Hard Road (24 page)

Damn. Ideally he wanted both guys on deck at the same time. Far easier to deal with.

Reznick quickly assembled his M24 sniper rifle, aligning the night sights, securely attaching it to a mobile tripod. He crouched down and pointed the rifle in the general direction of the yacht. Then he pressed his left eye up close to the rubber eyepiece and peered through the electronic green sights. Using the scope's cross hairs, he zeroed in on the man's chest. But the heavy swell meant he only had the target in sight for a couple of seconds at a time.

The rifle had an optimum range of one mile. He recalled being on a patrol with a British unit in Afghanistan and their sniper had killed two Taliban machine gunners from one and a half miles away. The time it took for the bullet to leave the rifle and kill the target was three seconds. Reznick could factor in around two seconds, maybe a fraction less.

One man in range, the other out of sight. If he fired now, it would alert the other man and spell the end for his daughter.

The sniper option was too risky.

He watched the man on deck finish his drink, before crushing the empty can with one hand. The man was oblivious to being watched in the middle of the sea, darkness all around.

Reznick turned to the neat pile of diving gear at the back of his boat. This was his Plan B. He remembered an exercise with Navy Seals ten years back when he had done one hundred foot per minute. But that was in inshore waters. And he was ten years younger. He reckoned eighty foot per minute would be a more realistic figure. So that would take him a full forty minutes or so to reach the boat.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself.

He kept on staring through the rifle's night sights. The man in the seat got up as the second man from below, holding a bottle, came up onto the deck and took his place.

Reznick put the rifle down and picked up the pile of diving gear on the deck, which the owner of the boat had personally checked before loading it on the boat. He had double-checked, just to make sure.

The guy had kitted him out with a night vision dive mask with his wet suit. Reznick had never dived at night. But that didn't faze him. He just rolled with it as he was trained to.

He pulled on the wetsuit, flippers and then the Draeger rebreather tank. The rebreather equipment didn't produce any bubbles and allowed a diver to breathe their own air over and over again. It was used by Seals and advanced divers because of its stealth-like capacity in not disturbing marine life. The tank was lighter as compressed air was seventy-eight per cent nitrogen, and rebreathers only need oxygen tanks. Also, decompression was not a problem as nitrogen, associated with the bends, was kept to a minimum.

He strapped on a sheathed knife to his left calf and one to his belt clip. Then he placed his Beretta and a medical kit in a waterproof LokSak Arm Pak and strapped it to his right forearm.

He checked the compass on the luminous dive watch, which placed the yacht one mile due south south east of his position. Then he put his mouthpiece in and put on his night vision diving mask. It had an LCD display showing depth but also used thermal imaging technology so he could swim in total darkness.

His world now had a green tinge.

Reznick slipped into the dark waters of the Florida Straits and dived to a depth of ten yards and headed in the direction of the boat.

He kept his arms at his side as he swam horizontal in the water, legs and flippers working hard. The underwater night vision world opened up before him. Shoals of fish parted.

The tranquility in the lime green was at odds with how he felt. Simmering anger coursed through his veins. He thought of his daughter. All alone. Then he thought of his late wife's last moments.

What was she thinking? Was she praying? He hoped she hadn't been alone, trapped in part of her office, cut off from everyone else. He hoped someone had been with her.

He pushed the thought from his mind.

Let's get to Lauren. To keep her alive was to keep part of Elisabeth alive.

The LCD screen on his visor showed he was half way there. Closer and closer.

Reznick swam on. The shoals of fish were swarming all around in an algae green world and he wondered if this would attract some sharks. He'd always had a deep fear of sharks. As a boy, he had witnessed a porbeagle, a cold-water shark, circling him and his friends for nearly half an hour as they swam in Burnt Cove in Maine. And that incident had always stayed with him down the years.

Suddenly, without any warning, Reznick gulped down a lungful of what he imagined liquid draino would taste like. He felt himself choking and coughing through his bailout regular, which he was wearing necklace style on a loop of surgical tubing. He needed to bail out. Quick.

