Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

He caught up with Telfer at the helm of the yacht. Telfer was wide-eyed as he looked down at the seemingly bottomless gulf below them. The water had a turquoise sheen from the thin layer of diesel oil on its surface.

"Jump," Cain told him.

"No," Telfer said, the briefcase clutched tightly to him.

"Jump, Telfer."

"No way. I can't swim."

"Jesus Christ on a freakin' bike! You can't swim?"

Again Telfer shook his head.

"I don't believe it," Cain said. He grabbed at Telfer and propelled him toward the rail. "Get the hell over the side. If you think I've gone to all this trouble to let you drown…"

Telfer resisted, though he knew it was his only chance of survival. Even as he dithered, he could hear the slap of running feet from inside the cabin.

"One of them spicks is still alive," Cain snapped at him. "So are two of the guards and Carson. Any second now, they're going to be out here and we'll be dead. You got that?"

Telfer nodded but still held back from jumping.

"Oh, Holy Christ!" Cain said as he grabbed him and?ung him bodily over the railing. Telfer hit the water like a stone and sank immediately. Cain lifted a leg to the railing, just as the minder he'd shot in the arm rounded the deck. Blood had made a patchwork of his chest but he was still in the game. He had the Uzi and was already searching for a target.

Cain lifted his gun and fired.

Not at the man, but at the scuba-diving tanks he saw stacked neatly along one wall of the cabin. It was a desperate shot, one he hadn't time to calculate, but even as he plunged head?rst into the sea he felt the concussion of the explosion send shock waves through the water around him. Cain hit the water and swam deeper, his ears thrumming with the concussive blast, until his clawing hand found Telfer's shirt. Telfer twisted and tugged, in the throes of panic.

Cain cursed, letting loose a stream of bubbles. He couldn't get a grip on Telfer because he was also holding on to his Bowie. All the trouble he'd gone to in order to regain his knife and now this? He let the blade drop from his hand, watched it sink with a wistful look on his face until it was lost in the murk. Then he angrily grabbed hold of Telfer's clothing and kicked upward.

They broke the churning surface, Cain behind Telfer with an arm looped around his neck. Telfer gagged, spat, and sucked in great lungfuls of air as he cradled the briefcase to his chest like a baby. Cain guessed his death grip on the case had nothing to do with what was inside, but rather that the sealed case was a handy?otation device.

Twenty feet away, the yacht was on?re. When the tanks had gone up, they'd taken the minder with them, not to mention a good portion of the deck and cabin. Cain spied a bikini-clad?gure leaping from the boat into the water. Another?gure hobbled down the steps onto the pier, a white patch on the side of his head. Even from here, Cain could tell it was the remaining Latino.

Of the remaining minder and Carson, there was no sign. Perhaps the Latino had turned his gun on them before making his escape. But Carson appeared, staggered to the railing, and?red a handgun at the limping Latino trying to escape. His aim was useless, and the Latino made it to the shelter of a second boat. The Latino proved a better shot,?ring back at Carson three times in quick succession. Carson folded, somersaulted over the rail, and sprawled face?rst on the boardwalk. Didn't look like he'd be getting up again.

Cain paid them no further heed. He kicked with his feet, trawling Telfer and his precious cargo backward. They'd just made it to the ladder of a yacht about a hundred feet away when the air turned inferno hot around them. Cain held Telfer down, following him beneath the water as Carson's yacht erupted in a churning?reball that scattered steaming chunks of metal and wood across the harbor.

"You've gotta be yankin' my goddamn chain." Rink was standing with his knuckles on the hood of Cheryl Barker's squad car. His bowed head emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, equally emphasizing his dismay. I wasn't feeling much better. I was thinking much the same thing as he was. We'd both caught the TV news earlier. A man with a hangdog expression related the disaster that had struck an exclusive yachting club only minutes earlier. The camera cut from the studio to an on-scene reporter who was standing amid crowds of stunned onlookers as a huge pall of black smoke breached the heavens behind them. I'd grimaced at the screen. The world was full of doom and gloom. Even, I'd decided, in exclusive rich men's playgrounds like Marina del Rey. Uninterested, I'd switched channels. Then we'd driven out here to meet with Cheryl Barker. We were parked on the ridge of a shale embankment at the head of a valley in which we could glimpse the roofs of houses amid lush greenery. Palms and peppertrees dominated. Birds called and flapped in the skies above us.

Cheryl had chosen this place for an impromptu meeting simply because it was a halfway point for us all. I could hear the disjointed chatter and squeals of children and guessed it was playtime at some park hidden in the trees. It was a surreal moment, us talking about death and destruction while dozens of kids laughed and whooped with delight below us.

Barker, an attractive woman with light freckles and short but unruly red hair, shook her head. "I ain't the one yankin' chains, Jared. It's just come over the air. The?reball in Marina del Rey is down to your good buddy John Telfer."

Rink glanced my way, and I lifted my shoulders in a noncommittal way. Since the nonsense I'd read on Harvey's computer, not to mention the subsequent newscasts I'd caught on TV and our rental car radio, it didn't surprise me that this latest atrocity was being laid at John's door. It seemed that John had superseded Osama bin Laden as the most notorious felon in the western hemisphere.

Barker was almost as tall as Rink but she was much leaner, and that made her appear diminutive next to my friend's bulk. She stood with her thumbs hooked in her belt like some Wild West gunslinger. Annie Oakley in the?esh.

Rink turned from bracing himself on the hood of the LAPD mobile. He looked Barker up and down. He took in the of?cer's pristine uniform.

"You ain't made detective yet?"

"Nope," Barker said.

"Someone has to see sense soon," Rink offered.

"Tell the truth, I'm in no great hurry. I'm as happy swanning around in a squad car as steering a desk. If I get the promotion, all well and good. If not, well, I'm as happy busting the balls of gangbangers and writing misdemeanor tickets for little old ladies driving the wrong way up the freeway." Barker glanced down, brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her black shirt. "Anyways, I'm partial to the uniform. Can't see why there's such a big deal about getting into civilian duds."

Rink gave Barker a tight-lipped grin. "Plus you get to drive a cool car, huh?"

"Yep, beats the hell outta the pool cars the detectives limp around in. More power under the hood, for one thing."

"You'll need it when you're chasing all those rogue grandmothers in golf carts." The small talk out of the way, Rink asked, "You putting much credence in it?"

"What? The?reball? No doubt about it, Jared. Eyewitness testimony places your boy at the scene."

"They sure it was John Telfer?" I asked, stepping into their circle.

Barker turned and squinted at me.

"Joe Hunter," I said, introducing myself. I stuck out a hand and Barker accepted it, shaking it languidly. "John is my brother."

Barker frowned and glanced at Rink, who said, "It's cool, Cheryl."

Rink's word was enough for Barker.

"Your boy's been on every network and newspaper in the country. Witness swears that Telfer was the one who brought hell to that boat."