Jack Coughlin: Dead Shot

“Got to be tough,” she agreed. The ultimate loner. “Tell you what. You’re obviously exhausted and running on battery power alone. So take your R-and-R and rest up, get drunk, get laid, and sweat out a hard physical conditioning program. Then come back to Washington and let’s figure out how to slow down the workload. They can’t expect you to cover the whole world by yourself.”

“Is the general complaining about me again?” Swanson and Middleton had not gotten along for years, dating back to their first encounter during the First Gulf War. Middleton had come across Swanson after a particularly vicious firefight and saw the sniper trembling as he reflected on the carnage he had caused during the battle. Swanson always had found a few moments alone after a fight to bring himself back to normal, but Middleton had mistaken the reaction as evidence of incompetence. Not only had he tried to get Swanson kicked out of the Marines, but he also used the term “shaky” in the official report. The attempt failed, but the ironic nickname of “Shake” stuck, for his friends knew that Kyle Swanson was anything but unreliable in battle. It had taken the rescue in Syria to start Middleton and Swanson on a path of mutual respect and friendship.

“No. He’s just concerned. We all are. Without you, there is no Task Force Trident.”

Kyle finished a final slice of toast and pushed away his plate. “Well, Captain Summers, tell the folks back home that I am just skippy. I still believe in our mission. I still hate terrorists, and I’m still willing to kill whoever the president decides needs a good killing.”

WITHIN A FEW HOURS, Summers left for Washington aboard a military transport, and Kyle climbed into a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter. It was shining white except for two narrow bands of dark blue stripes and a gold corporate symbol on each side marking it as part of Excalibur Enterprises Ltd., the holding company for the many businesses of British tycoon Sir Geoffrey Cornwell. The sleek bird was a combination executive passenger vehicle and all-around workhorse, and Kyle was the only passenger in its spacious and soundproof cabin. The aircraft had no ties to anything military, and its flight log for the day recorded just a routine trip for a company executive, but in the world of clandestine operations, Sir Jeff was known to occasionally lend a hand for off-the-book operations. Kyle strapped into a comfortable leather seat as the powerful Turbomeca Arriel 2S2 engines revved up, and in minutes the Sikorsky was up and heading toward the Mediterranean Sea. The steady low throb of the engines helped him fall asleep almost instantly.

“We’re landing, sir.” The pilot’s voice on the intercom aroused him after what seemed only a few minutes, but when he checked his watch, Swanson saw they had been in the air for more than an hour. The blades were slapping hard, and from the cabin window, he could see the square landing deck of a luxurious yacht with the same color scheme as the helicopter. The sparkling Vagabond seemed to rise from the waters to meet the wheels of the descending bird, which touched down lightly on the landing deck.

“Home, sweet home,” said Kyle Swanson as a crewman pulled open the door from the outside. “Thanks for the lift, guys.”

He stepped to the deck while the chopper was still shutting down its engines and ducked away from the powerful downdraft of the rotor blades. A woman moved toward him from the cabin area. She was Lady Patricia Cornwell, in a blouse of blue silk and dark slacks, with a silver necklace and earrings. “Welcome back, stranger,” she said, giving him a tight hug and handing over a cold beer. Her eyes took in everything: the weary movement, the sun-reddened skin, a slight limp. He had been gone for almost two weeks. No questions. “Jeff is on his way back from a NATO meeting and should be aboard before the storm arrives.”

“Good to be here, Pat. Lord, I’m tired.” Clouds were gathering on the horizon, and crewmen in crisp uniforms hurried about, coiling rope and lashing canvas to get the big yacht ready for the approaching heavy weather.

Pat gently touched a small bandage taped on his chin. “Did you forget to duck?”

“Cut myself shaving,” Swanson answered with a laugh.

“You seem to do that a lot these days.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go take a nap before you fall asleep on your feet, Kyle? We will call you for dinner at seven.”

“Yes, m’lady.” He walked away across the teak deck and disappeared into an open hatch, heading for his own cabin as the yacht shifted beneath his feet on the rolling waves.

Pat stared out to where the black waters met the graying sky. An unhappy soul, she thought as the breeze pulled at her hair and clothing. She knew that he would fall asleep fully clothed and that they would not see him at dinner.

Swanson heard a soft bump against the hull and immediately smelled rot and decay. He knew who it was before he shrugged out of bed and went on deck to peer over the rail. Below, bobbing in a long, low craft that rode easily on the churning water, was the Boatman, grinning up at him. Dead people sat erect on the benches, three to a side.

“You’ve been busy,” Kyle observed.

“Wars. Revolution.” The Boatman shrugged with a low cackle. “I always have many waiting to go over.” He pointed a finger of ivory bone toward a narrow ridge of fire in the north, a glowing rim between the black of the night and the black of the sea. When the Boatman pulled on a long oar to steady the craft, the wind pushed the soiled black robe around his thin figure, and his skeletal face flashed an evil smile of broken teeth.

“So what do you want? You already have a full boat, and I ain’t planning to go with you.”

“Not yet. But very soon.”

“Fuck you.”

“I have retrieved the two souls you just killed.”

“Good. They thought they were going to paradise and each would collect his six dozen virgins.”

The Boatman cackled. “They were wrong.” There was a long pause. “You are a good and reliable supplier.”

Kyle spat overboard. “And you are nothing but a bad dream. I’m going to wake up soon and you will be gone.”

The Boatman placed his hand against the white hull of the Vagabond and gave a push, then leaned onto his oar, and the little boat swung away. A few more sweeps put some distance between them before the specter turned and spoke again. “Yes? That is true, but I am never too far from you, awake or asleep. I will be back when you finally decide to put a pistol in your mouth and finish self-destructing. It will be a special trip, and you can have the whole boat to yourself.”

The shuttle craft paddled away with its cargo of corpses, the Boatman disappearing into the storm, trailing a croak of laughter.

When Kyle awoke, he was standing outside on the rolling deck of the Vagabond in his bare feet with wind-driven rain sluicing over him, drenching the clothes in which he had fallen asleep. Lightning sizzled off the water and thunder rumbled through the night sky as he held the rail in a death grip. Just a dream. Just the damned dream again.

Swanson had been trained for years to keep his emotions in check while on a mission, when precision and control frequently marked the difference between success and failure. It was after the shooting, when he was alone, that he allowed his thoughts to deal with what had happened, and the process was not always pretty. Now, the Boatman had become an unwanted part of that procedure.

All of the storms in the world could not wash away what really troubled him, so he staggered into the main cabin, pulled a bottle of tequila from the bar, and went back outside. Rain didn’t bother him. Cold didn’t bother him. Killing people didn’t bother him.