Authors: Ken Goddard
"They went out the back and then took off in those gray jeeps," the tech agent said. "According to Stoner, Maas and Chareaux are in one, and the big asshole with the cannon in the other. He said it looked like they were getting ready to set up on us outside when they saw the plane coming."
"Thank God for that crazy Woeshack," Lightstone smiled.
"Yeah, well, according to Stoner, it looked like they were arguing about something before they took off. Like maybe Chareaux wanted to stay, but Maas and the big guy either talked him out of it or threatened his ass, Stoner couldn't tell which. But he did say that Maas has some kind of black nylon bag with him. Oh, yeah, and that guy in the red jeep—Tisbury, whatever his name is—he took off too."
"Any idea where they're going?"
"The airstrip at Cutlass Bay would be my guess." The tech agent shrugged. "Woeshack and Stoner are going to try to keep them in sight from a safe distance."
"Okay, great, let's go get 'em," Lightstone said, and the headed for the door.
"Snoopy, do we have another radio in the jeep?" Paxton asked Takahara.
"Nope, this is it," the tech agent said, handing him the small pack-set radio.
"Okay, you're not going to be able to run very far with that leg," Paxton said, "so why don't you come down to the jeep with us, get what you need out of the backpack, then stay here, get hold of Halahan, tell him what we're doing, then check around and see if you can figure out what's going on around here."
When Takahara nodded in agreement, the two agents took off after Lightstone.
Thirty seconds later Henry Lightstone and Larry Paxton were racing down the road in the bright green rented jeep with Lightstone at the wheel.
"How's that arm holding up?" Lighthouse asked, glancing over at Paxton, who was busy trying to reload 10mm magazines from a box of ammo he'd retrieved from the backpack.
"Jes' great," Paxton muttered darkly, having to work at not bouncing out of the seat or losing the magazines and ammo. He glared ahead at the rising cloud of dust coming off the sand-and-dirt-covered road. "Can't you drive any faster?"
"Sure, but I'm afraid the wheels will fall off if I do," Lightstone said as he reached down for the radio and brought it up to the side of his face.
"Stoner, this is Henry," Lightstone said, ignoring radio procedure. "We're in the bright green jeep. Is that them up ahead of us?"
"Okay, I see you," Stoner's deep voice acknowledged. "The two gray jeeps are about a quarter mile ahead of you, and the red one's maybe a couple hundred yards beyond that. We're pretty sure Maas and Chareaux are in the rear jeep, with Chareaux driving, but who are the other guys?"
"The guy in the red jeep may be one of the money men linked in with Bloom," Lightstone said. "Forget about him, it's Maas and Chareaux and the other guy we want. We figure they're heading for the airstrip at Cutlass Bay. There's a decent chance that the other guy by himself is the bastard who keeps trying to blow us up. Watch out for him—he's got some kind of souped-up shotgun that takes down doors like they were made of cardboard."
"Yeah, no shit," Stoner acknowledged. "We've already got one hole the size of my fist in the right wing."
"Well, tell Woeshack to stay the hell away from him! You guys just circle around up there and spot for us."
"Ten-four, we're . . . wait a minute, they just drove past the turn for Cutlass Bay. Looks like they're headed north."
"Are there any airstrips up that way?"
"Hold on, let me check the map."
Lightstone stuck the radio between his legs and then tried to accelerate the elderly jeep an extra couple of miles per hour while he waited for Stoner to get back on the radio.
"Okay," Stoner said, "it looks like there's one airstrip between New Bight and Fernandez Bay, which is about ten to twelve miles north of your location. The only other one is at Arthur's Town, at the far north end of the island."
"Ten-four. Stay close enough so they don't disappear on us," Lightstone said. Then he stuffed the radio under the seat so that he had both hands free to drive.
Driving like a madman, Lightstone gradually gained ground on the two gray jeeps until the distance between the three vehicles was reduced to about a hundred yards. They had just passed a sign that read ‘New Blight Commissioner's Office … THE HERMITAGE … Next Right’ when Lightstone yelled to Paxton: "Can you hit one of the drivers or the tires from here?"
"I don't know. I'll try," Paxton yelled back.
