Ded Reckoning (42 page)

Hunter whispers, "Everyone except the old man and those two are gone.  I'd bet they'll be gone for hours, two or three. We're goin' to do it now."

"In daylight?"

"Twilight.  Fitting.  Those two are relaxed.  Way off guard, although there was some silent shit goin' on down there.  Gotta be real careful."

"What silent ... stuff?"

"Just something about the way Rocco was acting when they came out of the pool.  C'mon, no one will see us.  Let's get it done."

 

 

Hunter picks the shutter catch easily and finds the window lock still out of order.    He peeks in first.  Finds it clear, then climbs inside.  Takes his weapon from his rear waistband.  Goes to the door, cracks it and steals a look into the kitchen and onto the veranda.  Pisces and Rocco are still outside.  He eases the door closed and returns to the window, motions Marnee inside.  Once she's in the interior both replace their gloves and masks they had removed moving from the hill to the house. Marnee draws her weapon as well.  He whispers, "Both outside," and they move quietly to the door.  Hunter cracks the door and as he does he sees a body flash across the kitchen.  He holds the door ajar as it is remaining motionless, listening.  He hears the outer kitchen door open and when it closes he peers from the pantry door and sees the old man on the veranda talking and gesturing to Pisces.  After several moments, Rocco and Pisces stand, and all three head for the kitchen.  Hunter motions to Marnee with three fingers and a gesture toward them that the threesome is coming inside.  He leaves the pantry door ajar, scarcely a whisper of enough to hear the three men enter the kitchen and Pisces speak.

"Rocco, go with Carmen and see what the fuck he's jabbering about.  While you're gone I'm going upstairs and take a real quick shower.  Meet me in the study."

"Yes, bossa.  Can I take a quickie first?  Doesn't sound like much.  Shabby wiring he's found."

"No, after."

"How about after and before I meet with you?"

"No, God dammit.  See what this is about, and while there see if you can teach this idiot some language that we can understand when he's excited.  Any language.  I only hope a herd of elephants aren't charging us or that damn volcano isn't about to blow again.  Besides, I want to make a call to our friend MacBeer with you present."

"Okay, bossa."  Then immediately says, "Let'sa go, Carmen."

Hunter hears the shuffling of feet, and can see a flashing of bodies pass in front of the pantry door on their way.  He hears the stomping of feet going up the stairs and the muffled voices of Rocco and the old man fading as they head outside.

Hunter turns to Marnee, she nods as understanding what is happening.  He whispers, "We'll take 'em in the study.  C'mon."

She whispers, "What about the wiring that was mentioned?  Is that..."

"No.  Not a problem.  I put in some dummy wiring leads to be found.  A wiring mistake disguise in fact."

She shakes her head in wonderment and they ease the pantry door open, whisk through the kitchen, down the tiled hall to the study, and in.  It's huge.  Desk facing the door, with its back to the veranda.  Book lined shelves, some photos, but by and large oil paintings by the master, Pisces.

They stand inside, Hunter whispers again, "We take out the first one that comes in, then wait for the other.  Quick, no time for slow kill revenge."  

Hunter moves immediately to the desk, opens a drawer and pulls out the envelope he needs.  Then he reaches in his pocket, removes the timer, sets it and places it behind some books on one of the shelves.   Whispers to Marnee, "Got to do this on the front end.  This could be close."

"Do it."

"Done."

And they wait.  Not long.  Minutes.

To them, their anticipatory breathing alone sounds like old steam engines climbing a grade let alone the sound of water running and shouting from the rear of the house. The passing minutes seem like a decade, a generation of operatives in ambush.  Then the door bursts open and Pisces strides in to his desk, not sensing anything until he gets to the front of his mahogany display of wealth and power.  He turns, reaches to his back.  It's much too late a reaction.  Marnee and Hunter both fire double taps.  Pssffft...pssfft...pssfft...pssfft.  Four hits.  Two center mass, the heart.  Two in the face.  One at the bridge of the nose, the other in the forehead.  Pisces' head snaps backward, then his body surges back to the desk.  His waist hits the edge, head lurches backward again, then forward as he hits hard polished mahogany of the desk.  He drops like a wet sandbag to the tile floor.  Blood surging from his chest, face disfigured.  Blood splattered on the desk top and the beautiful veranda windows behind.  The phone receiver he had reached for in his hand, lies in his lap.  The remainder of the instrument ripped from Pisces' desk, rests on the floor in front of the piece of furniture.  First the drone of a dial tone, then the buzzing of the disconnect sounding loud enough for MacBeer to hear if he were listening.

