Brute Force (18 page)

 

A
half hour after they’d arrived at the Bursaws’ inn, Quinn straddled the little BMW 75/5 under the shade of the beech tree and planted his feet for Song to climb on behind him. She assured him she’d ridden before, but the tentative look in her eye said her experience had likely been on little more than a scooter. Kevin and Petra Bursaw had outfitted them with riding jackets, helmets, and leather gloves from the extras they had accumulated over the years of running a motorcycle touring company.

Quinn, who had crashed more bikes than many people have ridden, opted for a black full-face helmet and an armored mesh jacket—following his father’s advice to plan for the wreck instead of the ride. The jacket had started life as khaki in color but hours under the sun had combined with road grime and bug guts to give the material a natural camouflage that blended with the scrub and limestone of the surrounding hills. Song wore a more stylish half helmet, yellow to match the bike’s bumblebee paint job. Petra loaned her a pair of goggles since the shorty helmet didn’t have a face shield. The breezes rolling in off the sea would be just cool enough to make her kidskin jacket comfortable once they were riding. The lightweight leather was stylish, but was also discreetly armored at the elbows and spine, giving her some protection in the event they suffered an involuntary get-off.

Quinn thought about asking Kevin Bursaw if he had a pistol but decided against it since he was already apparently taking the man’s favorite bike. Petra stuffed a couple of sandwiches and a pair of binoculars in a small knapsack and gave it to Song.

“I am not sure what you’re doing,” Petra said. “And to be completely honest, it is probably better that way. But the sandwiches will help you blend in while you are doing it.”

Quinn put a hand to his helmet in a sloppy salute and then eased out on the clutch, rattling down the cobblestone toward the
Državna Cesta
D8, a narrow ribbon of highway that ran along the coast of Adriatic Sea. Song scooted up close, squeezing with her long thighs and clenching her fists around his gut as if she was trying to save him from choking. She proved to be a quick learner and relaxed by degrees with each passing mile once they hit the highway.

Traffic was light and other motorcycles made up a good deal of what little there was.

It had been so long since Quinn had been on the back of a bike that he was almost sorry when he came out of a lean on a sweeping corner and saw Anton Scuric’s boat come into view. Song tensed behind him, seeing the boat as well, at anchor a quarter mile out in the aquamarine water, right where Kevin Bursaw said it would be.

Quinn downshifted and turned the bike onto a small gravel turnout on a wooded hill that overlooked the ocean some hundred meters below. They’d passed a small dirt lane not quite a mile back and Quinn assumed it was the service road for anyone going to or from the vessel.

Song slid off the bike immediately, using the binoculars to scan the ocean like a tourist, but not paying an inordinate amount of attention to the boat. Three other bikes—big American Harleys that stood out from the quieter European stuff—chuffed past on the highway behind them. Quinn straddled the bike, happy the Harleys moved on down the road. He slouched on the handlebars with the side stand down, waiting for his turn with the binoculars.

“I see no one onboard,” Song said before handing them to Quinn.

Quinn used the binoculars with one hand, shielding them against a low western sun with the other. Song was right. There might be people on the boat, but there was no one on deck.

The
Perunika
was a “gullet.” Originally Turkish trading vessels, the sleek wooden schooners were often used on the Adriatic as charter operations—or for smuggling. This one was on the large end of the scale. Judging from the size of the wheelhouse, Quinn estimated it at around ninety feet in length.
Perunika
had started life as a sailing vessel but the masts and all the associated lines and stays had been removed to make for a cleaner deck. The oak planks were varnished and she looked to be in decent shape with accents and trim painted bright white and deep blue.

“Some kind of pier down along the rocks,” Quinn said, scanning. “Looks like he’s got a small inflatable tied up there. Nice engine . . . looks fairly new.” He lowered the binoculars and passed back them to Song. “Awfully tempting for a thief. Odd that Scuric would leave it tied up and unattended for very long.”

