Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) (37 page)

She didn’t like her odds hiding. The shootings would be the biggest news to hit the island in years, so even the normally relaxed locals would be scared, shocked, and on high alert. And once they put her identity together with the bodies at the café…

Her picture would be everywhere. All the authorities had was her passport photo, which now looked almost nothing like her – in the picture, she had shorter auburn hair parted on the side, with blond highlights along the front, whereas now it was her natural black color and three years longer – but she could only change her face so much.

She was going to have to find a boat.

Several marinas dotted the stretch of shore nearest Venezuela, just west of Port of Spain. The good news was that the whole town went a little crazy during Carnival so security was likely to be lax. Anyone working would be wishing they had the night off so they could enjoy the show, not watching for boat thieves.

She fished the feathered mask out of her purse and donned it, then glided back into the mass of partyers, this time just another anonymous merrymaker enjoying the festivities. The volume of the music had increased, as had the beat, the intensity matching the growing atmosphere of capricious mayhem that was spilling onto the streets. A woman in a beaded dress wearing an elaborate headdress danced by, her hips performing impossible undulations to the island rhythms, while a group of younger girls giggled as they watched a trio of tough-looking teens eyeing them from the other side of the road.

A hand nudged her purse, and she grabbed it, simultaneously twisting as she flicked open her butterfly knife. A wide-eyed islander found himself with the razor-sharp blade at his throat; the heavy scent of fear and sweat and coconut rum assaulted her with each of his panicked exhalations. He backed off, hands raised, muttering that it was a mistake.

Maya lowered the knife and flipped it closed with a lightning motion. Petty thieves were a constant during street festivals like this. She’d have to be more careful. She’d been so busy formulating her plan and watching for potential killers – she hadn’t factored in the local predatory hazards. That couldn’t happen again.

Several streets from the main drag, she flagged down a taxi and told the surly driver to take her to the marina by the yacht club. He grunted assent and crunched the old car into gear, growling a fee that was double what it should have been. She didn’t complain. The marina was in one of the ritzier neighborhoods, and he probably felt there should be a premium.

As he dropped her off a quarter block from the empty parking lot, a warm breeze was wafting from Venezuela, less than twenty miles away. It smelled of the sea and heavy jungle, the vegetation blending with the salt air in a way unique to that stretch of coast. Down at the water, the powerboats rocked gently at the docks, pulling lazily on their creaking lines. The yacht club itself was dark, closed for the night.

A security guard lounged on a folding chair near the main gate, laughing with a woman who was telling a story in the distinctive island patois, its musical lilt as distinctive as a primary color. A tinny, calypso rhythm refrained from a portable stereo near the guard shack, the light wind seasoned with the pungent scent of marijuana.

The woman took a swig from a bottle and passed it to the uniformed man, who made an unintelligible comment, laughed, and drank deep. This encounter obviously had a destination before the evening was over, and Maya guessed that the couple would either retreat to the security room for a little privacy, or move to a vacant boat. Such things were not unknown to happen when the trade winds blew.

She checked the time impatiently, resigned herself to waiting, and retreated into a dark recess where she could keep an eye on them.

A disgruntled gull shot her a glum look, annoyed at having its roost intruded on by her presence, and then stalked away before taking up position near a boulder by the shore. Other than the din floating in from the town’s nightlife and the pulsing steel drums on the radio, the water was quiet, and she could make out lights of a few slow-moving sailboats coming in to a nearby bay to anchor.

Forty minutes later, Maya’s chance came in the form of an empty bottle. The guard took his companion by the hand and pulled her towards the security office, her resistance purely obligatory judging by the speed with which her objections turned into peals of inebriated laughter. The door slammed shut, and within a few long moments, the blinds dropped and the lights went out.

Maya didn’t wait to time the couple. She sidled past the office window, crouched out of sight, then made her way down to the main dock entrance. Finding it locked, she climbed around the barbed wire mounted to the sides of the gate, swinging easily past the barricade.

