Piranha

MacD do

He sauntered out the door as if he were simply taking a stroll, keeping his eyes toward the open window and away from the Toyota, the hat shielding his face from view.

He passed the Toyota and another car before ducking and circling around. Through the side mirrors, MacD could see that the SUV hitmen were still focused on the Waterfront’s door.

He strode up to the Toyota and flung the rear door open. Before they could react, he was inside the SUV with the SIG Sauer against the driver’s neck.

“Don’t move,” he said in Creole. “You understand?”

They nodded. He sat back and put the pistol’s barrel against the toilet paper roll.

“Poor man’s silencer,” MacD said. “Don’t make me use it.” Each of them had a Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun laying across their laps. “Now, as slowly as you can, take the magazines out of your weapons and drop them behind you. Then pull back the bolts and show me they’re empty.”

The two men exchanged glances, then complied with MacD’s instructions.

“Good. Now drop them on the floor back here one at a time. We’ll start with the driver.”

The driver twisted in his seat and held the MP7 up. Then he shoved it down while the passenger lunged toward MacD with a knife he’d been palming.

The sudden attack left MacD with no alternative. It was him or them. He shot the passenger first, then the driver, through the back of the seats, the blasts muffled by the thick toilet paper. Both men slumped forward. The smell of gunpowder filled the SUV. He checked to make sure they were dead, then sca

“Ah really hate that you made me do that,” he said to the two corpses, then called Hali.

“The front’s clear. You can bring him out.”

“Do we have transportation?”

Even though MacD wanted to take the SUV, there was no way to remove the dead body from the driver’s seat without being seen. “We’ll have to cab it.”

“We’ll be out in a minute.”

MacD strapped the two bodies into their seat belts and propped them up so that it looked like they were napping. Then he wiped down the SUV for any possible prints.

Trono and Hali exited the bar with the Haitian in front of them. Trono had the Haitian in a Krav Maga finger lock that allowed him to control his captive while he held the knife in his other hand.

MacD walked up to them and said in Creole, “Your friends didn’t want to cooperate.”

The Haitian gaped at his partners slouched in the SUV. His prior confidence evaporated.

“No,” he said, panicked, “you ca

“Who?” MacD said over the rumble of an approaching truck. “Who do you work for?”

“Please kill me now!”

MacD shook his head in bewilderment. Someone had total control over these men.

“He wants us to kill him,” he said to Hali and Trono.

The two of them responded simultaneously, both incredulous.

“What?”

“You’re kidding.”

Before MacD could explain, the Haitian tore his hand away, breaking two fingers in the process, and darted out into the street directly into the path of the oncoming truck. He was crushed by the truck’s grille and fell under its wheels. Several women screamed. Two men rushed to his aid but drew back when they saw the condition of the body.

They were all shocked by the man’s willingness to kill himself rather than be captured.

“Let’s get out of here,” MacD said.

While they hoofed it to the next street to find a taxi, MacD called the Oregon. Linda answered.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“We’re on our way back.”

“Everyone okay?”

“We’re all fine. I’ll report when we’re there.”

“Get back as soon as you can. We’re getting ready to set sail.”

“Is everyone else back aboard?”

“No. That’s the problem. We can’t reach Max and the Chairman.”

Juan couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a day off. He wouldn’t have today, either, if Max hadn’t insisted, but now that he was on the fifty-two-foot custom Carolina deep-sea fishing boat called the Cast Away with a Red Stripe in his hand and four monster yellowfin tunas already in the cooler, he didn’t know why he’d ever resisted.

The boat was trolling ten miles off the coast, four poles stuck in the rotating pedestal fishing chair, the well-used leather fighting belt hanging from its armrest. Juan and Max were the sole passengers on the luxurious charter. Captain Craig Reed, a garrulous Boston firefighter who’d retired to Montego Bay to start his fishing business, ma

“You know, Reed’s got the right idea,” Max said, and took another swig from his bottle.

“The right idea about what?”

“About how to retire in style.”

Juan tilted his head at Max. “Thinking about leaving the Corporation?”

Max shrugged. “Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I’ve been on the water since I was assigned to that Swift Boat in Vietnam.”

“And you love it.”

“I do. That’s why buying my own fishing charter has its appeal.”

“The Corporation doesn’t provide enough excitement for you?”

“Too much, sometimes.”

“It keeps you young.”

“I just wish it did something for my weight,” Max said, patting his round belly. Julia was constantly on him to watch his diet, but Chef’s pasta was too tempting.

“I could install a treadmill at your workstation in the op center.”

“You do that and I’m definitely retiring.”

“Then we have a deal. No treadmill, no retirement.”

They tapped bottles and took another drink.

“Well, what do you know?” Reed called down from his chair on the deck above them. “Looks like we’ve got some competition for this prime spot.”

Another fishing charter cleaved the water as it raced toward them at full speed about a mile out. It looked to be a sixty-foot Landeweer, a high-end vessel that outclassed the Cast Away.

“She’s coming on pretty fast,” Juan said.

“That’s the Oceanaire,” Reed said, his brow knotted. “It’s Colin Porter’s boat. She’s a beauty, fully customized, the fastest charter in Montego Bay. Now, why is Colin out here? He told me this morning that he’d be trolling east of here.”

“Seems odd that he would be headed straight for us,” Max said.

“Let me ask him what’s going on.” Reed tried calling on the radio, but instead of a response, Juan could hear a sound like a high-pitched electric drill coming from the speaker.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” Reed said, banging on the console.

Juan looked at Max. “Does that sound like a jamming signal to you?”

“It sure does.” Max narrowed his eyes at the approaching boat when he realized the implication of what Juan was asking.

There was no use checking their personal cell phones. Even if they weren’t being jammed, they were far out of range of any tower.

“Someone’s jamming us?” Reed asked. He followed their gaze to the Oceanaire. “Colin? That’s crazy.”

Juan sca

“It has to be a malfunction,” Reed said. “He’s probably just coming over to say hi or tell us where the best fishing is.”