The Seadragon's Daughter (39 page)

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Authors: Alan F. Troop

BOOK: The Seadragon's Daughter
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Claudia nods. “Just like you told me, boss.”
 
Jordan Davidson sits on the edge of his king-size bed, his hands tied behind him, his mouth gagged, his eyes blindfolded. The large bed, its massive leather headboard, the oversize room, all conspire to make him look even smaller than he is. I study his small frame, his light brown linen pants and tropical-printed silk Tommy Bahama shirt and shake my head. I wish he were a little larger. It would make it easier for me.
Another man, also dressed in black, his face also concealed by a stocking, stands next to him, a large black semiautomatic in his hand. “Everything’s under control,” he says. He points to a gun on the bed’s maroon bedspread. “He had that in his nightstand. A SigSauer. At least the little guy has good taste in guns.”
I nod. “Did you have him fire it?”
The man points to a pillow with a singed hole in its middle. “Through that, into the water, like we were told.”
“Good,” I say. “Take off the blindfold and gag.”
 
Davidson stares at me, moving his mouth around to relieve the stiffness from the gag before he speaks. “DelaSangre,” he says. “I thought you might be a murderer, my dear man. I didn’t think you were a fool.”
“Nothing foolish going on here,” I say.
The small man turns his gaze to Chloe. “And your pretty wife—isn’t she adorable?” He smiles. “So this is a family outing for you two. Shame on you for not bringing the boy. He is such a darling thing.”
A hot flush of rage runs through me. I want to strike this creature, to rip him apart. But I control the impulse. I have better plans for him. I check my watch and look at the nearest man. “Put the TV on, on Channel Seven.”
“Oh, you came to watch TV with me. How special!” Davidson coos.
“Just watch,” I say. “I want you to remember this later tonight when you’re talking to the police.”
As I expected, exactly at eight thirty programming is interrupted for a live special report. Davidson gasps as the camera shows me being led in handcuffs into the Miami jail and the reporter relates how I turned myself in and refused bail. “You must have taped this earlier,” the man says.
I shrug, say, “Believe what you want.” Turning toward Claudia I find her eyes focused on the TV, the girl smiling, shaking her head. I clear my throat to get her attention.
She looks at me, gives me a wide grin. “So that’s what . . .”
“Not now,” I say. I tilt my head toward Davidson. “It’s time for us to pay attention to Mr. Davidson.”
She nods, turns to her men and says, “Stand him up. Untie him. Strip his clothes off.”
Once he’s naked, Chloe and I both study him, motioning when we want the men to turn him. Davidson squirms in their grasp, glaring at them, at Claudia and at both of us. “Are you insane?” he says. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish with this?”
Ignoring him, I take his pants and shoes and walk toward the bathroom. Chloe picks up the shopping bag that Claudia brought and follows me. As soon as she closes the door I take off my clothes and start to change shape.
“So compact,” Chloe says as I shrink my body to Jordan Davidson’s height. “I could just pick you up and keep you as a pet.”
I frown at her teasing and concentrate on thinning my hair, rounding my face and compressing my lips to match the man’s constantly puckered expression. Chloe watches, says, “Don’t forget the ears. They’re smaller. And the butt needs to be flatter.”
“My dear girl.” I smirk. “Whatever would you know about forming a man’s body?”
She giggles. “At least you have the voice dead on,” she says.
After a few more minor adjustments, I put on Davidson’s linen pants and his boat shoes. Chloe takes a white silk Tommy Bahama shirt from the bag and I put that on too. She stuffs my clothes in the bag and we walk back into the bedroom.
Claudia’s two men show no reaction, but Jordan Davidson’s eyes go wide when he sees me. Chloe digs in the bag and pulls out a matching Tommy Bahama shirt. Handing it to Claudia, she says, “Have him put it on.”
Once the two men release their grip on him, Davidson steps back and shakes his head. “I don’t know how you could get someone to impersonate me like that, but I can’t think of any reason I should cooperate in this,” he says.
Claudia says, “The man wants a reason,” and the larger of her two men grabs the naked man’s shoulder, spins him around and punches him in the stomach.
Davidson doubles over, his lungs emptying in an explosive “Oof!” Gasping, wheezing, trying to regain his air, he remains bent over until Claudia’s man turns him back to face me and straightens him up.
I look at Davidson and shake my head. “I thought you were smarter than that,” I say in my own voice. “Why give us any opportunity to hurt you any more than we need to?”
The man stares at me, his eyes wide.
“Yes, it’s me, Peter,” I say.
Claudia holds out the shirt again. This time he takes it, his hands trembling, and pulls it on, adjusting it a few times so it hangs correctly. Claudia’s men grab him again, by the elbows, and hold him still as he stands naked from the waist down, legs shaking, facing me, saying nothing.
“You shouldn’t have published a picture of my son,” I say. “At the least, you should have backed off when we told you to.” I hold my hand out to Claudia. She places Toba’s Berretta in it.
Davidson draws in a breath. His trembling increases. Staring at the gun, he says, “I will. I will now. I promise.”
Backing up a few feet, I unclick the safety and take aim. “Too late,” I say, aiming at his right biceps, slowly squeezing the trigger.
“Please!”
Davidson screams, going limp just as the gun goes off, his body sagging a few inches before Claudia’s men catch him, enough for the bullet to miss his biceps and smash into the small man’s right shoulder joint, tearing flesh, splintering bone. Davidson howls in pain.
“Shit!” I say. “God damned shit.”
Blood immediately stains Davidson’s shirt red and begins to run down his arm. Claudia takes a compress out of the bag and presses it over the wound from the outside of the shirt. “Take him out to my boat. Keep him in the cabin,” she says to her men.
When we’re alone, Claudia says, “That was Derek on TV, wasn’t it? Impersonating you again like he did the last time he was in Miami?”
I nod.
“You could have told me you were going to have him do it. And Ian doesn’t know?”
“No.”
She grins. “Way cool. Looks like things have gone pretty good so far.”
“Good?” Chloe says, “Peter was supposed to shoot Davidson in the biceps, not the shoulder. Now what are we going to do?”
“Toba has her cellphone. I can call her,” Claudia says.
“Make sure you tell her exactly where he was shot,” I say, picking up Jordan Davidson’s SigSauer. Chloe takes the shopping bag and the pillow, and together we walk out to Davidson’s boat.
 
