Mississippi Roll_A Wild Cards Novel Page 6

  It was black.

  Ray and Pretorius locked gazes, and Ray nodded. “Do it,” he said to the young agent. He quirked an eyebrow, and Huginn nodded. He stepped away from the others and took the card Pretorius offered. He turned, headed for the police launch that was awaiting them.

  “Well,” Jones said. “Is anyone accompanying us to shore?”

  There was a ripple in the crowd, as if a wind were blowing, but not one of the named refugees stepped forward.

  Jones swept them with her gaze. “Fools,” she said. She followed Huginn to the launch.

  “Let’s go.” Ray took the Angel’s arm, and she started at the touch, like a nervous horse. She looked at him with something of the old fire in her eyes, then nodded.

  “Moon,” Ray said, “you’d better power down. I don’t think there’s enough room in the launch for you in this form.”

  The agent was a collie before Ray could blink. She smiled and wagged her tail.

  Ray turned to Pretorius. “Harry will be back with the food as soon as he can.”

  “Thank you,” Pretorius said simply.

  Ray shrugged. “Like I said. None of these people deserve to starve.” Then he added in a low voice that only the lawyer could hear, “One of the boys is going to stick around for a while. Kind of keep an eye on things.”

  “I understand,” Pretorius said. “He’ll be safe.”

  “Maybe,” Ray said, “there is a way where we can work this out.”

  Evangelique Jones was as good as her word. By that afternoon a tanker had moseyed up to the Schröder and was pumping enough fuel into her tanks to get them back across the Atlantic.

  Ray and the rest of the SCARE team waited on the riverbank. Some protestors from both sides had reassembled, but the earlier storm had taken the starch out of their attitude. Rick and Mick were not to be seen. Probably, Ray thought, off arguing about what to have for dinner.

  Ray realized that it would all eventually build up until it started to chafe and something set it off again. More violence was inevitable as long as the Schröder was moored in sight of everyone. He hoped that it wouldn’t be there much longer. He was sympathetic to the plight of the refugees, but there wasn’t much he could do for them, other than ensure their safety when they were still under his watch. And that he was going to do.

  They waited patiently until Harry Klingensmith returned with a rental truck full of food and supplies.

  They helped the crew of the police launch, moored as usual at the small dock near their vantage point, load the supplies. It took several trips for the launch to ferry it all across to the Schröder. Obviously, there wasn’t enough to provide provisions for the refugees for a voyage across the ocean, but for now it would furnish them with a decent meal after days of rationing.

  It took a couple of hours to get all the groceries unloaded. When the task was finished Ray thanked the launch’s crew for their help and then he and the others headed back to the motel. No one noticed that Max Klingensmith had remained on the Schröder.

  They all crowded into the room shared by Ray and the Angel. Colonel Centigrade was lying on the bed, still exhausted and fighting his bad head cold. Moon, still in her collie form, curled up next to him on the bed, but watched alertly as Harrison Klingensmith took the room’s only comfortable chair, settled into it. The Angel looked on with some interest while Ray paced restlessly back and forth across the small room.

  “What can you see?” he asked the pale, scarecrow-thin SCARE agent.

  Huginn screwed both eyes shut tightly, frowning with concentration. When he opened them he stared at the plain, dull green drapes drawn across the hotel room window.

  “I see,” he intoned in a soft, faraway voice, “people eating.”

  Ray made an impatient sound.

  “Munnin,” he added, “is panning the room. It looks mostly calm. Most seem resigned, some are angry.”

  He went on, narrating the scene as if it were a movie, relaying what his twin brother could see with his own left eye. His right eye saw just the blank cloth of the drapery he was staring at. This mixed vision shared by two minds could be disorienting as hell, which was why he concentrated his own sight on a neutral view. His brother also saw what he saw from his left eye. Their ace had no distance limit and could never be turned off. Unfortunately—or, for them, perhaps fortunately—vision was the only sense they shared, and it had taken long and hard practice to get used to the disorientation this collective sight caused. It was, of course, an ideal means of instantaneously transferring information.

  “Hold on—something’s happening. Max is leaving the hold where most of the refugees are encamped.”

  “Why?” Ray stopped pacing.

  “Hard to say. He’s being stealthy, though. Sneaking. He’s good at that. Sticking to shadows, ducking. He’s on deck. It’s dark now, nighttime. He’s watching a small launch approach. Men are coming aboard.”

  “How many?”

  “I count eight. Max is going to the bridge. Olena’s there with the captain and some of his officers and the man you described as the JADL liaison, who’s talking to them. He looks worried, like he’s trying to tell them something they’re not believing. Max is concealed outside the bridge, but he can hear them. Hold on. He’s writing something—we carry pads to communicate complicated messages. I can read it as he writes. Robicheaux says that you can’t trust the man called Witness. He’s gotten in touch with his contacts in Cuba—someone from the Gambione family. No one in Havana knows anything about the Schröder getting asylum there. But they know this guy Witness—he’s heavily into human trafficking.”

  “I knew it,” the Angel said between clenched teeth. “I knew they couldn’t trust the bastard.”

  “Wait—the men are coming to the bridge. Max is retreating into deeper cover. The one leading them is big, blond, muscles like a weightlifter. Handsome, except for a smashed nose. The men with him are armed. They’re dragging the old guy from the bridge, Olena is trying to stop them but they’re pushing her down. She’s screaming. They’re—they’re throwing the old guy off the side of the ship. That guy, that snake guy is coming fast, to the bridge. They’re shooting at him—”

  “Damn!” Ray said. “We’ve got to get there, fast! We should have staked out someplace closer, dammit!”