“Unless everyone is so frightened they leave his things alone.” Song took a look through the glasses as she spoke. “You think the Fengs are on this boat?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “But I’m betting whoever left that dinghy there won’t be gone long. Let’s stash the bike and go down for a closer look.”

Quinn pushed the Beemer over the gravel lip, using the brake and clutch to move downhill in a controlled roll toward a stand of fragrant cedars. He skirted large stones and piles of toilet paper that lay like landmines in the tufted grass, left over from roadside toilet emergencies. Song followed along behind him with the pack.

Braking when he reached the trees, Quinn eased the bike through the dense underbrush and leaned it against a gnarled cedar trunk, making certain the front tire was pointing uphill so he wouldn’t have to do a lot of jockeying if he had to climb up and get back onto the road in a hurry. It was not difficult work, but Quinn found he was sweating by the time he was finished and chalked it up to the aftereffects of the surgery in China. Song noticed and looped the binoculars around her neck, helping him pile brush over the bike.

The cedar grove covered most of the hillside, giving them adequate concealment as they made their way to the shoreline. There was no trail, but the brush and rocks gave them passable footing even as it grew steeper above the beach. Quinn slid to a stop just inside the tree line. Crouching in the mottled shadows beside Song, he studied the
Perunika
where she bobbed at anchor. He thought he caught the sight of movement through the curtains in the raised salon, but the deck remained empty and quiet.

Song sat beside him, making a note in a small notebook. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was some observation about him she planned to send back to her bosses. He certainly had some observations of his own.

“I’m guessing most of my background is attached to the Interpol Red Notice,” he said, his words buzzing against his hands as they held the binoculars.

“Quite a lot of it.” Song put the notebook in her lap and toyed at the peeling bark of a nearby cedar tree. “Air Force Combat Rescue Officer, OSI agent, multilingual, accomplished in hand-to-hand fighting, that sort of thing. But the report does tend to highlight the fact that you are a rogue killer.”

“I’d argue the rogue part,” Quinn said. He played the binoculars back down to the inflatable as he formulated a plan. Song was hard to get a handle on, but she seemed smart enough to judge him on his actions, not something she read in some intelligence file.

The gray dinghy bobbed in the blue-green water alongside a weathered wooden plank. This Spartan boarding ramp was affixed to a rusted set of metal arms that had been driven into a concrete jetty ages before. A riprap breakwater ran from the shoreline in a stunted J, wrapping around the dinghy and decaying concrete dock to form a protective nest from direct waves. The dinghy itself looked to be around twelve feet, made of tough Hypalon with a single board seat fixed amidships across the pontoons. What looked like an ice chest was just forward of a small outboard motor where the driver would sit while steering with the tiller. A red plastic fuel tank, faded and much older than the boat, sat beside the ice chest on an inflatable rubber floor. Quinn had ridden in identical little boats hundreds of times in Alaska.

“So, you know about me.” He lowered the binoculars and turned to face Song. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

Song peeled away more bark from the cedar tree. “There is no need—”

“Not so,” Quinn interrupted her. “You’re an operative from a country that has significant issues with US policy—I get that. But at this very moment, politics are a long way down my list of things to worry over. What I need to know is if I can depend on you in a fight. Tell me about your training, where you came from.”

Song studied him, breathing deeply, but saying nothing. She had the amazing ability to look him in the eye as if she were listening and then go on like she’d not heard a single word.

“We should take turns keeping watch,” she said at length. “It may be some time before this Scuric shows up.”

 

 

As a rule, Quinn found silence profoundly more enjoyable than chatter, but six hours of sweating shoulder to shoulder in the rocks and trees with a silent woman he did not know began to wear on him. Several times, she began to hum some song he didn’t recognize, but always caught herself, clenching her teeth as if she had almost given up a state secret. When she did speak, it was only to tell him she was going deeper into the trees for a bathroom break.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the welcome sound of a vehicle filtered through the trees. Action trumped silence every time. Tires crunched on the gravel as the vehicle turned off the D8 Highway above and began to wind its way down the service road toward the dinghy.