I far prefer my Grady White to Davidson’s Robalo. Still, I can’t help but smile as we speed through the night, our running lights off. I like having a boat’s wheel in my hands again, feeling the sway of the boat cutting through the water, the wind blowing in my face, the growl of racing motors filling my ears.
For the first time since Chloe hugged me when I returned, she stands close beside me, her hand resting on my shoulder, sometimes or stroking my arm, but always in contact with me. “Davidson thought you were going to kill him,” she says.
I smile, remembering his expression. “If we didn’t need him, I would have loved to.”
When we reach a point in the bay offshore of where no lights show from the mainland, I kill the engines and let us coast to a stop. The wind that was so feeble during the day barely blows at all now. The water lies flat all around us. After a few minutes we barely move.
Turning on our anchor light, I take a battery-powered lantern out of Claudia’s shopping bag and place it on the floor near me. I move over in my seat and motion for Chloe to sit next to me. “Now we wait,” I say.
40
 
I see the running lights far before I can hear any sound of boat engines. They race up from the south, through the center of the bay, where Featherbed Channel runs, and then go north of us—to bypass some shallows. When they loop back in our direction, I get up, tuck the SigSauer into my waistband, pat my left pocket to make sure the Berretta’s in place and grab the lantern.
After another few minutes, the howl of a single motor running at top speed starts to reach us. Smiling, I turn to Chloe and say, “It’s time for you to go below, out of sight. It’s all my show now.” I walk to the stern, turn on the blinker in my lantern and begin to wave the lantern over my head.
The lights turn and head directly toward me and I mutter, “Good.”
 
