Death Mark (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  Joey followed me to the closet on the port side of the room and waited while I swung it open and began working the lock on the safe. It clicked open and I let the heavy door crack apart from the case behind it.

  I stepped aside and let Joey do the honors. He pulled at the door, revealing the contents.

  “You — you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “Right? You’re kidding? These aren’t real.”

  “Bushmaster M4A3 Assault Carbine,” I said, proudly. “The Patrolman.”

  “I know it well,” Joey said. “Sixteen-inch barrel, thirty round mag. And you’ve got two of them?”

  I beamed. “Four, actually. Two more under the bed.”

  “What the hell, Dixon? How — how did you get these?”

  “Ever heard of TOR?”

  Joey’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. You figured out TOR and Bitcoin and all that?”

  Joey was referring to the ‘Dark Web,’ a portion of the World Wide Web that was only accessible through special anonymizing software — the TOR browser. Constantly moving your connections through a maze of nodes and effectively making it impossible to trace anyone’s identity, the browser opened up an entire world of internet sites that the general public has no idea about.

  In about an hour of research, I’d learned that I could buy any drug I wanted, from prescription medications to black-tar heroine to pure Dutch crack. I could have it shipped through the mail and delivered to my door, or dropped at a mutually agreed-upon GPS-defined location anywhere in the world.

  I could buy normal things, like I would on any shopping website, but through a securely untraceable means, or I could buy some of the insane, unbelievably dangerous items that most governments would jail you for even looking at.

  Like weapons.

  Lots and lots of weapons.

  Most of the sites I came across were difficult, at best, to navigate, as they weren’t written in English or any type of English I could decipher, and some of the sites made me feel about as safe as walking through south side Chicago at night with a sign on my head saying, ‘I’ve got money.’

  But thanks to a tip from Truman, and a go-ahead to purchase what I thought I would need ‘to effectively protect myself in a sticky situation,’ I learned quickly the inner workings of the Dark Web, enough to get a satisfactory usage of the thirty grand my father had donated to the cause.

  I didn’t press Truman on the details, like why he thought it was a good idea to be arming regular citizens, but I essentially got an answer from him anyway.

  ‘People like you aren’t just regular citizens,’ he told me. ‘We don’t ever admit it to ourselves up here in our comfortable offices, but we need help. We can’t go places sometimes, or we can’t go places and get away with it.’

  It was a conversation we’d had in this very room, Truman pacing the floor between the end of the bed and the stairs and me sitting in the office chair nearby.

  ‘Why? Why me?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Truman said. ‘You’re a known quantity to me, and you and I both know I’m not stopping you from getting yourself killed. Might as well give you the ability to keep yourself alive, you know? And you’ve got a serious knack for figuring out exactly the types of people we can’t touch, but definitely need to be touched.’

  I’d nodded, taking it all in.

  When all was said and done, we’d signed a contract: I had to pass my purchase through Truman, so he could successfully ‘FBI it,’ a term I took to mean scrub it of anything that might come back to him. He was a good guy, and a rule follower, so I imagine the outcome of allowing a citizen to use perfectly good American dollars to purchase a storehouse of weaponry and ammunition, even though it was on terms that he agreed with, was something that bothered him.

  But it was done, and I was thirty-thousand-odd dollars poorer for it. Joey was only finding out about it now because I hadn’t really had a reason to use any of it yet. One of the things about finding yourself equipped with some of the best special forces gear on the planet is that you realize how unexcited you are to have to use it.

  But today was a different day. I hadn’t wanted to get into a firefight with ten enemy boats, and I certainly didn’t want to do it while having to navigate a larger, slower vessel around them, but here we were.

  Truman had given me one rule, I guess to add the final assurance that this wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had:

  Let them fire first.

  33

  JOEY WAS PACING BEHIND ME, right where Truman had a few months ago. “You’re telling me he was okay with this? Christ, Dixon, he seemed like he was one atom short of Hiroshima whenever he was around you.”

  “We had a strained relationship.”

  “What the hell does that mean? People have ‘strained relationships’ with their fathers. Or their brothers or sisters. Not with federal agents.”

  I shrugged. “What can I say? We were friends once.”

  “Close?”

  “Couldn’t be closer.”

  “And you’re not now?”

  I shrugged again. I need a drink. I was standing just inside the stairwell at the top of the stairs that led down to my room, so the bar was right behind me. I turned and made my way toward it as Joey scaled the last of the stairs. We’d each grabbed one of the Bushmasters and a box of ammunition. Fully-loaded magazines, organized and stored inside. We’d also grabbed three grenades each, all purportedly US-military commissioned and ready for war. The problem with grenades, of course, is that you can’t test them. And buying explosives from a Russian-born (supposedly, according to the profile description) broken-English-speaking fellow using encrypted data streams and never doing any face time meant that I had no idea if these were grenades or snow globes.

  I hoped they were grenades. They had the weight, the look, the feel. I was comfortable using them, and I know Joey had at least trained on them once or twice, enough to have a passing knowledge of their timing and force. With an explosive, that was about enough, since there’s always an element of ‘I don’t know what the hell that was’ involved with them.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked again.

