Warriors (16 page)

“How’d they nail him?” Sharkey said.

“They tracked him, Luis, like I just told you. He finally ran aground just outside Government Cut. Some weekend scuba club from Coral Gables found him by sheer accident. I mean, fuck me all to hell. Raise the
Titanic,
right? Jesus H. I mean, cheaper to lower the Atlantic; never know what you’ll find down there.”

“This guy, your friend Hi Lo, you say he is from my country, from Cuba, Señor Brock?” Shark said.

“Oh, excuse me, Sharkey, didn’t see you over there in the dark. Lighting in here sucks, right? Sharkey, my brother, this here is Hi Lo. Hi Lo, you little fuckwad, say hello to the Sharkbait here. Baddest one-armed hombre north of Ramrod Key.”

This wasn’t Harry’s idea of good manners or common courtesy, and Sharkey understood that. He knew the man. Just Harry’s idea of trying to be funny, showing off, riffing his shit for Stokely and a good-looking waitress serving at the next table.

“Hi, Hi,” Sharkey said to the Chinese guy, being funny himself.

“What he say me? Hi? Hi?” Hi Lo said.

“Just saying hello to you,” Brock said to him. “Get it? Hi, Hi. That’s funny. In our country, I mean. Shark, seriously, man. Since when did you get funny?”

“Since I got married.”

Brock laughed.

“Now he’s married, he’s a stand-up comedian, huh, this guy?” Harry said, looking over at Stoke, shaking his head in disbelief. “Right?”

Stoke said, “Harry, shut up.”

“Why?”

“We don’t have time, for one thing. How far south is that damn gunrunner’s yacht? Gotta be moving up into lower Biscayne Bay by now.”

Harry pulled out his cell and tapped a couple of keys.

“Thirty, thirty-five nautical miles out, moving at seven knots, north-northeast up Biscayne Bay from Ocean Reef Club at Key Largo. I got a sat track app on my iPhone. GPS, see? Key West radar blimp is tracking them, too. So is the USCG cutter
Vigorous
. The CG skipper and I have been yakking on our cells all day. He’s going to give me a shout when it’s time for us to motor out there for a meet and greet, okay? But of course you know that.”

“What I know is you could have given me a shout to say you’d be an hour late.”

“Stoke, cut me some slack here, man. I spent all afternoon chasing this little prick through the Everglades. Didn’t really have time to chat, okay? And by the way? He’s a biter, for fuck’s sake. He bit me! Look at my hand. Broke the skin! Little dude would bite a sick bat if he thought he could get his hands on one. Look at the little shithead’s teeth, man, he files them down. They’re like Ginsu knives!”

“Calm down, Harry,” Stoke said.

“Reason I’m late? Had to stop by Miami Dade ER for a rabies shot.”

“Harry. No. Stop.”

Harry couldn’t stop. “But wait! Order now and he’ll shove a complete set of serrated shivs up your ass. Okay? This is what I’ve been dealing with all day. Seriously.”

Stoke sat back in his chair, watched the lazy ceiling fan whirl a moment, quiet, within himself, just sort of exuding cool for a minute.

Then he said, “Is there any particular reason you thought it was wise, or even vaguely appropriate, to bring this Oriental gentleman to a private party?”

Harry leaned forward, his elbows sliding across the beer-slick table.

“Yeah, Stoke. Uh-huh. There is a reason, as a matter of fact. A great reason. This megayacht we’re taking down tonight,
Jade
? The one we’re intercepting on behalf of the agency? My agency? Your client? Well, as it turns out, whoever painted the hailing port on her transom is a very shitty speller. Instead of C-A-R-A-C-A-S? He should have spelled it S-H-A-N-G-H-A-I.”

“What?” Stoke said, lasered in.

“You heard me.
Jade
? Ain’t a Venezuelan vessel after all, Stoke. No. What it is, it’s a goddamn private Chinese megayacht out of Shanghai! So, call me crazy, but it follows that the Sharkman here, much as I love him, would make a very shitty translator tonight. You know, when it comes down to nut-cutting time communicating with the Chinese crew on board that gun-running gutbucket? Okay? Get my point much? Jesus Christ, Stoke, gimme a little credit here.”

Stoke was nodding his head.

“You’re absolutely right, Harry. Shark’s Chinese sucks. I’m sorry, man. My bad.”

“Forget it. Hi Lo will handle it. I made him some monetary promises, okay. Let’s move on. Want another ice-cold Cherry Coke, Stoke? How ’bout you, Sharker? Beer? Bacardi? Tequila Mockingbird? Name it.”