Quinn folded the motorcycle jacket he’d been using to pad the rocky ground and stuffed it behind a tree. Crouching so he would remain hidden but able to move quickly, he decided to give it one more try with Song as Scuric drew closer. “Seriously,” he said. “They give MSS agents some tactical training, right? Just make something up. It’ll make me feel better.”

“Of course, we are trained,” Song said. “But mostly in computers and the writing of reports.”

Quinn’s mouth fell open.

“I joke,” Song said. “Don’t worry so much.”

Suspension springs squeaked and groaned as the vehicle drew closer. A large panel van creaked to a stop along the edge of the gravel single track twenty meters above the dinghy. The driver stayed behind the wheel while the passenger in the front seat got out and came around to slide open the side door, revealing two redheaded women, both bound with duct tape at the wrists and ankles. Gaunt and cowering, neither looked to be even twenty years old. The man, obviously Scuric from Bursaw’s description of his misshapen head, leaned in and cut the two women free with some kind of hook attached to his hand. Scuric motioned them out and pointed toward the dinghy. One of the women tried to run as soon as her feet hit the ground. The driver, a younger man wearing a backward cap and a cigarette hanging out of a pouty mouth, stayed slumped behind the wheel and shook his head in disgust. Scuric caught the fleeing prisoner easily and cuffed her in the back of the head, sending her flying face-first into the gravel.

Quinn felt a pang of pity for the girl, but her actions gave him just the break he needed to move.

“Okay,” he said, peeling the rugby shirt over his head. “Scuric’s taking them out to the boat. The dinghy motor is going to die shortly after he gets it going. When it does, I need you to be ready to take care of the driver. Make some noise and get Scuric’s attention focused on you.”

Song stared through the trees at the van, frozen in thought.

“Got it?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. Got it.” Song blinked, and then turned suddenly toward him. “What are you going to do?”

“What somebody should have done to this guy a long time ago.”

Staying low as he moved through the trees toward the far side of the jetty, away from the dinghy, Quinn hit the beach at a run. He pushed away any thought of Song’s capability. If she couldn’t do her job, it was only a matter of time before they were both dead anyway.

He dove noiselessly into the water, sliding through the blue-green sea with hardly even a splash. It was cool compared to the evening air and gave his body the shock he needed to cover the thirty feet to the end of the rocks in a matter of seconds.

Thankfully, the two women were not the kind to go peacefully and Scuric had to pester and prod them along the road, cursing to keep them in line at the same time Quinn swam around the end of the jetty and kicked his way to the stern of the inflatable. Even from nearly fifty meters away, Quinn could see the print of a pistol under the Croatian’s shirt.

A stiff ocean breeze added a light chop to the surface of the water and with the sun to the west, Quinn felt certain Scuric wouldn’t be able to see him. The bottom dropped away fast off, which made it easier to get around than floundering in shallow water. Using the skeg of the outboard motor as a step, Quinn waited with his nose just above the surface at the pointed back corner of the pontoon until Scuric turned his head to chide one of the balking girls. While the Croatian was looking back, Quinn reached over and popped loose the rubber line between the motor and the plastic fuel tank. He left it slightly attached.

Quinn considered just reaching across the pontoon and dragging Scuric overboard when he arrived, but the water was deep, giving him no leverage but for the weight of his body. His hands would be wet, so there was too big a chance that the Croatian would just shrug him off. The sidearm combined with the crystal-clear water made things too iffy for a direct assault.

Quinn drew the Riot from the scabbard on his belt and let himself sink back to nose-level in the cool water, bobbing out of sight at the rear of the inflatable. Anton Scuric cursed and shoved, threatening the two young women as he forced them toward the little boat. When they made it to the concrete jetty, Quinn ducked silently beneath the surface and slipped under the pontoon.

The plan was simple—but he had only one chance to make it work.

 

T
he chain-link cage made it impossible for Ronnie Garcia to straighten her legs. Thin orange scrubs did nothing to protect her from the rough galvanized wire.

