Piranha (15 page)

When Linc got the call from Eric, he and Eddie were approaching Ian Fleming International Airport, named to honor northeastern Jamaica's most famous resident. They were only a few miles away from the GoldenEye resort, Linc on his custom-built Harley and Eddie on a top-of-the-line model rented from Montego Bay's new dealer. The plan was to get a prime spot at the pool bar, consume a burger and a martini, shaken not stirred, and take in the view of both the oceanographic and bikini-clad varieties. Instead, they'd have to turn around and head straight back to the
Oregon
. But they first had to contend with the tail they'd picked up.

During the winding trip along the coast, they'd tested the limits of their bikes, dodging other drivers who paid only minimal attention to the rules of the road. It was a laid-back ride until they reached Ocho Rios, where two guys on a pair of Suzuki crotch rockets had fallen in behind them, careful to maintain a respectful distance. Instead of a T-shirt and shorts, each of them was wearing a black leather jacket that was far too heavy in this heat.

Linc and Eddie had spotted them almost immediately. It was certainly possible that they were simply motorcycle enthusiasts out for a nice jaunt like they were, but a little variation of speed confirmed that the Suzuki riders were mirroring their pace. Eric's call about the two run-ins with attackers made it clear that these tails would attempt to succeed where their colleagues had failed.

In this case, Linc thought the best defense was a good offense.

He voice-dialed Eddie. Both of them were equipped with cell phone earbuds under their helmets. Linc related the situation from Eric.

“That's what they get for underestimating Linda,” Eddie said.

“Now we have to figure out what to do with our two buddies behind us. What do you think they're planning?”

“If I were them, I'd make it clean and simple. They're probably waiting for us to stop. Double taps with pistols. Those bikes lend themselves to an easy getaway.”

“You think they know we're unarmed?”

“They're probably assuming it.”

“True, but uncertainty is our friend.”

“The sniper has to be making the same type of warning call to them that Eric gave us,” Eddie said. “Which means whatever they're planning is going to happen sooner rather than later.”

“What do you say we make it sooner than they think?”

“It sounds like you have an idea.”

As they passed the airport, Linc outlined his plan to Eddie. They couldn't simply outrun the gunmen. The Harleys were quick, but the Suzukis were faster and more nimble. Shooting from a moving bike was a challenge, but if their pursuers got close enough, all it would take was a couple of lucky shots to take down Linc and Eddie.

“I give it a fifty-fifty shot at working,” Linc said. Actually fifty-fifty might have been optimistic, but they didn't have many options.

“I'll take those odds when we're not even bringing knives to the gunfight.”

“The map showed a hairpin turn about a mile before the resort,” Linc said. “That'll be the best place to try this.”

“It's all in the execution.”

“When you put it that way, it doesn't sound so good.”

“Let me rephrase. It's all in the
implementation
.”

“Better.”

They kept pace behind a produce truck that was puttering along. The Suzukis stayed back a hundred yards, two cars behind them. No doubt the two riders were talking about advancing their timetable.

No matter what they had in mind, it wouldn't be soon enough. The hairpin was just ahead.

“Ready?” Linc asked.

“Ready.”

“Let's go.”

Linc gunned his bike and snapped around the produce truck with Eddie hot on his heels. They pulled in front of the truck just in time to avoid getting smashed by another semi heading in the opposite direction. They continued accelerating around the curve until the Suzukis disappeared in his rearview mirror.

With one hand, he flipped open his saddlebag and snatched up two chains that he used to lock up the wheels of his bike when he went riding in more unsavory ports of call.

Eddie nudged close enough to take one of the chains from Linc. Fifty yards from the end of the hairpin, they skidded to a stop and made a U-turn. Since Jamaica's roads were left-oriented like the British, Linc got into the left lane while Eddie drove along the right shoulder so he could wield the chain while keeping his hand on the bike's right-hand throttle. Linc would have the tougher task of whipping the chain over his head. He could feel his knuckles crack as his left hand gripped the end of the chain.

