Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Perhaps Robert was okay, she thought, turning back, watching the water. The police had come. She only hoped this evidence he’d given her, whatever it was, was enough to cover her ass, because she was bound to be in trouble by the time she got back, especially if Scotty happened to mention her midnight foray to the airport via Arturo’s motorcycle and someone found out about her unauthorized trip south of the border. Not that anyone had to find out. If she was lucky, she’d slip into port in San Diego, casually leave the boat behind, catch a cab to the field office, then a plane to the city, with no one the wiser, her good-girl reputation intact. Of course she had to get north of the border first, and now that the threat of being shot at was gone, she pulled back on the throttle, and the boat settled into a much smoother cruising speed. If she ignored everything that had happened to her, it would almost be enjoyable in the bright sun, passing the sailboats that scudded across the surface. To her right was a small town, she guessed Puerto Nuevo, the place to go for lobster, if she recalled correctly. Several minutes beyond that she could see the brightly colored hotels that lined Rosarito Beach. About fifteen minutes from there until Tijuana del Playa. Every now and then, she glanced behind her and to the shore, searching for a boat that seemed to be coming after her. So far nothing but pleasure boats and sailing vessels, no one paying her the slightest heed, though a few waved as she zipped past.

She couldn’t wait to get to shore, out of the bright sun. Her head was beginning to pound as the shores of Tijuana grew closer, and just beyond that, San Ysidro and San Diego. All she could think about was ibuprofen, a dark room, and quiet. No roar of the engine, no thudding in her head…

Something made her look up and back toward shore, and she realized it wasn’t her pulse thumping, but the beating of a helicopter. Tijuana was right there, and she thought perhaps a tourist attraction. Hoped it was a tourist attraction. But Robert had warned her. And the chopper wasn’t flying like some gentle tourist ride, hoping to sight a few dolphins. It was heading straight for her.

She pushed on the throttle, felt the boat bounce across the surface. They could shoot her out here, drop down, retrieve the bag, then leave, no one the wiser until her body washed up on some beach.

If it washed up.

Sydney eyed the shore, wondered if she should make a break for Tijuana, hope the crowds would deter them, or keep heading north. But that was the direction the copter was coming from. And while this boat might be the Ferrari of the sea, in comparison to the chopper, she might as well be driving a Volkswagen van. Time to open it up. The boat shot forward, and she gripped the steering wheel feeling as out of control as a being caught on a runaway horse as each bump sent her flying. The copter grew closer, and she almost imagined she could hear the beating of the rotors over the roar of the wind and engines.

She thought of Arturo’s phone, wished she’d had the sense to put the battery back in it. Who the hell knew if it worked this far south of the border?

A radio. She glanced over, saw a marine radio, the microphone hanging. Channel 16. Her father, her uncle, and then Jake had pounded it into her head. Emergency channel 16. She flicked it on, then gripped the steering wheel again. One glance back, and she saw the chopper closing in.

Shit. Let it work, she thought, picking up the mike and keying it. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” she called, then released the button, hearing nothing but static. What was it Jake used to tell her? If you didn’t hear them, it didn’t mean they couldn’t hear you. They could call someone else for help.

She had no idea what the name of the boat was, and so she used the brand, along with her FBI radio call sign. “This is FBI Gladiator thirty-six, mayday. I’m northbound off Tijuana. Being chased. Helicopter. Armed and dangerous.”

Again, nothing but static. And then what she thought was the faint report of a weapon.

Crap. The helicopter could go at least hundred miles an hour faster than she could. She thought about returning fire, but figured she couldn’t drive and shoot at the same time. She glanced back, saw a man leaning out. Robert thought they were some sort of black ops.

If so, what chance did she have?

But the copter didn’t look like some military craft, so maybe she had a chance after all, because one thing these boats could do was move across water. And a moving target was damned hard to hit. She started a zigzag pattern, kept it up, wondered if the small bursts of white water were rounds hitting.

A group of sailboats glided ahead, their skippers oblivious to the threat. With no choice, she had to zip between them. The helicopter suddenly backed off. Apparently taking out a civilian wasn’t acceptable; someone would have to answer. Just as Robert said, she was the target. This pouch she carried guaranteed that.

There were more sailboats, but she wasn’t about to take the chance she was wrong. And as she passed them, the helicopter veered closer, banked in. And her radio squawked to life. “FBI Gladiator thirty-six. This is the coast guard. Identify your position.”

She didn’t have time to pick up the radio. Not if she wanted to stay alive. She continued her pattern, trying to outmaneuver the chopper. Its shadow crossed her hull as it banked, coming in from the front. It hovered, its beaters churning the water around her. A man leaned out.

She reached for her gun, figuring this was it.

“FBI Gladiator thirty-six,” came a booming loudspeaker. “This is the coast guard. We have you in sight.”

Just beyond the copter, she saw the welcome sight of a gray coast guard cutter, speeding south toward her. And then a hail of gunfire, as the man in the chopper opened on her.

Somehow Sydney made it through, unlike Robert’s boat, which had more holes in it than she cared to count. Lucky for her the cutter made decent time and the helicopter pulled up and out of there, before the coast guard trained its two. 50 caliber machine guns at it.

From there it took her twenty minutes to convince them she needed to get to the San Diego field office at warp speed, when what they wanted to do was question her for hours about what she was doing in Mexican waters driving a world-class speedboat, being chased by a helicopter bearing men with guns.

Sydney, having no clue as to what Robert really did for a living these days, claimed she was merely in Mexico on a pleasure trip, when she was set upon by smugglers, who grabbed her in Puerto Nuevo, and she managed to escape on a boat that just happened to have the keys inside.

When they wouldn’t let her off their cutter, she had them make a quick call to the last person she wanted to talk to, Scotty. After a brief explanation, with as many holes in it as the boat she’d left behind, Scotty told her he’d take care of FACE OF A KILLER 211 it, his last words being for her to get on the first plane back to the city.

Five minutes later, the commander of the boat received a call, listened to whatever was being told to him, then said two words, “Yes, sir.” He looked at Sydney, said, “We’ll be transporting you to the San Diego field office.”

What was it that Vince Pettigrew had said about dealing with someone very high up the food chain? No doubt who Scotty was dealing with, because that was one quick turnaround, and all interrogations about her ordeal had instantly stopped, further proof that Scotty was investigating something she could only imagine the depths of.

When she reached the Bureau office, she was able to fend off any questions with a simple “Had a boating accident. Coast guard rescued me.” It worked since everyone there had assumed she was merely there for a bit of sightseeing, and her scraped hands, and the tear in the leg of her jeans, somewhat stiff from the dried seawater, seemed to verify her story. At least the seawater had washed off most of the dust. Her leather coat was marred from the rocky cliff, but had probably saved her a number of cuts and scrapes, and if nothing else, it added character.