Bracing his right arm against the jeep's roll bar, Paxton began firing 10mm rounds at the rearmost of the two gray jeeps. The first four rounds appeared to have no effect other than to cause Alex Chareaux to hunch down at the wheel. Maas simply looked back with a smile on his Teutonic face.
The fifth round punctured the fuel tank mounted on the underside of Maas and Chareaux's jeep, causing gasoline to start flying around in all directions.
Gerd Maas looked back, immediately assessed the situation, and snapped out an order. Responding instantly, because he could not accept the possibility of being captured and put in prison again, Alex Chareaux made use of the evasive-driving skills he'd learned in the narrow winding bayou roads of southern Louisiana to send the small off-road vehicle into a rear-end sliding right-hand turn up a narrow dirt road. The spinning tires sent a huge cloud of dust and dirt flying into the air, partially concealing the road.
Henry Lightstone had less than three seconds to make a decision.
He hesitated, not wanting to have to choose. But finally, at the last possible moment, he jammed on the brakes and downshifted into the turn.
They were still sliding sideways, the spinning tires trying to get a grip on the loose dirt, when Paxton suddenly screamed "Look out!" and used his right foot to shove Lightstone out of the driver's seat. Then he twisted sideways out of the left-side passenger's seat just as the cloud of dust cleared enough to reveal Riser swinging around in his stopped jeep with the four-bore rifle up to his shoulder. The two massive "shotgun" rounds blew out the entire front window and dashboard of the bright green jeep as Paxton and Lightstone tumbled head over heels across the dirt road.
Stunned by the double jolt of his head hitting the ground, and the heavy cast being gouged deep into his ribs, Larry Paxton lost his grip on his Smith & Wesson, but Lightstone's pistol somehow managed to stay stuck inside the waistband of his jeans. Dazed and bleeding, the enraged agent pulled the double-action pistol out and sent five rounds streaking in the direction of Riser's rapidly disappearing jeep.
Then, staggering to his feet, Lightstone stumbled over to where Paxton was cursing, and trying to sit up, and at the same time, trying to fumble around for his lost weapon.
Bending over stiffly, Lightstone retrieved the dirt-covered semiauto, shook the dirt and debris out of the barrel as best he could, and then handed the pistol back to his still dazed partner.
"Try holding it in your teeth next time," he suggested, coughing to clear his lungs of the dust and dirt as he helped Paxton get to his feet. Then he took a closer look at his partner's glazed eyes.
"You still in there?"
"Oh, hell, yes." Paxton blinked groggily, looking as if he might fall back down at any moment. "Which way'd the bastards go?"
"That way and that way. Take your pick," Lightstone said as he helped guide Paxton over to the stalled jeep that was amazingly still upright.
Then he saw the inside of the shattered vehicle.
"Shit," he muttered, observing that in addition to the dashboard and windshield, both seats had been torn to shreds by the double fusillade of buckshot. "Good thing you decided we ought to jump."
"Man's really beginning to piss me off," Larry Paxton mumbled to himself as Lightstone tried to restart the engine, with no success.
Slamming his hand on the steering wheel with a curse, Lightstone reached under the seat and retrieved the radio, hoping that its sensitive innards were still intact.
"Stoner, you still there?" he said, keying the mike.
"Yeah, you guys okay?" Stoner's voice came back immediately, scratchy but still clearly audible.
"We're fine. Just took a tumble and got our jeep shot up. Maas and Chareaux are on foot, too, somewhere around this Hermitage area, whatever that is."
"Copy," Stoner acknowledged. "You guys need help?"
Lightstone looked over at Paxton, who was leaning against the jeep, looking as if he were finally starting to regain most of his senses. The acting team leader shook his head firmly.
"Negative," Lightstone responded. "What's your situation?"
"We're circling around the airstrip out here just north of you guys. Both the red and the gray jeep are parked in front of what we assume is the main airport building. Haven't seen either of our suspects yet. We're going to stay up here, keep an eye on things until the FBI gets here."
"The FBI's got an office in the Bahamas?"
"Not exactly an office," Stoner chuckled. "More like a thirteen-agent hostage recovery team, a combined FBI-DEA task force, three choppers, Halahan and Moore and our old buddy Al Grynard, all on account of us."
"Well, I'll be damned." Lightstone smiled. "When are they getting here?"