As they expected, the Suzukis barreled around the hairpin ready to give chase. The surprise of seeing their targets heading toward them provided enough hesitation. Their hands plunged into the jackets and came out with semiautomatics, but it was too late.

Eddie spun the chain around sideways like a lasso and let it fly right as the Suzuki was passing him. The chain caught on the front fender of the bike and wrapped itself around the spokes. The Suzuki launched its rider over the handlebars into the air, cartwheeling end over end before it landed on the screaming gunman, who went silent.

Linc twirled his chain over his head as he rode at his pursuer. The gunman got off two wild shots that missed their mark before Linc's chain smashed him in the helmet. The man's head snapped backward and he somersaulted off the bike, which kept going as if it had a phantom riding it before veering off into the trees.

Linc returned to his assailant. If possible, they needed to find out who was behind these attacks and how they had known exactly where everyone in the
Oregon
crew would be.

When he got to the gunman, he saw there would be no interrogation. His neck was bent at an impossible angle for a breathing human being. Linc jogged over to Eddie and found him kneeling over the other Suzuki rider. Eddie had removed the rider's helmet.

“Is he alive?” Linc asked.

“Not for long.”

Linc could see why. The Suzuki had crushed the man's stomach. The internal injuries had to be extensive.

“Who are you?” Eddie asked him.

The man spit back in French.

Linc looked at Eddie. “Do you know what he's saying?”

“I don't speak a word of French. But we'll find out.” He subtly glanced at his phone. The recording light was on. The gunman babbled for another twenty seconds, then coughed up blood and gurgled out a death sigh.

Traffic was slithering around the carnage, and crowds had started to gather.

“Let's get out of here,” Eddie said.

“I'd take the guns, but I don't think I want to explain how we got them if the police stop us.”

“Good point.”

Once they were on their Harleys and heading back toward Montego Bay, they called Eric.

“We got rid of our tail,” Eddie said matter-of-factly. “No casualties on our side.”

“Is everyone accounted for?” Linc asked.

“Mark's still trying to raise Juan and Max,” Eric said. “Linda and Julia just arrived at the dock. That leaves Hali, MacD, and Mike Trono.”

“Where are they?”

“Still at that bar on the Hip Strip. MacD texted me that they have a situation.”

MacD stood up from his table and staggered backward, knocking into his chair and pitching sideways until Hali Kasim and Mike Trono caught him. Neither of them seemed much better off. Shot glasses littered their table along with three beer bottles. They'd been ordering rounds of whiskey for the last twenty minutes, ever since they'd spotted the guy at the bar sneaking glances at them.

The Waterfront Bar & Grill was filled with tourists from the cruise ship, college students on spring break, and young couples on vacation. Some were watching basketball games and cricket matches on the TVs that festooned the walls of the bar, but most were enjoying the breeze coming in off the ocean, over drinks and burgers, watching the bathing beauties on the beach to one side and the foot traffic on the street to the other.

It wasn't a place frequented by the locals, so when MacD noticed a solo guy at the bar who seemed to be invested in a West Indies versus England cricket tilt, he assumed the man was a Jamaican there for the television. But during a couple of commercial breaks when the screen went dark, he saw the man watching their table in the screen's reflection.

The guy was obviously keeping tabs on the three of them, but they had no idea why until they received Eric's call. If they were targeted for assassination, taking them out inside the bar would be messy, leaving plenty of witnesses and making escape difficult. But if their attackers waited until they stepped outside, they could fire a few shots and get away quickly before anyone even knew what had happened.

Before they received the warning from Eric, they'd decided to have a little fun with the guy, in the event he was setting them up for some kind of scam. Every shot they took was followed by a slug of beer, and they got louder and more obnoxious with every round. But instead of swallowing the whiskey, they'd been spitting it into the half-empty beer bottles, an old barmaid's trick. The guy must have relayed the news to his buddies by now that their targets were completely sloshed.

What had started out as a lark was now deadly serious.

