The Black Bullet

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Dave Collins poured his first glass of scotch at 4:02 a.m. He walked from Gibraltar’s galley to the salon where Max slept on the couch. She opened her eyes. Dave sat next to her and caressed her back. “They’ll be back soon, girl. Go to sleep.”

Dave sipped the scotch and thought about his thirty-year career with the CIA. He thought about the costs, the gains and the compromises, the slow disintegration of his marriage. The inability to tell his wife anything about what he did, what he had to do, or where he was. The world in which he had to exist was a world of no illusions and yet so artificial. It was so deceptive that the reality of exposure was more frightening than the plausible denial of who he was and for what he stood.

Sometimes, alone late at night, surrounded by shadows and deception, far away from his wife and sleeping children, he had to remind himself of exactly what he did stand for and why his personal sacrifices were less important than a successful mission.

He sipped the scotch, his mind drifting to the last phone call he’d received from Hamilton Van Arsdale, his former director at the Agency. Van Arsdale had another two years until retirement, and he planned to go out with the arrival of the new administration. Van Arsdale agreed that the HEU should be locked in Collins’ storage unit until it could be secured and removed.

He looked at his watch: 4:20. Where were they? They should have checked in by now. Were they okay?

The marine radio above his desk crackled to life. The sound of static caused Dave to sit up straight. O’Brien said, “ETA … seventy minutes tops.”

Max lifted her head, a slight whine from her throat.

Dave picked up the microphone and keyed the button. “How’s fishing?”

“We got a couple of grouper.”

Dave half smiled, fatigue knotting the muscles in his shoulders. “That’s good. We’ll keep the light on for you.”

“We have a light about two miles to our east. Seems to be gaining. Don’t know if they’re following us or just heading into the pass.”

“I’ll make a call.”

“I don’t know if that’d be good or bad. Could be the Coast Guard. Stay tuned.”

Andrei Keltzin looked at his watch as he walked through Miami’s international airport. He traveled with no luggage. Everything he needed would be purchased in Miami. He stepped outside, the warm breeze full of humidity and scents of flowers. He liked Florida. He liked coming to Miami. Women. Weapons. Both so easy to find and buy. But he knew on this trip he’d have limited time. Yuri Volkow had sounded more urgent that usual. Whatever it was, the job would require his immediate attention. Keltzin new something would happen within hours. He could smell the odor of a hunt in the warm Florida air. These things a man comes to know, like a change in weather before it happens. Only Yuri, a man who saw more abuse than he had under the old regime, understood the consequences of action and inaction. None moved faster than Yuri to seize opportunity.

His cell rang. “Where are you?” asked Yuri Volkow.

“Airport. Outside. Near the taxi stand.”

“Meet me where we met last. Things have changed much since we spoke.”

“How?”

“I will tell you when you arrive. We are not the first here. I have been working to eliminate another threat. They had men placed here in Miami previous to our arrival. However, before the sun rises, the immediate competitor should be removed.”

“Zakhar is here for the job?”

The phone call ended. Keltzin stepped to the curb, raising a hand to signal a taxi.

O’Brien watched the boat gaining in the distance. “Nick, take the wheel a minute.”

“I was born with a boat wheel in my hands.”

O’Brien held up a marine infrared night telescope and spotted the boat. He was quiet for a moment. “What do you see?” asked Nick.

“I’m not sure. At least two men. One has a moustache. Boat’s a Sea Ray. Probably twenty-six feet. No outriggers. Doubt they were fishing.” O’Brien lifted one of the rifles off the bench seat. Remington M-24. Bolt action with a scope. He chambered a round and sat the rifle back on the bench.

Nick looked at the gun. “I might have been born with a boat wheel in my hands, but I have a feelin’ you came outta your mama with a gun in yours. You handle that thing like it’s part of your body.”

“During the war it was.”

“Did you use a gun like that over there?”

“No, it was a Remington 700.”

“All the troops carry them, I guess, huh?”

“Some do.”

“Which ones.”

O’Brien held the night-scope back to his eye. “Snipers.”

“Shit, you were a sniper?”

“I was whatever I had to be. Those guys are gaining on us.”

“Bet they put the bug on my boat!”

O’Brien lowered the night-scope. “They have a gun. Looks like a shotgun.”

“A fuckin’ shotgun can kill you!”

“But they have to get in range.”

“How close is this range thing?”

“They’re probably using buckshot. About thirty yards.”

Nick pushed the throttles. “We aren’t gonna go any faster. How far can you take somebody out with that gun?”

“From an elevated position, like a hill in Afghanistan, maybe a mile. On the sea, bouncing like this, I don’t know.”

“How long you gonna give them?”

“Before what?”

“Before you shoot?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sean, they’re less than a quarter mile behind us.”

“I know.”

“You gonna just let ‘em run up and blow a hole in my boat?”

“They won’t do that because they probably want what we collected.”

“So, you gonna let ‘em fire at you and me before you shoot? We have two rifles. I’m not an ex-sniper, but if that boat gets much closer, I can sure as hell hit it.”

“I don’t want to see you facing a murder charge.”

“It sure as hell would be self-defense! Them or us, Sean.”

“Closer we get to shore, Nick, the greater our odds are that there’ll be other boats and these guys will just go away”

“In another couple of miles, they gonna be caught up with us. What then?”

“When they get within shotgun range, we’ll cut the engines back to half speed, do a three-sixty move around their boat, and have a little conversation with them on the PA. If they choose to start firing, we’ll do the same. They won’t win.”

Dave Collins keyed his marine radio. “Checking on your ETA. Before I start mixing the pancakes, wanted to know when the kitchen can expect you?”

“Should be about twenty-five minutes,” O’Brien’s voice came over the radio speaker.

“Is the fishing party still with you?”

“Yes.”

“Hanging close?”

No answer.

“How close is close?”

No answer.

“Shit!” Dave keyed the microphone, “Are you okay?”

No answer. Max whined.

O’Brien followed the boat through the night scope. One hundred yards.

“Whatcha gonna do?” Nick yelled. “I don’t feel like getting shot!”

O’Brien was silent. He looked up from the scope for a moment as the boat behind them exploded in a ball of white and orange fire.

“Holly shit!” Nick yelled. The light from the explosion illuminated the dark sea.

“What’s going on?” Dave’s voice came across the radio.

Dave paced his salon. The radio crackled. O’Brien said, “The boat following us just blew up.”