Jack the Reaper, page 23
Unfortunately, this was the best they could do under the circumstances.
Maximum passenger capacity was 380, according to the posted signs Otto saw when they boarded, but all three spacious decks were teeming with partiers of all ages. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the maximum capacity was viewed as a mere suggestion when a major fundraiser like this one chartered the yacht.
Tourist yachts could sink when overloaded, Otto knew. She kept her fingers crossed that The Beachy Babe would not go down today.
Across The Beachy Babe’s stern was a large swim platform. From there, guests could dive into the Atlantic or jump onto the complimentary jet skis or dash around the vicinity in motorized Zodiac inflatable boats.
Otto’s attention was drawn to the platform over and over again. She loved water sports. She’d been swimming her whole life. She’d learned to swim before she’d learned to walk. Too bad she couldn’t participate this time.
The Beachy Babe’s lowest deck was the largest. An art deco dining room complete with chandeliers and a full bar attracted an older, moneyed crowd. Casino style games had been running all day, with all proceeds going to the cancer center.
The middle deck was divided into three sections. The largest area was a club room with a DJ spinning pulse-pounding music and a dance floor packed tighter than a can of sardines.
The center section of deck two was an enclosed lounge with wraparound windows and a full bar.
In the third area, an open-air bow, young people slathered with oil and wearing the tiniest bikinis lounged as party-colored cocktails were replenished before their glasses emptied.
The noise on decks one and two was the most overwhelming because they were enclosed with wraparound windows that held the noise inside. OSHA couldn’t possibly approve.
Deck three, the cabana deck, boasted a high canopy to shield passengers from too much sun. The open-air setup allowed the incessant noise to dissipate slightly.
The cabana deck was the only place where Otto could hear herself think or reply to Gaspar’s conversations or catch occasional snippets of Pauling’s voice through her earpiece.
Once they’d found a good observation point, where they could watch Pauling at her post near the bar, they’d perched. One of them stayed nearby at all times, while once an hour, the other took a brief lap around the second deck, scanning for threats.
Moving through the throngs was like swimming against the tide, which made threat assessment difficult, at best. But sitting all day in one position wasn’t a good idea, either.
Either Otto or Gaspar stayed within sight and easy shooting distance of Pauling. And where the earpieces allowed them to hear occasional comments amid the noise, in case Pauling had the chance to shout for help, should the need arise.
It was Pauling that Parnell wanted. If he came, he’d come for her. Otto and Gaspar were prepared to deal with him on-board. The Boss promised reinforcements when they returned to port at the end of the cruise.
Otto could see guests coming and going on the stairs to the lower decks from her perch. The cabana deck was the smallest of the super-yacht’s three levels, which limited the number of people milling around at any one time. Another advantage.
There was one flaw in their stakeout location. Two crews from two local television stations had also established observation points on the cabana deck.
Both crews were flying commercial drones around The Beachy Babe and the frolicking guests enjoying water sports in the ocean.
The event was broadcasting live. Every guest, every couple, every swimmer or gambler or drinker, was captured on video. The video was shared instantly with the less fortunate who remained stuck on shore.
Every thirty minutes or so, Otto checked the Boss’s phone for messages. The last time he’d contacted her was well before noon. “Nothing yet.” Meaning Parnell had not been apprehended or located.
“Sunset is five forty-six, right?” Gaspar asked for the tenth time, kneading the folds between his eyebrows with his knuckles. “Less than two more hours of this, thank God. How do they stand it?”
Otto nodded. They’d covered the topic extensively already. What more could she say?
Pauling heard his lament through her earpiece. Her trilling laughter rang in Otto’s ear. “Lighten up, Gaspar. Have some fun.”
“I can get this level of chaos at home,” was Gaspar’s snarly reply.
Otto watched the drones flying overhead. They were not the kind she and her young cousins played with in the back yard on holidays.
These were huge spiders of carbon fiber and aluminum that made them lighter than their size might suggest, yet incredibly strong. They were held in the air by multiple propellers, and underneath they had high-quality steerable digital cameras.
Both operators were expert at maneuvering the surprisingly nimble drones remotely. The drones darted around The Beachy Babe’s decks, peeking into windows, zooming and retreating. Throughout the day, the huge drones rose to dizzying heights and showed breathtaking aerial views of The Beachy Babe in her full glory on televisions mounted everywhere.
Two screens were running in the corners of the cabana deck, displaying the broadcast as it happened, one tuned to each of the local stations. From her vantage point, Otto had a clear view of both.
If any disturbance broke out anywhere on the super-yacht, she’d see it quickly enough to hustle Pauling away from the trouble.
At least, in theory.
The Beachy Babe sailed north to south along the coast of Palm Beach and back again. The entire round trip took about two hours. They’d sailed the loop twice and already made the wide turn for the last leg of the trip.
The Beachy Babe’s captain planned to offer passengers a spectacular sunset view to send everyone home happy about spending thousands of dollars to support a worthy cause.