Then both hear the footsteps in the hallway.

Hunter mutters, "Shit," and they turn as the door swings open.

Rocco stands in the doorway, swimming trunks and barefoot, with a snub-nosed .38 revolver in his hand.  All three fire at once.  All get off two shots.  All within nanoseconds of one another.  Four shots silenced, two not.  Marnee cries out, and spins to the study floor, close to Pisces.  Two shots have hit her, both high.  Hunter is not hit.  Four shots hit Rocco.  Two in the chest, center mass, heart shots.  Two in the head, his forehead like two additional eyes.

Rocco is thrown back through the study door, into the hallway, slammed against the beige plaster wall.  He utters a mixture of a growl, a scream, and the gasping utterance of a huge sucking wound in the chest.  Blood, brains, bone are splattered around the study door frame and on the hall wall behind.  A red smear on the wall where Rocco hit, then trailing down to where he sits.  Another sandbag.  The snub-nosed .38, not a weapon of choice but probably necessity, unimaginably still is in his right hand.  His head, face virtually gone, slumps to his left.

Hunter checks the two of them in seconds, rips his mask from his head and turns to Marnee.  Sees she's bleeding profusely.  He gently but hurriedly takes off her mask.  Checks for a pulse.  Rips off his shirt.  Tears it in two.  And then its sleeves from the shirt.  He stuffs a piece of the shirt into each of her gunshot wounds.  Then wraps the shirt sleeves as a binding around her body.  Tying them tight, trying to apply as much pressure as possible.  One shot high in her shoulder although serious is not deadly.  The other a high chest wound is critical, probably fatal.   He picks her up and cradles her in his arms, whispers, "Marnee.  Marnee.  Say something.  C'mon darlin', hang tough.  Say something. Please."

She opens her eyes, mutters, "I love you, Hunter.  I love you ..." and as she reaches up with one hand, says, "Oh, Hunter ..."

She's interrupted by shouting.  Hunter drops her from his arms, turns toward the door, weapon coming up.

The old man is there and shouting, "I'm coming.  I'm coming.  Oh my God."  He stops and steps over Rocco screaming,   "I told you.  I told you." Then the old man turns to face Hunter, double-barreled shotgun in hand, cocked.

Hunter fires.  Double tap again.  Center mass.  Forehead.  

Carmen is thrown back on top of Rocco.  The shotgun clatters to the floor and both hammers fall.  Two blasts, simultaneously.  A few pellets hit Pisces, a couple catch Hunter's arm, some in the desk, a few in Marnee which add to her predicament.  The lamp on the desk is blown off, but most of the twelve gauge buckshot hit and shatter the veranda windows behind the desk.

Hunter surveys the scene.  The carnage is complete.  

He leans over, "God damn, Devorah.  Gotta hurry, the timer is set.  Devorah!  Devorah!  I'm sorry."  He sucks in a gulp of air.  "Gotta go."

He pauses, lays Marnee's head on the floor and puts his weapon back in his waistband.  Mutters, "Mission friggin' accomplished."

 

EPILOGUE

 

"Twenty years from now you will be more

disappointed by the things

 that you didn't do than by the things you did do.  

So throw off the bowlines.  

Sail away from the safe harbor.  

Catch the trade winds in your sails.  

Explore. Dream. Discover."

Mark Twain

 

 

Hunter stands on the bridge with his crew chief and the two younger crewmen as they turn north and head for the Strait of Messina.  The explosion itself has consumed the crew's conversation.  Hunter reluctantly joins the chatter and excitement, but feels he must.  

Now, several hours later, the area is still aglow with some flames defying extinguishing. As a rule however, the glow is from spot lights and the dazzling display of emergency lights.  The pandemonium from the activities can be heard through the clear night air to the sea.

Hunter has showered, gotten rid of his clothes and weapon, everything that could tie him to the scene should they get stopped while at sea or a port along the way.    He has packed and addressed the envelope with the hard evidence of Pisces' long history of treachery.  It is ready to be mailed from the first port of call.  He reported the mission accomplished, the deaths involved, and the condition of the villa.  Suggested the bodies won't be found for hours, and when they are, it will probably take days before it is discovered that the explosion and fire were not the cause.  As he sits in the lounge, he goes over the conversation in his mind.  Joe also informed him that unless he chose to do so, there was no need to visit Capri, saying, "They're all leaving.  Have the remains.  Bradovich has everything under control.  Damn good man, may try to recruit him."

