Blood List (11 page)

I knew we shouldn't have wired him for COM,
thought Gene. "Do you have visual confirmation of the target, three?"

"No, one. Someone's up there, but we can't tell who."

Something glinted in the sunlight in Paul's peripheral vision. A lens flashed from the bucket of the PG&E cherry-picker. Binoculars! Looking right at him.

Ah, shit. Setup.

Paul dropped the rifle and rolled off the roof. His body tensed as he fell to the wooden deck twelve feet below. A pair of servers on their cigarette break jumped in alarm when he landed in front of them. They were still gawking when he disabled their voice boxes with a pair of stiff-fingered strikes to the throat.

Marty heard Adkinson's sniper curse through the COM. "Gig's up! He made me!"

Marty bolted from the van, running for all he was worth toward the clubhouse. "DOUG! HE'S ALL YOURS!" he heard Gene scream into the COM, all sense of stealth obliterated. Two cars full of well-armed and highly trained FBI agents screeched onto the curb behind him. Men spilled out and broke into a run, rapidly catching up to the larger but slower Palomini.

The sound of assault rifles cocking was music to Marty's ears.
Maybe we'll get to kill this motherfucker instead of arresting him,
he thought with grim anticipation. Senior citizens cowered on the sidewalk. They dove to the ground from their café tables as fast as their old bodies would propel them.

The older Palomini slammed through the front door while Mathis' assault squad surrounded the building. Shouts of "Clear!" rang over the COM as they searched the rooms. Two civilians—service staff—were reported down but conscious. They couldn't speak yet, but both pointed into the clubhouse.

Within two minutes they'd searched every room but the pantry. Marty, machine gun held ready, sidled up to the door as Doug reached a massive hand toward the brass knob. Marty listened at the door and heard nothing. He stepped back, re-readied his weapon in both hands, then nodded. Doug opened the door and Marty charged in, Doug right behind him.

Shelves filled the room, packed with every non-perishable foodstuff imaginable: canned vegetables and soup starters, bags of flour and sugar, boxes of pasta, bags of potatoes, and a complete lack of killers that needed killing. "FUCKING CLEAR, GODDAMN IT!" Marty bellowed into the COM. He barely restrained himself from upending a shelf of canned goods. He took a deep breath, then said in a calmer voice, "He ain't in here, Gene."

*   *   *

January 6th, 3:32 PM PST; Shady Grove retirement community; San Diego, California.

Gene exhaled for the first time in forever. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, and his lungs hurt. He got out of the van. He scanned the area for anyone, anything out of the ordinary, anything that might indicate where Paul Renner had gone. His eyes caught the shed on the edge of the golf course where two of Miller's squad guarded the service tunnel that led from the clubhouse. The door stood ajar.

He jogged in that direction and spoke into his COM. "Five, one, what's your twenty, over?" In civilian speak: 
Hey, guys in the shack, this is Gene. What's going on?

No response. He tried again, speaking clearly in case of interference.

"Five, this is one. What's your status, over?"

Nothing.

"FIVE, REPORT!"

Nothing.

He broke into a run and heard Sam in his ear. "No response on five, Gene. They last checked in four minutes ago, just after Renner was spotted by three."

Agent Mathis chimed in, "We just got confirmation from the service guys. The guy on the roof matches Renner's description. Suspect is wearing a groundskeeper's uniform, khaki shorts, and a green polo. Repeat, suspect's outfit is khaki shorts and a green, short-sleeved, collared shirt with
Shady Grove
embroidered on the front."

Gene stopped and looked around. Just across the property, not two hundred feet away, a man of average build and average height walked unhurriedly toward the yacht club and the beach, directly away from the maintenance shack. He had short-cropped black hair and wore khaki shorts and a green polo. Gene broke into a run. "Got him, got him, got him, headed west! Backup!" He kept his voice low and tried to maneuver behind the man to keep from being spotted.

Paul Renner broke into a run. Gene's pistol cleared its holster as he sprinted after him. His COM sprang to life.

Sam's voice was crisp and clear in his ear. "We have a foot pursuit moving down the boardwalk toward the Shady Grove Yacht Club. Request immediate helicopter assist."

