The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (34 page)

              Without any hesitation, Alfredo edged Allan out of the way and grasped the wheel with his left hand, easing the craft to port and then to starboard to stay directly astern. With his right, he decreased the power. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

              In ten minutes, Predator cruised half a mile astern.

              “Allan, where’s the lifejackets and grappling hook?”

              He pointed. “Grappling hook is in the aft under-seat stowage. Life jackets are in the main cabin, I think.” He ducked his head and began lifting the seats until he found them. He shouted. “Four enough?”

              “Three will do.” Petros and the others donned the jackets and crawled to the Predator’s bow, sat and waited. “Link arms just in case Alfredo catches a wave the wrong way.”

              Alfredo relaxed as he stared at the stern-light of
Tuna Turner
. With a slight movement, he turned the wheel to starboard and pushed the throttles to maximum. The Predator jumped across the sea and at one hundred metres distant, passed the
Tuna Turner
. After a few minutes, he glanced astern and extinguished the navigation lights.

              “What’s he playing at?” asked Amadou who noticed the red and green lights turn off.

              “I hope he has a plan,” said Petros.

              “I hope so too,” said ZZ. “I’m soaked.”

              “Sea air is refreshing and good for you, stimulates the heart and clears the mind,” shouted Petros.

              “At the moment I don’t care what it does,” said ZZ.

              “Something’s wrong, the lights keep going on and off,” said Amadou.

              Petros watched. “He’s sending a message. Tommaso will be on the bridge reading every letter. There you are, Tommaso has acknowledged.”

              “Didn’t see a thing,” said Amadou.

              “He flicked the main masthead light off and on. Hold tight, something’s happening.”

              Alfredo extinguished the Predator’s navigation lights again and in a long sweeping curve turned to port at maximum speed until he disappeared into the gloom. Ten minutes elapsed before he was again astern of
Tuna Turner
. Remaining at high speed, the Predator charged through the sea. He throttled back at the last moment. With well-judged throttle control and boat handling, he maintained a distance of less than one metre from the steel stern. The bow lifted and fell as predicted.

              With illumination from
Tuna Turner’s
stern-light, Petros, his face taut with concentration, stood and heaved the grappling hook at the submersible’s steel frame. He pulled in the slack and prepared to jump.
Tuna Turner’s
hull dropped and the moment it began to rise, he jumped across the gap.

              Safe on the deck and hidden by the submersible, he turned, tossed the rope’s end back, grabbed the shotguns and cartridges from Amadou. “On the rise is safest.”

              In less than a minute the three men, weapons ready, progressed along the deck. Petros lead his men towards the main transverse bulkhead. Tense, they took a breather on reaching the access door to the accommodation.

              Petros signalled his intentions and began to ascend the ladder to the bridge. 

              Amadou grinned at ZZ as they opened the bulkhead door and checked for movement. The well-lit passageway was empty. Both men ignored the fact that if someone appeared they were exposed. Amadou covered ZZ while he shuffled along on his knees and stole a look into the crew’s mess hall.

              He spotted Marco on a bench seat, his eyes closed, with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped round his shoulder. Ahead, someone vomited.

              Amadou changed position and edged along the bulkhead. ZZ slithered towards the opening, stood and stepped into the galley. Two men lay on the deck. Both never realised what happened until it was too late. The stock of ZZ’s shotgun slammed into one’s face destroying bone and teeth. The barrel of Amadou’s weapon entered the other’s mouth.

              ZZ placed one finger over his lips.

              “That was a stupid move,” whispered Amadou.

              “When I saw these dogs were incapable, it seemed the easiest thing to do.”

              Amadou flashed his eyes as he caught a flicker of movement in the passage. He slid behind the large freezer cabinet.

              A man holding a pistol in his right hand entered. On the balls of his feet, he edged forward while pointing the weapon at ZZ’s back.

              He went to speak as the butt of Amadou’s shotgun struck the side of his face. The man staggered, fired his weapon, and the bullet entered one of his prostrate associates.                 

              Petros, his position tight against the bridge superstructure, heard the shot and took a gamble. With his left hand he slammed open the bridge door.             

              “What the...” said Giovanni.

              Petros’ shotgun blast struck the man’s chest.

              Giovanni staggered backwards across the deck to the far bulkhead. His face twisted as he slithered to the deck. A bloody red streak marked his passage from life to death.

              No one moved.

              “There’s three more,” said Tommaso.

              Footsteps pounded the stairs leading to the bridge. Petros shifted position and took aim.

              “Hold your fire, it’s Amadou .”

              “Where’s ZZ?” asked Petros.

              “Securing the prisoners.”

              “Tommaso says there are three.”

              “Agreed. Two out cold and one bleeding to death.”

              Petros pointed. “My man’s going nowhere except the morgue.”

              Amadou chuckled, retrieved Giovanni’s pistol from the deck and fired a shot through the window nearest the door.

              Petros felt the bullet roar past his head. “What the fuck.”

              “Self-defence. He fired first and missed, you didn’t.” Amadou wiped the weapon clean and inserted it in Giovanni’s dead hand.

