Watersleep Page 10

  Before his friend hit the floor, Constantinople was moving. While he was as fat as any of the barons Ryan had ever encountered, at the same time he pos­sessed that smooth grace of movement and natural agility that many large men have at their command.

  In other words, while he looked lumbering and slow, his moves in a pinch proved otherwise.

  His gleaming side arm was out of its side holster and in his hand. He had time for only a single shot, which went wild, before Ryan's group responded in unison.

  The companions, well versed in working as a unit when a threat presented itself, split into two groups.

  One half went for the shelter of the orange-topped bar that stretched along the back wall of the eatery. The other half stayed with their leader. J.B. assisted with his shoulder when Ryan pushed down on the edge of their dining table with all of his upper-body strength. The move caused the dishes and utensils to flip up, spinning in the air as a temporary distraction, while also giving them the back of the overturned table as badly needed cover.

  "Goddammit!" Constantinople bellowed over the roar of his blaster as he pulled the trigger again and again. "There was no cause to cut his throat!"

  Jackson, he of the formerly smart mouth, was roll­ing around on the checkered linoleum, gagging loudly and making unintelligible gasping noises as his hands squeezed together on his own throat, trying to hold his slit neck together. Wet red oozed from his fingers, and drops of spittle mixed with blood were being coughed up by the dying man.

  Mildred watched and kept herself detached. She didn't know which would come first, strangulation from lack of air or bleeding to death.

  The short man, Jackson's father, took all of this in while firing a steady stream of lead from the dropped Uzi. He was shrieking in a terrible voice over the blasterfire, "My boy, my boy, you've chilled Jack­son!"

  Constantinople was attempting a more careful aim when he was lifted off his feet at the same time a deafening explosion came from behind the eatery's bar. Doc had triggered the Le Mat, unleashing the terrific force of the weapon's .63-caliber round. Doc had only a single shot of such power, but when it connected, the recipient usually knew he'd been hit.

  Doc hadn't gone for anything fancy, and had cho­sen to aim for a chest shot. He scored clean, wiping the smirk off the big man's wide face and replacing it with the slack-jawed gape of the newly dead.

  "Catch that thunder, you overweight oaf," Doc called out, a hint of glee in his voice.

  Ryan knew the situation had gone beyond a mere squabble when Jackson had uttered the first insult. Jak had responded to the threat without mercy, and now with Doc's accurate aim, the second of the quartet had been eliminated. Unless the older leader could calm the fourth member of his group, and fast, there would be more killing.

  "Drop it! Drop it or you're both chilled," J.B. called out from behind the table, but the chance at survival was given too late. For a millisecond, the quiet sec man, Briggs, looked like he was eternally sorry to have gotten mixed up in such a sorry state of affairs. Before he could try to lower his own drawn weapon to surrender, the old man at his side com­pletely lost all control and started spraying the Uzi again.

  "Fireblast. That tears it," Ryan said.

  The crack of Dean's heavy Browning was in unison with Mildred's target pistol. Both shots found their mark, Mildred's in the upper left of Green's chest, and Dean's lower down, in the gut. The old man stag­gered backward, his finger locked in a death's grip on the trigger of the compact Uzi. A spray of bullets fanned from waist level up to a ninety-degree angle, skittering like lead insects into the already crumbling ceiling panels. Bits of foam and plaster rained in a sad parody of a snowfall, flakes of white falling and landing in the crimson puddles collecting on the floor.

  Briggs whirled to Green, as if he were going to try to catch the older man. Instead, all he caught was some of the lead from the old man's Uzi. The sec man fell forward without a sound, a new red pool of blood rapidly spreading out from beneath his ruined face.

  "Damn," Dean said incredulously, breaking the sudden quiet. "He chilled his own man."

  "Not on purpose, Dean," Mildred replied, stepping out from behind cover.

  "Yeah, accidents tend to happen when you're blasting like this in close quarters," Ryan said. "And apparently the father wasn't much smarter than the son."

  The rest of the group came out of their defensive positions, returning their weapons to holsters or other places of concealment.

  "Once, just once, I'd like to finish a meal in peace," Krysty said wearily as she surveyed the car­nage.

