He returned to the street entrance of the restaurant and grabbed the worn wooden sign. The rotted wood tore from its securing nails with little effort. By the time the first assailant emerged from Eddy’s, Jason had the sign firmly in both hands. Holding it like a bat, Jason delivered a home run cut that caught the man across the forehead. The man dropped to his knees as though shot.
The Makarov slid from his hand just as the second man squeezed through the wall’s narrow aperture. Jason dove for the sidewalk as a shot sent the crowd scattering. Rolling to his left, he snatched the pistol the first man had dropped. He hoped it was ready to fire; there was no time to cock it.
34
The man with the silver eagles on his shoulders watched the nav lights of the pair of Boeing KC-135 Stratotankers fade into the winter sky. The two aircraft would be in the air fourteen hours before delivering their loads of fuel to a facility previously secured, where Jet-A would be locked and sealed with a device that would betray any tampering.
None of that was really any affair of William “Wild Bill” Hasty, Colonel, USAF, but the colonel was a meticulous man who made sure everything having to do with his assigned mission went off without a problem. That fuel so carefully inspected and guarded would be for the return trip of the highly customized 747-200B he would be flying in less than a week. His interest wasn’t the fact the aircraft was the peak of aviation luxury — its two galleys could serve 160 people simultaneously. It wasn’t that the plane cost more than $181,000 per hour to operate, or even that there were only two such airplanes like this in existence. His attention to details, even details over which he had no command, was based on a single passenger who would be on board just six days from now.
Twenty-two years in the Air Force, seventeen in the Air Force Materiel Command, and he’d never lost a passenger or a cargo, a record he intended to keep unblemished until three years from now, when he and Kate pulled the plug and retired to that little fishing shack on the Saint Mary’s River near Palatka, Florida, where their closest neighbors would be deer and alligators. And bigmouth bass, the largest bigmouth bass Wild Bill had ever seen.
Bass or not, the fuel carrying aircraft were off, the first part of the mission begun. He turned his attention to the single closed hangar, the one guarded day and night by armed sentries with no-nonsense orders to shoot to kill anyone who approached without displaying the proper credentials. Bill had those credentials, of course, but there was nothing for him to do there tonight. His work, the actual mission, would begin five days from now. For the present, he contented himself with making sure the space on the tarmac was clear, the space where the C-141 StarLifters would load up the two armor-plated limousines and the half dozen or so equally armored SUVs.
Satisfied he had done all he could for the moment, he dug his fists into the pockets of his sage green MA-1 flight jacket and headed for the gate in the razor wire — topped chain-link fence where he exchanged salutes with two men stamping their feet against the night’s damp cold.
35
On his back, Jason had the Makarov in both hands. The man who had just exited Eddy’s was silhouetted against the streetlights, as featureless as a figure cut from black paper. Only a glimmer of light reflecting on metal from where Jason guessed his hands were told Jason he was holding the pistol he had brandished inside. As if he needed confirmation, Jason had the distinctly unpleasant experience of seeing the muzzle spit fire as he rolled violently to his right while trying to bring his newfound weapon to bear.
Pointing rather than aiming, Jason squeezed the trigger, gratified to feel the gun buck in his grip. He was partially blinded by the muzzle flash, but he squeezed off two more shots as the gun came back to point in the general direction of his first.
His initial clue that he had hit his opponent was the lack of return fire.
He scrambled to his feet, smoking pistol still in hand. The same streetlight that had limned his adversary now showed what at first glimpse looked like a pile of discarded clothing. A second look showed a dark trickle that was now dripping from the curb to the street.
He resisted the impulse to search for something to identify the man, a wallet, a passport perhaps. No point, and, as the siren grew louder, no time. Unlikely a professional like the man lying at his feet would carry anything that might be of use, and the police had obviously navigated the crowded streets. He stepped to his left where he could see small boats rocking in the breeze-caressed harbor. He tossed the gun, waiting until he heard the splash. He doubted the local heat had ever faced a man with a gun. Nervous and inexperienced police have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later where armed men are concerned.
A Range Rover with blue lights flashing howled to a stop in front of Eddy’s. Jason calmly blended into the crowd, sought the shadows, and began his trek up a steep hill avoiding light as much as possible as he went.
The grade was such that his calves were aching by the time he reached the entrance to the Hotel Carl Gustaf. He passed the vacant registration desk into the lobby/bar/restaurant, a large space open on one side with a view of the harbor and town below. Other than the bored bartender, Maria had the room to herself. She sat, hands clasped around a tall glass, staring into space as she munched from a small bowl of nuts, olives, and chips. She didn’t acknowledge Jason as he slid into the seat across from her.
“You don’t look overjoyed to see me.”
“I’m happy you are alive,” she replied flatly
“Unfinished business.”
For the first time since his arrival, she looked at him. “It is always ‘unfinished business.’ ”
Jason knew better than to reply. Instead, he signaled the bartender, who grudgingly wandered over.
When in the tropics, Jason normally enjoyed rum and tonic, particularly Havana Club. Experience told him he was going to need something more potent.
“Gin martini, straight up, olive.”
The barkeep shuffled off.
If Maria noted the change in beverage preference, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she said, “Jason, it will not end until you are dead. The constant moving from one place to another, always looking over your shoulder, I cannot live that way.”
He could have pointed out that most of the time she didn’t, that she was gone. He also might point out that it had been his lifestyle, his employment by Narcom, that had brought them together. He could, but he knew better. He never won arguments with Maria. The few times he thought he had, he subsequently learned the dispute simply wasn’t over.
So he held his tongue as she continued, “Has it ever occurred to you that you might get me killed, too? I mean, those men at Eddy’s didn’t look like they cared who got shot along with you.”
At least they were in agreement on that point.
“Jason, your past follows you around like a bad smell.”
He doubted she would be any happier if he pointed out the men with guns in Eddy’s were here because of a job he had so far concealed from her, not the past.
So he said the only thing he could think of that was true, relevant, and non-incriminating. “I can’t change the past, Maria.”
“No, you cannot. After, what, three or four years…?”
She knew how long to the day. Further, she knew he knew she knew. “More like five.”
“Five years together, I thought your past would, would…”
“Fade away?”
“Something like that. But it hasn’t. We had to leave Ischia because your enemies found you there. Now I am curious why you left Sark.”