Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Revenge

Tommy walked over and opened the door. Sitting on a chair outside the door was his phone. He grabbed it and held it up with pride. “I’m telling you, Jule. I love this thing.”

Anton Kalinikov stood behind the wheel of the forty-foot yacht and became comfortable with the rhythm of the waves in the Chesapeake Bay. The restaurant he spied sat at the end of a long pier, out in the bay, by itself, exposed. Nightfall had blanketed the coastline and left him floating in darkness. The water was calmer than he’d anticipated, just a jostling of waves slapping at the hull as he peered through his binoculars. His eyes perked up as he spotted the target entering the restaurant.

It was Carl Rutherford’s twentieth anniversary and he smiled while taking his wife’s hand and sat her at their table by the window. He’d made the reservations a week ago like a good husband. Most people felt there was safety in numbers, so Rutherford didn’t appear apprehensive. It helped that he’d brought along three of his FBI friends to watch over him while he enjoyed his meal. Two for the inside, one outside.

The three agents came in the same car two hours prior to the reservation. They were efficient in their sweep of the area. They’d inspected the table, spoke with the kitchen staff and scrutinized the perimeter. Very professional. Kalinikov knew, because he’d been at the bar watching the entire time.

A professional assassin, however, must always stay unpredictable. Once you develop a pattern you become vulnerable. Kalinikov wondered now how much the FBI knew about him. He had to believe they knew he was Russian, maybe even knew he was left-handed by the first body he’d left. That was okay. He was a complete stranger to the American authorities and the FBI had no data to draw from. If they’d known anything about his history they would suspect he preferred to work close-up. That helped.

Now he could see the waiter standing by the Rutherfords’ table, hands behind his back, probably explaining the menu. Crab cakes were their specialty.

He heard a moan and pulled the binoculars down to address the bound and gagged man next to him. Even in the darkness Kalinikov could see the fear in the man’s eyes. He sat behind the wheel on the captain’s chair, obviously petrified of his fate.

“I told you I will not kill you,” Kalinikov offered. “But you must remain still.”

The man nodded furiously, trying to agree as much as possible. His fears were most certainly elevated by the rocket-propelled grenade launcher lying on the floor across from him.

Kalinikov scanned his surroundings first with the naked eye, then through the binoculars. Nothing seemed irregular. A few random fishing boats. A marine police boat slowly trawled the shoreline, moving away from him.

Kalinikov pushed a green button on the control panel and heard the creaking of the anchor ascending into the side of the hull. He maneuvered the boat sideways to allow the RPG’s backblast to avoid the cabin. The FBI agent on the pier outside the restaurant pretended to be on his cell phone, pacing back and forth, while examining the customers as they arrived for meals. Half the time he opened the door for them, a reason to get an even closer look.

Now the agent seemed to pick up the new movement and gained interest in Kalinikov’s boat. It was time for the distraction.

Kalinikov reached into his pocket and removed the remote control. He placed it in his fingers and carefully scanned his surroundings one more time. Then he pushed the red button.

From the parking lot on the opposite side of the restaurant an explosion pierced through the still night loud enough to alert even the casual diner. It was nothing more than an abandoned car Kalinikov had left there for his diversion. The FBI agent guarding the pier immediately sprinted around the restaurant and out of view.

Kalinikov mounted the Russian-made RPG to his shoulder and steadied it on his torso. The exact Russian translation for an RPG is hand-held anti-tank grenade launcher. It had enough power to take out the entire restaurant with one launch. The only problem with the device was its range, so Kalinikov had to risk coming to within eighty yards of the front window before he stepped out into the cool bay breeze. He’d thought about using his rifle, but the boats movement made the shot too risky even for him. This was the correct choice.

Carl Rutherford had grabbed his wife while she gathered her purse and jacket from the back of her chair. The inside agents moved quickly to usher their colleague away from danger.

That’s when Kalinikov pulled the trigger.

• • •

FBI agent Mark Renton was on his knees in the restaurant parking lot tending to a burned valet driver when he heard the familiar sound from behind him. It was a sound he’d heard in Afghanistan many years earlier, but once you’ve heard it, it never leaves your brain. It was the distinct hiss of an RPG heading his direction. Self-preservation kicked in. He instinctively ducked and covered his head. Seconds later the impact of the grenade hitting the restaurant blasted throughout the bay and a giant fireball expelled its energy into the night sky.

The heat swept over Renton as he protected the injured valet from shards of debris. Renton knew instantly it was the Russian assassin. Carl Rutherford and his wife were dead along with two other FBI agents and lots of other innocent people.

His ears were ringing as he scrambled to his feet and saw pedestrians calling 911 on their cell phones. He quickly scrambled around the side of the restaurant, his body slanted to his left as if he’d just come off an amusement park ride and couldn’t gain his balance yet. His equilibrium was shot from the pounding on his eardrums. He saw a yacht going full throttle away from the shoreline, cutting through the bay in a straight line for the Atlantic.

Renton had had a bad feeling about the boat floating so close to the pier, but couldn’t see inside the cabin to quantify his concerns. A police boat was in high pursuit of the fleeing yacht, its lights flashing and reflecting off the water as it gave chase.

Renton needed to get out there. His friends were just murdered and the killer couldn’t get away with it. Not while he was still alive.

He saw a man by the dock checking out his boat. Renton ran over and flashed his FBI shield. “You the owner?” he asked.

The man seemed unsure of Renton’s motive. He looked like he was being accused of something.

“I desperately need your help,” Renton said. “Can you take me out to that police boat?

The man stood there and didn’t answer. Then it dawned on Renton. The man was wearing a button down shirt and nice, creased jeans. His face turned toward the ball of flames. He must’ve had family inside the restaurant. He was in shock.

Renton’s blood was flying through his body, his pulse pounding at his temples. He saw the yacht getting farther out into the bay and had nothing but revenge on his mind.

Renton pulled the man’s shoulders to face him. “Can I use your boat? Please.”

The man absently fished out a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to him.

Renton untied the ropes and jumped on board. He had nothing more than a rudimentary understanding of how to drive a boat. It was a cabin cruiser around thirty feet in length. He hunched down to get inside the cabin and found the control panel. As the engine coughed to life he pushed the throttle and headed out. From behind him he heard sirens. He looked over his shoulder and saw people gathering outside the restaurant. Some were hugging each other. Some stood in shock. The man whose boat he borrowed stood in the exact same spot and stared at the sight.

Renton felt a sense of loss, but there were professionals just minutes away and those precious minutes could allow The Russian to escape. And if he escaped, even more people would be in danger. More FBI agents. Renton couldn’t allow that to happen.