John Avery - Black Cobra

Harness reached for a file folder, kicked off his shoes, and leaned back in his chair, resting his stocking feet on the desk.

“You remember that guy I told you about? Jason Souther?” Harness said, opening the folder.

“The one you been after for two years,” Holt said. “Killed that family in that hit-’n-run and then killed that dude in the diner before he shot your —” Holt was about to say partner but caught himself.

“It’s okay, Holt,” Harness said. “Roberts was a good man, but I’ve moved on. Regarding Jason Souther, however… It’s becoming obvious that I’ve exhausted all of my leads here in the U.S., and, well, I’ve heard vague rumblings about a guy fitting Jason’s description being spotted somewhere in the Caribbean.”

Holt knew where this was going and didn’t like it.

“I know it’s crazy,” Harness said, “and a total long shot, but I think I may have to go international.”

Holt was deeply hurt. He’d been Detective Harnesses’s partner for almost two weeks now, and he liked the way it made him feel. It was a big promotion for him, an accomplishment of which he was very proud. But somewhere deep inside he had known it was too good to be true, and he was glad he had put off sharing his good fortune with his wife and young daughter.

“Let’s say you did take your search international,” Holt said at last. “You’d have to quit the force, right?”

Harness paused. “I know what you’re thinking, Holt, and I’m well aware of the rules concerning international fugitives. But if it comes to that… then yes, I may have to quit the force. But I’d certainly put in for a leave of absence first, and —”

“Cool. For how long?”

“I don’t know, six weeks — two months maybe,” Harness said. Then he paused for a moment. “Listen, I know I may be working outside the law, but I have no choice, okay? This son-of-a-bitch has been eating my insides out for two long years, and I can’t just let him run free. I have to go after him.”

“Let’s say they gave you the LOA,” Holt said. “You really don’t know how long you’ll be gone. What are you gonna do for transportation and lodging? Stow away on a fucking steamer? Think about it, sir. Chasin’ some mystic motherfucker around the world ain’t gonna be cheap.”

Harness hadn’t really thought about the amount of cash his vendetta might require. But logistics were his problem not Holt’s. “What’s this got to do with you, anyway?” he said coldly.

It was obvious to Holt that his partner had little concern for how this affected him . “If you want the truth, sir,” he said. “I think you’re outa your damn mind.”

Harness closed Jason’s file and sat up in his chair. He didn’t have to take crap from a subordinate, even if he was his partner. “You know what I think, Holt? I think you should go find a quiet place and fuck yourself.”

Holt stood up from the sofa. “Glad I could help, sir,” he said and started for the door.

“I don’t need your help,” Harness barked after him, “or anyone else’s. You got that?”

Holt paused in the doorway, his back to Detective Harness. “So, I guess this means I ain’t going with you.”

Harness hesitated, surprised. “What are you talking about? You weren’t thinking about joining me in this insanity…”

Holt kept his back turned and said nothing.

“If headquarters finds out what we’re up to, it’ll be the end of both our careers,” Harness said.

Holt remained quiet.

“We could die, Holt… or worse. Jason Souther’s as cold-blooded as they come.”

Holt turned and looked at Harness. “Cut the bullshit, Detective. I’m a damn good cop, okay? And this may come as a shock to you, but I have some money saved. Why not just get the hell outa your own way and let me help you find this asshole? Am I your damn partner or ain’t I?”

Harness looked at him, feeling foolish. He had seriously underestimated his new recruit. Who knew an officer as green as Holt could be so loyal, willing to risk everything for his partner’s irrational vendetta, a mission that would likely collapse into a career-ending fiasco?

He stood and gave Holt’s huge hand a firm two-handed shake. “My sincerest apologies, Officer Holt. Welcome to my nightmare.”

Jason Souther pulled an old lawn chair up to the starboard railing of his run-down 24-foot cabin-cruiser and sat down, shading his gray eyes from the intensity of the western Caribbean sun. He had been tracking the Cayman Jewel, a foreign tourist’s 65-foot, custom motor yacht since early that morning, and when, at long last, the man had set anchor, Jason had anchored as well, at a safe distance of nearly half a mile.

He surveyed the luxury yacht through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The only man aboard moved about the boat dressed in a white robe, and judging by the two young women lounging on deck in bikinis Jason had a pretty good idea what was coming next.

“Keep her on this heading,” Jason called to the wheelhouse.

Even though they were safely anchored, Brandy Fine got excited whenever Jason let her take the helm. But after two years in the Caymans she’d grown tired of living aboard a dilapidated tub, and what Jason was preparing to do excited her even more. “Aye aye, Captain,” she replied.

Jason turned his gaze toward shore. They were barely within sight of the small Cayman Island town of Grand Cayman, the town they called home. The skies were clear and the seas dead calm. Conditions were perfect.

He folded a clean white towel over the railing and gently nestled the barrel of his new Accuracy International AWSM .338 Lapua Magnum sniper rifle into the soft terry padding. Then he put his eye to the powerful 10x42 telescopic sight.

Jason had learned to handle a sniper rifle during his stint in the Navy (his friends in the Army used to kid him about being a sniper on a submarine) and although the target was over half a mile away, in the hands of an expert marksman it was easily within the AWSM’s effective range.

He dialed in the scope and spotted an unopened bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti (vintage 1997) on a silver tray next to one of the girls. It seemed a shame to waste such an expensive bottle of wine, so Jason made a mental note to share it with Brandy later.

He had killed twice before: once when he was helping Johnny pull one of his bank jobs and a guard got too frisky; and more recently the cop with the shotgun back at Sally’s Diner.

Jason didn’t enjoy killing — had even thrown up once, after the incident with the bank guard. But the money was all gone, and sometimes a man must do what a man must do. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand then returned his attention to the Cayman Jewel .

The girls were obviously having a great time, the sun warming their skin, their hair blowing in the soft tropical breeze. One appeared to look in Jason’s direction, but he knew that at over 1,500 yards, his little cabin-cruiser would be a mere pimple on the horizon.

The man came into view carrying a tray of drinks. He approached his lady friends and took a seat between them. After a quick toast, the girls wasted no time getting the party started, and in the blink of an eye, the only thing they were wearing were their diamonds.

Jason smiled. After months of struggle, botched attempts, and several close calls, he had begun to doubt the wisdom of his decision to try pirating for a living. But now, with the tactical advantage of his new sniper rifle, his luck was about to change.

He waited until the man’s sunscreen-caked forehead was centered in his crosshairs, and then he slowly squeezed the trigger.