Shark shook his head no. The little guy was wound up pretty tight tonight. He actually did want a Gran Patrón badly, but he didn’t drink on the job. Even when the boss wasn’t looking.

Stoke said, “We’re good. Have a beer, Harry; we won’t tell the brass at Langley. Promise.”

“Brass can kiss my ass,” Harry said, and meant it.

Brock whistled and flagged a waitress, a cute little redheaded home wrecker who seemed to recognize him. “Hell-o, J-Lo,” he said.

She flinched when Harry put his hand on her beauteous J-Lo ass before Stoke reached over and chivalrously removed it for her.

Harry glared at Stoke and said, “I will have one double-XL order of extra jalapeño, extra hot wings, extra spicy. And one long tall Sally, an ice-cold draft Bud, little darlin’.”

“Coming up,” she said, showing a little extra cleavage.

Harry said, “J-Lo, say hello to Hi Lo. Maybe you two are related.”

“Harry, for God’s sake,” Stoke said.

“What? We got ourselves a little Lo family reunion right here! Hi Lo, speak up, name your poison, podner. Sake martini? No, no, wait, sake, that’s Japan, isn’t it? That whole warm sake thing. Wrong country entirely. Man, I’m sorry, little guy. No offense intended.”

“I no talk to you,” the little guy said. He crossed his arms, pursed his lips out, and stared up at the ceiling fan.

“Is that it?” J-Lo asked.

“You ever married?” Stoke asked the cute waitress. “I only ask because my friend Harry here is currently out shopping for a new wife.”

“Sorry. Married,” she said, cocking a hip.

“What?” Harry said, his head swiveling around. “You never said you were married, baby.”

“Right. Married. But not now. I was married. Just once,” she said, cocking the other hip for action and taking a quick swig of somebody else’s frosty from her tray.

“You were married? What happened?” Brock said.

“Oh, that. Well, see, we were both suffering from depression for a while. Got pretty bad there. My husband and I were going to commit suicide on our first anniversary. Made a pact. But strangely enough, once Gordon, I think that was his name, killed himself, I started to feel a little better. A whole lot better. So I thought, ‘You know what? Fuck it; soldier on, girl!’ ”

She spun on her broken heel and marched away.

“Attagirl!” Stoke said, all three of them transfixed by that mesmerizing booty, boom-shocka-booming itself on back to the bar like a live animal suddenly uncaged.

“Damn,” Harry said wistfully, and there was really nothing else to say.

“Bathroom,” the interpreter suddenly interjected.

Harry spun on him. “See? Okay. Here we go again with the bathroom. It never ends. No way, pal. Not happening.”

“Yes! Shit pants!”

“I said, no. Hold it. Sit your ass back down! I ain’t letting you out of my sight again, kemosabe. And I sure as hell ain’t going anywhere near that filthy shitbox back there with you. Everywhere this guy goes is crazy-town, I swear to God.”

“Got to go! I sick.”

“Yeah, yeah, sick, I know,” Harry said, “the Diarrhea Kid rides again. Sick, he says.”

“Don’t be such a hard-ass, Harry,” Stoke said. “Man’s gotta go, he’s gotta go. There’s no windows in that head back there. He isn’t going anywhere on us.”

Sharkey stood up and said, “I’ll watch the door while he’s in there, boss. I don’t think he’s kidding. Look at his face, man. He looks green.”

Brock said, “Right, Sharkey. He does look green. Know why? That’s because this light on the table? Green.”

“Harry,” Stoke said. “Stop. Don’t even start.” He clenched Brock’s forearm with one of the juice extractors he called his fists and squeezed.

“Awright,” Brock said. “Stick his ass in there and stay right by the door, Shark. He’s got five minutes and then we’re out of here. Got a late date with a Shanghai lady named
Jade
.”

Luis took the guy’s arm, lifted him up, and walked him back down the short dark hall to the men’s john. It had “Buoys” in faded red paint on the door. “Gulls” on the door right next to it. What passed for humor around here.

Harry called out, “Hey, Shark, don’t you dare go in there with that lit cigarette. Gas explosion will blow us all sky-high. Take out half downtown Miami Beach.”

Shark threw the butt on the floor and stamped it out.

“I was only kidding,” Harry said to Stoke, “but better safe than sorry. Guy is lethal.”

His hot wings came and he dug right in. Harry always ate like he was in an eating contest, trying to shave minutes and seconds off the Wing-Eaters World Record.

Stoke leaned across the table toward him and said quietly, “Harry. Any idea what the agency expects us to find on board this damn yacht?
Jade
?”