At the mooring closest to the breakwater, she found what she was hoping for – a well-maintained thirty-two-foot Intrepid sports cruiser with a pair of big Mercury outboard motors. It was low to the water and looked fast, used as a dive boat, judging by the equipment on board – tank racks, plentiful rear deck area and decent electronics. She ducked under the center console and located the ignition wires. After a couple of tries, the engines burbled to life.

She moved carefully around the deck, untying the lines, and within ninety seconds was pulling out of the marina. A yell followed her from the shore, and Maya hastily looked back at the main building. The guard was running towards the gate, his shirt hanging open and one hand holding up his pants, the other gesticulating wildly. She’d hoped that the sound of the engines wouldn’t alert him, but apparently that wasn’t to be the case, which meant she’d need to run flat-out in order to outrun the patrol boats that cruised the channel day and night.

Maya powered the radio on and, once clear of the breakwater, eased the throttles open. The boat leapt forward, eagerly slicing through the gentle rolling swells. She didn’t illuminate the running lamps, preferring to pilot using only the glow of the moon. She could just make out the distant shore of Venezuela, and didn’t think she’d need much else.

A few minutes later, the radio crackled to life, and she heard the alert go out to the police boats. After a brief pause, one responded and gave his location as only two miles east of the marina. She leaned against the wheel and pushed the throttles three-quarters forward and watched as the speed gauge blew through forty knots, the motors roaring like a jet on takeoff. Scanning the instruments, she fiddled with the radar, and after a few flickers, the small screen glowed green. She punched buttons, increasing the range to eight miles. The boats on the water lit up as blips, one of which was moving directly towards her.

She looked over her shoulder and spotted the flashing lights of a patrol boat in the distance off her port side. A quick glance at the radar and an adjustment confirmed she was now hurtling towards Venezuela at roughly forty-three knots. The likelihood was slim that whatever the police boat had under the hood would be able to overtake her. The only real problem she could think of would be if the Venezuelan navy had a ship in the area and sent it to intercept her, or if the police could get a helicopter scrambled in the next twenty minutes – doubtful at such a late hour and with the island on holiday footing.

The radio blared a burst of static, and a deep baritone voice came over the channel.

“Attention. Stolen boat
Courvoisier
. This is the Trinidad police. We have you on radar. Shut down your engines. Now. Repeat. Shut down your engines. We are armed and will fire if you don’t immediately comply.”

They were probably broadcasting across all channels.

But what were the chances they would shoot?
Not very high, she decided. That had probably been a bluff. Besides, at a range of almost a mile and a half, there was little likelihood they would be able to hit anything, even if they had a fifty-caliber machine gun onboard. She knew from experience that their effective range was seventeen hundred yards – about one mile. At two thousand yards, accuracy dropped off. Past that and, while it might still be dangerous at over three thousand yards, there was slim chance of hitting much at night from a moving boat shooting at another fast-moving target – especially in a relatively crowded sea lane.

A metallic voice hailed over the water on the patrol craft’s public address system. She could barely make it out over the engines. It repeated the same message, warning her to stop or they would fire at her. She peered at the radar and saw another blip heading towards her from the northwest, coming from La Retraite. No doubt a second patrol boat. Two miles away.

The radio and loudspeaker message sounded again, and she goosed the throttle more. Forty-four knots. No way would the patrol boats be able to catch up to her at that speed.

The water fifty yards in front of her boiled where a burst of fifty-caliber rounds struck its surface, and she heard the rapid-fire booming of the big gun in the distance.

So much for not shooting
. That was a warning shot. But the next one might not be.

The police were no doubt in panic mode as calls reporting the shootings had poured in. On a relatively peaceful island like Trinidad, the unprecedented violence had to have unnerved them.

She slammed the throttles all the way forward, and the speed gauge climbed to fifty knots. The water was nearly flat because the island sheltered the shipping lane so she had no problems, but she knew that could end at any time. She cranked the wheel to starboard and cut west, moving towards a slow-cruising sailboat an eighth of a mile away. She could dodge between the boats and the nearby islands until the gun was completely out of range. At fifty knots, she figured that would take five minutes, tops.