  "They started it," Jak said while wiping the blade of his retrieved knife on the bottom of the fat man's jacket.

  Krysty glared down at the albino. "Don't 'they' always start it, Jak?"

  "Yeah, 'they' always do," Ryan said, speaking for Jak. He caught Krysty's eye and held her gaze in his own, until she turned away. "And we always finish it, one way or another."

  "Well, I don't have to like it," Krysty replied.

  She retreated out of the eatery and through the front door, walking out alone in the rain. As she exited, the small bell gave a last jingle, then the room was quiet.

  "Like tomb in here," Jak commented.

  "Don't sweat it, Jak. We're still alive, tomb or not," Ryan said as he calmly ejected the spent clip from the SIG-Sauer and reloaded it with bullets taken from his cartridge belt. The rest of the group followed his lead, checking out their own artillery and reload­ing any fired bullets. By the time they had finished this necessary chore, Sandy had slunk out of hiding from an alcove between an old cash register and the swing doors under the coffee machine.

  "Would you look at this!" she whispered. "All in less than a minute."

  "I know those kind of men aren't the sort of cli­entele you'd normally want to have in such a fine eating establishment as Tuckey's," Ryan said. "Am I right about that?"

  "Y-yeah," she said, but didn't sound too certain. "But I'm the one who's stuck having to mop up after these stiffs."

  J.B. and Mildred finished a joint examination of the four dead men, the Armorer for any usable ammuni­tion or jack, Mildred to see if any were still alive.

  However, she already knew before attempting to find a pulse that she was wasting her time.

  So was the Armorer. The blasters were passable, but had little or no ammo. Worthless when compared to the weight they would entail for a weary traveler looking for a place to sell them. He found a little jack and some tiny precious stones and bits of metal, which he stuck in an inner pocket of his leather jacket.

  The cook finally made his way from the kitchen, carrying a pump-action scattergun. A pear-shaped black man, he was working bare chested under a dirty apron and work trousers.

  "Need any help?" he asked in a voice full of bra­vado.

  "No thanks, chef," Ryan said as he paid the bill. He took an extra octagonal-shaped golden coin from the secure pouch beneath his shirt and dropped it on the counter near the old cash register. ' 'We can han­dle it from here. Why don't you put away the fire­power and get back to your stove? You look like a man more comfortable with a spoon in his hand than a blaster."

  "I was busy," the cook said lamely.

  "Of course. A chef is always obsessed when at work in the kitchen crafting his culinary delights," Doc said in a knowing voice.

  "Sorry about the mess," Ryan said to the waitress. "Once he's got his pots and pans under control, get the big guy to help you dump the stiffs behind back, and mebbe you can have things cleaned up in time for the supper rush. And you might want to think about anteing up for a halfway decent sec man to watch the door of this place. Pay him in food. There's men who'd be glad to do whatever you told them to for less."

  OUTSIDE, KRYSTY HAD TAKEN temporary shelter be­neath the overhang of the arched roof. A torrent of water poured down the rusted broken drainpipe near her legs as she leaned against the boarded-up side wall of the eatery. Ryan and the others came out of the building and walked pas
t the flame-haired beauty without any comment.

  Ryan hung back, letting Jak take the point as the group began the march back up to the main highway.

  "Let's go," he said softly, extending a gloved hand.

  "I just get tired, Ryan. Tired of killing," Krysty said.

  "I know. We all do. Each of us just have different ways of dealing with it."

  Krysty reached out and took her man's hand, grip­ping it tightly and intertwining her fingers with his.

  "I love you, Ryan," she said. "Nothing will ever change that."

  He didn't reply, but held her hand even tighter, as if he would never let go. They would have to pry away his cold, dead fingers first.

  Chapter Ten

  Many days had passed without incident, other than a battle of wits between a hungry Jak and a hungrier J.B. for the last piece of bread from Tuckey's. Mil­dred had averted any overt displays of bad temper between the pair by declaring she was going to eat the final helping, and she did so with a smile that openly dared either of the men to say otherwise.

