Unlucky 13 (21 page)

That was her. That was Mackie Morales. For sure.

Cindy reached for her phone in the seat beside her and hit number three on her speed dial.

Lindsay’s voice came through the earpiece: “You have reached Sergeant Lindsay Boxer. Leave your name and time that you called—”

Damn it.

Cindy needed both hands on the wheel. She clicked off
without leaving a message and tossed her phone back onto the passenger seat. Up ahead, Lake Street terminated at a T intersection. Cindy saw the Subaru take the left onto Arguello Boulevard toward the Presidio, and she followed the Outback into the turn too fast. Centrifugal force sent her handbag and cell phone off the passenger seat and onto the floor.

Cindy kept going, past the gate to Presidio
Terrace and onward toward the Presidio, a former army post for more than two hundred years and now a National Park.

Where was Morales going?

It didn’t really matter. All Cindy had to do was follow her to her destination, then park inconspicuously, and call Lindsay, text Lindsay to death, wait for Lindsay.

As Cindy passed Inspiration Point on her right, she saw the Subaru gather speed around
the next curve. Traffic had thinned so that now there was very little cover on the two-lane road between her Honda and Morales.

Whatcha going to do now, Cindy?

Cindy eased up on the gas. That was really her only option. She let a gray Lexus pass her and then a line of three motorcycles, and now the road split at a fork; it continued as Arguello on the right and was Washington Boulevard on the
left. And there, up ahead, was a stop sign and there was no running it. This was a damned three-way stop. Cindy swore as she braked, and traffic filled in from Washington, crossing in front of her, blocking her view. And when she could move forward again, she didn’t see the Subaru anymore.

Had Morales stayed on Arguello, the main route to the lower part of the Presidio? Or had she taken the left
onto Washington? Cindy stayed on Arguello, but a short distance later, as she passed Infantry Terrace, she knew that she had lost Morales and maybe given herself away.

She drove on at a steady fifty, her eyes going everywhere looking for a station wagon that would no longer look green in the dark.

She wanted to call Richie. She wanted to hear him say, “What is it, Cin? What’s wrong? Okay, I’ll
put in a BOLO for that Outback. We’ll find her. You sit tight.”

It was a compulsion the size of a long-haul truck, but her phone was somewhere on the floor and there was no place to stop. Cindy was actually glad she could wait out the urge to call Richie.

Just then, somewhere near the gas pedal, her cell phone started to ring. Cindy had a horrible feeling it was Mackie Morales calling to tell
her that she was an asshole and a loser.

She wished she could take that call. She wanted to tell her, “Grow up, Mackie. Meet with me. I want to talk with you and I’m not giving up. Not now. Not ever.”

CINDY BACKTRACKED ON
Arguello, still looking for Morales, knowing that for tonight at least, there was no fucking way.

She slowed as she neared Infantry Terrace. She turned into the entrance between tall stone gates, backed around so that she was facing traffic, and braked her car.

Her hands were shaking, but don’t tell that to her boss.

Shit. She hadn’t eaten anything in eleven
hours.

Cindy shut off the engine and the headlights. She felt around on the floor, picked up her handbag and located her phone under the seat. She checked her missed calls and was relieved that her last call hadn’t been from Morales.

Seriously, she wanted to talk to that bitch, but she wanted to talk to her from a position of strength. And she wasn’t there yet.

Her last caller had been Lindsay,
returning her calls.

“Sorry, Cindy. I couldn’t call until now. Call me back.”

Cindy stabbed redial and listened to the ringtone.

Lindsay’s voice came through her earpiece and Cindy said, “Linds—” before realizing that once again she’d gotten Lindsay’s voice mail.

She pounded the wheel with her palm, and at the beep, she said, “Linds. This is urgent. Mackie is in town. She coasted past your
apartment about an hour ago. She could be looking for you. Understand. She could be looking—”

The beep cut her off.

