surely wouldn’t dare set foot in the United States. I’ll let Lambert deal with the logistics of what
Sirens fill the air now. As I turn onto Sunset Boulevard, two police cars zip around me, lights flashing. A fire truck, its horn blasting, is not far behind.
I press my implant. “Frances? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Sam.”
“Is Lambert around?”
“No, he’s asleep.”
“Do you ever sleep?”
“Never. Field Runners load up on coffee twenty-four hours a day.”
I pull out the photo I took off the bulletin board and look at it as I drive. “Listen, do we have any information about Eddie Wu owning a boat? A yacht, maybe?”
“Hold on.”
While she’s looking, I get on the 405 and head south toward Marina Del Rey. If my hunch is right, I think I might know where Eddie is hiding.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s nothing in the files. But FBI agent Kehoe’s last report stated that he was investigating a lead at Marina Del Rey Harbor. He’s been on Eddie Wu’s trail.”
“The FBI is sharing that with us?”
“Yeah, apparently we really
“Where’s Kehoe now? Can we get in touch with him?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I think I have a lead in Marina Del Rey, too. I’m going there now.”
“Hold on, I’ll check with my counterpart at the Bureau.”
I exit onto 90 and am heading for the coastline when she comes back on the line. “Sam, Kehoe’s last report was transmitted two hours ago. He was observing a boat at Pier 44 at Marina Del Rey Harbor. He’s supposed to check in soon.”
“Doesn’t he have a partner with him?”
“No.”
That isn’t right. Don’t FBI agents always take backup with them when going into a situation like this?
“Mr. Nudelman tells me Kehoe went off on his own because the L.A. Bureau couldn’t spare another man tonight,” Coen adds, answering my unasked question.
“Kehoe sounds like some kind of cowboy. He could get himself killed,” I say.
“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” she asks.
“It’s just a hunch I have. Let me check out something and I’ll get back to you.”
It’s four-thirty in the morning. I can find the
26
Pier 44 is on a section of the marina called Mindanao Way. The harbor itself is part of Santa Monica Bay and is supposedly the largest artificial small-craft harbor in the world. (My OPSAT automatically comes up with these facts when I’m mapping out a location.) It also tells me that the harbor consists of over eight hundred acres. The breakwater is 2,340 feet long and there are two miles of main channel. It’s an ultimate example of joint planning and implementation of a major metropolitan recreation site. It’s too damn bad I’m not a yachtsman!
I get off of Highway 90 at Lincoln Boulevard and then turn right onto Mindanao Way. I park the Murano on the street and walk toward the pier. Nightlights illuminate the marina but there are plenty of dark spots to use for cover. Moving from shadow to shadow exposes me for a second or two but I’m not going to worry about it. Eventually I arrive at Pier 44, a private outfit that rents slips to those with the dough to pay for these kinds of things.
Eddie’s
“Frances, you still there?”
“I’m here, Sam.”
“Send me the blueprints for an Eagle/Westport motor yacht. Ninety-four-footer.”
After a moment she asks, “You know what year?”
“I’m guessing latter half of the nineties.”
“I have three to send you.”
I go through the plans one by one and settle on the 1996 twin diesel engine model. It’s a match for the
If anyone needed proof that being a member of a Triad is lucrative, then this is it. I have no clue what a yacht like this might cost but I’m sure it’s in the millions. It’s a beauty, all right. And very private, too. There’s a walk- around deck but most of the floor space is inside. From the blueprints, I see there are three staterooms, three heads, a very large main salon, a sizable galley, and a comfortable pilothouse.
Now if I can climb onto the boat without rocking it and alerting everyone inside that they’ve got company… The only way on is by traversing the ramp from the dock to the deck. I’m about to do that as gently as I can when someone comes out from below. It’s a goon, someone whose job it is to keep an eye on the harbor. The guy’s most likely armed. I duck into the shadows as he scans the pier until he’s satisfied they’re alone. Then he lights a cigarette and strolls along the walk-around deck at a snail’s pace. I wait until he’s on the opposite side of the boat, masked by the pilothouse, and then I swiftly move up the ramp and onto the deck. With the lookout walking around the outside of the boat, I figure that any extra noise I make will be mistaken for him.
I move aft and crouch, ready to spring at the guard as he comes around the yacht’s stern. I hear him approaching, closer… closer… and then I rise and deliver a solid punch to his nose. Before he can utter a sound I lunge forward, slap my hand over his mouth, move around him, and then lock his neck inside my free arm. The choke hold takes roughly thirty seconds to render him unconscious. When he’s limp in my arms, I silently lay him on the deck.
Since the lights are on in the salon, they can’t see out the windows. The glass is tinted so I don’t have a very good view of what they’re doing in there. To compensate for this disadvantage, I pull out the optic cable again and thread it into the gangway leading below. It doesn’t have to go very far before I’m able to see the entire salon.
It’s roomy, with a sofa, dining table, stabilized chairs, a television, stereo system, and even a dartboard on the wall. But a plastic sheet covers the floor and in the middle of the sheet is a man with his hands tied behind his back. He’s lying on his side with his knees to his chest. His face is covered in blood.
I’m guessing it’s Agent Kehoe and he’s not moving at all.
Eddie Wu sits in a chair, looking at his victim. Wu wears leather gloves and an apron that is splashed with Kehoe’s blood. Two more Chinese hoods stand on either side of the helpless man.
“Now we know what happened to Kehoe.” It’s Lambert in my ear, obviously awake now. Coen must have got him up. They can, of course, see everything I see through my headset.
“Try to take ’em out, Sam,” he says, “but we need Eddie Wu alive.”
I quickly retract the optic cable and stuff it in the backpack, and then remove a CS gas grenade from my trouser pocket. The CS gas is good for knocking out the enemy if it’s used in a confined space such as the yacht. In larger areas the CS is more of a deterrent, like tear gas. Third Echelon also supplies a CS grade that is lethal but I rarely carry it unless I know I’m going to need it.
Grasping the grenade in my right hand, I pull the pin just as a bullet sears past my head. I feel the heat of the thing on the bridge of my nose — too goddamned close! The round smashes through the tinted glass, alerting the men inside of my presence. I hit the deck as another round streaks above me. Someone is on the marina taking potshots at me!
