Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 24
The people were mingling and conversing excitedly at the prospect of something happening on the quiet island, but the hurrying green raincoat was my only focus. He was easy to follow onto the second street away from the waterfront. The shop windows were shuttered, and since everyone else was at the harbor, the green raincoat and I were alone on the wet street.
No longer did he look back, which told me he was a professional. Amateurs always looked back; the nerves of a professional were more conditioned.
The tranq-pen was in my fist. Was I headed into an ambush? I thought not. The green raincoat hadn't meant for me to discover him.
He turned into a hotel that wasn't for the rich and famous—one that I'd considered boarding in while my boat was closely moored amongst the others. I jogged to catch up, and caught the door before it closed on his heel.
Inside the lobby, I stopped and braced for action, every muscle tensed for defending against an immediate assault. The lobby desk wasn't being tended, and I heard no sound of movement except the wind outside. The floor! Wet tracks and water from the man's dripping raincoat steered me to the stairway that led to the second and top floor of the hotel.
Following the tracks up the stairs, I was fully aware that he could double-back and attack. Though I'd noted the man was a pro, doubts entered my mind. What pro would risk being cornered in an isolated building? Something was amiss. I was being set up. But what speed he had! Though I'd been on his heels, he'd disappeared up the stairs without me even catching a fleeting glimpse of him.
On the second floor, the tracks led to the left. My heart sank with disappointment to see the window at the end of the hallway open, and rain pattered the floor. Sighing at being outsmarted, I went to the window and gazed out. The man was there, standing, not thirty yards down the street. Still, I couldn't see his face under his hood and through the rain. And his stance, looking back at me, seemed to be conveying a message. Who was this man? And what was his message for me?
I motioned for him to come closer. Looking down at the street below the window, I wasn't about to risk a hasty leap to follow this athlete. Instead, he reached under his raincoat. Withdrawing a little from the window, I guessed he had a firearm. Instead, he pulled out his closed fist. For a few seconds, he held his fist in the air. A signal? What was I to gather from the raised fist? Was it a salute to me? Or a warning?
His fist opened and a small piece of paper fell, then was quickly caught by the wind. Just as quickly, the paper was driven by rain to the ground where it was pelted as if by nails to a board. The man turned and ran around a corner.
Growling, I reminded myself at how fragile my knees and ankles were. True, I was healthy, but I'd lived a hard life, and my body was no longer young. But I wanted that paper! What had he left me? Finally, a clue as to the identity of my probable shadow, and the storm was about to wash the paper away!
Climbing out the window, I gripped the sill and hung for an instant before pushing away from the wall and falling. Though clumsily, I completed a three-point landing, rolled easily over my shoulder and rose to my feet unharmed. My heels felt a little bruised, but I had more important matters to address!
Plucking the paper from a puddle, I searched it for writing. It was a type of wax paper. There was French writing on one side. One word. Before studying it further, I turned in a circle, examining my surroundings. The paper could've easily been a diversion, but no one was approaching.
The word on the paper was Esprit, printed in blue and red lettering. It meant "spirit" in French, a type of local chewing gum. Chewing gum?
Smiling, I turned and walked down the street toward the harbor. How he'd found me, I wasn't certain, but I would spend no more time chasing Luigi Putelli around the island. I thrust the gum wrapper into my pocket, a souvenir for a time when I could reminisce on God's providential hand on my life.
#######
The storm was to my advantage, and with Luigi Putelli watching my back, I didn't waste another minute considering my lurking enemies—besides the two obvious ones, Forglade and Coleman.
By the storm's strength, I guessed I had no more than twenty hours to complete my mission. The storm would keep everyone on the island from leaving. Otherwise, if Coleman were there to erase the general, then he could do so and leave the island permanently. Now was my opportunity to catch them both.
Luigi's behavior toward me—or rather to avoid me—was completely characteristic of a weathered spook. That we were friends had no bearing during an operation. Even though I'd spared his life numerous times and he'd become my traveling companion once, the most effective way for him to watch over me was from the shadows; I didn't need to draw attention to him. Instead, he'd remain in the background, and any enemy who prowled near me would instead find Luigi prowling behind them. This allowed me to concentrate all the more on my targets. Someday, I'd learn how Luigi in his genius had discovered that I was alive and on the island of St. Barts. Whatever trail I'd unintentionally left, it might be followed by others, maybe even Chloe. But for now, with the storm raging, we were all isolated—my enemies and me.
It took two hours to find Coleman's entourage. They spared no expense in renting four suites in a new hotel west of town called Ville Natale, or Birthplace. The establishment was exquisite and directly overlooked Shell Beach and the entrance to the harbor.
Pausing at the lobby counter, I read an inscription stating the hotel was built on the site of a cannon placement that once guarded the harbor. It seemed oddly fitting, I reflected, that this killer and his goons were staying in the hotel that guarded the entrance and exit to the town. They were predators, and General Forglade was no doubt in their sights.