A deep male voice Gene didn't recognize responded. "Air support is inbound." Gene hit the boardwalk and slid on the sandy wood, almost crashing into an elderly couple enjoying their ice-cream cones. He closed on Renner, but not fast enough. The boardwalk stretched a half mile along the ocean, and it looked like the assassin knew where he was going.

Sam continued in his ear, "All units respond to the Shady Grove boardwalk. Agent in pursuit of suspect considered armed and extremely dangerous." A gray-bearded man in a loud Hawaiian shirt noticed the foot-chase and tackled Renner as he went past. They went down with a crash onto the boards and slid a good eight feet before Renner regained his feet, scrambling away. Now he was less than fifty feet ahead, and Gene saw where he was going.

Agent Miller's voice rang out in his ear. "Jesus. Agents down! Get an ambulance up here, now! Agents down!"

Gene replied breathlessly, "Pier! Pier! Maybe a boat!" Sure enough, just ahead Paul Renner broke right and ran down the pier. Gene lost sight of him amid the crab-shacks and tourist-trap souvenir stands but heard the heavy footsteps as they reverberated on the boards.

Sam replied in his ear, "This is the FBI requesting immediate Coast Guard support. Suspect is a white male, thirties, bl–" Gene slammed full-force into a white-haired woman with a walker. The aluminum frame tangled in his feet and sent him sprawling to the ground. His pistol scattered across the pier and into the water. The boards dug slivers deep into his palms. He scrambled to his feet and took off down the pier.

The crowd was thicker here. Renner pushed people out of the way and shouldered his way to the end of the pier. This partially cleared the crowd for Gene, so the FBI agent had the advantage. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten. A burst of adrenaline brought Gene forward just as Paul Renner dove toward the water fifteen feet below. As Paul cleared the wooden planking, he hooked a rope to the safety fencing, then held on with both hands.

In mid-dive, Gene slammed into him. Gene's Kevlar vest took the bulk of the impact, and Paul Renner grunted in pain as they sailed out over the water. Renner held onto the rope, and they switched direction, swinging in under the pier, where he let go. They fell. Gene saw the deck of a speedboat rushing toward their entangled bodies.

The impact blasted the air from his lungs, but Renner took the worst of it. All two-hundred-twenty pounds of agent and gear slammed Renner into the deck. Even so, the man recovered quickly and rolled to his feet. The killer had apparently avoided breaking anything. Gene wasn't sure he was so lucky, given the sudden, sharp pain in his right ankle.

Gene stood and lifted his fists. Renner kicked him in the chest. He stumbled backward, favoring his good leg and trying not to pitch overboard. Renner moved with blinding speed and danced on his feet in the rocking boat. Gene knew he was in deep trouble, with the Kevlar vest hindering his mobility. But he'd fought small, good guys before; he could take one hell of a beating and dish out a lot more. He kept his head and spoke into the COM. "Under the pier, two-thirds down."

Paul Renner smiled and circled, looking for an opening against the injured agent. His voice was calm, his breathing steady. He tapped his ear and his grin widened. "Who you talking to, Agent Palomini?"

Gene reached up and touched his ear. His ear bead wasn't there.
That's not g
–
Renner's knuckles crashed into his nose. Blood sprayed across his face, but he took the punch and wrapped with his arms, crushing Paul Renner in a vise-like bear hug. Renner punched at his abdomen viciously, hitting the areas that were least protected by the Kevlar vest. Gene ignored the pain and squeezed harder. He felt rather than heard a rib shift, then crack. Fists rained down like a rockslide, and his entire body burned. He squeezed harder, trying to crush the life out of the killer. Another rib cracked. Renner gasped in pain.

Renner stomped on Gene's injured foot. The FBI agent's strength left him as pain shot up his leg. He stumbled to one knee and was rewarded with a snap-kick to the face. He rolled with it, and through bloody eyes saw a harpoon gun on the deck just a few feet away. He scrambled across the deck and almost had it when Renner stomped on his fingers. He barely managed to flatten his hand before the shoe slammed down. The agony threatened to overwhelm him. He pulled his hand in, and suffered another kick to the face for his efforts. This time his nose broke, and he saw stars.

