The Council of Ten (22 page)

The leader pulled a shelling knife from his pocket. “What you want here, captain?”

Drew detected a note of fear in his voice and seized the advantage. “This is going to cost you,” he said as sharply as he could manage.

The leader’s yellowy eyes wavered, uncertain. “Who sent you?” he rasped.

Drew stayed silent. Obviously the man was as frightened as he was, but for altogether different reasons. Perhaps with the violent closing of the chain in Florida, he feared for his own life. But a man sent to dispose of him would never have initiated contact with the gold coin. Clearly there was more involved here.

The leader came closer and flashed the shelling knife before him. “I slice you up piece by piece less you talk, captain,” he threatened, fear still in his voice. “Who sent you?”

“I used the gold coin; that’s all you need to know.”

The leader turned up the kerosene lamp on the table beneath him. He pulled it closer to Drew so the light danced madly against the blade he was fondling. “I grew up here as a sheller, captain. Got to the point where I could shell the mussel without even disturbing its overskin. Bet I could do a pretty good job shelling you, less, of course, you start answerin’ me straight. What’d they send you down here for?”

It was the leader’s use of “they” that formed Drew’s response. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions?”

The man’s features flared and in an instant the blade was pressed against Drew’s throat. “I done nothin’ wrong! You tell ’em that. I do what I’m supposed to. No need they send you down here. I think maybe I send you back in a box, captain. I think maybe that’ll teach ’em good.”

“All right, all right,” Drew stalled, realizing he would die here unless he found a way out fast. The man was obviously hiding something; his fear proved that much. But Drew would have to uncover what it was later. For now escape was the issue. He needed a weapon. Mercenary camp had taught him that there was always something to be made of nothing. His eyes wandered to the kerosene lamp, his mind flashing like a computer. “I think we’ve got a misunderstanding,” he resumed, feigning submission. “Look, I’ll tell you whatever you want, but a drink, I need a drink first… .”

The leader motioned to one of the two men who’d been seated at the kitchen table. The man moved to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle and a glass. As he approached the table, Drew saw that it was cheap rum. The man set the bottle and glass down near the leader.

“Drink and then talk, eh, captain?” the leader said, opening the bottle and filling the glass.

Drew nodded and accepted the glass with both hands, not because he needed them but because the motion forced the giant holding him from behind to slacken his grip. He started to sip the rum, eyes sweeping from the bottle to the kerosene lamp and back again. He would have to act fast, incredibly fast.

The head man was smiling again. Drew took a final breath.

His first motion was deceptively simple. A sudden flick with both his wrists covered the bald man behind him with rum, stinging his eyes. By the time the leader grasped what had happened, Drew had kicked out with both feet, spilling the rest of the bottle all over the table. Almost simultaneously, he slapped outward with a now free arm against the kerosene lamp. It keeled over, contents mixing with the rum. Flames leaped outward immediately. A few caught the leader in the chest as he reached to restrain Drew. He fell backward into the table and took it with him to the floor.

But the giant had his bearings again. Drew reached down for the lamp now on the floor and wrapped his fingers around its burning hot handle, then swung it in a narrow arc. Glass cracked against the bald giant’s head. Fire spread over his bald dome.

The big man toppled over screaming, colliding with the leader who was fighting to rise after successfully putting out the flames that had caught on his shirt along with the tablecloth. The other two men were in motion now, but the advantage belonged to Drew. One had a gun out, but the confusion rendered it useless and Drew crashed into him without fear. The other tried to trip Drew up as he made for the door, but Drew kicked backward and mashed his nose. Then he was flying back into the night.

Drew knew his escape could easily be short-lived and he didn’t bother to celebrate it. His first thought was to make a dash back to his hotel. But the sounds of men setting off in pursuit quickly made him realize that he’d never make it. He was halfway to the Paradise Island Bridge by that point and so he simply continued for it.

Running, he reached the bridge in under two minutes. The pedestrian walkway was deserted and the only light came from a fairly constant stream of crossing cars. He tried for a sprint down the walkway, but his burning chest and lungs denied him the pace he needed. He was almost to the center when the shots crackled through the air, soft pops in the night.