  I nodded, reaching for the top shelf. “I did. Sorry. Been a long day, and we’re just getting started.”

  “We’ve got two minutes, max,” he said.

  I agreed — the two boats that had peeled off were making a much wider circle to the southeast than I’d expected. They were trying to deep flank us, coming in very wide from the south, aiming for starboard side.

  “Yeah, we’re not now. Nothing happened, just time I guess. You know how it goes.”

  “Not really, not with friends.”

  “What friends do you have?” It came out harsher than I’d intended. Truth was I didn’t think Joey had any friends. I had been more than surprised when he’d showed up with Shalice to the bar a couple months ago, but I figured it made sense that he wasn’t spending all of his time at the bar or hitting marks with me.

  He smiled. “I’ve got a couple friends. Unlike the Army, us Navy boys stick together.”

  I let the dig slide. I didn’t have many friends from my Army days, and that was by design.

  “Couple dudes from Florida and I are close. Call them up every few months, actually,” Joey said, as if talking to someone once every few months for an hour at a time was a perfectly legitimate definition of ‘close friend.’

  “Well aren’t you smug,” I said. I poured from the bottle I’d grabbed — a Woody Creek, a decent rye that I’d recently discovered — and poured him one as well. I reached for a third glass. “Joey, you know me. I’m not really a ‘friend’ type of guy.”

  “No, I got that,” he said, his smile growing. “I’m just trying to put it all together. You’re cryptic, you know that?”

  “Again, I’m not really a ‘lay-it-all-out-there’ kind of guy, either.”

  “Why did you and Truman grow apart?”

  “It’s actually just like I
said. He wanted a different life, wanted to keep moving up the ranks and eventually got recruited. Turned in his gun for a badge and an ID card, then took up a pen and computer and makes his living telling other guys what to do.”

  “And you wanted a bar.”

  “I wanted a different life. Didn’t know what that meant at the time.”

  “Do you now?”

  I frowned. “Kid, you’re getting awfully sentimental.”

  “Happens when you’re about to wage war, I guess.”

  “Fair enough. Hey, go give this to Frey. I’m going to set up out here, try to get some semblance of a plan since I know you’ll just complain if I don’t.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “What should I tell him?”

  I looked outside, saw the boats heading in toward us. They were side-by-side, which had benefits for both of us. For them it meant they were strong together, both shooting alternatively, so if there was a need to reload they wouldn’t have to drop any fire.

  On the other hand, it meant they were forcing their enemy — us — to focus their fire on a smaller area. We would have the higher ground, the proverbial hill to die on, but we would be able to aggregate our fire toward a singular area, which was certainly my preference.

  The alternative was that they would hit us from both sides, hoping to draw our fire to one boat or the other that was straddling us. It was an effective strategy in old-school Naval warfare during the days of the pirates and buccaneers. Smaller sloops would face off against man-of-wars by flanking them, knowing that at least one of their sloops were going to sink. But in the barrage, the larger naval ship would likely take so much damage that in the end the opposing force would win.

  Which told me two things: they either didn’t know their naval warfare history, or they were really interested in keeping their boats alive.

  Focus fire from a single location onto another single location. A viable strategy, certainly, and regardless of their interest in history, I assumed that wanting to stay together meant that they were most interested in killing us off with the smallest chance they’d lose a boat.

  Which means they’re planning on fighting a bigger battle later.

  We were the secondary objective. We were the consolation prize.

  “Tell him to keep moving,” I said. “No matter what, keep moving. Nothing fancy, just give us a solid shot at them at all times.”

  Joey nodded, then left the room carrying Frey’s drink.

  34

  THE FIRST BOAT TO REACH us was the one on the left. It was moving slightly faster than its teammate and because of our own movement we were heading for a diagonal collision. The second boat was only seconds behind, but I already had a plan for that one.

  “Joey, you back?” I hollered over my shoulder.

  He was there, suddenly, holding one of the Bushmasters. “I’m here. What’s the plan?”

  “Shoot them,” I said, pointing the barrel of my rifle at the first boat.

  “Got it. Anything more specific?”

  “Don’t miss.”

  “Sounds good, boss.”

  He opened fire. The sound was deafening, even though I’d been expecting it. The Bushmaster was a solid weapon, fully automatic or burst fire for the military- and police-issue versions, around 700 rounds per minute.

  The opposing team was not at all ready for the hell that broke loose. There were three men besides the driver in each boat, and each was armed with a small subcompact machine gun and holding it up toward us.

  There was no chance — the distance was too great for their weapons to do any damage, and to make matters worse, they weren’t expecting us to be well-armed.

  The first burst ripped through the water and landed short, only one round hitting the hull at the front of the boat. The second and third bursts from Joey, however, hit their mark. The man standing at the front of the boat flew sideways, spun around by the shock of the impact, and fell off the side. The man next to him dove backwards as well, but it was unclear whether or not he was hit.