Her captors had taken her clothing as soon as she’d gotten on the boat, before they’d even taken off the hood. At once dazed and terrified, she’d balked at the instructions to disrobe. She’d always planned to fight under such circumstances—she was full of all sorts of worthless plans. In reality, there were just too many hands, pushing and shoving and ripping away her clothing to get it around the handcuffs. Naked with knees drawn up to her chest and her hands behind her back on the cold metal plate of the floor, Garcia had screamed threats and Cuban curses until her throat was raw. She braced herself for the worst, but they’d just stopped, snickering like cruel schoolboys at her predicament. Someone punched her hard in the kidney before removing the handcuffs.

“Get dressed,” a bored voice said.

She’d ripped away the hood to find herself alone in the room with a pudgy middle-aged man. He had a bulbous red nose and sagging eyelids as if he’d been up on an all-night bender. Blinded by the glaring artificial light of a bare bulb, she couldn’t tell if the man was scared she might try something or if he just wanted to take the opportunity to punch a girl. When he’d given her a stiff kick in the hip as he shoved her into the metal dog crate, she decided it was a little bit of both. He’d tossed the orange scrubs in before locking the gate and then disappeared through an oval metal hatch without another word. The door gave an eerie squeak as he dogged it shut from the outside.

That had been hours ago.

Ronnie arched her back, first tensing and then relaxing each muscle group in turn, starting with her feet and working upward until she reached her shoulders—a sort of static yoga that kept her from losing her mind—for the moment at least. The prison crate would have been fine for a large dog, but was intended to make human confinement as uncomfortable as possible without causing immediate physical injury. They called it “stress positioning”—and it was aptly named. Ronnie knew there would come a time when she’d welcome a beating if it meant she got to stretch her legs.

She estimated her cage to be no more than three and a half feet across, which made it little more than five feet from corner to corner, forcing Ronnie to keep her knees bent when on her back or on her side. She could sit up so long as she hunched her shoulders and dipped her head like a pouting child, but the rough link floor dug into her buttocks, bringing tears to her eyes in a matter of minutes. She found that lying on her back and planting her knees and shoulders against the floor helped spread out the pressure points and alleviate the pain for a time, but it wouldn’t be long before her muscles fell victim to the confinement, cramping into painful spasms.

The fact that they’d given her something to wear was a relief. It gave her captors something to take away—but she shoved that thought from her mind. There were too many things they could, and likely would, do for her to dwell on it in too much detail. Instead, she’d occupied her mind by planning her escape—no matter how remote the possibility.

Jericho had been a stickler for EDC or “everyday carry” from the moment she’d met him—so much so that he’d remind her that if she caught him without a firearm, a knife, a light source, and something to make fire, he would owe her a steak dinner. In addition to his EDC, he customarily had a second blade and a variety of shims, picks, and keys secreted away in his clothing. Garcia had been following his example when she’d been taken, carrying her customary Kahr PM9 pistol inside the waistband of her jeans and a Bond Arms derringer called a Snake Slayer in a Flashbang holster suspended beneath her bra. Though it offered her only two extra shots, she’d fitted the little Snake Slayer with three-inch barrels chambered for .410 shotgun shells. Loaded with buckshot, it made for a perfect get-off-me gun. In addition to the pistols, Ronnie carried a wicked little curved blade Quinn’s knife-maker friends in Alaska called The Scorn, a metal handcuff shim, and a plastic cuff key laced into her shoes.

Now, she was left with nothing but her wits and a set of orange hospital scrubs that made her feel like the victim in an ISIS beheading video.

She knew she was on some kind of boat, a big one judging from the number of stairs she’d been forced to climb when they shoved her out of the skiff. Still hooded, she’d been led along some kind of deck, through a hatch with a lip tall enough to trip over, then down another set of clanging metal stairs to the bowels of the boat. She could feel the periodic swaying and hear the clanking chain of a vessel at anchor.