              “I can live with that.” Petros set the radio to channel sixteen. “Predator this is
Tuna Turner
. Job done. Time to go home.” At the rear of the bridge, he watched as Predator’s navigation lights came on and the curving wake trailing astern as she dashed for the Marsamxett harbour.

              He put down the microphone. “Unfortunately, the police must be involved.”

              Tommaso looked at the two men as if unsure what to say. “Piracy is a crime and you three acted in self-defence. I saw this one,” he pointed to the bloody corpse, “raise his weapon and fire. One moment’s hesitation and you’d be dead and he did shoot Marco.”

              Petros held up his right hand. “I get the message but thankfully we do have two legal beagles on the Predator.”

              “Coffee,” said ZZ, balancing a tray. “We have a corpse in the galley and two men tied to the heavy steel oven.”

              Petros grabbed two cups and handed one to Tommaso. “How long before we’re alongside?”

              “An hour at most.”

              The radio operated. “
Tuna Turner
– Channel One.”

              Petros set channel one on the radio. “Unknown caller – This is
Tuna Turner
– out.”

              “James here. When you arrive, there will be a police superintendant Hawksworth and his team waiting on the jetty. I’ve briefed him on the situation but he has to inspect the crime scene and take statements.”

              “Hawksworth is rather English,” said Petros.

              “I understand his father was a sailor and married a local girl.”

              “No problem, James. Thanks. Speak later. Out.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Late in the evening, the
Tuna Turner
came alongside the same berth in the marina she had left hours before. On the jetty, Alfredo and Simone stood in front of a police car. An ambulance, its siren wailing arrived seconds later.

              Petros, with Tommaso, watched from the bridge as an overweight man in his late thirties, black hair brushed back from his forehead, and with the face of experience, stepped out of the police car. He gave orders to two police officers to block the gangway.

              Petros raised both eyebrows. “Must be the superintendant. He’s certainly efficient. I’ll go and meet him.”

              Once the gangway was secured, the superintendant strolled across.

              “Superintendant Hawksworth.” Petros held out his hand.

              Hawksworth ignored the gesture. “I need a room where I can interview and take statements from everyone on board. You have a casualty who may leave after being questioned.” He pointed to the ambulance team and said, “Go and give emergency treatment.”

              The two men carrying a stretcher nodded and scurried across the gangway. “Where is the casualty?” one asked.

              Petros’ gaze shifted to the men. “I’ll take you. Mind your feet on the ropes and wires.” In a line, they walked to the crew’s mess where Marco rested.

              One of the medics removed the dressing, inspected the wound and applied a fresh dressing. 

              “Three heads turned when Hawksworth entered.

              He pointed. “Your name?”

              “Marco Russo.”

              “Who shot you?”

              “Don’t know his name.”

              Petros butted in. “His body is on the bridge, where I shot him.”

              Hawksworth, with a troubled look in his eyes, nodded as he glanced around the room. “I’ll question you in a minute. You may remove the casualty.”

              With a bit of help, Marco stood and assisted by one medic walked out. The other followed with the stretcher.

              Hawksworth allowed himself a faint smile as he sat at the mess table and waited.

              One of his officers entered. “Two dead and two suffering from head injuries. The crew are lined up outside.” The sergeant, with a serious but intelligent face, removed a folder and a miniature recorder from his case and sat in the chair next to his boss.

              “Recording a conversation concentrates the mind, Mr Kyriades,” said Hawksworth. “You may sit if you wish. In your own words, explain the part you played in the repossession of this craft. I will stop you to ask questions as appropriate.”

              Petros began from the time he and the others met for dinner and finished with his shooting Giovanni.

              “Did you aim to kill this man?”

              He shook his head slowly. “He did, I didn’t. If I hadn’t fired, I’d be dead. Ask Tommaso, he was there.”

              “Thank you, Mr Kyriades. And I will ask. Please send the next man in and remain on board as I may wish to question you again.”

              Tommaso strolled into the mess as if he had all the time in the world and sat facing the two men. Hawksworth lifted a sheet of paper as if to read it but signed the bottom. He repeated the same opening statement to Tommaso, leant back in his chair and listened. “Why do you think Mr Kyriades shot the intruder?”

              “Because the bastard fired at him. What would you have done, asked him to hand over his gun? The pig shot Marco and would have killed him. He threatened to shoot me just for fun.”

              Hawksworth smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.”

              “If he hadn’t you’d be carrying another body off on a stretcher. Self-defence is the way I see it.”

                Hawksworth nodded thoughtfully as his eyes scanned the statement taken by his assistant. “Your comments are noted. Please send the next man in and wait outside.”

              Alfredo stormed into the mess and screamed. “Why haven’t you arrested those men who stole my ship?”

              Hawksworth folded his arms. “And you are?”

              Alfredo fixed him with a stare. “Captain Alfredo Abruzzi and owner of this vessel”

              Hawksworth unfolded his arms. “Please sit. Captain. I need a statement from you and your part in the recovery of your vessel. Two men are dead and I’m sure you understand it’s my job to investigate the circumstances in which they died. Would you not agree?”