Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

Knowing the way a thief's mind worked, Cain believed that Telfer would do the deal, then return to him with the hope of escaping and relieving him of the money when a healthier opportunity presented itself. If the tables were turned, that's exactly what he'd do. So he could do nothing but bide his time and take charge again when Telfer returned with the money.

He might as well enjoy the sunshine and his coffee.

Then he saw the two men.

They were both dark, with wavy hair and thin mustaches. Both wore silk suits and tooled leather loafers without socks. They were alike in so many ways that they could be brothers. The only thing that differentiated them was that the slightly taller of the two wore a gauze dressing on one ear. The bandage stuck out like a blind cobbler's thumb.

Something else; they carried guns. Not out in the open, but pushed down the backs of their trousers. He could see the telltale bulge in their lower backs as they sauntered past. He couldn't make out what they were saying; not only were they conversing in hushed tones, but they were speaking in Spanish or Portuguese. Cain could speak?ve languages, but-unfortunately-none of them of Mediterranean descent.

Ordinarily the men's presence wouldn't have alarmed him. It wouldn't be unknown for armed security to prowl the harbor side.

But there was something about these men that rang his inner alarm. Their furtive approach to the gate was untoward, as was the way they glanced up at the rigging of the yacht Telfer had boarded and nodded to each other in af?rmation. Then there was the way they sauntered along while unconsciously glancing over their shoulders every couple of steps. They were so obviously trying to remain inconspicuous that their presence screamed at high volume.

Cain couldn't sit on his thumbs any longer. He rattled a handful of coins onto the table and stood up, gulping down the remains of his espresso. After he'd stretched and rolled his neck, he fell into step behind the two men. Unlike them, he stayed close to the entrances of the cafes and boutiques lining the harbor, using his cover as a browsing tourist to mask his interest. Without alerting them, he got to within?ve yards of them.

They still conversed in whispers, but one word stood out. He heard it mentioned twice. A name. Telfer. And he knew that the men Telfer was running from had?nally caught up with him.

Oh, such a dilemma. But oh, what a challenge. Cain smiled to himself, slipped his hands into his pockets, and caressed his keepsakes. Pretty soon, he decided, more bones would be joining his collection. Happy with the thought, he watched as the two men approached the pier gate that Telfer had passed through to get to the boat. One guy hailed the security guard sitting in a booth on the other side. The guard walked over, looking ridiculous in pale blue shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts, and deck shoes, with a peaked cap perched jauntily above his sun-weathered face.

One of the men flashed something at the guard. Just a brief glimpse, but Cain got the impression of a badge in a leather wallet. The guard looked impressed, and not a little excited. He nodded vigorously as he bent to unlatch the gate. All that was missing was a tug of the forelock.

Cain's smile grew sour. Anyone worth their salt could get hold of fake credentials; the guard needed a good kick in the ass for not pay ing more attention to the man's ID. Likely he was a frustrated wannabe cop who couldn't help but worship those who carried the badge for real. His fawning was almost sickening.

The two Latinos were admitted to the inner compound. One of them rewarded the guard with a pat on the shoulder and the guard looked like he was ready to salute. He was still standing with a hand on the open gate, watching the two men walk along the pier toward the boats, when Cain stepped up behind him.

"Excuse me," Cain said, and the guard turned to him.

"Yes, sir, how may I help you?"

"I'm Special Agent Kennedy. FBI. First off, you can keep your voice down," Cain said. He used a tone like he was about to reward the man with a message of great importance. Hooked, the guard looked at him expectantly. Cain leaned in close and whispered, "This is a matter of extreme sensitivity."

Cain steered the guard back toward his booth. "Can we speak inside?"

Caught up in the mystery of the moment, the guard allowed himself to be propelled toward the booth. He even opened the door and allowed Cain to press inside the booth with him. The enclosed space had the locker-room smell of sweat.

The guard was pressed up against the single chair, almost buckling at the knees. He didn't object. He accepted this invasion of his personal space as simply one aspect of the clandestine encounter.

Cain asked, "The two men who just entered, what did they say to you?"

"They said they were with the government," the guard answered quickly. "Agents Ramos and Esquerra. They wanted to know the location of Mr. Carson's boat. Why do you ask, sir?"

"Because I'm a real government agent and those two aren't," Cain said. He tipped a nod toward Carson's boat. "You mean their badges were fake? Damn."

"As fake as Pamela Anderson's breasts," Cain told him.

The guard appeared stunned at Cain's choice of words. "I didn't know," he?nally said, as though in apology. Cain couldn't decide if he meant the men's badges or Pammy's main assets, but he let the notion pass without smiling. He said, "They're a pair of international drug traf?ckers, and I'm about to bust them wide open."

"You are? All alone? Don't you have backup or something?"

Cain shook his head in mock disappointment. "Me and my partner got separated. I don't even have my goddamn walkie-talkie with me to get in touch with him. These guys are real good. We've been after them for months. When I spotted them, I had no option but to follow them."

The guard was nodding along with each new nugget Cain fed him. "You want me to telephone for help?"

"I'd appreciate it if you would," Cain said.

"No problem," said the guard, turning to sit down. As he picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear, Cain was happy that the guard was suf?ciently distracted. Plus, sitting in the chair, he was out of sight of any passersby. Pretending to spy out the window at the receding men, Cain leaned over him. He pulled out his scaling knife.

"Who should I call?" the guard asked. "The FBI?"

"No, 911 will do," Cain told him. "Maybe you'd best call for an ambulance."

The guard didn't detect the change in tone. In fact, he didn't detect anything more than the pressure of Cain's hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and back, and as he did so, Cain drew the knife across his exposed throat. Re?exively the guard dropped the telephone receiver, reached toward his throat, but already he'd lost control of his extremities and his palms?opped uselessly against his upper chest. Blood spurted from his severed arteries. Cain held him, placing steady pressure on the guard's shoulders to keep him from rising out of the chair. The guard's feet kicked and skidded in the blood pooling beneath them.

It didn't take long.

He was dead before the two Latinos made it to Carson's yacht.

"Totally inept," Cain told the unhearing guard. "No wonder your application to the LAPD was denied."

With no time for keepsakes, he paused only to pull down a screen that closed off any view into the interior of the booth. He felt around in the guard's pocket and found a bunch of keys, which he used to lock the door behind him.

The two bogus agents were poised at the base of a gangway that led to Carson's yacht. There was a third man on the boat itself, and he had a radio pressed to his ear. As Cain began walking toward them, he saw the third man nod, and the two Latinos began the ascent of the ramp.

"What's going on here, then?" Cain wondered aloud. Telfer had said that the man he'd stolen the litho plates from employed the men following him. The guy on the boat, Mr. Carson, was a rival of their employer. So how come the two Latinos were given unchallenged access to the boat?