Instinct (20 page)

Michelle dashed down to answer it whilst Flynn sat back in the comfortable wicker chair and let his food settle. He did not take heed of the conversation going on below deck and soon Michelle came back up, beaming happily. ‘Boone is less than an hour away.'

Flynn raised his beer. ‘I'll drink to that.' At that moment the evening breeze moulded Michelle's dress against her body, leaving nothing to Flynn's imagination. In his mind he said, ‘And I'll drink to that, too.'

‘I'll go and greet him.' Flynn rose from the second game of chess he and Michelle had played in the intervening hour, knowing he was beaten soundly again.

‘OK. I'll warm him up some food.'

Flynn stepped off the houseboat, and sauntered down the pathway that clung to the riverbank which led to the next creek where
Faye2
was moored, and where Boone was easing
Shell
into her mooring alongside Flynn's boat. Flynn would have hurried along and assisted Boone to tie up, but the sight of the big old black Mercedes already parked on the jetty, plus the two big black matching men leaning on the vehicle, arms folded as they watched Boone manoeuvre the boat expertly into position, made Flynn pull up sharp. He was sure he hadn't been seen in the darkness, so he stepped sideways out of sight behind a couple of empty oil barrels stacked on one another.

One of the men caught Boone's mooring rope as he tossed it across the gap. Moments later
Shell
was secure and Boone played out the gangplank across to the quayside.

A man got out of the back of the Mercedes and dashed across on to the boat and had a quick conversation with Boone, who then took him inside the cabin. Flynn ducked low, peering around the barrels at the scenario some fifty metres in front of him, which was illuminated by a couple of lamp posts that cast a white, eerie glow on the tableau.

Flynn saw that one of the men lounging against the car had a machine pistol held at an angle across his chest. The wry look on Flynn's face said it all. What the hell had Boone got himself involved in now? Before he could answer, Boone reappeared on deck. Behind him was the man from the Mercedes supporting another man with a blanket over his shoulders. This was obviously the cargo that Boone had been to collect from God knew where. The man was apparently injured in some way and had to be propped up as he was led across the gangplank into the hands of one of the waiting men, before being placed in the back of the car. Flynn concentrated his vision on the man in the blanket and, just before his head ducked into the car, he got a one second look at his face.

A further mouth-to-ear conversation took place between Boone and the man from the car, then the latter slid into the rear of the vehicle and the other bodyguards – because that's what Flynn pegged the men as being – climbed into the car, which then set off with a spurt of red dust. He kept out of view as the car spun around in a turning circle, then drove towards him along the narrow road that ran parallel to the quay.

It was a big, battered old Merc. Flynn knew there were plenty knocking around Banjul, either driven as taxis or by gangsters. He instinctively read and memorized the number plate, noted an unusual dent in the rear wing and that the back bumper was twisted out at one corner.

Flynn stood up slowly and strolled towards the boat, whistling tunelessly as though nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn't, but Flynn was an ex-cop and still had a nose that sniffed out badness. And what he'd just witnessed stank rancid and rank.

Boone was reticent about the job. Flynn didn't press him, it wasn't his business. The guy was clearly exhausted by the journey and although he was ecstatic to see Michelle, and ravenously ate the meal she'd prepared for him, he was dead beat and crap company. He hauled himself off to bed within an hour of landing, leaving Michelle and Flynn alone on the deck of the houseboat.

They chatted until the early hours. Usual subjects. Love, life, food, religion  . . . sex. At one thirty Flynn dragged himself up, complimented her on the food and her company, bowed like a gentlemen – having had a little too much to drink – kissed the back of her hand and left.

Twenty minutes later he bedded down on
Faye2
in the air-conditioned chill of the stateroom and was deep asleep almost instantly, but not before looking forward to the next day's fishing out on the estuary, his last day in the Gambia.

TWELVE

B
oone had promised Flynn a wonderful day of fishing, then a slap-up meal at one of the beach hotels on the coast followed by a drinking session, after which they would crash out in rooms at the hotel. Then, after breakfast the following morning, they would wave bye-bye. Flynn had to get back to Gran Canaria to prepare
Faye2
for the summer season and the marlin runs. He needed to get the boat and his crew, Jose, the sour tempered Spaniard, ready for action.