Coleman's men numbered seven. Four of them were healthy young men who carried themselves as if they knew their mercenary trade well. The deception with which Coleman had used against me was no small deception, nor was the downing of Flight 524 a matter of minor significance. A dark team had produced their intended results in my life: total havoc so I couldn't immediately recover and continue to help God's people.
With this understanding, I was reminded of the Apostle Paul's words: "We do not fight against flesh and blood, but against spiritual forces." Once again, my work for Christ within COIL had been halted. But I was a man of God, and He alone sustained me, even through the discouragement of deep heartache. The Lord's purposes would stand!
Though Coleman and his men had been located, I needed more information. What were their intentions against Forglade exactly? I'd assumed that, in watching Forglade, I'd eventually discover Coleman's arrival. But the unique safe house Forglade inhabited had to be government-linked, probably to my old agency, the CIA. Since I couldn't take Coleman while he was protected by his small army, I was limited to gathering intel, searching for a weakness—or creating one.
One of Coleman's men left the gift shop and started upstairs from the lobby. Near me, a stand of postcards mysteriously fell over, distracting the attendant. I quickly spied the computer screen guest database, discovering Coleman's suite number, then headed to the stairs after the mercenary.
Halfway across the lobby of marble flooring, the attendant started toward me. Maybe it was about the postcard rack. Whatever his intentions, I had to be swift to recover now. A concierge wasn't about to derail my operation!
"Excuse me, monsieur . . ."
"Oui? Ah, la, la! Thank you so much for the towels last night!" I took his hand in mine, smiling broadly. "My family is most grateful. A fat tip for you, my friend. Your name, s'il vous plait?"
"Uh, Marc."
"Sans blague! That is my nephew's name as well. Marc, you can see I am soaked. And my family needs me. Bonsoir."
"Uh, bonsoir, monsieur . . ."
Bounding up the stairs before he thought to ask my name, I caught up to the mercenary from the gift shop rather abruptly on the third floor. He turned defensively, and I flinched away from him, my hands up. Rattling off some French, whether he knew the language or not, I assured him that I was in a hurry for certain business. If he recognized my face under my cap from my past dealings for his employer, it didn't show on his face. Rather, he seemed to regard my local garb and age with little consequence, and moved aside for me to pass.
That was his mistake. I started to pass him, and at the instant that we were closest, I jabbed him hard in the hip with my tranq-pen.
"Hey!" He shrieked, and reached for me.
But I was already beyond him, checking the corridor. His friends were nowhere in sight. When I turned back, he was on his hands and knees, then he fell on his belly. Since he was halfway in the stairwell, I easily dragged him onto the landing to conceal his body. Fortunate for me, this mercenary was about my size and not heavily muscled.
Daringly, I left my subject alone for a few seconds, and ran around the corner of the hallway to gauge by the old-fashioned dial where the elevator car was parked. Due to the storm, the hotel was running on a generator for basic electrical needs only, and according to the sign downstairs, the elevator was off-limits due to safety concerns. A key would be required to make it operable. Only the door would open under standard power. The dial indicated the car was on the second floor, just one lower than me.
With my arms under my subject's armpits, I dragged his lower half thumping down each step to the next floor. I heard voices below and boots tromping up the stairs. Quickly, I pulled my sleeping mercenary friend into the hallway on floor two and pushed the elevator button. The doors opened to the elevator car. Perfect!
As guests were about to walk down the hall, I flopped the fellow into the car, and the doors closed—a sign outside the doors on this floor as well. The space inside the elevator was completely dark. From under my raincoat, I drew two flex-cuffs—a COIL favorite. I bound his wrists and ankles, then laid him on his belly, his hands behind his back. Touching the light on my watch, I estimated my patient's wakeup time to be fifteen minutes.
In those long minutes, I considered my own heart. Just a few days earlier, I had intended the worst for these killers. It would've been easy to kill them all without much bother. Maybe this was one of the very operatives who'd abducted my wife and daughter, then killed them. Did he hurt them first? Did he—?
No. Such thoughts were not healthy to contemplate. God would see to their final justice. I knew all kinds of laws had been breached, even by an agency with few bounds, when they'd brought down Flight 524 and killed my family. It was my business to end their reign so no one else could be harmed.
The man stirred a few minutes later. I placed a foot on his upper back, just below his neck. The weight was significant, and certainly terrifying as the man's senses returned to find that he was blind and bound. Now, it was time for a little Christian interrogation.
*~*
Chapter 40
I let the mercenary squirm for a moment before I spoke inside the dark elevator car.
"You know, this is very bad for you," I said in English, though with a French accent. The man became very still. "Do not speak unless I ask you a question. Let your answers be yes or no. Do you understand?"
He didn't respond. More weight to my foot—painless to him, but threatening his ability to take a deep breath.
"Yes! Yes, I hear you."
His voice cracked from panic. He was worried. Good. I released some of the pressure from my foot to teach him the cooperation-reward relationship we'd now engage in.
"We are alone, you and I. Do you understand? Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand you cannot see?"