MacD headed to the bathroom, wobbling his way through the tables. The man at the bar was right in his path. MacD gripped the backs of the barstools as he passed, seemingly to steady himself. When he reached their observer, he misplaced his hand and pushed against the man's back instead.

The man instinctively whipped his head around at the disturbance. If MacD had been anyone else, the guy at the bar would certainly have yelled at him to watch his step. But since he was trying to keep a low profile, he said nothing.

“'Scuse me, pardner,” MacD slurred. “Ah didn't mean to knock you over.”

“Mwen pa konprann,”
the man replied. Then he added, “No English,” and went back to looking at the TV.

MacD's eyes went wide like he'd just met a long-lost cousin. He'd heard from Eric that the attackers might be Haitian and the man had said “I don't understand” in Creole. MacD, who'd grown up in Louisiana, had learned Creole and French from his grandfather, and many Haitians are bilingual. The Haitian and Louisianan versions of Creole have many similarities. MacD decided to catch him off guard.

“My friend,” MacD said in Creole, “you speak my language! Are you from Haiti?”

The guy, who certainly didn't expect MacD to speak his native tongue, stammered, “I . . . I'm trying to watch the television.”

“You
do
speak Creole! I'm from the bayous of Louisiana. That practically makes us related.”

“I should be going soon.” The Haitian nodded to the bartender for his bill.

MacD draped his arm around him. “Going? Now? Let me and my pals buy you a drink. What's your name?”

“I really have to be leaving.”

MacD's hand brushed against a hard metal object in the small of the Haitian's back, which confirmed that he was armed.

“Come on, brother,” MacD said, “one drink won't kill you.”

The bartender put the check in front of the man.

“I have to go,” the Haitian said.

“At least let me pay your bill.”

MacD leaned forward and tossed a U.S. twenty on the check. As he did, he snatched the pistol from the Haitian's waistband and jabbed it into his kidney.

“I have no problem killing you right here,” MacD said. “Got it? If so, nod slowly.”

The Haitian did as he was told.

MacD grabbed a napkin and covered his gun hand. He nodded to Hali and Trono, who instantly gave up the drunk act and stood. The four of them retreated to the back hallway, where the restrooms were located. They took him inside the men's room and locked the door.

Hali kept watch while MacD and Trono frisked the Haitian. Other than a folding knife, the SIG Sauer .40 caliber pistol Trono now held was his lone weapon. He also carried a phone with the same French text message that had been relayed by Linda. Two more messages indicated that he'd been communicating with someone outside the Waterfront.

“Who are you?” MacD asked him in Creole.

“I'm saying nothing.”

“You'll say a lot once we get you back to the ship.”

“No, I won't.”

“You're no amateur, but this isn't exactly what you're best at. You're a soldier, aren't you?”

The Haitian didn't respond.

“See, soldiers are good at attacking, not so good at the spy stuff,” MacD continued. “We, on the other hand, have had a little training in those kinds of things. Things like interrogation.”

The Haitian's eyes were defiant. “Do you think you can scare me?”

“We'll see. Who's outside?”

“No one,” the Haitian said with a smile.

“So we can just stroll out the back?”

Without hesitation the Haitian said, “Go ahead.”

“They've got men posted front and back,” MacD said to Hali and Trono.

“Did he say how many?” Trono asked.

“No. And getting anything out of him won't happen here. We'll have to take him back to the ship to figure out who he is.”

“How do we get out of here?” Hali asked. “Use him as a hostage?”

“They may not care about him,” Trono said. “For all we know, they could shoot him along with us.”

“Good point,” MacD said. “Let me see that phone. Stay with him.” He took the gun, leaving Trono holding the knife to the Haitian's throat. He also took a spare roll of toilet paper with him.

“What are you going to do?” Hali asked.

“Not sure yet. Keep your phone handy.”

MacD walked back into the bar and edged up to the front window but stayed out of sight. He typed a text in French saying “All three are coming out the front in two minutes. Honk twice to acknowledge.”

