Face of a Killer

26

“There’s a path down here,” Robert Orozco called out to Sydney as she slid down the side of the steep hill. “My boat is at the bottom in the cove.” And sure enough, two seconds later, her feet found solid purchase. She slung her backpack over one shoulder, gripped her gun tightly in her right hand. The path was carved into the dirt and stone of the cliff, narrow and treacherous. Jose was in front, Sydney behind him, and Robert took up the rear. A sharp crack rang out, echoed on the cliffs. Robert fired back. Another crack. Dirt sprayed up in front of them.

Ten more feet to a large rock outcropping. She turned. Fired two rounds, then raced for the rock. Robert fired off several rounds, then stumbled after them. Blood soaked his pants leg. “They shot my fucking knee.”

Several sharp cracks followed. Jose said, “We can carry you to the boat.”

“We’ll be Swiss cheese before you get me down there.”

“I can’t leave you, Tio.”

Robert looked at Sydney. Dust streaked his face, covered his once blond hair. “You drive a boat?”

“Not in a while.” She’d grown up in boats, first with her father, then with Uncle Leland.

“Hasn’t changed that much. Just a lot faster.” He took the leather bank pouch, handed it to Sydney. “This is what they want. Take it. Go!”

“I can’t leave you here.”

“The hell you can’t.” He stopped, listened. The faint sound of a siren could be heard over the top of the cliffs. “I think Tomas made it. Help is on the way. Even if it isn’t, they’ll think it is. You do this, maybe I get another twenty-year reprieve.”

Still, she hesitated.

“Jose and I will hold them off. Take that thing out of here. Make sure you wave it around so they see it.” He grinned. “They’ll start shooting at you, instead of me.”

Two sharp cracks echoed from the cliff tops. It was all the convincing she needed, and she shrugged her backpack securely over both shoulders, grabbed the pouch, ran down the path, only to hear him shouting, “Watch out for choppers,” before he and Jose fired off several shots, buying her a few seconds.

She hugged the cliff side, trying not to expose herself. Gunshots cracked and echoed around her. At the bottom was a small strip of white sand and smooth pebbles, then tide pools and rocks. No boat.

She looked up, saw the two men on the cliff top, saw Robert and Jose firing at them, diverting their attention, Robert leaning heavily on his nephew. Her ears rang with each shot fired, the waves roared, crashed beside her, sending a spray of water across her face.

Cove. He’d said something about a cove, and she raced across the thin stretch of sand, eyeing the cliff, the rocks to her right. And there it was, a sleek Cigarette Gladiator racing boat, custom painted in shades of black and gray, which meant one thing in her mind: speed and control under the cover of darkness. Pirates. Robert Orozco probably had no intention of leaving here in broad daylight. Not until she’d led his enemies right to his doorstep. And now here, bobbing in a small cave, protected from the waves that crashed just the other side of the rocks, moored to a piece of jutting rock out of sight from the men shooting above, was a boat worth as much as the finest villa on the rocky shores above her. Knowing Robert’s background, she pictured this as some sort of smuggler’s cave, wondered how far it went back beneath the cliff. Was she supposed to drive inward, find some secret exit?

But no, he would have said something. Unless he was distracted. Being shot will do that to a person, and she eyed the cavern, before turning her attention to the narrow mouth. If the only way out was via the front, the question was, how to get it out of there and not be smashed into the rocks? It wasn’t until she waded to the boat, gun high up in one hand, the pouch in the other to keep them dry, that she saw the channel between the rocks, only visible between waves, as she tossed in the two mooring ropes. She had to assume that if someone drove the boat in there, it could be driven out. Whether she could drive the thing remained to be seen. It was far more boat than she was used to. Hell, the cockpit looked like it belonged in a jet. The basics were there, clearly some extras. Throttle, bilge pump, blowers, oil and temperature gauges, and the tachometer. The keys were hanging from the ignition, and she hit the switch, turned on the bilge blowers, and gave it as long as she dared to clear fumes from the motor compartment, using the time to secure Robert’s bank pouch inside her backpack, then sliding it onto her shoulders. Whatever was in there was too important to chance losing it, she thought, pulling in the docking bumpers, then running through the check of the instruments, putting the throttle in idle, gearshift neutral. She tried to listen, couldn’t hear any shots, shouts, sirens, or any other noises down here, and hoped it was the same, that no one up there could hear her. Maybe she’d have a chance after all.

But not if she didn’t get the hell out of there. She turned the ignition key and released the starter switch as the engine rumbled to life. Switching off the blowers, she listened to the slow, steady roar that filled the cavern, vibrated the boat, and she let it idle. Watched the water. If she didn’t time it right, she’d be shark bait and the boat would be tinder crashing on the rocks. Definitely in the timing. She waited a few seconds, tried to get the feel of the water, the timing of the waves. The boat bobbed gently, up, down as each wave came in. And just when she thought she had the timing, a sleeper crashed, filling the channel with deadly white water. But she knew time wasn’t on her side. Her best chance was at the crash of the white water. Start forward as it came up, hope the water was receding as she sped through. She tucked the gun into her waist, held her hand on the throttle, pushed it forward the moment the next wave crashed.

