“Probably,” Mike said. “But I’ve got to be able to get something out of them.”
“Oh, it is very fast acting but also very briefly effective,” the Russian said. “The effects pass in no more than thirty minutes. Inhalant so if anyone realizes what is happening they need only put on a breathing apparatus. I’m going to need some chemicals that are not here. You will also need a container and a distribution system. I can make both from available materials but it will be the equivalent of two of your SCUBA tanks. In fact, that is exactly what it will be…” he added, looking distant.
“That’s perfect,” Mike said. “Get with Daria on what you need. I’m going to need it by tomorrow night.”
“If I can get the materials rapidly,” Tolegen said, nodding. “Yes, that will work. It is easy enough to make. If you know how,” he added, grinning. “You don’t want them killed?”
“No,” Mike said, walking out. “I’ll take care of that.”
“Oh, hello Juan,” Mike said.
He had been wandering the Straw Market, just poking around. Anastasia had wanted to take a look around and it was a good enough way to build the fact that he was, in fact, in town.
“Mr. Jenkins,” the Colombian said, nodding back.
Gonzales was clearly taking some of “his” girls out shopping as well, Katya not being one of them. He also had four large, suited Colombians with him, earbuds in place and eyes scanning the crowd.
Mike had brought pretty much the entire harem, including Martya, all dressed in identical Mountain Tiger outfits. Anastasia was wearing a sundress. The group was being shadowed by seven of Oleg’s team, with Oleg in the lead, suited up in shorts, T-shirts and Mountain Tiger jackets that poorly concealed their body armor and weapons. They were wearing Invisio Bone-Mics, the absolute state-of-the-art in interpersonal commo. They also, individually, out-massed any of the Colombians by at least twice.
The two groups eyed each other like competing wolf packs as their principals sparred.
“I see you decided to show back up,” Gonzales said.
“Just went out to show the girls the out-islands,” Mike said. “Getting covered in nude teenagers is a bit much for even Nassau.”
“Of course,” Gonzales said. Although the three boat-bunnies with him were pretty, the harem was orders of magnitude beyond any of the three.
“But, hey, girls like to shop, too,” Mike said, shrugging. “I swear, even after you cover one of them in rubies, they want sapphires.”
“Women are that way,” Gonzales said. “They are always wanting more. It is a pity they cannot just be satisfied with what they have. But men are the same way, don’t you think?”
“Some,” Mike said. “Then again, some just want to make sure things stay the way they were.”
“Change is inevitable,” Gonzales said.
“Oh, absolutely,” Mike said. “I mean, look at evolution. All those mutations occurring all the time. But you know what’s neat about evolution?”
“What?” Gonzales said.
“Well, most of those mutations don’t take,” Mike said, removing his sunglasses and looking the Colombian in the eye. “You see, better species wipe them out because they thought that change was the way to go when it was just a short road to extinction. Only one out of a billion mutations succeed. Me, I’d tend to go for the conservative route.”
“Some of us are more courageous,” Gonzales said, his jaw working.
“There’s a difference between courage and stupidity,” Mike said, putting his sunglasses back on. “And most of those mutations only realize that after they’re extinct.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Marathon, Marathon, Charlie Three One Five,” the coast guard pilot said. “We have a suspicious fast mover, fifteen miles east of Largo. Has been hailed, refuses to heave to. Request fast vessel for intercept, over.”
“Charlie Three One Five, Marathon,” the base said. “Roger on fast mover. We have it and you. Negative on support. All fast boats outside support area.”
“Fuck,” the pilot muttered, looking over at his co. They’d just tanked before taking off and had another hour’s fuel.
“Marathon, Marathon. Fast mover turning east towards Bahamas. Request pursuit.”
“Roger, Charlie Three One Five,” the headquarters said a minute later. “Pursue to PNR, over.”
“Roger,” the pilot said, banking the Lynx. “We got a hard lock?”
“Rog,” the co said, looking at the Forward Looking Infrared readout. “I don’t think he knows we’re back here. He’s headed for the Cut.”
“Good,” the pilot said. “It’s nice and narrow in there. But I’m not sure we’re going to get him with cargo. He’s already headed home.”
“Fuck cargo,” the co said. “There’s going to be residue. What’s the status on Bahamas?”
“Marathon, Marathon,” the pilot said tiredly. “Any chance of Bahamas intercept?”
Mike leaned out the door of the Hind, holding onto the fast-rope and watched the speeding Cigarette below.
He was trying to decide whether to stay in the helo or be in on the boat intercept. There were benefits and detractions with each. With the boat intercept, it was more likely he was going to get to kill someone. On the helo, on the other hand, he could control the intercept better.
“We got a track on this thing?” Mike asked.
“It’s almost to the cut,” Irina said, looking at her computer screen. “But I’ve got another track that looks as if it’s following it. Air track.”
“What the fuck?” Mike asked. He walked across the interior of the bird and squatted down, looking at the screen. The take from the balloon radar had been filtered to only vector on the track and items immediately around it. Sure enough, about four miles back there was a blue icon of an air track, following along neatly.
“Shit,” Mike said, looking at the icon. “It’s fucking 315.”
“Excuse me, Kildar?”
“It’s a Coastie, a Coast Guard helo,” Mike replied. “They were the bane of my existence when I lived here. Turned out they were under orders to keep an eye on me. I always wondered why they showed up every time I moved. And now they’re chasing our track.”
He thumbed his throat mike for internal.
“Dragon, we have a complication.”
He was glad he’d stayed on the helo.
“Marathon, fast mover is in Bahamanian waters,” 315’s pilot said. “Continuing pursuit. Any data on Bahamanian intercept?”
“Negative, 315,” the headquarters said unhappily. “All vessels out of area. You are cleared to continue pursuit into Bahamas territory.”
“We’re about bingo on fuel,” the co-pilot pointed out. “I mean I know this is fun and all…”
“It’s frustrating is what it is,” the pilot said. “But we can tank in Bimini if we have to. They’ve got pretty good av-fuel.”
“What the hell?” the co said. He was getting a feed from the radar balloon as well, a much more complicated one, and he now shook his head. “I got fast movers. Air and sea. Five sea, one air. Closing on the track.”
“Marathon, Marathon,” the pilot said, then unkeyed the mike. “What do I say? ‘What the fuck, over?’ ”
“Dragon, close the helo,” Mike said.
It was not long before Before-Morning-Nautical-Twilight, the “darkest before the dawn” and lowest ebb in the human system. Four AM in other words. With the moon down the ocean was pitch black, barely reflecting a welter of stars.