“Weapons out of China and North Korea by way of Venezuela, that’s all I know. Guns, missiles, nukes, who knows? You thought the late, unlamented Venezuelan presidente Señor Hugo Chávez was a bad actor? The new guy down there makes Stalin look like a fascist. CIA station in Caracas set this up. They have this whole intercept op locked down. Anything China related is politically sensitive at the White House. You can’t even say the word ‘firecracker’ around there out loud, less somebody chews your ass.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Then there’s the whole North Korean threat. Babyface Kim says he’s going to nuke Seoul, Hawaii, Guam, D.C., Austin, Texas? That whole incident, those dead U.S. Navy kids on a CIA surveillance vessel in the East China Sea and all that? Well. There you go.”

“The North Koreans are way the hell out of control right now, Harry. Why is that?”

“All about the real deal between China and the NKs, brother. With the Pac-Man.”

“Pac-Man?”

“That’s what we call the new North Korean Dear Leader. Little Kim Jr., I mean. You ever seen this cat in action? Chomp-chomp, wokka-wokka-wokka. Pac-Man, right, spitting image. Seriously. Anyway, China? They’re just using that chubby little Pyongyang dipshit and his crayon-shaped nukes as a distraction. Keep us focused on something else while they do their real dirty work somewhere else in the world.”

“Like what? Like where?”

“Here? L.A.? D.C.? Lots of Internet chat lately about hijacked high-tech U.S. weapons systems. Weird shit, some of it. Star Wars shit. Then you got some big Asia conference coming up in Hong Kong. A whole lot of shit going down now between the White House and the Forbidden City boys in the run-up to that little picnic. A delicate moment in history, Stoke. That’s why we’re boarding
Jade
instead of the Coasties from
Vigorous
. If we’re wrong about what she’s got aboard? Bad intel, and the Coasties have to take the rap? This would be a real bad week for another international incident, apparently.”

“Weapons headed where?”

“Here, amigo. The good old U.S. of A. Some fuckin’ terrorist group based in a mosque near Princeton, New Jersey, of all places is on the receiving end. The imam there is a guy named Zawahiri. We been watching this cat like forever. First time he’s made a dumb move. Last time he’ll make any moves at all, believe me. This is good, Stoke. Real good stuff, if we can nail it down tonight.”

“Yeah. But why the hell is China selling weapons to al-Qaeda? They got a dog in that fight, too?”

“Beats the crap out of me. But they’ll sell shit to anyone, especially enemies of Uncle Sam. You don’t think Beijing and Tehran are in bed together, brother? Think again. Beijing’s going down a long bad road, man, I’ll tell ya. They are screwing with the wrong president. Beijing thinks Rosow is just a pale copy of his predecessor? Wrong. I hear that Rosow’s lying low in the weeds to lull them to sleep. That he is a badass at heart just itching for a good global excuse to kick China’s butts back to pre-nineteenth-century reality. You watch him when it heats up.”

“He’s been in there five minutes,” Stoke said. “Go get him outta there.”

“Sharkey!” Harry called out. “Go get his sorry ass off the john. We gotta go. Now.”

Luis rapped on the door.

“Time’s up,” he said.

“On toilet!”

“Tell him shit or get off the pot,” Harry barked. “Seriously. We’re leaving. Right now.”

“No! Sick!”

Harry stood up. “Go in there and grab his ass, Shark. Fuck him. I’m sick of his shit. Literally.”

“Locked,” Luis said, twisting the knob. “He’s locked the door, Señor Brock.”

“Unbelievable. Sonofabitch, I knew it! Kick it in, Shark. Locks are crap in this dump.”

Sharkey kicked hard and the door splintered inward out of the jamb and off the hinges.

The first thing Luis noticed about the room was that there was no lethal stink at all. The second thing was that the Chinese interpreter was not in the stall where he was supposed to be. No. He was crouched in a shooter’s squat facing the door with his back against the filthy tiled wall.

He had his manacled hands extended straight out in front of him, gripping a small nickel-plated automatic pistol. Little dude was smiling up at him, like,
Hey, it’s a joke. Get it?

Luis had taken one step backward when Hi Lo fired, a popping noise reverberating off the tiled walls and floor, sparks coming out of the barrel. Sharkey’s eyes went wide with surprise as the round caught him high and hard in the chest. His knees gave out as he stumbled back and collapsed, his hands covering the hole in his slicker, back of his head hitting the hardwood floor with a loud crack.

Harry, his features contorted in fury, was first through the door. He hurdled over Sharkey’s bloodied and twitching body, his Glock 9 out front held in both hands. Stoke was only a half-step behind him when he heard Brock’s nine fire once, twice, three times, more, and then Harry crying out in rage and in pain as he emptied his weapon, screaming at the guy who’d shot Sharkey.