Drew glanced behind him to see the leader and two of his henchmen in pursuit. His foot caught in a loose board and it sent him flying. He hit the wooden walkway hard and nearly lost his wind. Bullets chewed the rails above him. The steps leading down to Potters Cay were just up ahead, his only hope.

Drew kept low to reduce himself as a target. More bullets sailed through the air, all way off. Finally, he reached the steps and charged down to the Cay.

At the bottom he searched frantically for a weapon. His eyes found a nearby decrepit stand on the Cay, its wood rotting. Drew rushed to it and ripped a board free.

Above him footsteps pounded the bridge walkway.

Drew moved back toward the steps, not hesitating. He heard shoes thundering down and raised the board. A face appeared. Drew swung the wood like a baseball bat. It impacted with a thud, followed by a grunt from the already unconscious attacker.

More footsteps slammed down the stairs on the Cay’s other side. Drew was already lunging for the downed man’s discarded gun when the first shots from the second man pounded his ears. The second attacker was charging toward him now, steadying his aim.

Drew brought the gun up and fired. The first shot was errant and the second merely slowed the man down. Drew fired again. And again. He emptied the whole cylinder, in fact, before the man finally crumbled, firing his last two rounds harmlessly upward.

That left only the leader. Drew swung fast, first left and then right. No sign. Drew started down the center of the Cay.

The yellow-eyed leader would be waiting for him somewhere, the advantage obviously his. Now, however, it was one on one instead of four on one, an unexpected turn. Nor would he have expected Drew to proceed directly down the center of the Cay. This would confuse him, make him hesitate. Another lesson from the weeks spent at the mercenary camp: always do the unexpected.

Drew kept walking, heart lunging forward in his tired chest.

He reached one of the shelling booths and stopped. It was deserted now along with the rest of the Cay, but one of the fishermen had left his shelling knife behind, the mussel oil glinting off the blade in the moonlight. Taking it in his hand, Drew headed on. He could feel the leader close by now. The man must be scared, cursing himself for underestimating his captive. He had to be sure of the kill now, and he would not act until he was. Rashness had cost him already.

Drew came to a break between two of the booths and ducked between them, lowering himself to his knees. He wanted to force the leader to act suddenly, to give himself away.

Headlights coming down the bridge caught the shimmer of something metallic three booths down. The leader’s pistol was stainless steel, but the shimmer could have come from any metal object, not necessarily a gun. More headlights flashed. The shimmer was gone, indicating that it must have come from an object that had been moved—very likely the gun. The leader must have been changing his position.

Staying on his knees, Drew crept into the aisle that ran behind the booths and began to crawl with his head low. This denied him inspection of whatever it was he would be facing and created the dreadful possibility that the leader would spot him first.

Drew willed his limbs and joints to stay silent and smooth. He had learned all about the importance of silence at the camp. Silence could make up for various other shortcomings, including inferior position and weapon. A man could only accurately shoot what he could see and not when it was already upon him.

Drew crawled on, almost to the spot of the shimmer.

He was one booth away when he heard one irregular sound and then another. Shoes brushing against dirt perhaps, or a change in a man’s breathing cadence. He would have to move blindly. He could not risk returning the advantage to the yellow-eyed leader by trying to better his vantage point.

Drew saw the scuffed heels on a pair of work boots and he knew he had guessed right. He rose and lunged in the same motion, the conch knife tight in his hand.

The leader’s turn came much too late. Drew saw the gun coming around and locked his hand on the wrist holding it as he pounded the man’s face with an elbow. The man groaned but still tried to fight back, concentrating all his efforts on freeing his gun, which allowed Drew to smash his face with three more hard strikes, rendering him to near unconsciousness. A quick knee to his wrist separated the leader from his gun altogether and then Drew’s knife was pressed against his throat just as he had practiced a hundred times.

“Now it’s my turn to ask the questions,” Drew charged, making sure the man saw the handle of the conch knife. “I don’t have to tell you what this is. You’re the expert.”

