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Authors: Dane Hartman
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to inflate the thing. What it was doing smack in the middle of the floor Harry couldn’t imagine. It seemed careless to have left it here. Then it came to him. When his foot had inadvertently pressed down on it, the dinghy hadn’t responded the way a hollow rubber object ordinarily would have. Too hard.
Snapping open his knife, he dug the tip of it into the dinghy. There was a slight hiss of air but nothing else. The knife was meeting resistence. It wasn’t air that the rubber tubing contained.
Applying greater pressure to the knife, he worked a fairly extensive hole into the dinghy, worrying it until he could get his hands into it. He caught hold of something, pulled it out. It wasn’t necessary to look for better lighting to determine what it was. Harry knew by the feel of it alone. It was a glassine envelope, presumably one of many thousands tucked within the dinghy. Nothing in it, however: no heroin.
It was possible, Harry considered, that elsewhere in the dinghy the heroin itself might be found. Or possibly it was hidden in another crevice of the yacht, awaiting unloading. Harry assumed though that it had been carted off before, maybe as early as the first night in port. But there was always the chance that the hijackers had not found their opportunity and that the drug was still on board. Harry could not resist the temptation to look farther.
No longer so scrupulous about perforating the dinghy he set about gouging great tears in it, but all he revealed were more glassine envelopes. He was about to give up on the dinghy and see what other peculiar treasures this utility area had to offer when he heard a noise behind him. Not much of a noise—an asthmatic’s muffled wheeze would have been more obtrusive. But still it alerted him. His gaze shifted to the side. His ears were cocked, acutely sensitive now. The noise was not repeated.
All at once Harry felt trapped, for there was no exit from the utility area except the way he’d come in. The air was too warm, too dense and stale. He rose, deciding to forgo further exploration for the time being. Sliding a glassine envelope into his pocket, he began down the passageway, his Magnum in hand.
The interior of the cabin was as quiet as before. In the poor light streaming through the passageway from the kitchen nothing unusual presented itself. Harry wasn’t comforted. He felt that he was no longer alone, that his movements were being watched. But there was no visual cue to corroborate this sensation.
Just as he started up the steps he heard another noise. This one was louder and more penetrating than the last. The noise coincided with a vast amount of pain that sprang up suddenly from the base of his neck and in an instant monopolized every nerve fiber his head possessed. Only before his consciousness vanished completely did he identify the noise. It was the sound of a club slamming against his skull.
C H A P T E R
S i x
T wo men stood over him. One had just emerged from the garden Keepnews had built to remind him what green looked like while he plied the seas in search of tuna. The other was positioned on the steps, having come down just in time to see Harry collapse. He didn’t look comfortable, sprawled out there on the floor. But it didn’t particularly matter.
The man who’d clubbed him raised his eyes to his companion, watching him with indifference as he considered the range and cocked his Smith and Wesson, prepared to obliterate Harry’s head.
“Wouldn’t do that,” the first man said as though this was an afterthought, not an important issue but one worth thinking about for a couple of seconds.
“Oh, why not?” It was so tempting a target. The man with the Smith and Wesson liked seeing solid things turn to bloody pulp. Heads especially.
“He’s going to be dead any which way. Looks better if he drowned, banged his head against something and drowned. A bullet hole, you can’t say he drowned. Why leave behind a lead if you can help
Snapping open his knife, he dug the tip of it into the dinghy. There was a slight hiss of air but nothing else. The knife was meeting resistence. It wasn’t air that the rubber tubing contained.
Applying greater pressure to the knife, he worked a fairly extensive hole into the dinghy, worrying it until he could get his hands into it. He caught hold of something, pulled it out. It wasn’t necessary to look for better lighting to determine what it was. Harry knew by the feel of it alone. It was a glassine envelope, presumably one of many thousands tucked within the dinghy. Nothing in it, however: no heroin.
It was possible, Harry considered, that elsewhere in the dinghy the heroin itself might be found. Or possibly it was hidden in another crevice of the yacht, awaiting unloading. Harry assumed though that it had been carted off before, maybe as early as the first night in port. But there was always the chance that the hijackers had not found their opportunity and that the drug was still on board. Harry could not resist the temptation to look farther.
No longer so scrupulous about perforating the dinghy he set about gouging great tears in it, but all he revealed were more glassine envelopes. He was about to give up on the dinghy and see what other peculiar treasures this utility area had to offer when he heard a noise behind him. Not much of a noise—an asthmatic’s muffled wheeze would have been more obtrusive. But still it alerted him. His gaze shifted to the side. His ears were cocked, acutely sensitive now. The noise was not repeated.
All at once Harry felt trapped, for there was no exit from the utility area except the way he’d come in. The air was too warm, too dense and stale. He rose, deciding to forgo further exploration for the time being. Sliding a glassine envelope into his pocket, he began down the passageway, his Magnum in hand.
The interior of the cabin was as quiet as before. In the poor light streaming through the passageway from the kitchen nothing unusual presented itself. Harry wasn’t comforted. He felt that he was no longer alone, that his movements were being watched. But there was no visual cue to corroborate this sensation.
Just as he started up the steps he heard another noise. This one was louder and more penetrating than the last. The noise coincided with a vast amount of pain that sprang up suddenly from the base of his neck and in an instant monopolized every nerve fiber his head possessed. Only before his consciousness vanished completely did he identify the noise. It was the sound of a club slamming against his skull.
C H A P T E R
S i x
T wo men stood over him. One had just emerged from the garden Keepnews had built to remind him what green looked like while he plied the seas in search of tuna. The other was positioned on the steps, having come down just in time to see Harry collapse. He didn’t look comfortable, sprawled out there on the floor. But it didn’t particularly matter.
The man who’d clubbed him raised his eyes to his companion, watching him with indifference as he considered the range and cocked his Smith and Wesson, prepared to obliterate Harry’s head.
“Wouldn’t do that,” the first man said as though this was an afterthought, not an important issue but one worth thinking about for a couple of seconds.
“Oh, why not?” It was so tempting a target. The man with the Smith and Wesson liked seeing solid things turn to bloody pulp. Heads especially.
“He’s going to be dead any which way. Looks better if he drowned, banged his head against something and drowned. A bullet hole, you can’t say he drowned. Why leave behind a lead if you can help
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