The boat slows and coasts toward me, its white hull looking ghost-like in the dark. The man at the wheel, Pepe Santos, his square face lit by the glow of the instrument panel in front of him, stares toward me. I back up a little so the dark obscures my features, moving my lantern so it shines at his face—like a novice boater might do.
Holding his hand up to shield his eyes, he shouts over his motor. “Having problems?”
“Just need some help,” I say in a gruff voice. “Had an accident. Can you tie up and help me?”
“Sure!” the blond girl sitting next to him says. She says something to him and then walks back into the cockpit as he guides his boat alongside the Robalo.
I wait until she takes hold of the Robalo’s coaming. Stepping forward, I pull out the SigSauer, cock it and point it at her. “You’re such a pretty little thing,” I say in Jordan Davidson’s voice. “Wouldn’t it be a pity if I had to shoot you between those pretty blue eyes? Why don’t you tell your friend up there to cut his engine so we can have a pretty little chat?”
Toba turns her head toward Pepe. “Cut the engine, honey! Please!” she shouts.
The motor goes dead and silence engulfs us. Pepe turns in his seat and his eyes grow large. “Don’t move!” Toba shouts. “He has a gun.”
I look at Pepe, drop my mouth open and say, “Oh my.”
“Jordan? What the hell?” Pepe says, starting to get up.
Shifting the gun so it points at Pepe, I say, “I’m so sorry, dear boy. I didn’t realize it was your boat. But as unfortunate as it is, I have to ask you to stay in your seat for now while this darling little girl of yours secures a line to my cleat.” I glance at Toba. “Won’t you do that now, dear girl? You know I’ll have to shoot him if you try something silly.”
Toba nods, reaches for a line and begins tying it to a cleat. “Now what?” Pepe says.
Letting out a loud sigh, I say, “This is a dilemma. I rather liked you, you know. Why don’t you be a dear and lie on the deck, on your stomach, facing away from me with your hands behind your back?”
Pepe glares at me and doesn’t move. I fire a bullet to his right, shattering part of his instrument panel.
“Now!”
I say.
“Please, honey, do it!” Toba says.
The man gets up slowly, gives me a last glare and moves as if he’s about to lie down on the deck. I glance over to Toba, to see if I can pass her Berretta to her, and Pepe launches himself at me.
I swivel toward him, firing twice into his thigh, but the Cuban’s momentum carries him to me. Crashing into me, he knocks me into my cockpit, landing on top of me, pinning both of my arms with his body, grabbing my throat with both of his hands, trying to choke off my air.
“Don’t hurt him!” Toba shouts to me. She jumps on top of me too, pummeling me and pushing at me, her hands feeling each of my pockets, finding the Berretta in my left pocket and managing to tug it out.
“Peter, is he attacking you? He isn’t supposed to, is he?”
Chloe mindspeaks from below.
“No, he isn’t supposed to be attacking me,”
I mindspeak, trying to push the larger man off of me, trying to break his grip.
“But he is.”
“Do you need my help?”
Chloe mindspeaks.
“Maybe, but not yet,”
I mindspeak.
In my own human form I’m sure I could overpower Pepe, but in Davidson’s form I find I have neither the bulk nor the strength. If I make myself larger or shift shape or let Chloe help me, then Pepe Santos will know something’s wrong. I shove against the man one more time. In return he lifts my head and smashes it into the deck once and then again.
The movement shifts his body a little bit—just enough for me to wiggle my right hand a little, the one holding Jordan Davidson’s SigSauer. I yank hard on it, but manage to move it only a few inches. Pepe slams my head against the deck again. I ignore the jarring pain and concentrate on moving that arm, flexing my shoulders and tugging, gaining a few inches each time.
Pepe shifts his weight again, tightening his grip on my neck, cutting off almost all of my air. I tug again and again, trying to free my arm up before I lose the ability to resist. It budges an inch, then an inch more and another inch, and finally I rip it free. I dig the gun’s muzzle into his side, just below his armpit.

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