Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (35 page)

The men on the boat turned their field glasses on the helicopter. Broad gestures. Surprise. Anger. Viktor came charging out of the cabin into the stern. We were catching up fast, maybe only a half-mile behind now, and I had to concede Rhys a point. What did we do when we caught up? There’s no cover in an airboat. We were sitting ducks.

To prove the point, a spray of bullets hit the water not twenty feet in front of us. Doug cut the engine back. “Relax, Tarrant,” he yelled above the still considerable roar. “We’re just beaters, driving them toward the bridge.”

“
And if they turn around?”

“
Then we stop them,” I said.

“
How?”

“
Any way we can.”

One of the goons raised his AK-47 toward the circling chopper. The one thing I practice assiduously is my marksmanship. I braced my feet, set my HK to manual—three rounds only—and raised the rifle to my shoulder.

“
Laine! You could hit Viktor.”

To hell with Rhys’s long-view. Maybe I
wanted
to hit Viktor. I aimed. Steady . . . steady.
How could anybody be steady in a fucking airboat?
I fired. Incredibly, the wiseguy with the AK-47 trained on Jeff and Flint crumpled into the stern well.

“
Tell Jeff to get his ass out of there,” Doug snapped. We weren’t just thinking of Jeff and Flint. The sheriff would never forgive us if we lost his one and only helicopter.

The chopper veered off, gaining altitude. We settled into one of those O J chases, moving steadily toward the bridge, just out of reliable firing range of each other. Flint and Jeff hovered, also out of effective range. We passed a maze of small mangrove islands and false channels, and then, suddenly, the Calusa broadened into a three-quarter-mile expanse of water. My phone beeped. “Four miles,” Jeff said. “And thanks, kid. Great shooting.”

I held up four fingers to Rhys and Doug. They nodded. Although I never took my eyes off the cruiser, I didn’t see Viktor again. Or Marina. Another wiseguy had taken the place of the man I’d hit, leaving two AK-47s trained as steadily on us as Rhys and I were on them.

The going was tougher here. Deeper water, not such a glassy surface. A definite risk. We kept going. Three miles to the bridge. Two. One. Just after Jeff’s announcement of one mile, the forward lookout on the cruiser spotted the solid array of patrol cars on the bridge, the flashing red and blue lights, the two police boats blocking off the double arches of the channel. The cruiser lost way rapidly, wallowing in the water, while Viktor considered his options. Doug powered down as well. This was a case of near-silence being deafening. We were poised, teetering on the edge of a precipice. I flipped the HK to auto. And waited.

The cruiser roared into life, made a broad circle, and came back at us, full speed, but not before we’d had time to get a good look at Viktor in the stern, holding a gun to the head of a terrified female gowned in poofy white silk, her blonde hair flying in the wind. Marina.

Blast it, we couldn’t shoot. Couldn’t stand against their fire power. Had no place to hide. I heard the chopper swooping in, knew Jeff would be hanging out the door, ready to join the fight, but the odds were terrible. I dropped to the floor, grabbed up the RPG launcher. I had no idea how to fire it, but Viktor didn’t know that. Dear God, it was heavy! Rhys took it from me, lifted it to his own shoulder. Took aim.

As I’ve said, Viktor isn’t stupid. He removed his gun from Marina’s head, extending his arm out to one side. The goons, following his lead, lowered their guns. The cruiser, twin diesels never faltering, roared by us at a distance of not more than fifty feet. A stand-off. Not a shot was fired. Viktor wasn’t going to meekly let us take him, but he
was
going to compromise. Because the “or else” was not an acceptable alternative.
God bless Doug and his arsenal of illegal weapons.

Rhys kept the RPG trained on the cruiser until it was a good half mile upriver. When he lowered it at last, the three of us simply looked at each other. That had been a little closer than any of us expected. Except maybe Doug. I’d had a strong lesson in how much I had yet to learn. But I was a Halliday, and I had to be ready to take it, to come up with a quip and a smile and carry on. I turned to Rhys. “We’ll never tell,” I said with a wink. But that little incident was enough to blackmail him forever. One peep about his hefting an RPG launcher, hot pursuit or no, and all dreams of high office at Interpol would be gone forever.