"Be a few," Stoner said. "The command chopper just touched down at the villa, and they're waiting for the rest of the response team to arrive. Task force is out on the perimeter, keeping things contained. Snoopy got them in contact with us on the VHF emergency channel."
"Okay, listen," Lightstone said, eyeing Paxton, "we're fine here. Why don't you have them respond to your area first, let the FBI deal with that guy with the cannon. Once they do that, then you guys can come over here and spot for us. Maas and Chareaux aren't going to get very far on foot."
"Ten-four, watch yourselves."
Reaching back into the rear seat, Lightstone pulled out Mike Takahara's blue backpack, reloaded his pistol with a full magazine, and then began stuffing loaded magazines in the back pockets of his jeans.
"What do you think you're doing?" Paxton demanded.
"Thought I'd go for a hike. Why don't you stay here, keep an eye out, in case that shithead with the cannon comes back before the FBI gets here."
"Your ass," Paxton muttered as he reached into the backpack and pulled out the pair of binoculars, which he hung around his neck. "Gimme some o' them things."
Paxton stuffed three of the loaded magazines in his own back pocket.
"You sure you're up to this?" Lightstone asked.
Larry Paxton rolled his head around, blinked his eyes once more, and then smiled a cold, malicious smile.
"Oh, yeah," he said, "you better
believe
Ah'm up to it."
Moving as fast as they could while still maintaining an alert watch, they found the abandoned jeep with the keys in the ignition a couple of hundred yards up the road. Looking up, the two agents could see the ancient stone Hermitage at the top of the tallest hill in the Bahamas—an arduous climb for the two extremely sore, tired, and furious agents.
"Bastards jes' couldn't make this easy, could they?" Paxton said, searching for some sign of the two suspects on the steep rock-and-scrub- brush-covered hillside as Lightstone retrieved the keys and put them in his pocket.
"I think Maas looks on this whole deal as some kind of medieval tournament that wouldn't be any fun if it were too easy," Lightstone replied, duplicating Paxton's visual search with his 10mm Smith & Wesson cocked and ready in a double-handed grip.
They moved up the steep trail quickly and carefully, very alert now because the surrounding hillside and the stone chapel and bell tower and adjoining buildings all offered excellent ambush points, and they knew that they couldn't afford to give men like Maas and Chareaux any more of an advantage than they already had.
Near the top of the hill, at the small, bunkerlike tomb of Father Jerome, the Catholic missionary who had built the Hermitage in the early 1940s, just below the cluster of stone buildings, they stopped and searched again . . . and saw no one at all.
"Where the hell did they go?" Paxton whispered.
"I don't know, but they've got to be around here somewhere."
Working together, they first checked the rock and concrete tomb, noting the mossy wooden gate lying loose in front of the entrance, and the words imprinted in the front of the concrete roof: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.
Lightstone started to turn away, caught movement in the tomb's shadowy depths out of the corner of his eye, and spun around with his finger tightening on the trigger of the double-action pistol.
Disturbed out of its slumber by the agent's aggressive movements, the little Cat Island turtle continued its slow meandering pace to the entrance of the tomb, and then paused to chew on a piece of fern, blissfully unaware of how close it had come to an early and violent death.
Shaking their heads, the two wildlife agents carefully worked their way up the narrow stone steps, and then, one by one, checked the small chapel, the bell tower, and the closetlike living quarters with the same results.
No Maas and no Chareaux.
Positioning themselves with their backs against the short, stubby, missilelike stone bell tower, so they could see any approach from either side, the two agents looked down the barren scrub-brush-covered hillside in a northwesterly direction toward Fernandez Bay.
"I think I see Woeshack and Stoner over there," Lightstone said, pointing down the mountain where a small single-engined plane was circling a small airstrip.
"Where?" Paxton asked, setting his pistol down and lifting the binoculars up to his eyes with his right hand.
"Right—uh, oh, what's that?"
From their high vantage-point the two wildlife agents could see a small twin-engined airplane taxing out to the end of the runway. It was immediately obvious that Woeshack saw it too, because the scrappy Eskimo agent/pilot swooped down in a low pass over the runway, pulling up right in front of the twin-engined plane just as it swung around to face into the wind.
"What's Woeshack going to do, try to hit the guy with his prop?" Paxton asked.