His lungs burned and filled up with seawater. Throat burning with the chemical substance. He coughed and swallowed more water. He fought against hyperventilation.

What the hell was going on? What had he done wrong?

He forced himself to inhale slowly. Gradually, he began to regain his composure. He was still breathing. He checked the night vision computer readout as he rose to the surface, yard by yard.

When he got to the surface, he ripped off his mouthpiece and mask and gulped in the fresh air. An inky black sky overhead, stars as far as the eye could see, choppy seas lapping his face. He turned and saw the silhouette of his boat and swam back nearly five hundred yards and clambered on board.

Reznick slipped off his gear and gargled with fresh water to attempt to help the pain in his throat. He retched up the saltwater he had swallowed. Then he replayed the dive in his head and wondered what had gone wrong.

He took the rebreather below deck and switched on a desktop lamp. It all seemed fine. Then he went across to the small galley kitchen and filled up the sink with water, before submerging the rebreather. A few bubbles rose to the surface. Reznick looked closer and saw a razor-thin quarter-inch tear in the side of the expiration bag. An inside hairline fracture had expanded with the sea pressure and developed into a tear all the way through.

“Gimme a fucking break, will you?”

Reznick's heart pounded as he dried himself and changed into a pair of cargo shorts and sneakers he'd bought from a Key West beach shack.

He needed to focus.

His options were narrowed.

Reznick went back up onto deck and peered through the night vision glasses. There was still one guy on deck. A long distance rifle shot would hit the guy. But he knew that the sound of any rifle shot would give the subject a couple of seconds to hit the deck, the guy below a chance to prepare or harm his daughter.

The second option was almost a Kamikaze option. Take the boat right up to their yacht, shoot the guy on the deck, then clamber on board and take down the other guy.

The bottom line was that he was clean out of good options. He had to take a risk if he wanted to get his daughter back.

Reznick loaded up the rucksack. The last thing he checked was the Beretta. He pulled the magazine from the handgun and cleaned and oiled the barrel. He lubed the slide rails and around the barrel. Then the top of the disconnector in front of the breach face. Finally, he eased the slide forward until it was almost into battery, and then applied lube to the barrel head. Last of all, he ran a bore brush through the barrel, content that it was good to go.

Then he racked the slide, dry firing to make sure it was working, before he wiped off the excess lube with a rag.

He attached the suppressor, screwing it securely into place.

The last thing he did was thumb the seventeen rounds out of the magazine, feeling the tension in the spring, before he pushed the magazine back into the butt of the gun.

Reznick took in a deep breath of the night air and strapped the gun to his left leg, started up the boat and headed straight for the target. The boat skimmed across the water in no time, its engine spluttering too loudly for comfort, closer and closer to the lights of the boat. He slowed down as he got within the last couple of hundred yards and he switched on the deck lights so they could see him.

He started to hear music. Muffled hip-hop music.

He was around one hundred yards away from the starboard side. He maneuvered the boat to within twenty yards and then ten yards as the man on deck stood up and stared down at him.

Reznick smiled up at the guy. The guy didn't smile back. Reznick pulled out the Beretta and fired two muffled shots straight through the man's forehead. Blood spilled down the man's face as he dropped to the deck with a thump.

Heart racing, he edged closer to the rear of the boat. Closer and closer.

Then he stepped forward onto a metal railing hanging over the side and pulled himself onto the deck, rucksack on his back. He moved quietly and cautiously round the port side, eyes fixed on the cabin door. Then he crouched down low behind a huge pile of ropes.

The music was booming out. He trained his gun on the door which led to the galley. But still no movement.

The sound of the deep bass vibrated and reverberated around the boat's teak wood.

The door opened and a black man emerged onto the deck, rubbing his eyes.