The radio warned that the shots across her bow would not be repeated – the next ones would be aimed directly at her. She reached over and turned the volume down.

The Intrepid streaked past the sailboat, and she adjusted her course again, putting the meandering vessel between her and the first patrol boat. The second one was moving somewhat slower and was farther away, so posed no threat, unlike the one with the trigger-happy shooter aboard.

Up ahead loomed a larger ship – commercial judging by its size. She again cut dangerously close without letting up on speed and saw that it was a private motor yacht, at least a hundred feet long. That would provide even more effective cover.

Now the speedo read fifty-one knots. The engines were redlining, but the temp gauges looked okay, so she kept the throttles firewalled.

There was no more shooting. Her strategy had worked. Cooler heads had prevailed, and the proximity of other craft had acted as a disincentive. Nobody wanted to be the one to blow a bystander’s head off to recover a stolen boat, no matter how excited they were in the heat of the moment.

Watching the blip that represented the patrol boat, she saw that she was pulling steadily away from it and now had almost two and a half miles of distance. She estimated that the pursuit craft was topping out at just under forty knots, which was still very fast, but no match for hers. The second patrol boat appeared to be moving at around thirty-six knots, so either it had a dirty bottom, or different props, or full tanks. Whatever the case, neither would be able to get close enough to pose any further threat. At her current speed, she would be off the Venezuelan coast within no more than ten minutes, and there was a better than good chance that the Trinidad patrol boats would abandon the chase once she was in Venezuelan waters – no one would want an international incident over a stolen pleasure cruiser.

She engaged the autopilot and felt the steering stiffen. The system was intuitive – on and off buttons, with a dial to set direction. Another glance at the radar told her there was now nothing between her and Venezuela, so she moved forward and blew the cuddy cabin lock off with her pistol. Inside, she ferreted around for a few minutes, and then emerged with a dive bag in her hand.

To her surprise, the patrol boat kept coming. Worse, when she panned the radar out to sixteen miles, she saw that a large shape was steaming towards her from Venezuelan territory, approaching from the south. It didn’t look like it would get close in time to stop her, but the water was getting too crowded for her liking, and if it was a navy ship, it could well fire on her from a considerable range with its deck guns, and she’d be a sitting duck.

After entering the channel between Isla de Patos and the Venezuelan mainland, she slowed the boat to fifteen knots and emptied her backpack. She hated to leave her weapons, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to be searched in Venezuela and have to explain a machine gun. She took her shoes off and put them into the bag, wedged with the money, documents and GPS, and sealed it carefully. After one more glance at the patrol boat in the distance, she slipped her arms through the backpack straps and opened the bilge hatches. Two emergency five-gallon gas tanks sat strapped in place on the deck. She took one and emptied it into the bilge. The stink of raw fuel filled the cockpit as she moved to the radio and lifted the microphone to her mouth, shifting her voice an octave lower than her normal speaking range, holding it away from her mouth so the engines would further garble the sound. With any luck, it would sound like a panicked young man.

“Mayday. Mayday. My gas tank is leaking. A bullet must have punctured it. Oh my God…”

She dropped the mike onto the deck and switched the radio off. Then, gauging her timing, she pulled the pins on both the grenades, dropped them into the bilge, and then dived off the transom into the wake, the swimming fins and snorkel she’d found below clenched firmly in her good hand.

The Intrepid continued for sixty yards and then exploded in a fireball, lighting up the night as the remaining fuel detonated. Maya felt a surge of heat on her face. She pulled on the swim fins and put the snorkel in her mouth as she watched the crippled boat burn to the waterline and sink into the depths.

Her hand stung from the salt water, as did her shoulder – nothing she couldn’t handle, and in March, the sea temperature was in the low eighties, which was ideal. She quickly guesstimated that she would need to swim six miles to get to shore. With the fins, and in no particular hurry, she could do that standing on her head.