. “One other.”

“Hilger?”

“No. Someone else. I think he’s locked in one of the…”

From two doors down came the staccato crack of a half-dozen rapid pistol shots. The guy Dox was talking about, in one of the rooms I’d passed. The windows were small, and I’d been moving quickly. I must have missed him.

There was no cover in the room. I moved up stealthily along the wall, keeping the HK aimed at the door, waiting.

Nothing happened. Whoever he was, he was smart. The defender in a fixed position has a significant advantage over the aggressor who comes looking for him. He knew it, and he was waiting for me to pass him on the way out.

Fuck, I didn’t have time to play it this way. Club security, cops…we had to get out of here.

“Give me five seconds of heat,” I whispered into the earpiece. “Exactly five seconds.”

“Jesus Christ, not again,” Dox mumbled from behind me.

“Three, two, one,” I heard Boaz say, and then my skin was on fire.

An involuntary scream tore loose from my throat, with Dox offering a chorus from the deck behind me. I fought the illusion that the gun was red-hot and battled the overwhelming urge to drop it. It was all I could do to stay on my feet. Whoever was down the hall, the only advantage I had was that I knew what this was, and that it would last only five seconds.

It seemed like a lot longer. But then it was gone, as suddenly as it had started. I gritted my teeth and charged into the hallway.

There—the first door I had passed. It was open, the wood around the jamb torn up by pistol shots. I sprinted down to the edge of the frame and stopped.

“Again—three seconds,” I whispered.

“Three, two, one,” I heard again, and again my nerve endings exploded in fire. I shook with pain, with the effort of not screaming. From inside the room, I heard a long wail. Then, so suddenly it seemed a miracle, the pain was gone. I took a deep breath and spun into the room.

There he was, on the right, splayed on the floor. I brought the HK around.

Whoever he was, he was as quick as I’ve ever seen. He snapped the gun forward and simultaneously rolled to his left. I felt something slam into my chest and heard the double crack of successive pistol shots. I staggered back into the wall and returned fire. My first two shots landed short, but they made him flinch. I walked the muzzle up an inch and kept firing. Again, I was short, but the second two rounds ricocheted along the deck and into his body. He curled up and I kept firing, three times more, two to his torso, the last in his head. He dropped his gun and lay still.

I could barely breathe. Gritting my teeth, I dropped the empty magazine, slammed in a spare, and released the slide. I pressed my left palm to my chest, then brought it to my eyes, fully expecting it to be covered with blood. But it wasn’t. The Dragon Skin. I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me, but it seemed that was all.

I picked up and pocketed the empty mag and staggered back down the hallway. Dox had gotten to his knees, but hadn’t managed any further than that. Amazingly, the bald guy was holding onto the cot, halfway to standing. I brought up the HK.

“Don’t,” Dox said. “Don’t, don’t, don’t do that.”

I turned my head, but kept the muzzle of the gun on the bald guy. “What?” I said.

“Don’t you kill him,” Dox said, coming shakily to his feet. “Give me the gun.”

“There’s no time…”

“Give me the fucking gun!” he screamed.

You have to know when to argue with people, and when not to. This was clearly a “not to” situation.

Dox staggered toward me, and I leaped forward and grabbed his arm before he could fall. I placed the gun in his manacled hands and walked him over to the bald guy. The bald guy watched us coming. His arms shook, and he lost his hold on the cot. He sank to his knees, then slumped to his side, panting and trembling.

Dox stood directly over him. He aimed the gun.

“Just so you know,” he said, “even if I had time, I wouldn’t do to you what you were going to do to me.”

The bald guy started to say something. Dox didn’t wait to hear what. Without another word, he emptied the full magazine into the bald guy’s face. Twelve muffled shots, each fading into the next. Bone and brain matter flew.

He stood for a second, swaying slightly, looking down at what he had done. Then he handed me the smoking pistol. He buckled, and I grabbed his arm to support him.

“Good,” he said. “That was worth ten thousand dollars in therapy right there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare mag.”

He nodded. “I figured you did.”

I swapped in a fresh magazine, then pulled out an extra baseball hat and jammed it on his head. I eased a pair of shades over his eyes. “You look good,” I said.

“Just get me out of here, man.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I put on my own shades, took his arm, and helped him down the corridor. “We’re on our way,” I said, into the earpiece. “Just the two of us. Get out the bolt cutters, be ready.”

“Hurry,” Boaz said. “We have a lot of attention.”

I holstered the HK and kept us going. I didn’t know the nature of Dox’s injuries, but he was having a hard time moving, even beyond the limits of the shackles. It took a full minute to get him up the stairs.

Crossing the deck, I saw Boaz was right. There were people staring at us from half a dozen boats. Several groups on foot had stopped and were watching to see what the commotion was.
Come on,
I thought.
Come on, come on….