  There had been some small game along the way, and thanks to the endless rainfall, plenty of water to drink. Dean took a bad tumble when a piece of the crumbling old asphalt gave way and he slid down a muddy embankment on his butt, whooping all the way. Luckily the only real injury seemed to have been to his pride and to his clothing. Soon after the mud began to dry, his jeans were extra stiff and able to stand up by themselves.

  "Keep you on your feet," Ryan told him.

  The rain had finally let up a few days earlier. Ryan reckoned they had walked right through a near per­manent monsoon season over the upper stretch of Florida.

  Now they had reached a destination of sorts. The marina might at one time have been attractive. All it offered the exhausted group of companions was a crowded maze of black rotting timbers, both under­foot and overhead. Most of the structure looked to be in poor condition, but down at the edge of the water two empty slips gave all of the indications of recent activity. The wood of the individual piers of both these slots had been replaced or repaired with fresh lumber.

  More than half of the marina was protected from prying eyes by a high wooden wall.

  A faded red-and-blue sign proclaimed the site as being Schwartz's Marina. Ryan could tell from the shape of the sign that Schwartz was either long dead or completely lacking any pride in the place.

  Most of the boathouses that could be seen from outside were open, while the rest contained partly or fully submerged wrecks in the brackish water.

  The group had arrived at dusk. In the fading light of the sun, the ruin of a marina looked even more forlorn and spectral. Still, as far as Ryan could see from where he was standing behind the mesh-wire restraining fence, there were no guards or would-be protectors in place.

  "What do you think?" Ryan asked, addressing the group.

  "Place could use a coat of paint," Mildred offered. "Something festive, in orange."

  "Gaia, don't remind me of that place," Krysty said.

  "You volunteering to pick up a paintbrush?" J.B. asked, winking at Mildred from behind his spectacles.

  "Not on your life, John," Mildred replied, sticking her chin out and tilting her head back in a haughty pose. "I didn't go to medical school to become a painter."

  "Know tired of walking," Jak replied. "Boot heels wore off."

  "Mine, too," Dean chimed in.

  "As are my own. A sea voyage is sounding better and better to my weary bones," Doc said.

  "Then it's settled," Ryan said, glancing at his companions for confirmation. All quickly agreed that what little novelty walking across Florida on the old interstate had initially offered had long worn off. Even Ryan had suffered some deep pains in his ankles from the constant days spent treading on the paved highway.

  "Joint looks deserted. Probably won't find any­thing that floats," J.B. said. "My guess is, if the boats were worth a damn they were scavenged long ago."

  "Tell me something I don't know, J.B.," Ryan re­torted.

  "I thought that fellow back on the highway said we could purchase transport or, better yet, a vessel at this docking port?" Doc said, stretching his arms wide and yawning like some kind of tattered, spindly crow.

  "He could have been lying. Or wrong. Or mebbe the sellers have gone home for the day or been put out of business. Either way, let's recce and see what's what before all the light is gone," Ryan said. "Split up. Dean, you and me and Krysty will check the boathouses."

  Ryan gestured to J.B. "Take Mildred, Doc and Jak and go over the private ports. Look for any supplies we can use or a boat that's still halfway afloat. We'll meet back here at the gate of the sec fence in twenty minutes."

  J.B. glanced at his wrist chrono and mentally noted the time. "Twenty. Right. Got it," the small man said. "But don't start the clock until I've opened the door."

  The lump of a lock and the rusted links of the chain wrapped around the main gate of the marina entrance were easily navigated by J.B., who had taken a flat black case from a pocket and removed a tiny collec­tion of antique locksmith's tools.

  "You'd have made a heck of a thief, John," Mil­dred commented, watching with an amused eye at her lover's dexterity and expertise with the metal picks.

  "Why, thank you, Millie," the Armorer replied, and added a muttered curse at the uncooperative lock. "Son of a bitch!"

  "Not as easy as a redoubt sec door, huh, J.B.?" Dean said.

  "I'll take pushing buttons and pulling levers over picking a lock any day of the week. This is triple-hard work," J.B. said. "Could use a squirt of oil to grease it. However, it's always good to keep your skills sharp."

