Killing Chase (9 page)

One hundred fifty yards away
from the
Anchor Management,
in the back of a cargo van, Jean-Louis Bertrand lay prone on a homemade sniper nest fashioned out of two-by-fours and egg-crate padding. That was not his real name, but Marcus Durand hadn’t survived all these years after his service in the Foreign Legion by distributing business cards with his name on them. The inside of the van was hot, but he was used to being uncomfortable. He and a spotter had once lain hidden on a bug-infested hillside in Croatia for two mind-numbingly hot days before taking out a Serbian war criminal from a distance of over eight hundred yards.

This would be his second job for the man on the boat, but the first time he’d been asked to do what he was about to do. The shot itself would be difficult, but not impossible.

He pushed his thoughts of past jobs to the back of his mind as he watched the client through the telescopic sight of the M-24 sniper rifle. The get-away would prove to be the biggest challenge, although the yacht between himself and the target would confuse the authorities for a while and focus attention on the boat instead of the parking lot. He wondered if a shot, such as the one he would soon make, had ever been attempted. Slightly downhill and through the open windows of a yacht’s empty dining room.

***

From his Gucci suitcase, Sergei pulled out a small, rectangular box wrapped in paper the color of midnight blue and adorned with a small, golden bow. He placed the gift on the small teak table that sat outside on the sea terrace. Next to the gift was a silver bucket, and inside, ice chilled a bottle of Krug Brut 2000. A celebration was in order.

The day had gotten downright hot by Nassau standards, but manageable with the sunshade that covered the terrace. Save for an early lunch presentation with Hank, Sergei had relaxed in the master suite for the majority of the day. The conceptualized yacht Hank had presented to him during lunch had impressed him. The American’s staff had done an admirable job in designing it. It was too bad this new yacht would only exist on paper. He could have bided his time as it was built, but a two-year wait didn’t fit into his sinister timetable.  

“Darling, come. I have something for you,” he said into the mouth of the suite. Once more he looked across the calm waters of the marina to a smaller yacht that sat directly across from the
Anchor Management.
A napkin-sized square of orange fabric hung subtly from the railing of the vessel.
All systems go.
Seeing this, Sergei grimaced inwardly. The next few minutes would be difficult. Beyond the boat was the marina parking lot, and although he couldn’t see it, he knew that an extended cargo van with darkened windows and lethal cargo sat quietly.

“What is it, Sergei?” Viktoria said. She had returned an hour ago from her visit to the spa, looking neither refreshed nor relaxed, in his opinion.

“I know your birthday isn’t until next week, but I thought it appropriate to celebrate it now in such a beautiful place. Have a seat, my love.” He motioned to the left side of a cushioned teak loveseat and poured each of them a glass from the chilled magnum of champagne. He handed one to Viktoria and took a sip from his glass.

***

“It will not be long now,” said the short, stocky, Middle Eastern-looking man who lay next to him. The spotter had introduced himself as Aref three days ago. He reached forward and rolled the left rear window open laterally approximately three inches.

“Are you ready?” he asked nervously.

“Please, no more talking, unless it is absolutely necessary,” said Durand pleasantly.
Please? Am I going soft?
No, the upcoming shot would erase all doubt about that. He watched as the woman opened the small box.

***

“Sergei, it’s beautiful,” said Viktoria, holding the fake five-karat diamond tennis bracelet with both hands. Perhaps he has no idea what I’ve done, she thought, and felt a renewed hope that she would get through the next two weeks unscathed.

“I’m so glad you like it, my love.” For a moment, he wondered if the bullet would hit his fortified Kevlar and continue boring through the fabric, turning his heart into hamburger, instead of deflecting into the real target, as was the plan. Wouldn’t that be the cruelest of ironies?

“Like it? I love it,” she beamed. She stood up and walked over to him.

***

Durand ran through his mental checklist as he did before every shot. The most harrowing moment would be the millisecond of time it took for the bullet to zip through the width of the dining room of the smaller yacht and fly just over the deck railing. If his aim were off by the smallest of margins, the bullet would deflect off the metal railing and end up somewhere it wasn’t intended. In sniper circles, both outcomes would be met with snickers from his colleagues, and some would question whether it was time for him to hang up his gun. Such was the need to knock people down. Let them talk; he’d pocket his five hundred thousand and, when the time was right, tell them the real story.