"Uh, yes."
"Do you understand you are bound hand and foot?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that the gun on your hip is useless at this moment?"
"Yes." This time he sounded more discouraged, as if he'd held out hope that I hadn't noticed it.
"Do you understand that my foot is on your spine?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand there is a storm outside?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand," my voice became softer now, "that I am aware of your seven traveling companions in suites 311 through 314?"
"I— Yes."
"Do you understand I am a veteran of many operations?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that you will not be freed unless I free you?"
He paused briefly, his will slowly breaking.
"Yes."
"Do you understand that I am willing to go to great lengths to receive information from you?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that you work for a man who keeps secrets for a living?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that I intend to have you reveal certain information to me?"
He waited again, and my pressure increased.
"Okay! Ask what you want. I know nothing!"
"Yes or no!"
"Yes!"
"Good." I relaxed the pressure. "It is said that there is an afterlife. Do you understand that I believe this?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe in God?"
"Uh, yes."
"Do you believe God's standard is higher than man's?"
"Yes."
"Good. Do you have a family? Loved ones?"
"Yes."
"Do you care for them?"
"Yes."
"Will they miss you if you die today?"
He hesitated and seemed to squirm involuntarily under my foot.
"Yes."
"So, you mean something to them?"
"Yes."
"You are not just a worthless killer for hire?"
"No."
"Are you a man of honor?"
"Yes."
"Integrity?"
"Yes."
"Are you serving your country on this operation?"
He didn't answer at first, even when I applied pressure.
"Yes! I think so, okay? Yes."
"You think so?" My questions about the afterlife, his family, and morality were having the intended effect. My pressure lessened on his back. "You said you're a man of honor. Are you?"
"Yes."
"Is the man you work for honorable?"
A pause.
"No."
Good. A crack in his defenses. He'd compromised his loyalty to Coleman just a little, and he'd do so again. It was all over now.
"You understand I already know that?" I asked.
"Yeah." He scoffed. "I'm catching on."
"Good. Then you understand that I am specially commissioned to be here right now?"
"Yes." His voice sounded submissive now—a defeated, ashamed mumble.
"You served in the military before this?"
"Yes."
"Army?"
"No."
"Navy?"
"Marines."
"You're aware that your employer is in trouble?"
"Um, maybe?"
"Explain your answer."
"He's done things for the government. Sanctioned stuff. But my guess someone outside could be after him. Maybe ethics or something."
"That and much more. Much worse." I gave him that information to develop our relationship. "Were you part of the murders?"
"Man, I plead the fifth on that. I'm not going down for any of that stuff!"
"Keep your voice down!" I pressed on his back hard, then let up. "I know about the general on the island. Is he why you're here?"
"Yes."
"To take him out?"
"Yes."
"You need a whole team for that? He's one man."
"If you know what's up, then you should know he's not alone. He's got three with him."
"Right." The other cottage next door was indeed connected by the cavern complex! "When are you striking?"
"The boss wants to use the storm. We're planning it right now."
"What's your boss's name?"
"You don't know?"
"He has had many names." I chuckled and he grunted, as if he'd witnessed the same. "The most recent being K-C."
"Yeah, that's him. Coleman," he confirmed. His openness was helping me greatly, but I wasn't sure what to do with all the new information. "We know he's a rogue agent somehow."
This startled me.
"How do you know that?"
"Television. We know General Forglade is wanted, and we know Coleman was real close to Forglade. We're being paid a lot to clean up this mess for Coleman. This is what we do: erase problems, potential testimonies. None of us knows what he did, but we're hired by people in Washington, probably as corrupt as he is, to make a few problems go away. It's good money."
"Women and children?"
"Sometimes. Not recently." He shifted his weight. "Look, my shoulders are killing me in this position. I've earned the right to get some relief here. And I know you won't kill me."
It was true; he'd earned the right. I kept clear of his legs in the dark and helped him roll over to a sitting position. Standing close enough so he could feel my presence, I considered my next question.
"Whoever is with Coleman at this point will be prosecuted," I said. "That's why I'm here."
"Hey, I work for the highest bidder. I have nothing personal invested with this guy. It's just a job."
"Well, now you work for me for free! Unless you want to go down with the others."
"Like I said, I have a family. At least four of the others won't stand with Coleman if they know the law is closing in."
"You can turn them?"
"It's not about turning them. We watch each other's backs. Do a job, then we get out with what we can. It's in our contract. If agencies like Interpol come in, we're gone. We'll do anything until a prison cell is hovering over our heads. And it's too costly to live on the run anymore."
"Sounds like I won't be putting you in the US Marshal's hands after all." It seemed like a wise thing to say, since he already had the impression that I was the law, which, at that point, Luigi and I were the closest thing on the island capable of handling the likes of these men. Seven experienced mercenaries under Coleman's direction would be worse for Gustavia than a direct hurricane. "How soon can you and your guys abandon Coleman? That's all five of you who are in it just for the money."