“
I’m on leave,” Rhys muttered. Doug and I grinned at him, well pleased to discover the man from Interpol was a true cop at heart.

Doug revved up the motor, and we did our own broad circle, heading back upriver, the airboat bucking the current, bouncing worse than Bella through a thunderstorm. The narrow, shallower river couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Twenty-one

Jeff beeped me. “We’re it, kid. If your Russians make it through the narrows, there’s nothing but swamp and grazing land for the next ten miles. No road access. So . . . you going to use that cannon you’ve got?”

“
They’ve got Marina.”

“
Yeah, well, who says she’s not a part of it?”

“
Sheriff wouldn’t approve,” I countered. “And Interpol wants Viktor for questioning.”

“
Listen, kid, me taking pot shots from the chopper just isn’t going to do it. And that damned airboat has about as much cover as Venus on the Half-Shell. Time to get real. You want the bastards to get away?”

SWAT team member advocating an illegal shoot? Good thing we weren’t on an open line. Jeff might be right, but I couldn’t do it. Not even by handing the RPG to Doug. Maybe . . . if Marina weren’t on board. But mass murder didn’t set well. If we got down to an absolute Them or Us . . .

If Viktor made it through the narrows, I had one slim hope. One last chance to nab him before he lost himself in the wilderness of the upper Calusa. A chance we might be able to take because the FBI had banned the Gerries and the Three Rivers cops from the 776 blockade. I grabbed my phone and alerted both sets of frustrated cops and ex-cops.

The six miles back upriver flew, the gradually shallower water allowing us to maintain flat-out speed. We kept on the cruiser’s tail, fifty yards back, the threat of our RPG keeping the AK-47s silent. We roared around the broad bend south of the Three Rivers canal. Suddenly, ahead of us, just beyond the place where the canal went off to the right, the cruiser powered down. They’d reached the bottleneck Jeff had mentioned earlier, the place where the river did a nasty turn and mangrove thickets intruded so heavily on the left that navigability was reduced to a squeeze and a prayer.

“
Low tide,” Doug pronounced with considerable satisfaction as he cut our engine.

“
Here?
” Rhys asked.

“
Oh, yeah. All the way upriver past our house. Only a foot or so, but it makes a difference.”

The cruiser’s engines were down to idling speed, but momentum kept it moving inexorably forward. Twin diesels screamed as the pilot threw them into reverse. Too late. The cruiser plowed into the mud flats. Slowed, shuddered. Stuck fast. Completely blocking the channel.

As we drifted closer, the goons in the stern raised their AK-47s, covering a flurry of activity near the bow. A raft . . . they were launching a raft! I caught a glimpse of the small attached motor as the raft was shoved over the side near the bow. Viktor reached into the forward hatch . . . a billow of white as he hauled Marina out, dropped her into the raft, then climbed in after her. The bastard. He was abandoning his men, leaving them to cover his escape.

I punched the walkie-talkie. “Jeff, come get me!”

“
No way, honeychild.”

“
Right now!”

The next voice I heard was Flint’s. “This is an official Sheriff’s helicopter, darlin’,” he drawled. “No civilian passengers. No problem. We’ve got it covered.”

“
I’m in imminent danger of being shot. Pretend you’re the Coast Guard and haul me up!”

Doug grabbed my phone. “Do as she says,” he ordered, even though he had no more authority than I did. “This is Laine’s show. Let her finish it.” He returned my phone, shook his head at Rhys. “No sense you getting into any more trouble, Tarrant.” Doug climbed down off his perch, picked up the RPG launcher, and leveled it at the cruiser. If ever anyone looked like he knew what to do with a rocket propelled grenade, it was my brother Doug. Above us, the rescue cable began to snake down from the chopper. Flint was so low, it didn’t have far to go. I climbed on, and the winch pulled me up, swinging crazily beneath the chopper as Flint took it up and out, away from the goon’s guns. Just in case they decided suicide was worth taking me out for all the trouble I’d caused.

Far below, Rhys was waving the chopper back, arms wig-wagging in fury. He’d expected to come with me. Too bad.

