Blood Note Page 2

  Again, I waited. The voices seemed to become clearer as my ears became accustomed to the quiet. Then I heard it, plainly. One of the men said her name, “Elena.” This was it. The girl was on that boat.

  I moved further along the walkway to get a clearer view of the craft. It was around sixty feet of luxury. A large pilothouse with a flybridge enclosed what was obviously a substantial living area below. There wouldn’t be much change from a million dollars for a boat like that. These people were cashed up.

  All I had to do now was retrace my steps and get to my car to make the call.

  Suddenly, a third voice called out, “We’re out of here in ten minutes. Be ready.” I looked up. A tall man in a black suit was standing on the walkway at the end of the pontoon. He had a distinctively deep, gravelly voice. Through the dim light his face looked particularly unfriendly: a long scar traced the outline of his left jawbone, and his nose didn’t sit straight on his face, as though it had been broken more than once. The man was less than ten feet from where I had just been hiding. He must have come along the walkway some distance behind me. It was only luck that I hadn’t been observed. The ten minutes that he announced, not to mention that he was standing between me and my car, put paid to the idea of the phone call to the police. Even if I could get past him to my car and my phone, help would not arrive in time.

  Every sensible part of me said Just wait here and ride it out. They will all be gone in a few minutes. Again, the trouble was the girl had called on me for help. That’s what brought me here, and for better or worse that’s what would guide my actions now. This was my decision to make. I made it. Nicholas Sharp, foolhardy hero.

  I carefully weighed up my options. I only had one idea that I could see having any chance of success.

  I crept further down the walkway toward the seventh pontoon. No sound came from any of the boats moored there, but another locked gate separated the pontoon from the walkway. In the prevailing light I could easily have been seen by one of the men on the boat if I went over the top of the gate.

  I moved a little further along the walkway. Removing my shoes, I slid over the top of the fence and gently lowered myself into the water. It wasn’t cold, but it took me a minute to get used to it. A short swim would take me to the end of the pontoon and back up to the neighboring one, where the men and hopefully the girl were getting ready to leave. It was made a little more difficult by my swimming against an outgoing tide. I swam breaststroke, the quietest and least disruptive way to move in the water. Marine training. I tried not to think about the occasional shark that was sighted in these waters. I also tried not to think about the fact that sharks fed mostly at night. Which wasn’t hard: my mind was fixed on dangers worse than big fish.

  I thought about how this could play out when I got to the boat. The craft’s bow was attached to the pontoon, so I would come over the stern. If there was no stern ladder, that could be difficult. I knew there were at least three men. I couldn’t take them all at once. Not a chance. I would be wet, slow, and slightly fatigued after the swim. Even if I was dry and energized, a long-distance shot with a rifle was this former sniper’s preferred method of combat. Of course, as a marine—or rather, former marine—I had been trained for all sorts of situations. I didn’t need to be reminded that “former” was the key word here. I hadn’t been in the service for several years. “Rusty” would be an exaggeration of my current skill level. If all three men moved to the back of the boat, I was done. I didn’t know if any of them were armed. If one was armed, I was probably in trouble. If they were all armed, I was done.

  A voice in my head said Stop being a fool. Turn around and get help. I should have listened … suffice to say I swam on.

  After about seven minutes I reached the back of the boat. The transom reached high out of the water, but I could climb onto the swim platform while remaining concealed from anyone on the boat. As I crouched there in the dim marina light, I could make out the name of the craft, Turning Point.

  I paused for a minute to catch my breath. Time was against me, but I needed a moment to prepare for what had to come next. Then, staying crouched as low as possible, I quietly climbed the rear ladder. I poked my head up just enough to see across the rear deck. One man stood with his back to me. He looked toward the front of the boat, as though that was where any possible challenge would come from. Though I couldn’t see into the pilothouse or down into the main cabin, I thought I had a chance here. I moved as silently as possible onto the deck.

  The man hadn’t shifted position. He was five steps away. I made the first two steps in relative silence. The third, not so much—I tripped on a fishing line. The man turned his head and saw me. My training told me the first few seconds of an operation could mean the difference between success and failure. These were those few seconds. I leaped forward and threw my arm around the man’s neck. I couldn’t afford for him to call for help. I had no intention of killing him; I just needed to mute him and then temporarily cut off his blood supply. I didn’t even know the circumstances of the girl’s apparent kidnapping, so killing was not an option.

  Besides, I didn’t do that anymore.

  The man was strong. He struggled for breath while trying to kick out behind him. I had the advantage of surprise here. It was a big advantage. I struggled to hold onto him, but after a few more seconds his strength started to fade. Ten seconds later he was unconscious but breathing. I laid him down on the deck. A minute later I had used the fishing line to bind his hands and feet, and found an old rag to shove in his mouth. When he came to, he wouldn’t be happy, but he wouldn’t be a threat.