The text went through. Seconds later, two short beeps came from the left. He poked his head around and saw a Toyota SUV with two Haitians inside waiting at the curb. Both of them were staring intently at the front door.

MacD went up to a table of American college students who had a collection of beers on their table. One was wearing a Panama hat and a plaid shirt over his T-shirt. He and MacD were about the same size.

“Ah'll give you a hundred dollars for your hat and shirt,” MacD said.

The student looked at his three buddies, then back at MacD. “Is this a joke, man?”

“No joke.” MacD held out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “Right now.”

“Yeah!” the student said, laughing, and shucked the clothes. He plucked the bill from MacD's hand and high-fived the other guys before ordering another round.

MacD donned the hat and shirt. The two men in the car wouldn't expect only one of them to come out, and the different clothes would make him invisible.

He sauntered out the door as if he were simply taking a stroll, keeping his eyes toward the open window and away from the Toyota, the hat shielding his face from view.

He passed the Toyota and another car before ducking and circling around. Through the side mirrors, MacD could see that the SUV hitmen were still focused on the Waterfront's door.

He strode up to the Toyota and flung the rear door open. Before they could react, he was inside the SUV with the SIG Sauer against the driver's neck.

“Don't move,” he said in Creole. “You understand?”

They nodded. He sat back and put the pistol's barrel against the toilet paper roll.

“Poor man's silencer,” MacD said. “Don't make me use it.” Each of them had a Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun laying across their laps. “Now, as slowly as you can, take the magazines out of your weapons and drop them behind you. Then pull back the bolts and show me they're empty.”

The two men exchanged glances, then complied with MacD's instructions.

“Good. Now drop them on the floor back here one at a time. We'll start with the driver.”

The driver twisted in his seat and held the MP7 up. Then he shoved it down while the passenger lunged toward MacD with a knife he'd been palming.

The sudden attack left MacD with no alternative. It was him or them. He shot the passenger first, then the driver, through the back of the seats, the blasts muffled by the thick toilet paper. Both men slumped forward. The smell of gunpowder filled the SUV. He checked to make sure they were dead, then scanned the street around him. No one had noticed the brief battle.

“Ah really hate that you made me do that,” he said to the two corpses, then called Hali.

“The front's clear. You can bring him out.”

“Do we have transportation?”

Even though MacD wanted to take the SUV, there was no way to remove the dead body from the driver's seat without being seen. “We'll have to cab it.”

“We'll be out in a minute.”

MacD strapped the two bodies into their seat belts and propped them up so that it looked like they were napping. Then he wiped down the SUV for any possible prints.

Trono and Hali exited the bar with the Haitian in front of them. Trono had the Haitian in a Krav Maga finger lock that allowed him to control his captive while he held the knife in his other hand.

MacD walked up to them and said in Creole, “Your friends didn't want to cooperate.”

The Haitian gaped at his partners slouched in the SUV. His prior confidence evaporated.

“No,” he said, panicked, “you cannot take me. They will kill my whole family if they think I am helping you.”

“Who?” MacD said over the rumble of an approaching truck. “Who do you work for?”

“Please kill me now!”

MacD shook his head in bewilderment. Someone had total control over these men.

“He wants us to kill him,” he said to Hali and Trono.

The two of them responded simultaneously, both incredulous.

“What?”

“You're kidding.”

Before MacD could explain, the Haitian tore his hand away, breaking two fingers in the process, and darted out into the street directly into the path of the oncoming truck. He was crushed by the truck's grille and fell under its wheels. Several women screamed. Two men rushed to his aid but drew back when they saw the condition of the body.

They were all shocked by the man's willingness to kill himself rather than be captured.

“Let's get out of here,” MacD said.

While they hoofed it to the next street to find a taxi, MacD called the
Oregon
. Linda answered.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“We're on our way back.”

“Everyone okay?”

“We're all fine. I'll report when we're there.”

“Get back as soon as you can. We're getting ready to set sail.”

“Is everyone else back aboard?”

“No. That's the problem. We can't reach Max and the Chairman.”