The man’s yellowy eyes bulged in fear but not surprise, as if he suspected that this was what Drew had come to Nassau for in the first place.

“Doesn’t feel too good, does it?” Drew spit out. “It’ll get a lot worse unless you talk. I need to get my facts straight. Let’s start with the gold coin.”

“The women used it, just like you, whenever they came down.”

“
Old
women. They hand the gold coin over and then you supply them with cocaine.”

The man looked puzzled. “Don’t you—”

“Answer my question!”

“Yes, captain, yes. Sixteen shipments, but they weren’t all cocaine.”

“
What?
”

“Only four, five times maybe they were cocaine all right, but the rest …”

“What about the rest?” Drew demanded.

“Those times a few days before the old women arrived, a shipment made it here from Spain. Always by water but never to the same port twice.” He hesitated. “It was powder, captain, but it wasn’t cocaine.”

“How could you know?”

“I … kept some two shipments back,” the man confessed. “Just a small bag. Never thought it’d be missed. Never meant to—”

“How’d you know it wasn’t cocaine?”

The man swallowed hard. “Sold some, captain. Watched a man snort a line right in front of me. Watched him die. Horrible it was, captain, like he exploded from the inside.”

Drew looked down at him, confused.
The white powder that wasn’t Trelana’s also wasn’t cocaine
. What was going on? What had his grandmother gotten herself involved in?

“I figured they’d send someone sooner or later, captain. I knew I made a mistake, but there wasn’t nothin’ I could do about it ‘sides hope the bag wasn’t missed. Then, when I got word ’bout the gold coin today …”

No wonder the man had been terrified of him back in the apartment, Drew reasoned.

“This bag,” he started, “do you still have it?”

The man did his best to nod. “Figured I could return it in trade for my life if it came to that. Hid it back in the apartment under the center floor boards lined up with the kitchen table. Let me live and I’ll take you to it.”

“The grandmothers didn’t know there was any … difference in the shipments, did they?”

“I didn’t tell ’em, captain. I just made delivery when the signal came through all those times. I got no idea what they knew or didn’t know.”

“Then why—”

It was sudden fear in the man’s bulging yellow eyes that made Drew stop and twist in the direction of their gaze. The motion saved his life. A hook flashed by his face and imbedded in the man’s midsection. His blood-curdling scream gave way to a gurgling rasp as blood streamed from his mouth.

Drew jumped back. The hook was in motion toward him again.

At first he thought the attacker was wielding it as a hand-held weapon. Then he saw the hook
was
his hand. He dodged to the left and the hook sliced clear through a wooden counter on the Cay.

Teeg yanked his arm upward and swung to stalk his target.

Drew backpedaled, eyes focused on the huge figure before him. He’d thought the man back at the shack was big, but this one was mammoth. The darkness made his features indistinct. There was only the hook.

Teeg lunged forward again, sweeping the hook in a crosscut.

Drew jumped back, but the pointed edge caught his shirt and tore it. A thin line of blood appeared on his flesh and began to widen.

Teeg sensed the kill.

Drew watched the giant raise the hook mightily again before he sent it into a blurring descent. This time Drew ducked to the inside to avoid it, realizing at that instant that he still held the conch knife in his hand. He swung it up quickly, arm climbing at a virtual ninety-degree angle to find the monster’s throat.

Teeg caught the flash of motion and whirled his hook upward in an uncharacteristic move of defense. He was going for the target’s wrist, but the soft clang told him he had miscalculated slightly and had clapped his hook against the knife itself.

Drew’s wrist stung and he lurched backward. A set of crates tripped him up and he tumbled over them. He looked up to see the hook descending for his throat, and he wrenched his head to the side. The hook imbedded in the floor surface of the Cay.

Drew grabbed for the arm it was attached to with both hands, and in desperation he snapped a foot out at the pitted face leaning over him. The move staggered the monster enough to buy him time to regain his feet. Drew nearly tripped on another crate and grasped it as the huge attacker rushed him once more.

Teeg bellowed as he raised the hook over his head.