Seize the Storm (15 page)

“What sort of cargo was it?” Shako asked, a rare direct question from him.

And it was a question only a very assertive or a very naïve person would ask.

“Mint AK's this time,” said Elwood after what Jeremy thought might be the briefest of hesitations. No one actually spelled out information about what was being transported, or where it was going. “And rocket launchers. The shoulder-mounted kind, antitank, antipersonnel. Pirates confiscated the shipment out of North Korea, sold them to Mr. Tygart, and he shipped them to the California coast, or maybe Baja. Only Mr. Tygart knows all the details. His pumped-up deep-sea craft are a perfect cover—pleasure boats with a lot of capacity.”

Jeremy had never heard his dad's line of work expressed so succinctly. He felt a mixture of pride and uneasiness. His father's business dealt in instruments of destruction, along with illegal drugs. The dealings were illegitimate and in some ways shameful. But if his dad quit, Jeremy rationalized, someone else would make money the same way. And they would not be as efficient, or as generous with bribes. More people would be hurt.

Jeremy let the airspeed continue to decline, sixty miles per hour, fifty-five, and still he knew that they were going too fast, the blue water a smear of reflected daylight beneath the pontoons.
Witch Grass
came on fast, too. Surely there would be a crash, the aircraft pitching forward and tumbling. He should abort the landing and try again.

But he let the aircraft descend, the altimeter showing fifty feet, forty—the sky, which had been a protective sanctuary for so many hours, unexpectedly letting go.

The last twenty feet took no time at all. The pontoons hit the water with a sound like crowd applause, an instant of ovation cut off as the pontoons kicked back off the smooth water.

Then the applause continued as the pontoons touched the water again and ran steadily through the surface. The aircraft slowed down, so hard that Jeremy was thrown forward against the restraints of his seat belt.

“Perfect,” said Elwood.

He patted Jeremy on the arm and Jeremy was grateful, even as he knew that he was being cheated of something—he wasn't sure what.

The sensation of being on the surface of the water was strange. The pontoons had been appendages without any power—if anything they had been a drag on the aircraft as it sliced through the atmosphere.

But now they came alive, struts creaking, the sea working at an aircraft that was now transformed into a boat, and the shifting, uneasy, sideways movement, the constant slop of water and its swells and declivities was immediately impressive to Jeremy.

Elwood took the controls and taxied the plane, bringing them closer to the cruiser. Then he switched off the engines, a single act, but one that made a profound change.

With the engines silent, the propellers spun with a windy whirling sound and then slowed into a series of strobe-frozen images. Then the propellers stopped entirely. The engines had been running so long, and at such a constant, ear-punishing pitch, and the first thing Jeremy noticed was the deep quiet.

The hush was not faultless—water splashed and surged around the pontoons and under the aircraft, and the structure, airborne for so long, made even louder creaking, cooling sounds, as the engines, the wings, and the fuselage adjusted to this new edgy stasis.

Elwood opened the cockpit door, moving slowly. The door made a loud squeak, and the hinges shrilled as Elwood pushed it. He grunted, unused to such freedom of movement after hours of sitting. The rush of sea air into the cockpit was thrilling, tasting of fresh wind and sunlight.

Elwood climbed stiffly out onto the pontoon and held on to the wing strut, taking cautious steps. The big man swung his arms, stretching. He unfastened his fly and peed, as Jeremy glanced away, giving the man some privacy.

Then Elwood turned and looked back at Jeremy. He buttoned his fly and when he put a hand on the wing, supporting his weight, the aircraft shifted very slightly. He didn't speak, listening.

“I don't hear anything,” he said.

He was right.

Witch Grass
was too quiet.

“I don't hear the dog,” he said. Then he added, “Both of you come on out, and bring the guns.”

T
HE WEAPONS WERE HEAVY
in the bag that Jeremy hefted down into the sunlight, hanging on to the wing struts to keep from falling, seawater slapping and bursting diamonds of sunlight. His feet squeaked on the fabric of the aircraft and the weapons bag was awkward, the guns stirring, shifting, heavy entities that wanted their freedom.

“Quick and quiet,” said Elwood.

