Tortugas Rising (7 page)

Paul wiped the water from his face. “At the very least, we should be a little harder to hear now. Tell your girl to keep it slow, and maybe they’ll go for the noisy one.” He settled into one of the seats behind the cockpit and was quiet. But, only for a moment. “Only you could inherit a billion dollar fortune, come to paradise, meet a hot girl, and screw it all up by getting shot at. You at least did it first, right?”

“Dude.”

“Just asking.” His voice faded off. “Hoping. Whatever. It’s been a while for you.”

“Just shut up and start thinking what we do if they don’t fall for your second boatman plan.”

Paul reached behind his back and pulled a gun from a concealed holster.

“Where in the hell did you get a gun?”

“Academy Sports. As your Head of Security I felt I needed to be prepared.”

“I never made you Head of Security.”

“You never made me your Envoy to the Nudie Bar either, but I diligently fulfill those obligations at least twice a month.”

“Put it away!”

“Calm down, Pinko. I didn’t think you had a problem with guns.”

“I don’t have a problem with guns. I have a problem with you having a gun.”

Paul tucked the gun back into the concealed holster. “It’s not like I didn’t practice with it.”

“Don’t let me see you with that again.”

“We may need it Steve.” Katherine pointed over the windshield to where a dark craft floated silently. A searchlight pierced the dark stretch of beach, and played upon the shoreline. “They’re looking for us on the beaches. I guess they figured we’d take refuge on this overgrown island.”

“What is this? A rainforest?” Steve stared into the dark mass of vegetation.

Katherine shrugged, “You rich people do funny things.”

Steve shook his head. “Turn us around. Head to the next channel. We’ve got to make it back to Master Key.”

The resort’s premiere restaurant stood in brilliant contrast to its island location. Fine linens covered the tables. The waiters were dressed in tuxedos, and the walls were lined with amber panels gilded with gold leaf. The Amber Room had been meticulously recreated to match the original that once resided in Catherine Palace in St. Petersburg.

When Baxter had heard that the famous plundered treasure was being recreated in Russia, he contracted the artisans to make two – one for the palace in St. Petersburg and one for the hotel and casino on Master Key.

It had taken more than a simple request. The Amber Room, the eighth wonder of the world, was to have been a one-of-a-kind. Baxter spent the next few years hiring away the master craftsmen working on the project. One by one he built a team to create his own “one-of-a-kind” wonder.

Inside the room, tuxedos and black evening gowns filled, drifted, and mingled. The guests in formal attire popped like silhouettes against the luminescent walls. Even those representatives of the absentee investors were in their finest, as they mingled around the room expanding their networks and drinking heavily.

A string quartet played. Waiters and waitresses made their way among the crowd, holding aloft silver platters filled with the finest foods and gold crested flutes, pausing long enough only to serve, never to eavesdrop or observe.

Warren Baxter surveyed the room from the corner. Rick Savage stood close by with a radio headset that squelched in his ear.

Baxter smiled broadly; the power he had gathered in the room was amazing. Before him stood a group that represented an impressive percentage of the world’s wealth and influence. He had done it.

Captains of industry, masters of finance, entrepreneurs, and visionaries milled about, basking in the glow that was the Amber Room and ImagiNation.

He studied the crowd.

A frown grew across his face and he spoke, interrupting Savage’s conversation. “I don’t see Mr. Bennett or his associate.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I want them here.” Baxter said.

“We don’t know where they are.”

“What do you mean? Everyone was to have a discreet escort.”

“Everyone had an escort. Bennett was last seen with Ms. Bernelli. Nelson gave his escort the slip.”

“The slip? Him? They must be somewhere on Master Key.”

“Bennett left on what appears to be a personal tour. And then Nelson stole a boat,” said Savage.

“Stole a boat?”

“Borrowed will most likely be the story.”

“Find them and get them back here.” He gestured to the gathering. “They simply must see this.”

Savage glared and turned back to his radio. It squelched again; he listened intently. He turned back to Baxter, “I think we found them.”

“Get them here.”

The security chief did not run for the door. He never ran. Running conveyed panic. He nodded at Baxter’s request and started to walk toward the doors.

