The guard didn't detect the change in tone. In fact, he didn't detect anything more than the pressure of Cain's hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and back, and as he did so, Cain drew the knife across his exposed throat. Reflexively the guard dropped the telephone receiver, reached toward his throat, but already he'd lost control of his extremities and his palms flopped uselessly against his upper chest. Blood spurted from his severed arteries. Cain held him, placing steady pressure on the guard's shoulders to keep him from rising out of the chair. The guard's feet kicked and skidded in the blood pooling beneath them.
It didn't take long.
He was dead before the two Latinos made it to Carson's yacht.
'Totally inept,' Cain told the unhearing guard. 'No wonder your application to the LAPD was denied.'
With no time for keepsakes, he paused only to pull down a screen that closed off any view into the interior of the booth. He felt around in the guard's pocket and found a bunch of keys, which he used to lock the door behind him.
The two bogus agents were poised at the base of a gangway that led to Carson's yacht. There was a third man on the boat itself, and he had a radio pressed to his ear. As Cain began walking toward them, he saw the third man nod, and the two Latinos began the ascent of the ramp.
'What's going on here, then?' Cain wondered aloud. Telfer had said that the man he'd stolen the litho plates from employed the men following him. The guy on the boat, Mr. Carson, was a rival of their employer. So how come the two Latinos were given unchallenged access to the boat?
Only one conclusion: double-cross. Couldn't be anything else. Telfer had been set up. And by association, so had Cain. And that made him angry. He began to walk faster, his shoes squeaking on the boardwalk. He slipped his hand into the small of his back, came out holding the gun. With his other hand, he drew the Bowie.
Only twenty yards away he heard raised voices, and he began to hurry.
Ten yards from the yacht he heard harsh laughter, then, 'You think I'm about to go to war with Hendrickson over you, you goddamn asshole?'
Then Telfer's voice: 'You bastard, Carson. I trusted you.'
'Shame,' said Carson. 'Let that be a lesson for you. Money talks and shit walks, my friend.'
'You—'
'Quiet!' someone barked. One of the Latino men. 'You're coming with us, Telfer. Dead or alive, I don't really give a shit.'
Then Cain was at the bottom of the gangway. Without pause, he went up it in two bounds. Stepping onto the deck, he saw the man with the radio. Minder, Cain decided. Probably one of a number of guards on the boat. Cain's arrival caused the man to turn. Before the surprise could even register in his face, Cain was chest to chest with him. The man grunted, looked down, and saw the handle of the Bowie knife jutting from beneath his breastbone.
'Quietly does it,' Cain hushed him as he tugged down on the handle. By the law governing leverage, the blade's tip sawed upward. Eight inches of honed steel easily found the lower chambers of the man's heart. He was dead before he could make a further sound. Cain lowered the man to the deck, then tugged loose the blade, wiped it clean on the man's trousers, and turned toward the cabin door.
The yacht was huge, and the living area was about as plush as any five-star hotel Cain had ever seen. Wide sliding doors led to an elegantly furnished sitting area. It was all cut glass and sumptuous leather. Even chandeliers. A massive plasma screen satellite TV dominated the forward wall. Then there were the six men.
John Telfer was sitting in a chair across a glass table from an older man in an open-neck shirt and tan slacks. His hair and the tufts that poked from his chest were white, standing out against his deep tan. That'll be Carson, then, Cain decided.
On the table was Telfer's backpack, open to show the spurious treasure within, and a briefcase that was shut tight. Inside it, Cain guessed, was the seven hundred grand. The two Latinos were there, their backs to Cain. He noted that they hadn't yet drawn their guns, but the two other men in the room had. These were minders, like the man Cain had just stabbed. Hard-faced men who crowded Telfer yet wore cautious expressions in front of the Latinos.
Cain detected movement on the deck above him. He glanced up, ready to lift the gun, and saw a young bikini-clad woman move hurriedly away.
One of two things was about to happen. The bitch would have the good sense to get the hell off the boat, or she was going to set up a racket to alert her sugar daddy in the cabin. Cain couldn't take the chance it would be the second option. He had to act now, while he still had surprise on his side. And with the decision came action. He only had six bullets and he had to make them count. The minders first.
Cain stepped up to the doorway. One of the sliding partitions was open, so he stepped inside. He was only ten feet away from the first minder when he lifted the gun and fired. The man's head erupted in cherry-red fragments.
Then chaos ensued.
Chaos was fine with Cain. He loved chaos.
Telfer's face came up, registering shock, and not a little relief in a mad sort of way. The Latinos were spinning, both going for their guns, the second minder already rounding on Cain. Only Carson had the good sense to throw himself to the floor and attempt to escape beneath a nearby counter.
Cain snorted, and shot the second minder. He hit the man in the right arm, the bullet passing through it into the flesh of his thick chest. The man went down, though Cain knew immediately he wasn't dead. Didn't matter, he'd dropped his gun, and he saw that Telfer had the presence of mind to snatch it up.
The two Latinos were next. Cain shot the one with the bandaged ear, hitting him in the thigh as the man leaped away. The bullet spun him, and the man went to the floor at the feet of his friend. The second Latino was already bringing up his gun to fire, and Cain realized it was time to move. But instead of bolting for cover, he leaped farther into the room, shouting, 'Move your ass, Telfer!'
The second Latino fired. Not at him, as Cain had hoped, but at Telfer. The bullet struck the back of Telfer's chair. Directly where his head had been an instant earlier. Telfer was already bent double over the glass table, reaching for the briefcase. As the Latino tried to draw another bead on Telfer, Cain shot him. Twice, once in the gut, then higher up at the jawline. The man went over backward, trailing a ribbon of blood that was stark against the chandeliers' twinkling lights.