The walls of the brightly lit room, maybe twenty feet across at their widest point, sloped rapidly inward, leading Ronnie to believe her dog crate prison was located near the bow. The steady knock of an auxiliary engine thrummed behind the bulkhead nearest the same hatch where the fat bully had disappeared. Tall shelves stacked with engine parts, oil, and hydraulic fluid ran along both of the sloping exterior walls. A metal ventilation grate on the bulkhead above her had been sealed over with canned foam, leaving the air dank and cloyingly still. The overpowering smells of diesel fuel and the dirty bilge coming up through the floor grate filled the humid enclosure and made Ronnie feel as if she was being poached.

Lost in thought, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the hatch squeak open. Two men stooped to enter one at a time. First in was the same doughy bully who’d punched her in the back. Next came a younger man she’d not seen before. He had bright red hair and a disarming smile that reminded Ronnie of a
GQ
model. She might have said he looked kind had he not been a willing party to keeping her in a cage. The redheaded pretty boy carried a bottle of water and an energy bar. He squatted down next to the crate and waved the water back and forth, taunting her.

“So this is the sweet thing they’re all talking about,” he said. This one must have held some sway in terms of leadership on the boat because he carried her Scorn on his belt. He took the Snake Slayer out of his front pocket and twirled it around his finger by the trigger guard like a kid pretending to be an Old West gunfighter. “A girl could hide a little pistol like this in all sorts of places,” he said, leering through the chain link. “Maybe I should give you a little more thorough search. . . .”

Garcia let her eyes play up and down the young man, imagining the joy she’d feel when she planted her fist in his throat. She said nothing. It would do no good to antagonize her captors, but she didn’t intend to cooperate with them either. She knew the drill. He wasn’t likely to give her the food or water, no matter what she did.

GQ
stared at her for a long moment, his leering grin growing more sickening the longer she looked at it. Ronnie fought the urge to cower when he stuffed away the derringer and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked the two padlocks that secured the front of the cage that acted as a door and threw the water bottle and protein bar inside. Once he’d locked it again, he pulled out the Scorn and began to run the curved blade along the outside of the cage, clicking against the wire while he hovered over her.

“Evidently, you’re some kind of badass high-value target who should scare the shit out of me,”
GQ
said, reaching in to tickle her shoulder through the chain link with his left hand. She flinched and he jerked away, grinning at the game. “If it was up to me you’d be wearing nothing but French maid panties and chained to the galley makin’ us sammiches.”

“You’re a sick little man,
postalita
,” Ronnie blurted out, resolving to bite his fingers off if he was ever stupid enough to stick them through the wire again.

“Whatever.”
GQ
looked over his shoulder at his partner. He stuck the Scorn back in its sheath and rubbed his hands together as if he was eager to start some new game. “You bring ’em?”

For the first time since they’d come through the hatch, Ronnie realized the fat one had kept his hands behind his back, out of her sight.

“You mean these?” The other man grinned. He was fat enough that he couldn’t manage a smile without squinting his eyes. He produced two cattle prods, each comprised of a battery box and a set of metal forks at the end of a two-foot fiberglass rod. He held up both devices and nodded at
GQ
. “Choose your weapon.”

Ronnie felt as if she might vomit. Months of training, hours of lectures, nothing prepared a person for this. She pressed herself against the cage, drawing her arms and legs inward, as far away from the two men as she could get.

“We have a job to do,”
GQ
said, taking one of the cattle prods and whooshing it back and forth through the air like a sword. He looked at Garcia and shrugged. “Just following orders.”

“Orders?” Ronnie heard herself whispering.

“Yep,”
GQ
said. He moved to the other side of the cage, opposite the end where the pudgy agent had taken up a position with his prod. “Our orders are to . . . soften you up before Mr. Walter gets here. So, we’re gonna play us a little game of bitch hockey, and you get to be the puck.”

Garcia wanted to scream, to cry out for her father, for Jericho. She’d read the manuals. She’d watched the videos. There would be a time when her mind would come unwound, when she’d be able to do little but whimper, but that time was not yet. So, she clenched her teeth and waited for them to begin.