Jeremy, too, peed, and stood there breathing the salty air, a smell of hot aircraft engine and body sweat, the three of them out in the open after long confinement.

“Give Shako the Ingram,” directed Elwood.

The Ingram MAC-10 was a large pistol, basically—nothing to look at. Jeremy had trouble fitting the ammo clip for a moment, but then the weapon accepted the attachment like a mechanism that had been to school and knew what was expected.

What Jeremy held in his grasp was a heavy T-square, ammo clip fastening into the ridged stock. The weapon was matte black, made for night work, and dull so sunlight did not reflect. A shoulder support could be fitted to the weapon, and in movies Jeremy had seen a noise suppressor on the barrel, but the essential weapon was what he held now, heavy and beyond menacing. Jeremy was fascinated by the firearm, but he did not enjoy having the death-ready thing in his hands.

“Give him the gun.” Elwood was prompting with an air of genial impatience, but Jeremy did not release the weapon right away.

Shako was in the sunlight now, and he did that little wrestler loosen-up with his upper body, made a kickboxer strike at the air, and then another, warming up his legs. Jeremy admired his moves, a short- to medium-sized guy, compact, like a figure a computer artist would design and animate, Shako the Hit Man, not suitable for under eighteen.

Shako put out his hands and made that impatient flex of his fingers. Jeremy gave him the gun at last. Elwood had reached into the weapons bag and helped himself to the larger firearm, the Heckler & Koch, and now he put out one hand to the vessel and with an air of gracefulness swung his body up and over the gunwales of the powerboat.

Jeremy was alone with Shako. This shared solitude was a joy after being in the encompassing presence of Elwood for so many hours.

“I have to think of a way,” said Shako.

He said nothing more for a moment.

“A way what?” asked Jeremy.

Shako had something to say—something urgent.

But the moment didn't last. Elwood was motioning,
hurry
.

*   *   *

Jeremy gave Shako a hand as they climbed up onto
Witch Grass
, and Jeremy was surprised at the smooth uncallused feel of Shako's grasp.

The three of them crouched, like men in a YouTube training video on how to capture unknown terrain. Shako looked great, a three-point stance, one hand down to steady his body, the other pointing the Ingram out into the blue. Elwood looked good, too, not as graceful but with a rough-hewn intensity, down on his elbows, stretched out, watching and listening at the opposite side of the vessel.

Jeremy had no weapon, and he felt his virtual nakedness.

“What do you think, Mr. Quinn?” asked Elwood.

Shako put his head down on the deck, pressing his ear to the planking. Jeremy was further awed. Where did Shako learn to do that, and how did he learn to sniff the air, like he was doing now?

Shako rose to his feet but remained at-ready, his knees bent.

“Both dead,” said Shako.

“Go find out, Mr. Quinn,” said Elwood. “And look for the kind of gym bag Mr. Tygart uses, a Sleeping Giant Spa bag full of something heavy. You won't find it—but double-check for me.”

Shako didn't say anything, but there was an alteration in his posture, a silent
no problem
.

“And if you see the dog alive,” added Elwood, “you know what to do.”

*   *   *

Shako moved fast, his Nikes whispering,
squee squee
, on the teakwood decking. He eased his way up to the cabin door, steadied his weapon, and waited there.

He slipped off his sunglasses. It took a long, unearthly moment as he tucked the glasses into the front of his jeans. Jeremy admired his unruffled calm, getting ready, this real-time actual encounter with violence just another athletic event for Shako.

Shako blinked his green eyes, glancing from Elwood to Jeremy. He made that straight-line smile of his, but this time it was an expression of tense determination.

Elwood pointed impatiently,
go on
.

Then Shako slipped inside the rectangle of dark, the sunlight passing along his body like a curtain until he was gone.

Jeremy braced for the sound of gunfire, but there was nothing but sea spanking the hull and the moored aircraft gently bumping the side of the powerboat.

“What does that mean?” said Jeremy. “‘You know what to do'?”

Elwood did not look at Jeremy. And then he did, and his usual ready-for-anything smile was missing.

“This is where it gets a little difficult for you, Jeremy,” said Elwood.