  I watched the attack for another second, but then focused on my own skirmish. The second boat was now in range of my rifle, but I wasn’t planning on taking them out with a rifle. We needed to conserve ammunition if we were hoping to go up against the other eight boats, so I was hoping for some luck from the grenades.

  I grabbed one timed it, and launched it in the water, about as far out as I could manage to throw. It hit the surface of the water with a splash, about twenty feet in front of the speeding boat. A perfect shot, I thought. Let’s hope that thing still works.

  It had been years since I’d tossed a grenade, but the concept was simple: aim for the thing you want to kill, waiting the proper amount of time before you throw it. Don’t hold onto it. Don’t drop it. Throw it.

  It worked.

  The explosion was small, as could be expected from a grenade, but it was effective. The boat must have been on top of the thing when it blew, as a stream of water and debris flew upward from the center of the boat, two smaller streams ejecting upward from the sides. The boat itself lifted up and out of the water a few inches, but the water beneath it dispersed momentarily, which meant that the boat was now hanging about a foot out of the water.

  It came crashing down, the new hole and the shock of the impact destroying the hull’s integrity. The boat split in half down its width. Two of the men fell in the gap, while the other two fell into a pile in the center of one of the halves.

  “Nice shot,” Joey said between bursts.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  The Wassamassaw was still moving, still plowing ahead toward the line of eight boats in the distance, and I was sure they were watching the proceedings. The two boats they sent were no longer moving — the first boat’s driver was slumped over the wheel and the second boat had split and become two semi-buoyant pieces of flotsam. There were men in the water all around, some dead, some screaming at one another.

  I couldn’t hear what they were trying to say, and I didn’t care. We were done here.

  “Let’s roll,” I said. “Run and tell Frey to head for the horizon — we need to figure out what to do about the other eight boats.”

  Joey left without a word and I found myself staring down into a churning sea of men, equipment, and pieces of boat. I watched it for nearly a minute as it passed behind us and thought about the situation. Had it changed?

  Whoever was behind all of this had a lot of resources on hand. Perhaps the mafia could be involved, though I still found that theory somewhat implausible. After my encounter with the non-detectives in Charleston I’d assumed it was nothing but a man with a lot of money and a couple friends, out to get this Elizondo fellow. They’d somehow tracked down my father, or he’d found them, and they’d come up with the elaborate plan to get his son involved in a coup so that they could reap the rewards.

  They’d pay me off, my father — as usual — would play me for a fool, and they’d be richer. Joey and I would go back to our normal daily operating procedure and no one would be the wiser.

  And while our motive had changed when Shalice was taken, theirs hadn’t. It still made sense that it could have been one or two people, teaming up with my father and stringing a yarn that I’d believe and be forced into action, but all that had now changed.

  There were ten speedboats, all fully loaded and well-armed for what was supposed to be a simple smash-and-grab. Whoever could set something like that up was seriously connected, and seriously well-funded. My old man was connected, but I doubted he could have pulled something like this together.

  The water was calm again, and we were tearing through it. The fleet up ahead had slowed down and I could now see individual silhouettes in each: three men and a driver, each holding a weapon.

  This wasn’t a one-on-one skirmish, the type of fight I was used to, it was an all-out war. Three men against twenty-four? Those weren’t the types of odds I preferred. They were the types of odds anyone preferred.

  I looked back
at the destruction floating around in the water, saw a couple of the men treading water near each other, likely trying to figure out a plan. We were half a mile past them now, and putting distance between us. I stared up to the bridge, where Joey and Frey were now, and realized we needed another plan.

  35

  “WE NEED A NEW PLAN,” Joey said as soon as I’d entered the bridge.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked.

  “Frey does. His idea.”

  I eyed the guy. “Nice driving back there. Thanks for keeping us tight on them.”

  He nodded. “We do need a different plan.”

  “We didn’t really have a plan. Just thought we’d start shooting and see what happens.”

  “Is that usually your plan?”

  I nodded. Joey nodded as well, which sort of pissed me off, but I wasn’t sure why.

  “You guys need better plans.”

  “You got any ideas, Frey?” I asked. I didn’t like that this guy was here, trying to tell me what our problem was.

  “They’re heading for Elizondo,” he said. “They only sent those two back to see if they could get us off their tail easy.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well that means we just need to follow them in. If we instigate, we’re screwed. There are at least twenty-five guys total in those boats, and there’s no way we’ve got enough grenades and lucky shots to take them out.”

  “And then what? After we follow them in? What’s the move?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  “That — that’s is?” I asked. “We just follow them? They’re going to get to Elizondo first, and —”

  “And what?” he said. “Elizondo is on a ship. A hundred times the size of these little things —” he pointed out the front windshield — “and he’s going to have his own convoy as well.”

  “Still, we have to do something,” Joey said. “They’ve got Shalice with them.”

  “We don’t know that,” Frey said. “She was taken from you guys on a smaller boat, right? Who knows if it went to Elizondo’s ship or not. She could be anywhere.”