***

 “Let me put this on you, my dear,” Sergei said, as he connected both ends of the bracelet with the clasp. He leaned in for a final kiss.

***

The crosshairs zeroed in on the intended spot of impact, and Durand pulled the trigger as he slowly exhaled. He watched the grim drama play out on the telescopic sight for a few seconds.

“It is good?” asked Aref, who was looking through his own sighting scope.

“It is good.” said Durand, as his attention turned to breaking down the rifle.

Aref slid a silenced 9mm Glock from his waistband and promptly delivered two shots to the back of the sniper’s head.

“Sorry, just following orders,” he said to the dead man, as blood began to ooze out of the entry points.
Loose lips sink ships.
He placed the gun on the van’s center console, slipped into the driver’s seat, and drove out of the parking lot. The police would no doubt see the van exit when they replayed the video feed, but by the time they started looking, the van would be in about eighty different pieces and the sniper’s body incinerated. Cold-blooded, ruthless efficiency.

***

Sergei Durov felt the high-velocity round hit his chest like a hammer, and it spun him to the left and knocked him off his feet. For a moment, he wondered if he would be able to breathe again. He felt certain he had at least a couple of broken ribs. A minute later, he stood up slowly and shakily and saw Viktoria sprawled on the floor of the terrace next to the loveseat, a crimson stain spreading on her peach blouse. Her lifeless eyes told him the sniper’s shot had hit its mark. He shuffled slowly inside to the closest phone and in a frantic voice asked Dmitri to call for medical attention. It was now time for Sergei to play the role of grieving husband. An attempt on his life had failed and taken his lovely Viktoria instead.

The
Anchor Management
wasn’t cleared
to leave until nine thirty Saturday night. Crime scene technicians had spent two hours going over the sea terrace and master suite with a fine-toothed comb, as well as a yacht docked on the other side of the marina, where the shot ostensibly came from. The murder of visitors was highly uncommon in Nassau—those occurring on multimillion dollar boats even more so—and the police would undoubtedly pull out all stops to ensure tourists felt safe on the island.

I was the only guest who sailed back to Foggy Harbor. My father decided to stay on the island to help the hospitalized Sergei. He had a nasty, ragged bruise over his heart that was a painful canvas of mottled dark greens and ugly purples, as well as two broken ribs. He was damn lucky to be alive. Anna and I had parted with a sad hug and the promise of talking and getting together when she returned to Wilmington. I worried about Anna being caught in the crossfire should the killer return to finish the job.

My mood was somber and I kept mostly to myself. If not for a ship-to-shore call to Pops, I would’ve spoken to no one. We decided that he would have a car pick me up, and I would stay at the house until my father returned. Around midnight, I gave up on sleep and walked up to the sun deck. “This is not a game,” kept looping through my brain, Viktoria’s last words to me. She was genuinely scared this morning, and now she was dead. I played devil’s advocate and wondered if Sergei really was who the killer was aiming for. It was quite a stretch to think Viktoria was the intended target. The man was a billionaire and no doubt had a list of enemies. You didn’t make that much scratch and have everyone’s love and affection. The odds of someone making that perfect a shot had to be a zillion to one. Still, the nagging doubt lingered.

The next evening at seven thirty, Pops met me at the pier, with his fifty-three-year old Rolls Royce Phantom and a big smile on his elongated face. A glimpse of white hair poked out from his brown fedora, and he wore a long, brown coat with a green-and-red scarf around his neck to ward off the early spring chill. He still had the strong Hampton chin, but his ears had gotten longer, and he walked with a noticeable stoop and a gnarled, wooden cane.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said, as he wiped a stray tear from his right eye.