White water sprayed her face; wind whipped her hair. Before she could breathe, she was through, open water in front of her, the rocks receding behind her. She glanced back and up. Saw the men at the top change their stance when they saw her. And then Robert bracing himself as Jose jumped out, fired at the men. She pushed the throttle. The boat screamed forward, bounced across the surf, jarring her. She steered to the north, zigzagged, hoping for some cover from the rocks, before moving out into the open water, where a bullet could ricochet across the surface like a skipping stone, then bounce up and take her out. It was rare, but she wasn’t about to take a chance. Only when she was far enough out did she dare a second look back, and she thought she saw the black Mercedes speeding north on the highway. Just south, where she thought Robert and Jose were holed up, it looked as if the cliff top was filled with flashing red lights of patrol cars.

Perhaps Robert was okay, she thought, turning back, watching the water. The police had come. She only hoped this evidence he’d given her, whatever it was, was enough to cover her ass, because she was bound to be in trouble by the time she got back, especially if Scotty happened to mention her midnight foray to the airport via Arturo’s motorcycle and someone found out about her unauthorized trip south of the border. Not that anyone had to find out. If she was lucky, she’d slip into port in San Diego, casually leave the boat behind, catch a cab to the field office, then a plane to the city, with no one the wiser, her good-girl reputation intact. Of course she had to get north of the border first, and now that the threat of being shot at was gone, she pulled back on the throttle, and the boat settled into a much smoother cruising speed. If she ignored everything that had happened to her, it would almost be enjoyable in the bright sun, passing the sailboats that scudded across the surface. To her right was a small town, she guessed Puerto Nuevo, the place to go for lobster, if she recalled correctly. Several minutes beyond that she could see the brightly colored hotels that lined Rosarito Beach. About fifteen minutes from there until Tijuana del Playa. Every now and then, she glanced behind her and to the shore, searching for a boat that seemed to be coming after her. So far nothing but pleasure boats and sailing vessels, no one paying her the slightest heed, though a few waved as she zipped past.

She couldn’t wait to get to shore, out of the bright sun. Her head was beginning to pound as the shores of Tijuana grew closer, and just beyond that, San Ysidro and San Diego. All she could think about was ibuprofen, a dark room, and quiet. No roar of the engine, no thudding in her head…

Something made her look up and back toward shore, and she realized it wasn’t her pulse thumping, but the beating of a helicopter. Tijuana was right there, and she thought perhaps a tourist attraction. Hoped it was a tourist attraction. But Robert had warned her. And the chopper wasn’t flying like some gentle tourist ride, hoping to sight a few dolphins. It was heading straight for her.

She pushed on the throttle, felt the boat bounce across the surface. They could shoot her out here, drop down, retrieve the bag, then leave, no one the wiser until her body washed up on some beach.

If it washed up.

Sydney eyed the shore, wondered if she should make a break for Tijuana, hope the crowds would deter them, or keep heading north. But that was the direction the copter was coming from. And while this boat might be the Ferrari of the sea, in comparison to the chopper, she might as well be driving a Volkswagen van. Time to open it up. The boat shot forward, and she gripped the steering wheel feeling as out of control as a being caught on a runaway horse as each bump sent her flying. The copter grew closer, and she almost imagined she could hear the beating of the rotors over the roar of the wind and engines.

She thought of Arturo’s phone, wished she’d had the sense to put the battery back in it. Who the hell knew if it worked this far south of the border?

A radio. She glanced over, saw a marine radio, the microphone hanging. Channel 16. Her father, her uncle, and then Jake had pounded it into her head. Emergency channel 16. She flicked it on, then gripped the steering wheel again. One glance back, and she saw the chopper closing in.

Shit. Let it work, she thought, picking up the mike and keying it. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” she called, then released the button, hearing nothing but static. What was it Jake used to tell her? If you didn’t hear them, it didn’t mean they couldn’t hear you. They could call someone else for help.

She had no idea what the name of the boat was, and so she used the brand, along with her FBI radio call sign. “This is FBI Gladiator thirty-six, mayday. I’m northbound off Tijuana. Being chased. Helicopter. Armed and dangerous.”

Again, nothing but static. And then what she thought was the faint report of a weapon.

Crap. The helicopter could go at least hundred miles an hour faster than she could. She thought about returning fire, but figured she couldn’t drive and shoot at the same time. She glanced back, saw a man leaning out. Robert thought they were some sort of black ops.

If so, what chance did she have?

But the copter didn’t look like some military craft, so maybe she had a chance after all, because one thing these boats could do was move across water. And a moving target was damned hard to hit. She started a zigzag pattern, kept it up, wondered if the small bursts of white water were rounds hitting.

A group of sailboats glided ahead, their skippers oblivious to the threat. With no choice, she had to zip between them. The helicopter suddenly backed off. Apparently taking out a civilian wasn’t acceptable; someone would have to answer. Just as Robert said, she was the target. This pouch she carried guaranteed that.

There were more sailboats, but she wasn’t about to take the chance she was wrong. And as she passed them, the helicopter veered closer, banked in. And her radio squawked to life. “FBI Gladiator thirty-six. This is the coast guard. Identify your position.”

She didn’t have time to pick up the radio. Not if she wanted to stay alive. She continued her pattern, trying to outmaneuver the chopper. Its shadow crossed her hull as it banked, coming in from the front. It hovered, its beaters churning the water around her. A man leaned out.

She reached for her gun, figuring this was it.

“FBI Gladiator thirty-six,” came a booming loudspeaker. “This is the coast guard. We have you in sight.”

Just beyond the copter, she saw the welcome sight of a gray coast guard cutter, speeding south toward her. And then a hail of gunfire, as the man in the chopper opened on her.