Gene tried to shake off a delirious haze.
Get up or get beaten to death
. He could barely see. He tried to stumble to his feet, and Renner clubbed him across the back with something heavy and wooden. He fell back to his knees. Another swing clipped him across the back of the head, but he managed to turn the blow with the meat of his wrist. He stumbled to the side of the boat, trying to get overboard.

Renner smashed the stock of the harpoon gun into Gene's ankles. Gene went down again, hitting his head on the aluminum railing on the side of the boat. He fought to stay conscious. The world blurred. He wasn't sure where he was. Sound distorted, as if he were under water. He had to get up, had to move, but his body wouldn't respond. He wanted to fight but mumbled instead.

Something dragged him, half-crawling, to the stern of the boat. He tried to swat at whatever had him, but his arms wouldn't respond. Knees on his back forced him to his belly, and his head went under water.

He tried not to breathe; he tried to roll over. His fingernails scrabbled across the wooden deck for support, but found nothing to hold on to. He tore into the hands that held him, trying to detach the insane grip. There was no mercy in them, and they didn't move. Blood streaked through the water. Knees dug into his back, and his legs wouldn't respond. At last his body could take no more.

He breathed in.

Paul Renner frowned at the body beneath him. He'd never drowned anyone before. It was just a mean thing to do, but he couldn't trust that he could take a man as big as Gene Palomini in anything approaching a fair fight. Every breath brought searing agony and if Palomini didn't bite his nails, Paul's hands would be tatters. He didn't let the pain touch him. He drifted to that blank place where his mind lived at the moment of a kill and held Gene's head down with both hands.

He shook his head as the big man's struggle faded. After a few more seconds, Gene's pathetic struggles weakened further. A few more and they stopped altogether.

Twenty seconds later a maroon speedboat shot from under the dock and into open water. In seconds it skimmed the water at close to one hundred nautical miles per hour. Behind it a helicopter closed in, screaming out to sea from several miles inland. Ahead of the boat, the Coast Guard cut it off.

The cutter hailed the boat, but got no response. Faced with no real choice, Captain John Ash ordered the ship to fire. The tripod-mounted heavy machine gun obliterated the boat's engine, bringing it to rest almost two miles out. The FBI helicopter caught up and circled overhead. Before agents could rappel down and search the boat, it exploded.

The chopper veered left to avoid the rising fireball. Shrapnel pinged off the fuselage. Captain Ash ordered lifeboats deployed, though he knew no one could survive a blast of that magnitude.

Marty heard the blast from the country club. He stared numbly at the rising fireball. He spoke into his COM. "Gene?" Gene didn't reply.

He tried again. "Sam? What the fuck was that?"

Her voice was soft. "Marty, that was Renner's getaway boat. We had him surrounded. It almost took out the helicopter."

His voice was thick as he replied. "Gene?"

Sam replied. "Witnesses saw him tackle Renner onto the boat."

Marty forced out the words. "But where is he now?"

"Dive teams are en route, Marty."

Under the dock, Paul Renner tossed the remote control and the detonator overboard. He paddled the small sailboat into the harbor, ignoring the pain in his chest as he unfurled the sail. The beach was crowded, both in and out of the water, and despite the odd excitement, people were enjoying the beautiful southern California weather.

Paul lay back and let the sun warm his face and chest. Every breath hurt, but it was tolerable. A new wig crowned his head with long, blond, surfer-dude hair, and light blue contacts changed his eye color. A few hours sunbathing while the feds combed the area, and then he'd be headed home, or what passed as home these days.
Not a bad way to spend an afternoon, given the way the day almost went. Not bad at all.
He closed his eyes and smiled.

January 6th, 5:53 PM PST; Unknown location; San Diego, California.

Gene knew he was conscious by the dim haze of red-filtered light. He sucked air into his lungs, then performed a mental checklist of body parts.
No torso wounds, right ankle hurts, not broken. Left foot hurts like heck, might be broken. Nose feels as big as a grapefruit. Hands tied, feet tied, and there's something over my head.
A quick strain at his bonds brought pain.
Wire.

He explored his options. His chair wouldn't budge. Any serious struggling would cause the wire to slice into his flesh. He didn't know how long he'd been under, and he didn't know where he was. It was deathly quiet. His heart hammered in his chest as claustrophobia crept in.