On the swim platform, the water sports deck crew was rounding up the revelers as they returned. Collecting and stowing the water toys for the night.
Finish the final leg and the day would be over.
Almost done.
Otto’s tension eased a bit.
The cruise was coming to an end.
No sign of General Nitro Mack Parnell.
Pauling remained unmolested.
Gaspar was grumpy, but none the worse for wear.
All in all, this had been a better day than she’d feared. Pauling had been right. The Beachy Babe was the perfect place to avoid the homicidal General Parnell.
The only troubling issue now was why the Boss hadn’t found Parnell. They’d be disembarking soon. The manhunt should have been completed. Parnell should be in custody.
But he wasn’t.
Where was he?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Saturday, January 15
4:15 p.m.
Palm Beach
Parnell ran the stolen Zodiac to the swim platform at the stern of The Beachy Babe. He’d spent way more time than he’d meant to simply find an inflatable boat. He’d been forced to deal with too many niggling issues to dwell on, but he was finally here.
Fish had warned him they couldn’t take off after 4:45 p.m. He had fifteen minutes to do what he came for and get back to Travis Field.
The nine million was gone.
He’d accepted that.
But he still had time to make the bitch pay.
Which was exactly what he planned to do.
He left the Zodiac at the swim platform with a young kid from the deck crew.
“I’ll be back in twenty,” he told the kid.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Franklin. He palmed it over. “Keep my Zodiac right here, and I’ve got another one of those with your name on it. I can’t be late. My boss will kill me.”
The guy looked at the hundred-dollar bill and nodded. “You bet, mister.”
Parnell barely heard him. He was already inside and running to climb the stairs to the first deck.
At the door to the makeshift casino, he stopped to scan the room. Wall-to-wall bodies.
He didn’t see Pauling.
But he did see the closest big screen TV. The video feed happened to catch Pauling talking to two security guards twice her size.
“Gotcha,” he said under his breath. She was on the cabana deck, two flights up.
He paused.
Something about one of the guys seemed familiar. Big. Maybe six-five. Maybe two-fifty. Huge hands. Had he seen the guy before?
Parnell shrugged it off. Probably dumber than a box of rocks. Most of those big gym rats were. Steroids fried the tiny brains they’d been born with.
He returned to the stairs and hopped up, two at a time, to the second level and then to the third. When he reached the cabana deck, he was barely short of breath.
At the top of the stairs, he saw her. Standing at the end of the bar, behind a small table. Now she was chatting with a nearly naked young couple wearing bikinis too small to cover a Chihuahua’s privates.
He approached the bar and watched Pauling for an opening.
The bartender said, “What can I get you, sir?”
“Whiskey. Neat.” Parnell barely noticed when the bartender placed his glass on the bar. He pulled a five from his pocket and stuffed it into the tip glass before moving away to make room for the next guest.
The naked couple was still monopolizing Pauling. How long could they stand there?
Parnell glanced at his watch. “Come on. Come on, already.”
Five minutes passed. Parnell felt a trickle of sweat run down his temple. He wiped it off with his fingers.
The naked couple walked away.
Finally.
Parnell left the whiskey on the bar and made his move.
He approached Pauling as quickly as he dared. She didn’t see him coming. He sidled around the table and stood next to her. He grabbed her arm. Tight.
She glanced up at him. She seemed to recognize him somehow.
Her eyes widened, and she gasped.
“Let’s go,” he said, close to her ear. “And act normally, or I’ll kill you where your stand.”
He jerked her sideways, and she stumbled into him before she steadied her footing.
“We’re going down to the swim platform. Smile, say hi, but don’t stop.” Parnell spoke for her ears only.
They reached the top of the stairs before he saw a dumb ass security guy moving fast.
Parnell raised his right foot to descend.
Someone leaned in and shoved hard in the center of Parnell’s back.
At the same time, Pauling jerked her arm from Parnell’s grasp and stepped aside.
Parnell lost his footing.
He stumbled down, fighting gravity all the way until he succumbed at the middle of the flight. He tumbled ass-over-shoulders to the second deck.
“Stop! Stop him!” yelled a tiny Asian woman standing ten feet away from the bottom of the stairs where Parnell landed.
Parnell scrambled up and hurried around the corner toward the next flight of stairs.
The Asian woman came after him.
A tall, lanky guy hurried down from the third deck to follow.
Parnell ran hard. His head start and the crowds buffering his pursuers conspired to his advantage.
The distance between him and the Asian woman widened. When he hit the swim platform running, the kid was standing there next to the Zodiac, as promised.
Parnell ignored him as he shoved the Zodiac into the Atlantic and dived into the inflatable.
The motor started up immediately.
He opened the throttle and pointed the boat toward Travis Field. No time to go back for the SUV now. He couldn’t take it to Tortola.
Parnell was breathing hard. He looked back at The Beachy Babe. The people milling around the yacht’s stern grew smaller as the distance widened.
So far so good, but it wouldn’t last. They’d come after him. He didn’t have much time.