Flynn woke early, and after a cool shower sat in the fighting chair with a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, accompanied by a cafetière of coffee and a tall glass of chilled orange juice.

He was feeling pretty tranquil. After the ructions of the last couple of years he was sanguine about life ahead. The midnight talks with Michelle had been very beneficial for him; her view of the world, the way she saw into his soul, then reached in and gently massaged what she found.

He sat back with his coffee, raising his face to the tropical heat, smiling. But just for a moment, unaccountably, his thoughts revolved around to Henry Christie of all people. This was the guy Flynn had blamed for hounding him out of the police almost six years ago and who had crashed back into his life a couple of years back at the same time Flynn's sordid past had intruded.

Flynn shook his head to rid his mind's eye of Christie, his face now scowling, thinking that if he never met Christie again, it would be too freaking soon.

Flynn grunted, collected his breakfast things, rinsed them off, then hopped on to the quay and started the short walk to Boone's houseboat. He glanced at the deck of
Shell
and saw Boone hadn't mopped the deck properly last night. There were some droplets of blood on the white decking, dried and brown now. Definitely blood, Flynn thought, pausing, recalling what he'd witnessed last night. Flynn couldn't have known that the injury was a wound of some sort, but the blood confirmed it. His face screwed up, thinking about men with guns and the brief glimpse of the injured man's face as he got into the car. Flynn had seen him clearly, his eyes as sharp as they'd ever been. So who was he?

He walked on and five minutes later he was at the houseboat, once more amazed at how brilliantly it had been refurbished. Nice one, Boone, Flynn thought, and smiled brightly at the figure of Michelle who was on deck, sipping juice and reading a paperback.

She saw him, tipped back her sunhat and placed the book down. Her smile was radiant and Flynn caught his breath, not for the first time, at her beauty. Nice one, Boone, he thought again. Don't screw this one up.

Michelle hugged him and he could not stop himself from loving each second of the short embrace, feeling every contour of her body, even though today she was wearing a cut-off T-shirt that showed a few inches of her midriff, and three-quarter length jeans, not one of her wispy dresses.

As they parted, Flynn said, ‘Where is the old rogue?'

‘Gone into town. He said he wouldn't be long and for you to wait. The fishing will be great, he told me to say.' She rolled her eyes.

‘Did he mention what he'd been up to?'

Michelle frowned, not quite understanding the question, so Flynn rephrased it slightly. She said, ‘No, he tells me nothing.' But she did not seem put out by this. Boone was clearly a man with secrets that she was prepared to tolerate. ‘I need to shower,' she told Flynn and picked at her T-shirt. ‘You relax, make yourself comfortable – help yourself to a drink if you want.' She smiled and went below.

Flynn was slightly narked at Boone's absence, having been anticipating a day heaving in tarpon again, but there was nothing he could do other than chill. He heard a door close below decks – the bedroom, he guessed – and after giving Michelle a few moments to get in the shower, he went below with the intention of getting a drink from the fridge.

He helped himself to chilled mineral water and added some fruity cordial, stood there and took a long draught of it. He glanced around the living area and saw a laptop computer on a small desk tucked in one corner, the screen saver pulsing out exploding stars. Flynn wasn't particularly drawn to computers but he thought he might take this opportunity to check his e-mails. He was expecting one from his son, who he hoped would be visiting him next month in Puerto Rico. He sat in front of the laptop and tapped the enter key. The screen saver disappeared, but a log-in screen appeared asking for a password.

Flynn cursed, sat back and sighed – but spun quickly in the chair when the bedroom door opened and a very naked Michelle stepped out.

‘Oh – jeez, sorry,' Flynn gasped, trying to avert his eyes.

Michelle stood at the door, completely unfazed by the encounter. ‘You want access to the computer?'

‘I  . . . I  . . . thought I might check my messages.' Flynn began to rise, but suddenly Michelle was right behind him, leaning over his shoulder, her breasts pressing into his shoulder blades, her amazing scent invading his sense of smell, almost overpowering him in a subtle way. She reached over and her fingers tapped on the keyboard. Flynn froze, certain that Boone would come back at this very moment and witness this little scenario.