  I looked through the windows of the pilothouse. The man I had seen on the pontoon was still there, just in front of the boat. He was still looking down the pontoon toward the gate, apparently unaware of what had just transpired on the rear deck. I didn’t know where the third man was.

  I had two choices now. Go down into the main cabin to look for the girl or take out the man at the front of the boat. Then I had no choice: the man at the front of the boat turned and saw me.

  “What the hell?”

  He moved as he spoke, and he moved quickly. He was down the side of the boat and on me in an instant. He flew across the deck toward me as I clamored for some sort of purchase. His first punch hit me hard. His second left me dazed and staggering. I knew if I gave him an opportunity for a third it would be over. I dived to the deck. His swing missed my jaw by an inch. Desperately, I grabbed at his feet and pulled. He lost balance and landed on the deck beside me. Through my haze, my only thought was to keep him down. If he got up again, this would not end well for me. I elbowed him in the ribs to limit his airflow and weaken him. He shuddered and coughed but still had strength. Too much strength. I felt the back of his fist hit my face. It connected, and it hurt, but I was still in this, just.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw some sort of metal object in a pocket under the skipper’s seat, half a foot away on the deck. I reached for it and missed. A fist came down on the back of my head. I started seeing the fog again. I made a last grab for the metal object. This time I seized it—a large fishing weight. With what seemed like my last bit of energy, I lifted it as high as I could and brought it down on the side of the man’s head. He was out cold, and the fight was over.

  I must have lain there for a good two minutes just finding the willpower to get up. I knew that the third man, the one who had been at the end of the pontoon, wouldn’t be far away, but I needed to find the girl.

  Scrambling to my feet, I could hear no sound from the pontoon to indicate the third man was aware of what was happening onboard. I stepped into the pilothouse, past the vessel’s wheel, and climbed down a short circular stairway into the main lower cabin. The lights were on. Suddenly I found myself in a luxurious lounge with a kitchen, a dining area, and comfortable chairs and couches. The room was surrounded by large windows and wood-paneled walls. There was no one in the room. As I descended the stairs, I had noticed one door to my right and a
nother across the main room. I assumed they would both lead into some sort of sleeping quarters. I tried the door on my right first. It opened into a guest stateroom. The light was on. There were two single beds and a couple of high rectangular portholes. Again, there was no soul in sight.

  I turned back and moved toward the second door at the far end of the lounge, listening for any sound from the deck above that would indicate my work upstairs on the rear deck had been discovered. As I tried the handle, it turned. I eased the door open slightly, but this time no light came from inside the room. I paused to listen. For a split second I thought I could hear heavy breathing, and then nothing. I had eased a little further into the room when pain exploded in the back of my head. I fell forward through the doorway onto the cabin floor. It took me a second to come to my senses, roll over and look up. I wanted to avoid a repeat experience, but in the half-light cast from the main lounge, all I could see was a small lamp hurtling toward my face. This was going to hurt. And then it didn’t. The lamp stopped in mid-air. It was then, through the shadows, that I saw the hand that clutched it and the person attached to the hand.

  “Nicholas Sharp, what are you doing here?”

  I recognized the Georgian accent. Elena.

  The girl put the lamp down and brought her hands up to my face. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were one of them, coming back to get me. I was not going to let them take me, not again. I am sorry.”

  I began to sit up. My head was throbbing, and my mind was struggling to focus.

  “Elena, I have no idea what is going on,” I began, “but it seems pretty obvious we need to get you out of here. Now.” I looked up into those deep green eyes. I should have seen anger, conflict, possibly even the Atlantic storm, but I saw none of that. I don’t know what I saw in that emerald mist, but it was not what I expected.

  “Let’s go,” I continued. I took her hand and led her back up the circular stairs to the pilothouse. As we reached the top, I turned and asked, “Can you swim?”

  “She won’t have to.”

  I recognized the deep voice and turned back toward its source. Standing in the doorway of the pilothouse was the formidable figure of the man from the end of the pontoon. Worse still was the small black Beretta in his hand, pointed directly at me.

  Elena seemed to sag and then fall onto my shoulder.

  The voice continued. “Out here, the two of you, now.”

  Realizing we had no choice, we stepped out to the rear deck.

  “I have no idea who you are, my friend, but you’ve made a mistake coming here to play the hero.” He waved a hand in the direction of his two colleagues laying on the deck; one was still unconscious while the second was struggling, the fishing line cutting into his hands. “Quite impressive, really, but you don’t understand who or what you are dealing with here.”

  The man’s English accent sounded educated, but his tone was menacing. “Sit, over there.” He pointed to the seat at the back of the deck. We had to step over the two bodies to get there. Given the man’s gun, I thought we had little chance of getting out of this. If the other two came into play, we had no chance at all.

  Elena spoke first.

  “There is no need for this. I will go with you. This man is an innocent. Let him go.” She sounded beaten.

