“You can’t have him,” Swanson announced. It was a declaration. No negotiation.
The Boatman giggled, and the shrill tone warbled on the night air. A filthy black robe hung loosely about him, with a tail of rotten cloth drooping over the side of the boat and into the water. With a last hard shove on the long stern oar, the bony figure nudged the boat forward. “Of course I can have him. I can take anyone I want.”
“Not Jeff. Not now.”
The Boatman cackled again. “Now, look at you standing there with all of those weapons. Surely you do not believe that you can stop me with them?”
“I just wanted to show how serious I am. These weapons have provided you with a lot of passengers over the years. You owe me.”
The boat swung broadside, facing into the current and a small wave of foam divided around the bow. The Boatman steadied it. “Yes. I am here to clean up from your work yesterday. Four more souls.” He raised a thin arm and pointed. “Here they come. Right on time.”
Swanson detected movement and turned. Four shadowy figures with dead eyes, gory wounds in their phantom bodies, stumbled along in a single line, stepped onto the surface of the water without causing a ripple and then into the craft, taking seats, facing forward. Kyle recognized them as the terrorists he and Sybelle had killed at the clinic, but felt no pity. They had chosen their fates.
“To hell with these guys,” he said. “What about Jeff?”
“To hell with them, indeed.” The Boatman lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “And with the many others who will be coming over soon. Watch how my garden grows.” A scrawny arm in a flapping sleeve swung around and pointed to a far horizon. The ash falling on the water changed to black rain. An incandescent white and orange light flashed, seeming to push a moment of absolute stillness ahead of it and a cyclone of wind swept over the water and a volcanic explosion vibrated the world. Five mushroom clouds blossomed in sequence, clawing and rolling in the sky, pushing the acrid smell of burning sulfur across the vastness.
“Nuclear winter is coming,” said the apparition.
“Not if I can help it.”
The specter gave a dismissive, coughing laugh. “Ah. You cannot.”
“What about Jeff?”
“He is not yet dead, not for several more hours,” said the Boatman. “I will take these passengers and collect him on my next trip. I always have plenty of time. An eternity.”
Swanson carefully laid down the sniper rifle and removed the Colt.45 from the holster, raising the muzzle until it touched his right temple. “Let me take his place. I’ll pull this trigger right now and get in your fuckin’ boat.”
The Boatman leaned on his long oar again, preparing to shove off. “I already have you. We both know that. Right now, you remain my faithful assistant, a mass murderer who provides a remarkable stream of corpses for me. I decline your dramatic offer because you are a tool of destiny.”
“If I blow my fucking head off, you get no more passengers from me.”
The Boatman held out his skeletal palm inches from Kyle’s face. “Wait, then. You are irrational, but that is an interesting point. So, hmmm, I will agree to a bargain. I do not want to remove you from this plain of misery yet because I still need you here. Put down the pistol. I won’t take your friend, for he really makes no difference to me, but you must continue killing.”
There was silence. Kyle put away the pistol and picked up the Excalibur rifle. “Deal,” he said, his gaze going beyond the little boat to stare at the big explosions rocking the imaginary horizon. The end of the world.
The boat was in motion when he looked at it again, and the Boatman was rowing away with a slow rhythm. Swanson brought Excalibur to his shoulder, locked into a standing position to shoot. He centered the scope on the head of the Boatman and pulled the trigger, sending out a heavy.50 caliber bullet that delivered a powerful kick to his shoulder. The cloth covering the Boatman’s head flicked as the bullet passed through.
A bark of laughter came back loud and clear and strong. “Yes! We have a fair bargain. You get half and I get half. You may keep your friend, but you may not like what you get!” The boat and its dreadful captain vanished. Black rain dripped from Kyle’s helmet and raw ash flew in his face. He sneezed.
KYLE TOPPLED TO THE carpeted floor of the hotel room when his legs collapsed. Delara rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. His muscles shivered in iron-tight spasms and his eyes opened and rolled back momentarily, then the lids closed again. Over the years, he had developed a habit of finding a quiet time after significant battles to let his mind process the carnage he had wrought, and the Boatman often paddled in for a talk during those moments.
The shaking eased away and his breathing steadied. The Boatman accused him of being a mass murderer and Swanson had yelled back in the silence of their private world, shouting that it was bullshit. He was no psychotic maniac, no serial killer with a placid exterior, for he took no pleasure in killing. Somebody had to do what was necessary in these times of desperation and Kyle Swanson happened to be talented in that unique line of work.
“I am no murderer,” he said, just loud enough for Delara to hear him, and then he slept.
He finally awoke two hours later when the first rays of the new day came through the window. The fog was gone and there was no Boatman, no mushroom clouds, but it had been more than a dream.
He was warm beneath the down blanket with Delara asleep beside him on the carpet, her arm thrown protectively across his chest, her soft breasts against his side and her legs resting against his. Her breath was warm on his neck. Kyle Swanson kissed her lightly on the top of her head, closed his eyes again, and decided not to move.
Another ten minutes and then they had to get back to the clinic before Jeff was prepped for surgery. Just ten minutes. Was that too much to ask? Yes. It was too much, for now there was something else. He was still putting things together, the real world and the fantasy, the nuclear weapons of the Saudis and the Boatman’s mushroom clouds. Even in his sleep he had been thinking about the new and dangerous situation that was brewing in the ever volatile Middle East.
Sir Jeff had floated in and out of consciousness and the effects of the medication and fought to stay coherent in order to fill out the story for him. The accountants and analysts of Excalibur Enterprises, which had expanded to include an intelligence-gathering branch for major corporations, had found strange discrepancies among engineering contracts in Saudi Arabia. Jeff decided to follow the trail and had bribed and threatened enough sources to put it all together. The Saudis had spent years and millions of dollars to secretly purchase the components necessary to build a small nuclear arsenal, avoiding any sign of launching a production program that would have drawn international scrutiny. The huge expenditures and assignments had been easily masked within the massive construction and infrastructure projects that were constantly underway throughout the kingdom.
Against impossible odds, they had five special missiles that were now operational. Jeff told him that he was sure of the location of only one of the weapons, at a small Saudi army base in the oil patch city of al-Khobz on the Arabian Gulf. Khobz and its giant port was a natural invasion point for any enemy military force, as had been proven when Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein sent his troops over from Kuwait during Gulf War One. A defensive nuke missile system could plug that hole nicely, but Kyle realized that it could just as easily become an offensive weapon that could maim an entire American naval battle group.
The information had staggered Kyle: A country facing possible revolution had a secret arsenal of nuclear weapons. As Jeff faded back into a sedated sleep, Swanson found Sybelle Summers and brought her up to speed on the revelation.
Using her FBI creds, Sybelle got a ride aboard a police helicopter all the way to the landing pad at the U.S. Embassy in London. Once in a secure room, she drafted a FLASH message to the Lizard back at Trident headquarters in Washington. General Middleton, she thought while writing the explosive memo, was going to have a cow when he read this. He would take it immediately to General Turner and President Tracy.