“Hi, Pops. Been too long.” I gave him a hug. He had written me while I was away, but never visited, not that I wanted him to. Old men shouldn’t have to visit their grandchildren in prison. Pops and I had a decent relationship growing up, but he was always busy at the shipyard or running sea trials on the boats in production. My grandmother passed away before I was born, and I never once stayed over at his house or sat in his lap as he read me a story. He was a man from a different age, a provider but not a nurturer. My father had received a healthy shot of this gene.

It was dark, and the fog was rolling in off the Atlantic as we drove through the tree-lined streets of my idyllic little hometown. The gas-lit street lamps and fog combined to give downtown a haunted look. For some reason, I felt like an intruder who just snuck in through an open window. I wondered if the people of Foggy Harbor would accept me again.

“I feel the need to prepare you for what, or I should say, who, is in the house waiting for you,” said Pops in his grand, erudite voice.

“Let me guess. Her name starts with Bailey and ends with Masters?”

“Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag on this one.”

“I’ll get over her working for dad and NO one telling me.”

“Yes, I suppose you’ll get over that rather quickly,” he mumbled.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m clamming up and staying out of it.” He pulled the Phantom through the black, wrought-iron gate and drove down the well-lit driveway. He pulled into the six-car garage and parked next to a fully-restored, raven black 1966 Mustang. My pride and joy.

The home hadn’t changed at all. It was a sprawling two-story, constructed in a Hamptons shingle style, and built to look rustic and weathered, humble almost, but it was far from that. It was a mix of gambrel roofs, Palladian windows, and gardenia-scented wrap-around porches. It all blended together in a magnificent way.

I walked from the garage, through the nautical-themed mudroom, and into the kitchen. Stainless steel everywhere, along with cherry cabinets and a large marble island smack dab in the center. A large, square, lavender-colored cake with
Welcome Home Chase
written in green and framed with colorful fondant flowers sat in the center of the island. This had to be the lamest welcome home party ever. The cake may have well as said,
Welcome home! Nobody gives a fuck!
And Bailey was nowhere to be seen.

“Hmm, something must’ve come up,” Pops said.

“Sounds like a case of the chicken-shits. How ’bout some cake?”

“I’ve got something better,” he smiled. “Come with me and we’ll properly welcome you home.”

I followed him out to the terrace where he produced a slender, greenish bottle and poured us each three fingers of Jameson from the well-stocked outdoor bar.

“Here’s to a new chapter in your life, son,” he said as he raised his glass to me. The amber liquid was smooth going down, infinitely better than the awful, rotgut prison hooch inmates would make out of apple peels, yeast, and sugar pilfered from the prison kitchen.

We sat in teak rocking chairs, sipped our spirits, and talked for about ten minutes before Pops announced he was retiring for the evening.

He made it halfway to the door, turned and said, “Things’ll be different, Chase. For better or for worse. Best just roll with it, okay?”

“What does that mean?” I asked for the second time tonight. I didn’t speak cryptic nonagenarian.

“It means I’m clamming up,” he offered for the second time tonight before finishing his drink. “Goodnight, son.”

With nowhere to go and nowhere to be, I refilled my tumbler from the bar and took the bottle of twelve-year old Jameson with me, down the stone steps to the infinity pool and across the lawn to the beach access path. Constructed of cedar, the path wound its way over the protected sea oats for a hundred fifty feet before ending at Hampton Beach.
Pretentious, I know
. When I got to the beach, I ditched my shoes on the landing.

The beach cabana lay fifty feet from the last cedar step, and it was my destination of choice. Contrary to what many people think, the beach is not a quiet place, and tonight was no different. A symphony of sounds competed for dominance. Waves crashed on shore, winds rattled the grasses and oats, and seabirds called to each other. Maritime music at its finest, and it comforted me to hear it after so much time had passed.

Cool sand greeted my feet as I stepped off the last wooden step. A security light mounted on the steps combined with the fog to give the structure a ghostly glow. It was an open-air cabana, with a solid back wall and wooden slat walls on the side, which allowed breezes to filter in on hot summer days. A thatched roof gave it that island look. On the raised stone patio sat a grill, table, and chairs. It was dark on the front side of the cabana, but enough light allowed me to see that I wasn’t alone.