Boaz reached out and helped Dox hop onto the pier. The chains were heavy, but there’s not much that will stand up to four feet of bolt cutters. Boaz moved in and, three well-placed snaps later, Dox had the use of his hands and feet again. The manacles themselves we could worry about later.

Boaz had already packed up the heater. He shouldered the gear while I scanned the crowd for danger, so far seeing nothing worse than gawkers. Then we set off toward the main pier, hurrying now, Dox’s giant arms around our shoulders, his chains clanking as we moved.

“This man’s hurt!” I called out to the people who were staring at us. “Somebody call a doctor!” There, that ought to make us look more like the good guys and lower the chances of someone disputing our passage. Theoretically.

We made a left onto the main pier and kept moving. I saw that Kanezaki had backed all the way to the edge of the pier. Boaz must have called him. But Christ, it was taking us forever.
Why the fuck did the boat have to be on the farthest perpendicular?
I thought.
Murphy’s Law. Unbelievable.

People stared at us as we walked by. No one said anything, or tried to interfere.

Fifty feet out from the access road, I started to think we were going to make it. I could see the exhaust drifting from Kanezaki’s idling engine.

Two uniformed security guys burst through the main clubhouse doors and onto the pier. They sprinted straight at us. Each was wearing a sidearm, still holstered.

“They’re shooting back there!” I cried out in a high voice. “Hurry!”

For one second, I thought they were going to buy it. They looked down the pier and I could feel their attention shifting. Then their eyes came back to us, their expressions hardening.

For all his concern about rules of engagement, Boaz had his pistol out as fast as I did. “Do not reach for your weapons,” I said, loudly and evenly, pointing the HK at the guy in front of me, while Boaz covered the other man.

Neither said a word. Their mouths dropped open and their hands crept north. Whatever they were paid to provide “security” at the yacht club, this wasn’t part of the job description.

“Over the side,” I said. “Into the water.” Neither moved. I pointed the gigantic suppressed muzzle of the HK directly at the guy’s face, suddenly pleased at the intimidating size of the thing, and shouted, “Now!”

He jumped in without another word. The other guy followed him an instant later.

“Very humane of you,” Boaz said, and we kept hustling forward down the pier. The automatic side door of Kanezaki’s van slid open. We helped Dox in, then followed inside. Kanezaki pulled smoothly away.

“You got him?” Boaz said to me.

For an instant, I didn’t even know what he was talking about. “Who?”

“Hilger.”

I shook my head. “He wasn’t on the boat.”

“Damn it,” he said. “Delilah told me…” He stopped and smiled. “Well, I guess she was wrong.”

“Intel,” I said. “What can you do.”

He laughed. “I think maybe things between you two are better than you let on.”

Dox was lying on his back on the floor. I used the bolt cutters to get the manacles off him. While I cut, Boaz called Naftali. He was a half-mile behind us, and there was no pursuit.

Kanezaki pulled over. I removed the fake plates and we set out again.

We kept driving. Naftali called again. Still all clear.

It looked like we were going to make it. I pulled off the hat and shades and patted Dox’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”

“I feel like shit.”

He looked it, too. He was pale and he was having trouble breathing. Adrenaline was probably masking a lot of his pain, but that wasn’t going to last much longer. I knew Kanezaki had morphine in the medical kit. I got out a syringe and gave Dox a hit.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Oo-rah,” he said. “John Rain, my angel of mercy.”

I laughed.

“Who’s driving this thing, anyway?” he said.

“It’s me, Dox,” Kanezaki called from up front. “Tom.”

“Good to have you here, man,” Dox said, his voice a little stronger now, rallying from the morphine. “I’d shake your hand and thank you properly, but I’m a little laid up at the moment. And who’s this?”

Boaz pulled off the hat, wig, and shades. “Boaz,” he said.

Dox held up his hand and Boaz shook it.

“I didn’t know John had other friends,” Dox said, the words slurring slightly. “I thought I was his only one.”

Boaz smiled. “I guess that’s why he wanted to get you off that boat so much.”

“My skin’s starting to hurt,” Dox said. “What did you guys use, some kind of millimeter wave device?”

“Am I the only one who’s never heard of these things?” I said, and heard Kanezaki laugh.

“Sorry,” Boaz said. “Calibrating the waves isn’t an exact science. You probably have first-degree burns, maybe second.”

Dox laughed, grimacing as he did so. “Jesus Christ, you think I give a rat’s ass about a sunburn? Uncle Fester back there was fixing to decapitate Nessie.”

Kanezaki glanced back. “Nessie?”

“Please don’t ask him,” I said.

“If you’d shown up ten seconds later, I’d be singing in a girl’s choir somewhere, I’ll tell you that,” he said, laughing and grimacing harder. “Goddamn, I’m telling you, that was a near, near thing.”

Then his voice cracked. “I…ah, fuck, this is embarrassing,” he said. “I really thought I was dead, though, I…ah, fuck.”

He lay there, gritting his teeth and shaking, and the tears rolled silently down his face. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead,” I said. “Get it out.”