‘Just tap in BaBaGee1234,' Michelle said into Flynn's ear. She entered the password, her breasts still crushed into his back, then stood upright, gave a little laugh and walked back to the bedroom. Flynn, despite the danger of death, still had a serious rush of blood and could not help himself turning to ogle her bottom. She glanced back over her shoulder before Flynn could look away. She gave him a tinkle of a wave and disappeared.

Flynn exhaled, unaware he'd been holding his breath.

The computer was displaying the pages that Boone, presumably, must have been browsing earlier. There were a lot of Google news searches, all on separate pages. Flynn, though not all that curious, selected one and when he realized what he was looking at, his heartbeat stepped up a few notches. His lips popped open and his whole body stiffened with terror and foreboding. He tabbed from screen to screen, his eyes scanning the pages that Boone had been reading.

Flynn wasn't sure how long he'd been looking at the computer when he heard footsteps crashing on to the deck above and the voice of Ray Boone screaming, ‘Shell, Shell, we need to move. Shell, we need to get the fuck out of here!'

Flynn spun, a curious mix of emotions in him. Guilt at looking at Boone's computer, the same at having seen Michelle naked, and puzzlement about what Boone was yelling about.

Boone slid down the almost perpendicular stairs and crashed into the living room, gasping, rasping for breath, red-faced and exhausted. He clutched his chest.

‘Shit, you're here,' was his reaction on seeing Flynn.

Boone ran across the room and yanked a drawer out from a cabinet, turned it upside down so the contents fell out.

‘You need to fuck off now,' Boone said. ‘Just like I'm doing.'

‘Darling, what's going on?' A be-robed Michelle appeared at the bedroom door. Boone glanced at her, his face contorted with desperation. ‘Get dressed – just don't ask, do it. Pack a few things in a holdall – you might just have time. But do not, repeat, DO NOT, arse around. Well? What are you waiting for, you silly bint?'

Michelle blinked, stung by the insult, confused by the orders and urgency. She went back into the bedroom.

Flynn said, ‘Boone – what the hell's  . . .?' He did not finish the sentence. Flynn saw the reason for the drawer being yanked out and upturned. Fastened by masking tape to the underside of the drawer was a pistol and two spare clips of ammunition. Boone ripped the tape away, fitted a magazine into the gun, drew back the slider and eased the first bullet into the chamber.

‘You get the hell out of here,' Boone said. ‘I don't have time for chapter and verse – just go, now. Michelle? Where the fuck are you? Come on,
come on
.' Boone turned back to Flynn. ‘Go, please. I'll catch up with you sometime. Just leg it, pal. Michelle!' he bellowed. ‘Christ.'

‘Boone?' Flynn said.

‘I fucked up. OK? I need to get to the boat and away from this stinking shithole. Run – now, Flynn. I can't make it any plainer.'

Michelle emerged from the bedroom, hurriedly re-dressed, with a small holdall in hand, a concerned and puzzled expression on her face which morphed into something else – terror – when she saw the gun in Boone's hand.

Boone grabbed her arm. ‘Do you want to be with me?' He shook her.

‘Yes I do.'

‘Then we need to go now.'

‘OK,' she said, her big eyes wide with fear. ‘Let's go.'

‘To the boat, Flynn. Get going.'

Flynn wasn't about to hang around any longer. He already had the feeling that too much time was being wasted. He recognized a hunted man when he saw one. He shimmied up the steps on to the deck, the two others behind him. He hurried towards the gangplank but he stopped as a black Mercedes skidded in the dust on the quayside, maybe a hundred metres away from the houseboat, as close as a vehicle could get, just behind Boone's Land Cruiser that had been left at a skewed angle, abandoned by Boone, the driver's door open.

Four men climbed out of the Mercedes, all dressed in summer shirts, shorts and sunglasses. The summer attire didn't somehow seem to go with the weapons they were openly carrying. They were varied. An AK47, an H&K machine pistol and two similar weapons Flynn did not recognize. All did similar jobs. That of firing short deadly bursts of bullets designed to rip people to shreds. Each also had a pistol in a pancake holster at his hip.