He pulled a disposable cell from his pocket and called Fish. “I’ll be there in five, ten at the most. Coming in via Zodiac from the Atlantic. Fire it up. Let’s go.”
Trout’s voice crackled on the line. “I’ve got your duffel on board, but what about the rest of your cargo?”
“Change of plans.”
Parnell tossed the cell phone into the ocean.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Saturday, January 15
4:25 p.m.
Palm Beach
Otto was on her way up from the women’s restroom on the second deck when she saw General Parnell grab Pauling’s arm and jerk her aside.
“Over there! It’s him!” she yelled to Gaspar over the deafening noise of the crowd. She probably blasted his eardrums when the voice activated communications system transmitted her alert. “He’s grabbed Pauling!”
“On my way,” Gaspar replied. She could barely see him in the crowd from her position below on the second deck.
She triangulated Parnell’s course. He was headed toward the stairs. Only one way off the cabana deck. He had no choice unless he went overboard. She’d grab him when he reached the bottom of the first flight.
Gaspar followed her reasoning as if they were telepathically connected. He moved toward the top of the staircase as she moved toward the second deck’s landing.
Threading the crowd was worse than struggling through an airport security line on both decks. They made little progress.
Otto was smaller. She could fit through smaller spaces. She vectored to the right and was ten feet from the staircase half a second before Pauling lifted her foot to take the first step down from above.
A tight knot of passengers had gathered to watch across her path, blocking Otto from reaching the stairs. She tried to muscle them aside, but they were drunk and deafened by the noise or something. She couldn’t get through.
Her view was blocked by passengers.
At the top of the stairs, Parnell’s foot moved toward the first step.
His head swiveled, and his eyes were wild. Bewildered and carried by momentum, he stepped out on one foot, off balance.
At the same time, Pauling leaped backward, jerking her arm away from Parnell’s grasp.
Someone shoved Parnell in the back. Hard.
Momentum should have carried them both all the way down, but Parnell tumbled alone.
Otto was stopped by a wall of people.
Gaspar rushed forward and slid down the stair rails to the bottom of the second deck and then to the bottom of the first.
By the time he reached the base of the stairs, Parnell was running toward the stern faster than Gaspar could ever hope to move.
“Stop! Stop him!” Otto yelled.
Parnell kept running.
In her earpiece, she heard Gaspar say, “I’m going after him. I’m taking a Zodiac.”
“Gaspar, wait!” Otto said, still blocked against the second deck’s side rail.
He replied, “Come after me.”
That was all the time he had before he ran after Parnell toward the swim platform, as fast as his damaged leg would take him.
Otto found the Boss’s phone.
The moment it rang, he picked up. “I saw. I’m on it. Be there soon.”
He disconnected.
Otto stood there on the second deck, feeling helpless, watching Parnell zoom away in the Zodiac with Gaspar too far behind to catch up.
Otto glanced at the closest television screen. One of the reporters had his drone already on the Zodiac chase. The drone was high in the sky, way too high because Travis Airfield was in the Zodiac’s direction.
She looked around for the drone operator. She saw him down below, on the swim platform. He must have followed Parnell and Gaspar, chasing his story.
Reporters could be reckless idiots. But she had to admire this one. The whole world could see Gaspar zooming after Parnell. Maybe the video would help.
She looked up to the cabana deck again. Pauling stood near the top of the stairs. In her earpiece, she heard Pauling’s voice. “Now what?”
“I don’t know.” Otto shook her head. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“We know where Parnell is now. The Boss has teams on the way to intercept.” The drunks who had prevented her from moving had drifted over to watch the action on television. Otto could finally move. “I’m going after Gaspar. He’s already out of range of our comm system. Call one of the security guys to stay with you. Parnell may not be working alone.”
“But—” Pauling protested, but Otto was already halfway down to the swim platform.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Parnell’s head start put him several boat lengths in front of the second Zodiac. He swiveled his neck to look behind him.
The guy was gaining, closing the distance.
Parnell already had the throttle wide open. The Zodiac’s motor had no more speed to give.
He hadn’t seen the other driver before. Who was he? What was his skill set? Was he armed?
Could he shoot straight on the fly? Not many amateurs could.
He was too lean and lanky to be one of the security team. Was he just a stupid good Samaritan?
Parnell saw the shoreline at Travis Field straight ahead. He’d beach the Zodiac and run toward the jet.
He was too close now to give up.
He’d shoot the damn Samaritan if he got in the way.
Parnell slowed the Zodiac as he approached the coastline.
Up ahead, another jet took off from Travis Field. The jet built speed and began to lift before it ran off the runway and over the ocean, climbing all the way.
Parnell saw the perfect spot to beach the Zodiac and headed for it.
The damn Samaritan closed in behind him, following in Parnell’s wake.
He found the shallow spot in the water line and drove the Zodiac hard toward the shore. He cut the throttle at the last minute and rushed toward land.
The Zodiac beached.
Parnell leaped out, crouching low in case the Samaritan was a better shot than most.
He climbed the short distance from the shoreline to solid ground. Then, he ran.