  And then, as if the Armorer were a magician who had uttered the magic word, the hasp of the heavy lock came open. The mess of rusty chains wound around the gate and held in place by the lock fell to the gravel pathway with a rattling clank.

  "See you soon," Ryan said, walking away to the right with his team.

  "Not if I see you first," J.B. replied, taking the left.

  "GOOD FRIENDS, perhaps our luck is changing," Doc said.

  Ten minutes into their search, a well-maintained cabin cruiser had been discovered.

  "Something this nice has got to belong to some­body," J.B. said, looking at the hull. "Jak, take the rear point. See if anybody wants to say hello."

  "They might be scared, John. I know I'd be con­cerned if someone came sniffing around my boat," Mildred said. "That gate was locked for a reason."

  "Not planning on stealing the thing, Millie, just curious. I want to know where the owner is."

  A loud whoop of laughter rang out from behind the boat where Jak had gone to investigate. "Think found our boat!" he called out.

  The rest of the friends went around to see what had ignited Jak's interest.

  "This has to be Ryan's ride, no question," J.B. said.

  Emblazoned on the rear of the boat in tall blue cursive letters was the craft's name. Jak was pointing and grinning.

  "The Patch," Doc read.

  "Dame Fortune seems to have smiled on us at last," Doc intoned.

  "Yeah, she's good at that—right before she kicks you in the teeth," a new voice piped up. "Nobody flick an eyelash, and you might get out of this alive."

  J.B. cursed himself. The joy of the discovery had distracted them all.

  Now they would have to pay whatever price the men who had gotten the drop on them decided to ask for, and he knew from hard-earned experience that nothing came cheap when you were under someone else's blaster.

  "You planning on stealing our boat?" the voice asked.

  "No," Jak said. "Just looking."

  "Who are you people? We were just getting ready to shove off. Did Sommers send you?"

  "No," J.B. said. "Don't know him. We're just looking to head up the coast. Man told us boats could be bought here. Way you're acting, don't guess yours is for sale."

  "Got that right. Who are you?"

  "J. B. Dix. The lady's Mildred. Old guy's Do
c Tanner, and the teenager's Jak."

  "Name's Gardner Boyd," the lean, unsmiling man said in a monotone. He jerked a thumb toward the behemoth standing to his left and behind. "This here's Frank Bowman."

  "Hey," Bowman said dully.

  "He don't say much. I do all the talking," Boyd said arrogantly.

  "I guessed that," Mildred replied, starting to get annoyed. "You look like the genius of the couple."

  "Nobody asked you, bitch," Boyd retorted.

  Mildred's face was carved in stone as she glared back at the man.

  "You've stepped in it now, friend," J.B. said la­conically. "You're dead."

  "We'll see about that." Boyd replied. "I know your black bitch ain't going to be the one chilling me, so she might as well get over it and stop staring at me like that."

  Boyd was all angles, sharp and pointy: his chin, his nose, even his ears. He had close-cropped black hair and a three-day growth of bristly beard. His eyes were bloodshot and brown. J.B. put him at just under six feet tall. His arms and legs were gangly, coming off a long torso. He was dressed in a light green wool cap set back on the crown of his head like a skullcap, a navy blue shirt with four rows of buttons stitched up the front, a faded pair of denim pants and canvas sneakers.

  The big man, Bowman, was round—round face, round belly and a round, slack-jawed mouth that didn't utter a sound beyond a slight asthmatic wheeze. He was nearly bald, with a smattering of bright or­ange hair gathered in clumps along the sides of his head.

  Boyd was holding a handblaster, Bowman a oddly shaped pump-action shotgun. Both weapons appeared flawless and well maintained.

  "Nice guns," J.B. drawled. "Nine millimeter Heckler & Koch P-7 semiauto, weighs in at right un­der two pounds. Old-style policemen and the German army were big on the H&K."

  "I like it," Boyd snarled. "Does the job."

  "That's an Italian Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun," J.B. continued, pointing at Bowman. "Wicked dark gun. Semiauto, designed for paramilitary use and sec work. The butt of the pistol grip can hook under your arm for single handed firing. Eight-shot magazine. Weighed right between nine and a half and ten pounds according to the old spec manuals."