Reznick did a double tap. He shot him once in the chest and once in the head before the man could react. Blood splattered over the riggings as the man collapsed in a heap. Somehow he was still breathing, swallowing blood, eyes pleading in vain with Reznick.

Reznick stood above him and stared down at him for a moment. The man's dark brown eyes were filled with tears. He pressed the gun to the man's forehead and drilled two shots into him. Blood seeped down his oily skin.

He stepped over the body and pushed open the galley door. The smell of hash and spilled beer filled the fetid air. He climbed down four steps. A table with cards, strewn with empty beer cans. He rummaged in closets and opened doors.

Then more stairs. Down into the sleeping quarters. Polished teaks and dark woods. Crumpled duvets. Where the hell was she?

A glint of silver caught his eye in his peripheral vision. Reznick turned and saw what looked like handcuffs below a duvet. He pulled back the covers. His daughter lay prostrate, out of it, face blue-grey, lips blue, eyes closed, handcuffed to a metal railing.

“Oh, fuck.”

Reznick pulled back her eyelids. His daughter's pupils were pinpricks. Reaching over he took her pulse. Her skin was cold. But he felt a faint pulse. “Oh, Christ, no, Lauren!” He slapped his daughter twice to try and rouse her. But nothing.

He ripped opened the waterproof medic bag containing the Naloxone and syringe and needles. Then he pulled off his daughter's belt and tied it tight around her upper arm. He pulled it tighter until the veins protruded.

Then he plunged the needle and syringe into the small metal container, filling the clear solution into the syringe.

Reznick held his breath. Slowly he injected his daughter with 0.4 mg of the Naloxone. He waited a few moments before he loosened the belt and pulled his daughter close, kissing her cold, grey-blue face. “Lauren, talk to me, honey. Lauren, please wake up. Come on, honey. It's dad here. Do you hear me?”

Lauren was still motionless her breathing shallow.

“Lauren, let's snap out of this,” he said, gently slapping her face. “Come on, Lauren, it's dad here.”

She didn't move. He waited two and then three minutes to see if the drugs took effect. But nothing. No reaction at all.

The seconds dragged. He felt as if he was drowning in slow motion. Time seemed to have stopped.

Reznick opened the fresh packaging for a new needle and syringe and filled it with 2mg of the drug. He had to counteract the opiates. He injected her again, but this time in the other arm.

He held her left hand and stroked her soft hair. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He cradled his daughter's head in his arm and stroked her forehead. The skin was clammy, the breathing still shallow, lips still a bluish tinge.

“Lauren,” he said, slapping her repeatedly on the cheek. “Lauren, it's dad!”

No response.

Reznick looked at his watch. It had been five minutes since he'd administered the first lot of Naloxone and his daughter was still not responding after the second. He needed to get his daughter to a hospital. He looked at her whey-face complexion and stroked her hair. “Don't die on me, Lauren,” he said. “Just please don't die on me. Hang in there. We can do this.” He squeezed his daughter's clammy right hand. “Squeeze if you can hear me or understand me.”

No response.

Reznick wrapped a blanket around Lauren and bounded up the stairs onto the deck and searched the two dead bodies for handcuff keys. He found a set in the back pocket of the second man he had killed. Then he fired up the engines and lights, checked the Simrad navigation equipment including the plotter, and punched in the coordinates on the satnav so the yacht would be running essentially on autopilot for most of the journey in.

He pushed a button to pull up the anchor before he sped off back through the dark waters, eyes peeled, focussed on the night vision screen, heading back to Key West. The warm wind was whipping up, spray cooling his face and arms as he accelerated the yacht through the waters.

He was three miles out and his night vision monitor showed debris – a couple of wooden crates – floating up ahead, so he manoeuvered round them, before heading back onto the set course. Past buoys until he saw the twinkling lights of Key West in the distance.

Closer and closer. For the first time he was starting to contemplate his daughter's death. It was starting to creep into his psyche like a cancer. But he couldn't let it. He couldn't think like that.