“Difficult how?” asked Jeremy.

“You are going to have to do what I tell you.”

Jeremy knew that Elwood had let him land the plane as a gift, a gesture of friendliness—a bonus flying lesson. But it was also a bargaining chip. Because now Elwood was going to do unpleasant things and Jeremy was going to have to help. It worked that way in his father's world, trade-offs and debts.

“Let me hear you say, Jeremy,” said Elwood, “that you understand me.”

Jeremy's own voice sounded too loud in this sudden peacefulness. He said, “You don't have to shoot Laser.”

“I am going to have Shako kill the dog because the animal hates me,” said Elwood, sounding matter-of-fact, even a little bored, stating what everyone knew. “And a dog with a bad attitude is dangerous.”

The words sounded like plain speech, clearly spoken. But Jeremy was stunned. He tried to parse the words, considering the sounds like a scholar, examining the possible meanings.

*   *   *

Shako dropped low. His eyes adjusted to the interior light.

After hours of aircraft engine, this powerboat made faint but hard-edged sounds, overhead, underfoot, and each noise could be a firearm being cocked, a slide being racked, a safety being snapped to the off position.

Shako emptied his body of even more feeling, just as during the other times. Like when he met the Australian couple, met them in the sense of really encountering them, seeing that look in their shocked gaze just before.

He searched quickly but with care. He was ready to see whatever there was to see. He thought: only one. He knew this guy, too, that guy named Kyle. Just one dead man so far, and I didn't have to kill him.

He opened the fridge. The thing was packed. Shako took out a Pepsi and popped the tab, drinking hard. He blinked, the carbonation too strong, the stuff too sweet. He drank it all anyway, and tossed the can into a corner.

Shako put his sunglasses on again and felt glad he had not broken them. He used the Samsung phone to take a video of his face, holding the device at arm's length.

“I'm here in a place with a dead person,” he said.

That sounded really stupid.

He started over. “I'm doing recon in the cabin of a big boat.”

He played it back.
Big boat
didn't sound right. He and Jeremy would do a voice-over, re-record the words. People all over the world would see Shako, although he was sorry the video made him look green in this poor light.

He pocketed the phone. Outside Elwood was pointing again, a football coach flashing signals.
Check out the helm.

Shako climbed the steps, saw what was there, and came back down. This was getting to be routine.

“Is Kyle dead?” asked Jeremy.

“
Y
ES, HE'S IN THE CABIN,”
said Shako.

Jeremy turned away, taking the news hard.

“How was he killed?” he asked, his voice shaking.

Shako felt strange talking about it. The way this sort of endeavor worked best was you carried the gun and at the same time you let words perish, all impressions fade, and just lived out whatever happened. Talking about such matters troubled Shako.

“I saw blood,” Shako permitted himself to say. “No gym bag.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Elwood. “Our gym bag is on that good-looking yacht heading west.”

Elwood put down his gun. He found a rope in one of the compartments on deck and tossed one end to Jeremy.

Jeremy had expected death. He was not surprised. But he was far more sad than he had anticipated. Kyle had been a Frisbee fanatic—Frisbee golf, Frisbee football, sending Laser out on long, arcing passes, Canine Super Bowl Frisbee. Kyle had been taking slack-key guitar lessons and had been saving up to buy a classic Dobro, a serious guitar.

Jeremy had not let himself think of Kyle—not allowed the picture of his smile, the sound of his voice, into his mind. Jeremy had protected his feelings against this sadness, but now his façade failed.

He wept.

“Is Paul dead, too?” asked Jeremy when he could speak.

“Yes,” said Shako.

Shako was troubled at Jeremy's sorrow. He wanted to offer a word of consolation. He had seen Kyle tossing a basketball, playing fetch with the dog. A friendly guy. It was too bad about Kyle. But Shako never gave himself over to feelings.

“We'll have to bury them in the sea right away,” said Elwood, “and I'll need your help. It'll be unpleasant, but we don't want to speed across the ocean with two dead bodies getting rotten.”

He gave Jeremy and Shako a few seconds to absorb this news and then he added, “We'll secure the plane to the stern.”