“Chief Savage.”

He stopped.

“It seems it would be worthwhile to keep a better eye on Mr. Nelson.”

Savage nodded again, turned, rolled his eyes and left, barking commands into the radio as he made his way toward the docks.

# # #

They drifted away from the searchlight until they felt it was safe to run the engine. It wasn’t until then that any of them felt it was safe to talk.

“They fell for it. My brilliant plan worked.” Paul peered into the darkness behind the boat.

“Yeah, who’d of thought hot-wiring a boat would end up being a good thing? What the hell were you thinking?” Steve surveyed the quiet coastline of a nearby island.

“You’re going to give me crap for this? You have a boatload of masked gunmen after you and I’m the one that made an error in judgment?”

Steve glared at his friend, “You’re going to get us kicked off the island.”

“It’s your island, Steve. Didn’t you see the paperwork? Without your money these islands would still be underwater.”

“It’s not my money.”

Paul met his friend’s gaze. “Oh, shut up you crybaby. There are a lot worse problems to have than being so rich. I’ll give you an example: being chased by gunmen in a boat!”

“Two boats,” Katherine’s voice pulled them from their argument. The pair stared behind them fearing that the boat they had left behind had caught up. There was nothing there.

“Out front!”

They spun in time to see bursts of gunfire from the front of the boat. Katherine dropped and pulled Steve to the floor. Paul fell into the water as the unmanned wheel spun free.

The jet-boat spun wide and struck the beach of a nearby island. The engine was stuck at full throttle. Water streamed from the back of the craft as the water-jet engine forced the nose of the boat into the sand. Steve and Katherine were thrown forward in the deck seating. Steve leapt to his feet, found Katherine’s arm, and steadied her. He could not see Paul.

“Paul?” Steve scanned the water.

His search was answered with gunfire. The boat’s fiberglass hull splintered as it was raked with bullets. Bennett grabbed Katherine and pulled her onto the beach.

“Where’s Paul?” He yelled over the shots.

She was shaken and did not respond.

“Run!” The voice was faint but Steve heard Paul yell the warning as the gunmen’s boat beached up shore from their location.

Grabbing Katherine by the hand, he led them over the shoreline and into the island.

# # #

The water was warm but the sudden impact with the ocean had shocked Paul. He floated under the channel for only a moment before he swam for the surface.

The Sea-Doo was beached; its engine screamed as it tried to drive the boat further onto the sand; the back end swayed back and forth in the shallow water.

The black craft that had opened fire was turning towards the land. He grasped at the small of his back and retrieved the gun. Miraculously, it had not come dislodged in the fall.

Fire opened from the attacker’s boat. Fiberglass splinters floated around him. Kicking furiously he drew the slide and aimed for the closest gunman. As instructed in his weekend class, he took a breath, exhaled half of it and stopped. He relaxed, stopped moving, and quickly sank to the bottom. They had never covered firing from a floating position. He resurfaced quickly, fired a blind shot and yelled to Steve to run.

Wiping the seawater from his eyes, he watched as Steve and his new girl ran over the breaker and toward the center of the island. Men clad in black leapt from the boat and pursued the couple. None of them seemed to be concerned or aware of him floating in the channel.

Paul realized that they might not have seen him, and if they hadn’t found the water taxi, they might not have realized they were chasing more than two people.

“I have an edge,” Paul whispered to himself. Land was close and he began to kick. He moved closer to the enemy boat. He didn’t know much about taking on a host of armed gunmen garbed in black, but he had seen in countless movies that the element of surprise was a powerful one. It had always worked for Michael Myers. He approached the hull of the boat.

Sand filled his hands as he began to crawl through the shallow water. It was quicker this way and the fact that he could now stand and fire would certainly be another advantage.

The black boat’s hull shielded him on his right. There was nothing but clumsily gouged footprints ahead of him. Open water was on his left. He guessed that there was a guard around the corner.

Paul braced his footing and prepared to spring his edge. Despite the surreal and dangerous situation that he now found himself in, he smiled a little. He loved winning. He started to stand.