Hunter had asked, "What about the children?"  He was always taught by his father, Corker Kerrigan, that kids were goats, children are children but somewhere along the line he had forgotten the lesson, until lately.  "And what about the family?  And of course, Maria?"

Joe laughed at his question and tried to speak, then gagged a bit on his own chuckling.  Finally he said, "Maria.  Yeah.  Maria. Well, in Brad's words, and I quote, he started laughing again, then, "His words were ... 'Maria is in love with wine and Polish sausage.  Her wine.  My sausage.'  As he said that I heard Maria scold him in the background.  Anyway, they're all gone.  On the way back home.  Kids are okay or as good as can be expected.  Grandparents and the father are taking it extremely hard.  And you're not well liked."

I replied, "Sausage, huh?  Not well liked. Well, so be it.   It is what it is. What about MacBeer?"

"He committed suicide.  Was found in his new home in The Bahamas.  Shot himself.  Anyway, I did get the photocopies you sent.  Just need the original stuff.  And I'm going to call the President."

"The package will be on the way tomorrow.  We'll stop for fuel.  To Ruth again.  That's it.  I'm outta here.  Semper Fi ... and tell the President I said hello."  And the call was over.

Hunter leans back in the lounge chair, picks up the intercom phone, calls, "Anthony."

"Yessa, sir."

"Let's run her at eleven knots, cruising speed, and head for our first fuel stop.  Then head for Genoa, then Nice.  We'll not be going to Capri.  Keep the coast in sight."  

"Yessa, sir."

"I'm going to relax."  He puts down the intercom.

 

 

The Shanahan family pulls away from their mum's cottage.  The moving van will follow them to Cork where the two lads hope to find work, perhaps in construction or the exploration field.  A risk they are most willing to take, which is less than all the others of their lifetime.  Their mum sits in the front seat of her husband's old 1962 Wolseley.  It has seen many a better day as evidenced by his rusting grey painted body, fender mounted rear-view mirrors long gone as is the hood ornament.  Two of four of the small, circular chrome hubcaps are missing as well.  Danny is driving.  Sean and Mary Kate, married by a sleepy priest, are in the back seat.  Their honeymoon consisting of a few nights in Sean's bedroom where they tried hard to muffle Mary Kate's squeals and shouts, and his grunts.  

They face a long journey, nearly the length of Ireland, but will live in peace, yet miss their eldest brother, Paddy, and their Pa.  A stiff price, perhaps unnecessary, for independence.

 

 

Once through the Strait of Messina, and basically in the open sea, Hunter, who has gone to the bridge, is comfortable that all is under control.  His crew chief, Anthony, and the two crewmen can handle the yacht throughout the night.  They will shadow the Italian coast north. With its range the
Marnie,
at its easy cruising speed, can continue through the night and into tomorrow before needing to refuel.  Hunter says, "Anthony, I'm goin' below again.  Gonna' have some coffee and relax. Give me a holler if you need something.  I'll let you know before I hit the sack."

"Yes sir, bossa.  Everything is purring like a content pussy cat."  He smiles.  Then adds, "We will rotate the helm, but I will bunk here throughout the night.  No sweata."

"Want me to bring up some coffee for you three?"

"No sir.  Notta yet.  We will have some later.   
Grazi
."

Hunter, as a last check, glances out at the boat's running lights, out to the calm sea, no white caps, then looks off to the northeast toward the coast line.  Shrugs, then turns and leaves.

After pouring himself a mug of coffee, he puts it aside.  Claps his hands, rubs them together vigorously and reaches in the cabinet for his bottle of
Blume Marillen Apricot Eau-De-Vie
.  Pours a relaxing amount into his snifter, mutters, "Good stuff.  From Austria.  Might have to try a Baltimore Bang, or a Slope, or a Stone Fruit Sosc tomorrow."

Hunter wanders into the  lounge, sits on the overstuffed, beige leather sofa, kicks his loafers off and rests his feet on the beautiful mahogany coffee table which rests on part of the throw carpet of which there are several throughout the yacht.  Mostly for protection.  All the decking is teakwood, except for the heads and some working spaces.