Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [41]
As the limestone jetty slid into view through the fog, Albury could hear Oscar talking to the Colombians. Beside him at the wheel, Jimmy fidgeted. The first magenta blush of dawn teased the horizon.
“You believe him, Breeze? That it’s all gonna go smooth?”
It was Augie who answered.
“When a shark smiles, man, don’t look at the grin, look at the teeth.”
“You watch them with the Remington, Jimmy. I checked it; it’s all ready to go.” Albury was judging the glide of the boat toward the shrouded docksite. “Augie, you reckon any of them is good enough to take a knife away from you?”
“Sh-it.”
As the Diamond Cutter eased against the rocks, a muffled figure appeared. He wore a dark windbreaker and slacks, sneakers, and a New York Yankee baseball cap. He carried an attaché case, which he slipped under his arm to deftly catch the bowline and make the Diamond Cutter fast.
An excited chorus rose from the cargo. Oscar quelled it savagely. Then the Colombians were gone in untidy groups that scrambled onto the dock and reeled away into the fog. At the end of the jetty Albury could see the sidelights of four vans, customized with smoked-glass windows.
“Four left, Breeze. Oscar, Lover Boy, and two others,” Augie called softly.
“Get the money.”
The figure on the dock had not moved. Now Oscar called to him, and, in a smooth underhand motion, the man tossed the briefcase.
“Have him bring it up here,” Albury ordered.
Oscar stiffly climbed the short ladder to the wheelhouse, followed by the twin barrels of the Remington. He placed the attaché case on the chart table and undid the twin catches.
“You will see, captain. It is all here,” the Colombian said.
“Your English has certainly improved,” Albury noted.
The Colombian smiled.
“There are times, you see, captain, when it is convenient not to speak English. And other times when one must speak it. Comprende?”
Intuitively, Albury reached for the attaché case, but he was too late.
The stubby black revolver slid into the Colombian’s hand, and with a downward slash, barrel first, it caught Albury on the side of his head. He staggered back, blood gouting from his scalp. The Colombian kicked him hard in the stomach, and Albury went down. The Colombian struck the way a shark strikes, silent and overpowering.
Albury writhed on the wheelhouse deck. The Colombian kicked him again.
“Hijo de puta,” the Colombian cursed, and then, in English, he called down to the deck: “Throw down your gun, or I will shoot your captain.”
“Breeze!” Through a haze of pain Albury heard Jimmy’s shocked cry.
“Do what he says, Jimmy,” he heard Augie say.
The Remington clattered to the deck, and the Colombian they called Lover Boy hopped forward to retrieve it. The other two vaulted ashore and ran with the man in the Yankee cap toward the last of the four vans.
Albury groped to his feet. One eye was closed. Blood coursed down his cheek and ran onto the deck. His belly churned. His arm was bleeding again.
“Tell him if there is trouble, I will make trouble,” the Colombian mocked. “Come on and kill me. Make your big trouble. Gringo de mierda. It was you who was the dead man. From the very first, this was a one-way trip for you, puto. I am only sorry that I do not have time to do it with a knife.”
Albury concentrated with every fiber to make the wheelhouse stop swimming. He raised both arms, as if in exhaustion or surrender, until the hands rested on a tubular aluminum object latched with hooks to one of the roof beams. It was smooth and cool to his touch.
“Look, please …”
“Beg, gringo, beg.”
“Not for me. But for my mates. They are only kids, like sons to me. They can’t hurt you.” Albury lurched back half a step. The object was free now in his hands.
“They are shit, mierda, like you. And they will die first because it will hurt you to see them die. And then you, not with one shot, but with many, como en la Guajira.” Foam flecked the Colombian’s lips. His eyes burned like a madman’s fire. “Luis,” the Colombian yelled. “Dales. Ahora!”
He grimaced, like a man about to ejaculate, waiting for the twin booms