The throb of their engine revved up to a high pitch, trying to back off the bar. The stem moved from side to side. All except the pilot went overboard to shove on the sharp prow. The boat moved an inch at a time, then it floated, the crew swung back on her and she crawled for deeper water. She turned toward Port of Spain and disappeared behind the far headland.
I went down to the shore where I could see along the cove. Our boat reached the cliff and everyone was on the steps, going up. I thought I had a nice surprise for them. If one patrol boat could be freed from the sandbar so easily, I should be able to float the other. We could leave Grand LaClare in style. And if some of us borrowed the crew’s uniforms, anybody seeing us at sea would take us for a part of Jerome’s fleet. There would be no problem in floating the vessel. I planned to go on foot to the fortress, pick up my people and bring the tug here. If it had enough power to haul barges, it had the power to tow the patrol boat off the sand. I felt very good indeed.
Until I heard the voices. And the crunch of boots uphill from me.
There were men up there, four or five at least, beating the jungle, calling to each other. Where the hell had they come from? Did it matter? Obviously the gunfire had brought them. It was time for me to leave. I considered the dinghy on the patrol boat. But it wasn’t smart to put out in the cove where they could see me. I could go down and swim under the cover of the overhanging brush. Sure. There was blood in the water again and there’d be more barracuda or sharks. What I needed was to get behind the soldiers, in an area they had already searched.
Edging toward the nose of land with as little sound as possible, I turned the corner, came out on top of a bluff, and saw open sea running against the shore. A third patrol boat lay close by and its dinghy was drawn up on a stretch of sand at a bottom of the hill. I guessed the boat carried a handful of men. If it had brought more, there would be many more voices in the searching party.
What to do now? Sit down and wait for the soldiers? The idea didn’t appeal to me. By nature I’m a hunter. I don’t like waiting for trouble to come to me. I go to it. A man on the offensive has the advantage. I had an extra edge here. Anyone I heard or saw had to be the enemy. Whatever movement or sound they caught, could be one of them. They would have to hold fire until they knew they weren’t killing each other while I could zero in on anything I saw.
The only way to go was through their line. I had another edge in the density of growth here, a deep mat of tangle on the ground, a three-dimensional web of vine between the trees. Visability was only about thirty feet in any direction.
Cradling the machine gun so it wouldn’t catch in the vine, I went with caution, keeping low, worming forward. Within a hundred feet something brown moved. A man with his back toward me crouched to go under a loop of vine, intent on something ahead. He brushed through tall ferns and I lost sight of him. I went after him. If I could take him out, it would leave a hole in their line for me to go through. The noise of my shot would bring the others, but then he could turn at any second, see me and blast away. And he wasn’t at knifing distance.
I switched the machine gun to my left hand, shook the stiletto down and stalked him. Ten feet behind him now. Then he turned, bringing up his gun as he faced me. I threw the knife. It buried in his throat, dropped him before he fired, and he crumpled without sound. I went to him and bent to retrieve the knife.
My head exploded.
I came to with drums pounding inside, looked up at the treetops and saw three ugly, happy faces above army uniforms. My arms were underneath me, tied tight. One of the three men was a sergeant, the others privates. The sergeant had my knife under his belt, the privates carried my machine gun and Luger. The sergeant saw my eyes open, came closer and lobbed a boot in my ribs.
“For Belmont,” he growled and kicked me again.
Was it Belmont’s throat that I’d opened? I expected my throat to be next. There was nothing I could do to prevent being shot if I kicked the sergeant’s gut to keep him off me. He was big with a permanent lopsided grin that a scar the length of one cheek pulled up.
He rubbed his hands together, pleased with his catch. “Get up, Mr. One-Thousand-Dollars,” he said. “You going to get me a promotion too.”
I didn’t move. Apparently I was worth more to them alive than dead. If they wanted me, let them do all the work. The sergeant snapped his fingers at the privates and jerked a thumb up. The pair took my elbows and hauled me to my feet. One put the Luger against my shoulderblade and shoved. Either I walked or the gun would break the shoulder. I walked.
They pointed me down toward the beach and the dinghy. The sergeant bellowed to the rest of his team to quit looking, he had me. Two voices answered and the men came thrashing through the tangle. They all gabbled in self-congratulation, then the sergeant delegated the newcomers to bring the dead man along, and we were on our way. The bearers of the corpse were in front of me, the privates on either side, and the sergeant brought up the rear. I didn’t care much for my prospects. I figured I had a date with a dungeon and probable execution on any charge Carib Jerome chose to trump up. And even if Hawk should become aware of my fate, he couldn’t lift a finger. He couldn’t admit we had an agent involved in island politics.
Halfway to the beach, a gun spat from the jungle. A cry behind me turned us all around. The sergeant was no longer walking. He was toppling, a hole in the breast of his jacket.
The privates jumped as if to catch him, missed and swung their rifles, searching the dense growth for something to shoot at. The gun spat again and the private on my left went down, minus the back of his head. The one on my right spun, crouching, looked at the mess in astonishment and fright, and began to run.
I put a foot between his legs and sent him sprawling. I booted him in the head lightly, but it was enough to knock him cold. The remaining two privates threw their hands high over their heads.
Mitzy wriggled through the vines, a revolver in her hand leveled at the pair. She shot one before I could get close enough to shove her wrist down. The other soldier kept his hands very high.
The girl looked at me angrily. “You squeamish, Carter? We haven’t got time for prisoners.” She rubbed her wrist but kept hold of the revolver, training it again on the man.
“Quit it,” I said. “I want them alive. Keep this one covered and see if you can get the twine on my wrist untied with one hand.”
I turned my back and she picked at the knot, got it loose and I worked my hands out of the bond. Working the cramp out of my fingers, I took the cord to the soldiers. With a swift, sure gesture I demonstrated that it would not be difficult to garrote them. They got the message.
My man was coming around, groggy, scared when he discovered he was trussed up, and not in a mood to argue my orders. He got up, clumsy with the load of lead on him, and the two soldiers followed me up the ridge and down to the shore with Mitzy riding herd behind.
The sleek craft still sat on the sandbar. We waded out and I stopped my muscle boys at the bow, took the girl to the stem and hoisted her to my shoulders. Then, with me holding her ankles, she raised herself to where she could get a grip on the lower rail. She chinned up and over and went forward to the cabin.
The engine ground when she tried the ignition, caught, settled into a throaty purr and I waded forward. There was a cough, a sputter, and the noise died. The diagnosis was disaster. And I could thank myself for it.