Dourado

CHAPTER 13

Antonio stepped away from the door of the cabin. Angelo had everything under control inside, while Louis and Vincent patrolled the deck. He pulled a brand new pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and slapped the bottom of the box a few times before removing the wrapper. It was a personal tradition of his; bring a new pack on the job, and do not open it until the work is done.

This one had been too easy. The people on board had not been expecting anything out of the ordinary, and the diver who had been down at the time had not heard them coming. He was supposed to have been a SEAL, but their reputations must have been exaggerated; they had subdued him quickly. According to Angelo, two of the crew members were missing.

It would not have mattered if the entire crew had been there, Antonio thought, smiling. They had taken their victims completely by surprise.

“And to think they wanted to send Stefan,” he said to no one in particular. Stefan was good, there was no doubt, but Angelo’s team, of which Antonio was a member, was good as well. If only their superiors would let go of their foolish attachment to Stefan. Antonio hated being underestimated.

He leaned against the rail and admired their speedboat. It was a sleek model with a low profile and a powerful but nearly silent engine. The hull was painted a swirl of blues and greens, allowing it to blend in with the sea. A bulletproof, green-tinted windshield swept back in a tight curve. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship.

A loud splash from the stern drew his attention. He looked back, but saw nothing. A porpoise, perhaps? He scanned the horizon. The blue-green waters were choppy today, and devoid of any crafts other than their own and the one they now controlled. There had not been any since they had taken control of the boat. He shrugged and dug out his lighter.

Antonio thumbed the lighter and raised it only to freeze. It suddenly occurred to him that when he had looked to the stern it had been empty. Had not Vincent been sitting there just a minute ago? Surely, he would not fall in. It seemed a bit strange. Perhaps his comrade was in the bow with Louie.

Antonio lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He made the short walk around the ship’s bow, skirting the exterior of the cabin and stopped short. The bow was empty as well. His jaw fell and the burning cigarette dropped to the deck.

He looked around. Where had they gone? He needed to tell Angelo. He hurried to the cabin door but the sound of Angelo’s voice, raised in anger, gave him pause. He needed to at least check the situation out before reporting to his boss that half of their team was missing. He did not want to think about delivering such a message. Angelo’s was a prodigious temper.

Perhaps they were in the cabin. He wanted to check, but that would risk incurring his leader’s wrath. He thought for a minute. No, they could not be in the cabin. He would have seen or heard at least one of them pass by. Something was very strange here. He turned a complete circle, reassuring himself that there was nothing on the horizon. There had to be an explanation. Rifle firmly in his grip, he walked quickly to the stern where he had last seen Vincent. He peered over the rail and saw nothing. He turned back toward the bow of the ship and scanned the entire deck. Where were they?

A cold, wet hand clamped down hard across his mouth, and he felt himself yanked backward. Frantically, he dropped his weapon and grabbed for the railing, trying to prevent himself from tumbling into the sea. A hot, searing pain shot across his throat, and consciousness fled as he fell into the cold, dead arms of the sea.

Bones worked furiously to free his wrists. On the other side of the cabin, Angelo had duct taped Corey into a chair, and had begun his questioning. Corey was holding out, denying that they were after anything other than whatever could be salvaged from the Dourado. Angelo stood, cursing loudly and shouting.

“You are lying to me!” he cried, shaking his fist in the crewman’s face. “You know it, I know it, and your soon-to-be-dead Indian friend knows it as well.” He drew an automatic pistol from an ankle holster and aimed it at one of Corey’s fleshy white thighs. “I warned you. Perhaps I can impress upon you just how serious I am.”

“No!” Bones shouted, thrashing around and struggling to work free of his bonds. “Leave him alone!”

Angelo turned toward him, smirked, then returned his attention to Corey. As he turned, something caught his eye, and he looked to the deck with an expression of disbelief on his face. He grunted in surprise, then seemed to regain his composure, and leveled his pistol toward some unseen target.

Willis! Bones had almost reached Angelo’s side. Rolling onto his back, he raised his feet, still bound together, and struck with both heels, driving them into the side of Angelo’s knee.

There was a loud pop, and Angelo cried out in pain as his knee buckled under the force of Bone’s kick. His arm flew up, and his shot went through the ceiling as a blue and black blur hurtled through the cabin door, bowling him over.

Willis, clad in his wetsuit, rode Angelo to the floor. He held the man’s right wrist with his left hand. He clutched a dive knife in his right. A faint smear of blood, apparently not his own, stained the chest of his blue neoprene suit.

Angelo frantically fired off a shot that flew harmlessly through the cabin roof. He held Willis’ thick ebony wrist, struggling to keep the stronger man from bringing the knife down on him. He shifted under the black man’s weight, and brought his left knee up hard between Willis’ legs.

The former SEAL grunted. Bones saw his friend’s face contort in pain. His grip slipped ever so slightly on Angelo’s gun hand, and his knife ceased its steady downward descent. Bones twisted and contorted, and finally succeeded in freeing one wrist. There was no time to loosen the bonds that held his ankles. He pushed himself up to his feet, and jumped.

Javelin had been his sport in high school, but his standing long jump hadn’t been too bad. He came down feet-first with his full weight on Angelo’s face, hearing the satisfying crunch of cheekbones snapping, and the squeal of pain that leaked from the man’s ruined face. The squeal turned to a shriek as Willis buried his knife in Angelo’s chest.

Their former captor’s struggles ceased as life drained from his body along with his blood, bright red on the stark white cabin floor. Willis lurched to his feet and cut the ropes from Bones’ legs, then set about freeing Corey while Bones worked on reviving Matt.

“What kept you?” Bones called over his shoulder as he tended his crewman’s wounded head. “I got so tired of waiting for you I was going to take care of them myself, but then you dragged your tail in at the last minute and played hero.”

“Grateful as always.” Willis rolled his eyes. “I had to wait until they split up and weren’t paying attention. The guy in the bow made it easy for me. I guess he heard me and thought it was a fish, because he leaned way over the rail. I grabbed him by the collar, put my knife in his throat, and eased him on into the water.”

“How did you ‘ease’ a two-hundred pound man down from the bow while you were still in the water?”

“I’m good,” Willis replied firmly. He stared at Bones for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. “Maybe there was a splash, but it wasn’t a big one. Got the others the same way.”

Bones was impressed. “Divide and conquer. Not bad for a hired hand.”

“You didn’t warn me this hired hand was going to be a hired gun. My salary demands just skyrocketed.”

“Talk to Dane,” Bones said. “He’s the boss.”

After tending to their colleagues, Bones and Willis searched Angelo’s body for identification. They were not surprised to find that he was clean. His black jumpsuit was also devoid of identifying marks. The only personal object he carried was a silver necklace that was tucked into his left pocket. Bones held it aloft.

A silver pendant dangled from the chain. It was a crucifix unlike any he had ever seen. In the place of the cross, the Christ figure, his face staring angrily forward, hung from crossed swords.

“Jesus,” Willis whispered.

Bones felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the object for a moment, then said the one thing that came to his mind.

“Literally.”