While Jeff was busy trying to relay the latest to the local cops, I sent half the Gerries to the parking lot of the motel where we’d left the Lexus. They would be back-up when Doug and Rhys brought Viktor’s stranded goons in, as I was sure they would. Mangrove swamps are chock-full of menacingly dark water, complete with alligators, and water moccasins. The wiseguys had nowhere to run. The other half of the Gerries I kept on stand-by. Maybe, if we were lucky, they’d be able to demonstrate that retirement hadn’t dimmed their skills.

I settled down to keeping track of the raft. Live oaks overhung the severely narrowed river. Palm trees flattened by hurricanes stuck out over the banks, compounded by so much carrotwood, Brazilian pepper, and wild grape that we couldn’t always see Viktor and the raft, though the stark white of Marina’s dress helped. Alligators lurked like giant logs. I spotted turtles, herons, ospreys, egrets, and cow birds. Turkey-headed vultures circled slowly, as if they already sensed a bloody outcome to this chase.

The raft disappeared under a long canopy of trees . . . and didn’t come out. Clinging to the side of the chopper’s open door, I peered down at the tree tops. Where . . .?

Thank you, God!
Viktor was doing what I’d hoped for, heading into a small stream on the river’s east bank that led to the only place where civilization touched the Calusa—a senior mobile home park, built long before the river was officially designated “wild and scenic” and protected from development.

I pulled on Flint’s arm, pointing toward the break in the solid mass of jungle below us. Then I called the Gerries and the local cops. I smiled. Viktor was in for a surprise.

A surprise that could mean a confrontation in the midst of hundreds of senior citizens.
Viktor would have a car waiting or on its way, maybe a whole goon squad with guns and more guns. The mobile home park was another massacre waiting to happen.
Shit!

Viktor was a monster, the road from town, long and winding. The Gerries might be too late. The seniors needed protection
now
. Marina needed saving—

Both good reasons to have eyes in the back of my head as Jeff reached for his handcuffs. I shoved my heel hard into his crotch, confident I wasn’t going to do too much damage as my feet were wearing nothing but the remnants of my pantyhose. While he was doubled up, cursing little sisters in general and me in particular, I started the winch and threw the cable out the door. As I went over the side with my HK and the sling pouch with my Lady Smith and the
bolas
slung over my back, the front half of my dress unwrapped, flew up over my head. I couldn’t see a damn thing, but Flint and Jeff were getting an eyeful. Any moment I expected the line to screech to a halt and start back up again.

It didn’t. I owed Flint. And, oh boy, wasn’t he just going to collect!

He dropped me neatly at the place where the park’s private road dead-ended against mangrove swamp, then remained, not more than a hundred feet off the ground. To my left was the narrow stream and an array of small wooden docks and shallow-bottomed boats. Jeff, I noted, was back in the open helicopter door, covering me. Later, I knew, I’d suffer for that well-placed kick. Viktor’s head and an arm, gun in hand, appeared above pilings about forty feet away. Calmly, he reached down with his other hand and hauled Marina up the ladder. There was no RPG threat now and he still had his hostage. Stalemate.

A ratty-looking pickup zoomed down the narrow road toward the dock
.
A pickup?
Come a long way down, haven’t you, Vik?
I pushed the walkie-talkie button. “Jeff, take the truck. Viktor’s mine.”

Viktor was running now, hauling Marina after him. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the Russian for “Down.” I’d have to settle for
Saditsyah
. Said urgently enough, I hoped it would do the trick. Yet for an instant I hesitated.
Viktor. Alive.
After one hell of a day, I was tiring. My breath rasped, a quiver threatened my knees. If I aimed for his legs, I could miss—very easily kill him. I
should
kill him. Like the assassin on the train.

The helicopter swooped in, hovering almost nose to nose with the pickup. Brakes squealing, it halted its race toward the dock. Viktor, still dragging Marina, surged toward the pickup, rapidly closing the gap. I was out of time. Shoving the MP-5 aside, I reached for my weapons pouch. I filled my lungs and shouted, “Marina,
saditsyah
!”