She pressed redial, and after Lindsay’s tiresome outgoing message finished, Cindy said, “Linds. She wrote to me, so believe me, I’m not hallucinating. I ID’d her. I followed her and then I lost her somewhere in the Presidio. She’s driving a stolen green Subaru Outback, so watch—”

She had about one bar left of battery life on her phone and figured she’d better save it. In case Mackie was waiting in front of her apartment house for
her
. She opened her purse and took out her gun. She considered it. It was one thing to shoot at targets, but could she actually shoot a person?

She put it back in her bag, picked up her phone again, and hit speed dial number 5.

The phone rang
three times and then Claire’s voice came through: “You’ve reached Dr. Claire Washburn. My office hours are from eight a.m.—”

Cindy clicked off, dropped her phone into her bag, and started up her car. Totally disgusted, she headed toward her dark and empty home.

YUKI FOLDED HERSELF
under Brady’s arm, her nightgown cold and wet with sweat in the aftermath of the killing moments ago.

The woman’s name had been Kara. She had thick red hair and taught special education in Ann Arbor. She was young, in her twenties. Kara’s parents had given her this cruise as a gift. Kara had been standing right next to her only a few days ago when the whales had
dazzled and amazed the passengers by swimming so close to the ship.

That girl. The one who had jumped up and down on her toes, and hugged Yuki squealing, “This is one of the best things, isn’t it?” She had been sitting in the thick of the crowd when she was plucked like a kitten by the scruff her robe and dragged through the scattering passengers across the width of the Pool Deck to the rail.

Yuki heard her plead, “No, no,
nooooo
. Not
meee
. I didn’t do
anything
. I was
good. Please, don’t. Let me talk
.”

The terrorist said, “Nice knowing ya. Good-bye.”

And that’s when Yuki had screamed wordlessly, high and long, her voice sharp with terror, cut off by the crack of gunfire.

Instantly, she dropped flat to the deck, horrified at what she had done. She had been
forgotten
by those killers,
and now she had called attention to herself—and to Brady—and for what? She was beyond stupid. She was crazy, delirious, insane.

Over by the railing, another pirate joined the first and they picked up Kara by her arms and legs.

“And a one, and a two, and a
three
.”

They swung her overboard and walked away before her body hit the cold water.

How could they have done this?

These were Americans.

Moans and long keening cries seeped from other passengers. Yuki knew they were all thinking, “Am I next?” Praying to God, “Please, not me, not my wife, not us.”

Why didn’t
Finlandia
pay? Why didn’t they pay?

Yuki bit the back of her hand and tried to fight her nausea.

Only last night she had gone to bed feeling so lucky. She was married to Brady. A good, funny, sexy man she loved so much. They
were on their honeymoon, the opening act to their beautiful wide open future.

And now this
sick
unrelenting dread and terror.

Yuki said to Brady, “That scream. I’m sorry—”

“Shhh, sweetie. You couldn’t help it. Stay right here. I’ll be just there.”

Brady got onto his stomach and wriggled ten feet over to Lazaroff. They talked quietly for less than a minute, then Brady slid back to her side.

She wanted to ask what they were discussing, when she heard the clank of combat boots on metal. Jackhammer came down the stairs from the track deck above and stalked to the long side of the pool, directly opposite where Yuki and Brady sat together.

Yuki was shaking again.

The sight of the man, the way he walked, his hardy-har attitude, and the random murders were so crazy-making, she felt this
close to going bug-fuck. Like the man who’d thrown the chair, she was seized with a need to pick up something, or throw something, or find an insult so humiliating …but she couldn’t think of anything that would achieve anything but her own certain death.

Brady shifted his position so that Yuki was hidden behind him. She heard him say, “Okay, honey, shhhhh.”

She’d been whispering. Or maybe whimpering.

Jackhammer struck a pose, legs apart, hands on his hips, mocking them all.

He said, “I have good news.”

YUKI SHIVERED BEHIND
her husband’s broad back, remembering other times when Jackhammer had said he had good news.

About an hour ago he had said, “Good news, everyone. The execution is over and we have sent proof of death to your hosts back in Finland. You can all relax for a little while. Uh, for fifty-nine minutes to be exact. Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to see the northern lights.”

What news would Jackhammer deliver
now?

Buffet dinner in the Luna Grill? Aerobics on the sports deck?