  “It’s a bit late for that now. He’s seen too many faces; he knows the boat and he knows you. I will seek instruction, but don’t expect to like the answer.” I wasn’t enjoying this guy’s company at all.

  I thought he was going to reach down and untie his colleague. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. The gun did not waver.

  As a musician on the road, I’ve always thought that at times you reach a point of total exhaustion, where your mind just signs off and your intuition and reflexes assume control. You can end up doing some of your best work when conscious thoughts and defensive hesitation don’t get in the way. Right then, I was at that point, but it had nothing to do with music.

  I was also angry. I was angry at myself for being here, angry at the girl for causing me to be here, and furious at the man with the gun for threatening me. Sometimes anger helps, sometimes it doesn’t.

  In this case it helped.

  Without thought I stood up and leaped the width of the deck, pounding my fists into the man’s head as I landed. He was surprised.

  I was surprised.

  He got one shot off at me but missed. The sound echoed across the water, shattering the stillness of the night. I thought he may have hit the girl, but I couldn’t afford the time to turn around and look. When he went for a second shot, I kicked the gun out of his hand. It arced over the side of the boat, into the water.

  Things were a little more even now, but my opponent was surprisingly fast. Before I knew it, he’d grabbed my throat with both hands. I lost all footing as he lifted me up and held me over the boat’s transom. I gasped for air and started to feel faint. We both struggled. He was strong and skilled, but I had the energy of a desperate man. My assailant then let go of my throat with his right hand and used it to land two strong, well-aimed punches. One hit my ribs and the other one hit me square on my left cheek. Though totally disorientated, I somehow managed to chop hard with my right hand into his left wrist. I felt his hold weaken. I chopped again, this time breaking free of his failing grip. He came at me as I landed painfully on my back against the transom. Using the transom as a pivot, I leaned back and, in one move, raised both my feet and kicked him in the face. He grunted as his jaw broke.

  There was no chance of a fair fight here. I had too much to lose. I recoiled my feet and used them again to shove the man hard in the chest, sending him staggering backward. Then, lunging toward him, I used the last of my strength to smash a left and right punch into his weakened jaw. The pain would have been excruciating, overwhelming. I was astonished that, though faltering, my attacker was still conscious. This was a man who could dig deep. Before my opponent could react, I raised my elbow and brought its full force into the side of his face. I had nothing left, but he had less. He fell to the deck, no longer a threat.

  I turned to Elena. She hadn’t been hit by the stray bullet, but I was surprised that she seemed strangely excited. Her eyes seemed to dance.

  “I think you are still the man you were, Nicholas Sharp,” she said.

  Her words sent a cold shudder through my body.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” I said, unable to mask my impatience.

  6

  5:40 a.m.

  The sunrise had begun to cast its glow over the marina waters and the sea beyond as Elena and I headed back up the walkway and across the car park toward the street where I’d left my car. I felt every painful step as I willed my bruised and exhausted body forward. My knuckles were bruised and bleeding from the fighting.

  We didn’t speak. Too much had happened in too short a time to yet qualify it with words. I was relieved that things had ended well, but I was also bothered by the evening’s turn of events. I suppose I’d been involved in all of this by choice; I could have walked away, several times, but I didn’t. I needed to spend some time thinking about that.

  We reached the car. I turned to look at her. Somehow, those dancing eyes had become a distant cloud, a place I could not go. Not now, anyway.

  “Do you have somewhere safe to go?” I asked. I was not offering a haven. But if she had asked …

  “I will be fine.” Not much of a response. No commitment either way.

  “We should call the authorities,” I said.

  “No, there is no need. There would be little point.” I thought her response may have betrayed a little too much urgency, but I was too tired to deal with that possibility.

  For a minute we just looked at each other in the emerging light. She looked vulnerable but distant. I was surprised when she leaned forward, kissed me on the cheek, and pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand.

  I opened the passenger door of the Jag for her, then walked around to the driv
er’s side. I climbed in, waiting for her to join me. Nothing. No one. I looked up.

  I watched her silhouette, outlined against the morning light as she walked away. Just like that, not a word. I didn’t go after her.

  I looked down at the note in my hand. I unfolded it and began to read. There was a number, I presumed a phone number, but it wasn’t a U.S. one. There was also a message: “Be careful of the road you choose. It may be lined with blood.”

  Staring out through the windscreen toward the lightening sky, I noticed dark storm clouds drifting across in the distance. At this time of year that was rare for L.A.

  7

  6:10 a.m.

  Two streets away, as the night’s shadows disappeared, the girl saw the long, dark limousine sitting by the curb a hundred yards away. It was different to the one earlier. As she approached, one of its rear doors opened. She hesitated for a half a moment and then climbed in.

  “Well?”

  She turned and looked at the man sitting next to her. His question hung in the air. Almost like a threat.

  “It went perfectly,” she responded.

  “Tell me.”

  “He did what you expected him to do.” A glimmer of regret passed through her eyes.