Joseph Finder - Power Play

Head throbbing, I scrambled to my feet. My face, scratched and scraped from the branches, stung.

The roar of the waves told me I was close now.

The terrain had become so steeply pitched that I couldn't keep myself from sliding downhill. Only by grabbing at the branch of a downed tree was I able to stop just before plummeting off a scrabbly ledge into the ocean.

There was no shore here; the ledge was far too narrow. But the water was shallow, and it was the only way to the dock. Slowly, I lowered my feet into the surf, braced for a cold shock, relieved to find it wasn't too bad.

I waded along the shoreline, careful not to let the water reach my waist. Buck's revolver was in my pocket, and I wanted to keep it in operational condition.

The shoreline wound past the trees to the small beachfront. The water had gotten steadily colder, or maybe it had been deceptively warm at first; my legs were getting numb. My pant legs chafed my crotch.

There, out in the open, I could be seen from the lodge. I looked up, saw no one.

Wayne was gone. I assumed he'd made his way back to the lodge while I was climbing through the woods.

The Zodiac floated in the water, hitched to the dock.

On the sand nearby lay Pablo's body.

The Zodiac was a classic military inflatable, a commando boat with a skin of leathery black synthetic rubber. The Army donates them to fire and police departments, and sometimes they turn up on the black market.

Around twenty feet long; probably seated fifteen people. Mounted on the black plywood transom board at the stern was a twenty-five-horsepower Yamaha outboard motor. A good, light engine, powerful enough but not too loud. A pair of aluminum oars rested in brackets: much quieter.

As I approached, though, I realized that the boat wasn't just tied up. It was locked. A cable connected the Zodiac to a steel horn cleat bolted to the dock. It was a strong cable, too-thick twisted-steel wire, coated in clear plastic, its ends looping through a sturdy brass padlock.

I tried to fight back the surge of desperation.

Was there was some way to get the cable off? Hoisting myself out of the water, I climbed onto the dock, then immediately lay flat on the splintery planks so I wouldn't be easily spotted from the lodge. I leaned over, tugged at the cleat to see if I could pry it loose.

A sulfurous smell rose like marsh gas, assaulted my nostrils. As I grappled with the cleat, the metal cold and slick in my hands, I heard the splash of the water, surging and boiling against the dock's wooden posts, dark and ominous.

But the steel cleat was too secure, and the cable was too sturdy. The boat wasn't going to move anywhere. I'd have to clamber back up the hill through the forest and look for a cable cutter. Maybe in the maintenance shed up the hill.

That meant exposure, more time. Could I risk it? If I had to…

Discouraged, I arose.

And felt a hand on my shoulder.

Even before I turned around I knew whose hand it was. I hadn't heard Wayne's approach: I'd been distracted, and the surf had masked the heavy tread.

Now I found myself looking into the little black hole at the end of the sound suppressor threaded onto his black SIG-Sauer.

You don't put a silencer on a gun unless you mean to fire it.

"Boy, you're full of surprises, aren't you?" he said. "Nowhere to run, you know."

Buck's revolver was in my pocket, if I could get to it in time. But an unsilenced gunshot would draw notice from the lodge, attention I didn't want. The knife would be a better idea.

If I could pull it out without him seeing and killing me first.

I took a long, slow breath. "Who says I want to run?"

"Just put your hands up, Jake," he said, "and come back inside. I don't want to hurt you. I really don't."

He didn't know I'd seen him pull the trigger.

I reflexively glanced at Pablo's sprawled body, on the sand behind him.

His eyes remained locked on mine; he knew what I'd seen.

"Come on, now, let's go," he said. "Hands up, Jake, and you won't get hurt. I promise."

I'd barely heard him talk before. The man who'd just killed Pablo had a surprisingly gentle manner. His piping voice was almost melodious.

And he knew my name, which was interesting.

I'd killed once before and thought I'd never have to do it again.

I didn't want to.

Don't make me do this.

"Jake. You see, you really don't have a choice."

"No, I really don't."

"All right," he said. "Now we're talking."

I bowed my head as if considering my options, and my right hand felt unseen for my back pocket, very slowly pulling out the knife.

Pablo had died because I couldn't bring myself to kill for the second time in my life.

It really was that simple. Not just that I'd misjudged Wayne, though I had. But that I couldn't do it.

I could now.

Nodding, I thumbed the trigger button and felt it jolt in my hand as the blade ejected.

And then I lunged at him.

The man who'd just killed Pablo. I saw him as if through fog.

My heart raced. A quick upward swipe against his throat, and his mouth gaped in surprise, exposing the tiny jagged teeth of some feral woodland creature.

His knees buckled, and he toppled backwards. The dock shook. His pistol clattered, slid almost to the edge of the dock.

Now I had the knife against his throat, my knees on his chest. The blade caught the moonlight. It glinted and sparkled. Blood ran from a gash just below his neckline.

"You know what this knife can do," I said. "Answer a couple of questions, and I'll let you go."

He blinked a few times, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, his right hand start to move. I pressed the blade against the skin. "Don't."

"What do you want to know?"

"What happens after you get your money?"

He was blinking rapidly: nervous. His eyes shifted up and to his right, then back. "I can hardly breathe, you know. Your knee-"

"What happens to us?"

"Don't worry, Jake," he said. "We're not leaving anyone behind."

I studied his face, saw the very beginning of a smile, no more.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I said, though I knew.

He didn't answer. I slid the blade lightly against his throat. A fresh line of blood appeared.

"Hey!"

"Who hired you?"

"You did."

I slid the blade again, a bit harder this time.

"You don't get it, do you? We're just employees like you. Just doing a job. Come on, Jake. Seriously, now. There's no need for violence."

I gritted my teeth; my hand trembled. He probably thought I was frightened.

I wasn't, not anymore. "Tell that to the kid on the beach over there."

"I saw that. It's a shame."

"I saw it, too," I said. "Watched you put three bullets into him. One more question, Wayne. What did you say to him at the very end?"

Now he was unable to stop his smile. "I told him to dance the cucaracha."

Tears blurred my vision.

Wayne took a deep, labored breath. "He looked like a puppet, didn't you think?"

Blood roared in my ears, and I was in the dark tunnel, speeding along, no exit.

This time I slashed without holding back, and a geyser spewed from his neck, spilling over his camo shirt and vest. He made a choking, gagging sound. His right hand grasped the air, the fingers twitching.

With both hands, I gave his body a hard shove. It made a great splash.

The adrenaline began to ebb from my bloodstream, leaving me rubber-limbed, feeling played out.

I stood, though my knees were barely able to support me. Wiped the blood off the knife, then retracted the blade and slipped it into my back pocket. I fought off a wave of nausea. Then I remembered Wayne's SIG-Sauer, picked it up from the edge of the dock, slipped it into my waistband.