Yuki reached around her husband and gripped his chest.

He patted her hand and said beneath the sound of the water lapping the hull, “We’re going to be okay. I mean it.”

Brady would protect them if he could, but what chance would he have? Jackhammer’s crew had already shot six people she knew
about, and maybe dozens of crew had been gunned down when he and his gang had first boarded the ship.

If he didn’t get his money, he might have himself a real party and shoot every passenger on board. A bloodbath. A massacre.

Jackhammer spoke from the across the pool. “Guess what, everyone? We got an e-mail from your cruise line. They say they’re going to be transferring money soon. Won’t that
be great? We’re standing by for our bank’s confirmation of the wire transfer from Finlandia. Okay? Didn’t I tell you I had good news?”

There was a sprinkling of applause from the captives who were bunched, crouched, sick with fear.

Jackhammer said, “Hey. Let’s hear it for money coming, all right?”

The faint applause increased. Whatever it took to mollify the monster.

Jackhammer said in his
most mocking ringmaster voice, “And now, let’s have some music.”

AFTER THE HIGH-PITCHED
feedback squeal from the sound system just about uncorked the top of Brady’s head, salsa music jumped out of the speakers on the Pool Deck bar. The dance-y Latin music was incongruous, crazy, and from Brady’s perspective a good thing.

The music seemed to change the mood of the terrorists. He hoped it might make them a touch complacent. Dance fever covered low
conversation.

Brady said to Yuki, “What a mindfucker that guy is. He could write a book on it. Don’t believe a word he said.”

Brady knew that crowd control was one of the terrorists’ biggest problems. The nineteen shooters were overwhelmingly outnumbered by the combined thousand passengers and crew. But Jackhammer’s brutal, successive, random killings had created paranoia, enforced compliance,
and put thoughts of rebellion down cold. He’d overwhelmed their ability to fight back. He’d undermined their sanity.

Brady wrapped both his arms around his wife and held her tightly. Yuki was a strong person, but the direct threat to her life had shaken her hard and he wasn’t sure how much more mind control and terror she could take.

A lot of pictures came into his mind, and not the kind of
thoughts he usually had. He thought about grabbing one of those AK-47s and just going Rambo.

Yuki squeezed his hand.

“I’m okay,” he said.

No, he wasn’t. He was a cop. He couldn’t let these guys keep shooting people while he just hoped that the accountants and bankers would come through for a bunch of people they didn’t know.

Brady had to do something about this. He was fatter now. Years of
smoking had cut his wind. But he still had a strategic mind and the will to kill. He
would
protect Yuki.

What he had to do was stay focused, look for an opportunity, have a workable plan ready to go. And pray for the physical strength and the reflexes to carry it out.

BRADY WAS TRYING
on ideas about how to take back the
FinStar
when there was a light tug on his sleeve. He started, almost lashing out with the edge of his hand, but he paused long enough to see the face of the man who had crawled over to him on his elbows.

It was Lyle, their cabin steward, and he was wearing a blue spa robe over his whites.

Lyle was overheated, breathing through his
mouth. He dropped to his stomach, turned his head so that his cheek was flat on the deck, and spoke through the raucous Latin beat.

“Mr. Brady. You’re military?”

“No. I’m a homicide cop. What do you know, Lyle?”

“There’s a citadel amidships. Somewhere near the officers’ quarters.”

“A citadel. You mean there are guns?”

“I heard there were guns and maybe a radio.”

“And the officers? They’re
alive?”

With one of the gunmen close by, Lyle didn’t reply. He dropped his head and wept into the inside elbow of his robed arm. Yuki also cried softly, but none of the pirates noticed. So many people were crying.

Yuki hugged Brady from behind and he patted her little hand. The first time she’d taken his big rough hand in both of hers, her touch had gone all the way through him. He’d felt sure
of her. He’d known that he was in the presence of good.

It had been
his
idea to take this cruise. He’d never been much of a romantic, but this trip had seemed like a really good idea—the sea, magnificent scenery, a luxury liner taking care of everything so they could start their marriage in a beautiful way.