“Don’t move!”

The shout came from behind him. It was close, though still hard to hear over the whine of the beached jet-boat.

The guard had spotted him and lowered himself into the channel. He stood waist deep in the gentle waves.

“Stand up,” the command was emphasized with the rising of a vicious looking rifle barrel.

Paul hesitated.

“I said get up.”

Paul turned and got to his knees. He pulled his left arm from the water and kept his balance with his right still deep in the sand.

“Raise your hand slowly. A handful of mud won’t stop a bullet.”

Paul did as he was told and slowly raised the gun out of the water.

Expecting not a gun barrel, but a handful of wet beach, the gunman’s eyes widened.

The first shot struck the guard in the shoulder, the second and third missed completely; the fourth entered the gunman’s chest. The water swallowed the scream as he fell under the waves.

Paul reacted quicker than even he expected, and launched himself at the guard. The man struggled to stand as blood poured into the water. Paul kept him off of his feet, forced him to the seafloor, and stood on his back. The struggling stopped. He stepped aside and the body popped back to the surface. Paul took the rifle.

“Surprise.”

# # #

Steve heard gunfire behind him and dove to the ground. He felt a pop and sudden pain in his upper thigh.

“Those weren’t at us. Get up.” Katherine pulled him back to his feet.

Steve blushed and tested his leg; it held and the pain faded. “I probably looked pretty stupid there, huh. I thought…”

“They came from the beach,” Katherine pulled at his hand. “Run.”

“The beach? Paul.” He turned back to the shoreline.

Katherine pulled at his shoulder. “Keep running.”

Steve ran with her. His panting became raspy. “We’re going to run out of island. Pretty soon we’ll be ankle deep in the next channel over.”

Open terrain had greeted them on the island and left them with nothing but a few palm trees to hide behind. This changed as they reached the island’s center. The elaborate landscaping was everywhere. Trees and outbuildings began to aid their escape. Steve vaulted a low-lying hedge line and stopped. Katherine landed next to him with a grunt. Waving her on, Steve flattened himself against the ground and the hedge.

Katherine crawled down the hedge line as Steve listened for the approaching footsteps. They were fast and heavy. A break in the cadence signaled their location. Steve shot his arms up just as a pair of combat boots cleared the hedge. His grip was solid. The eyes of the boot tore at his palms but he had his pursuer by the feet.

Momentum carried the gunman forward. With his hands firmly gripped on the rifle there was no stopping his face from hitting the ground.

Air burst from the gunman’s lungs. A rush of blood poured from his nose. He did not try to stand.

Steve made a grab for the gun but it had slid from the man’s hands into the darkness.

Katherine motioned frantically for him to follow her. Shelter provided by the hedge line, and knocking a man out, gave Steve a sense of control. His hopes rose. All of the crawling, however, was killing his knees.

Scrambling as quickly as quiet would let them, the pair made their way to the main home of the private island. The lights were out. He could hear no generator. The house was empty.

They crawled furiously. Steve’s knees ached and he tried to keep the weight on his toes but this wore him out even more; he knew he would need his strength, so he let his knees suffer. After passing a lavish pool and cabana they reached the patio of the home. They still led the pursuers by half a minute. Steve stood, grabbed a patio umbrella and, wielding it like a lance, drove it through the mansion’s patio door.

The glass did not give easily or quietly, but it gave.

He dropped the umbrella and grabbed Katherine’s arm. “This way.”

# # #

The gunfire from the beach had caused the pursuers to pause. It had not been precise, or close. Four of the black hooded men exchanged looks of astonishment and, after a moment, two were assigned to investigate the gunfire from the beach. The other two followed the sound of the broken glass.

# # #

Since he had become so proficient at hot-wiring, Paul was a little disappointed to find the keys in the black boat’s ignition. He throttled back, and brought the dark craft off the beach. Then, for the third time in a half hour, Paul Nelson found himself jumping off of a perfectly good boat.

Guns drawn, ready to fill Paul with as many bullets as he would stand for, two men crested the breaker wall. Paul enjoyed the startled yells when they realized they would have to make a swim for their boat.