  “The Schröder’s engines are starting. There’s commotion on the Coast Guard cutter. Lights are going on all over it!”

  “Angel—” Ray said.

  “I can’t help you,” she said numbly. “You know I can’t.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

  Ray stood before her, took her arms, and lifted her from her chair. Supporting her weight, he held her upright before him.

  “You have to,” he said. “But not me. You have to help those people on that goddamned boat. There’s no telling what will happen to them.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I know you are,” Ray said earnestly. “And I know you’re hurt. I understand if you can’t do this anymore. But if you have anything left, now’s the time to dig down deep and find it. Just get me there—that’s all you have to do. I promise.”

  Ray could feel her body stiffen, her legs take her weight, and she stood upright, on her own.

  “All right,” she said, “but we’d better step outside.”

  Ray smiled. “Good point,” he said. He turned to the others. “Follow as quickly as you can.”

  He tossed the keys to the Escalade to Huginn and hand in hand he and the Angel ran out the motel room door, down the hallway, and to a side exit off the first floor.

  The night was hot and muggy, as usual for New Orleans. They stood together in the parking lot, bathed in the light of the incandescent bulbs illuminating the rows of cars.

  The Angel put her arms around him. “I could drink a case of you,” she murmured, and pulled him close.

  He put his arms around her and they kissed. Ray felt as if he could feel the hurt and need in her and kissed her as if to draw it all ou
t of her and into himself. After a moment he felt heat all around him and he knew it for the touch of the unburning flames that covered her wings, and suddenly they were airborn. Ray could feel the rush of the breeze from her beating wings upon his face and he laughed aloud as the Angel’s strength bore him effortlessly through the sky.

  The city of New Orleans was spread below them, its streets outlined by lamplights and rows of car headlights moving like tracers over the ground. After the Angel gained sufficient altitude she turned toward the river and the bend bordering the French Quarter. It took only a minute or two, traveling as the angel flies, until they could see the lighted deck of the Schröder moving on the river, being pursued by half a dozen launches as well as the Coast Guard cutter Triton, which was quickly gaining on her.

  “It’s under way,” Ray said.

  The Angel’s expression was serene as a Madonna’s. Ray felt a stab of happiness to see her so. All the cares and worry and anxiety were washed away from her face as she bore them both through the sky.

  Ray frowned as he looked down at the ship. “It’s moving pretty fast,” he said. “The cutter is trying to block its way—they’re going to collide!”

  The ships hit with the anguished scream of shrieking metal as the Angel spiraled down to the Schröder’s main deck. The much larger freighter smashed the cutter aside as if it were a plastic toy. The Coast Guard vessel buckled where the freighter’s prow struck it amidships. The Schröder continued to plow serenely upstream as the Triton broke into two pieces. The launches trailing the runaway freighter stopped to pick up sailors who’d abandoned the wrecked and rapidly sinking Triton.

  The Angel touched down on the stern of the freighter, unnoticed in the darkness.

  “All right,” Ray said quietly. “You stay here. I’m going to go see what the hell is going on.”

  The Angel shook her head. “No, I’m coming with you.”

  “You going to be all right?” he asked, his expression concerned.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that there’s someone I wouldn’t mind seeing again.”

  “All right. If you’re sure.”

  “I already said that I’m not.” Ray didn’t mind the impatience in her voice and in her expression. It was at least a sign of engagement, of a return to the world. “I’ll be right behind you.” She smiled and Ray liked that even better. “One sword at least thy right shall guard.”

  Ray remembered those same words spoken a dozen years ago and moved off into the darkness feeling whole for the first time in a long time.

  The decks were deserted and quiet. His first thought was for the refugees. They found a companionway headed down into the hold and cat-footed it into the eerily lit space where they bivouacked. The lighting was provided by strung bulbs of low wattage that gleamed like will-o’-wisps hovering over a swamp. The air still smelled terrible. As they went silently down the ladder, they could see the mass of people sitting and standing in close ranks in the cramped hold, three men covering them with automatic rifles.

  “Jesus,” one of them was saying, “what a sorry-assed lot. Be lucky if one in ten of them was worth keeping.”

  “They are a pretty useless bunch of rag-heads. Still, I reckon some of them will bring a nice price. The rest, well, fuck ’em. They can go down with the ship when we scuttle it.”

  “Hey,” said the third, the one in the middle, “give me a cig, will you? I need something to cover up the stench in here.”

  Ray reached the hold’s floor, maybe twenty feet behind them.

  “I need a light myself.” The three men sidled together, keeping their rifles pointed at the mass of people in front of them. Many of the refugees, at least those who hadn’t sunken into complete lethargy, must have seen Ray creeping as stealthily as a panther, but no one gave him away with either a look or a gesture.

  One of the men cradled his rifle to his side under his arm while he bent down to light his cigarette with the match offered him by the middle man, while the third reached for a packet he kept in his shirt pocket.

  Morons, Ray thought, and when he was six feet away sprung with his arms widespread.

  He grabbed the collars of the man to the right and to the left and smashed both their heads into that of the man in the middle. The colliding skulls made satisfyingly loud sounds. Ray held the two up by their collars as their knees sagged while the third slipped silently to the hold’s floor.

  The refugees looked almost as stunned as Ray’s victims as he shook the two guards like a terrier with rats in its jaws, just to make sure they were out, then swiftly checked them all for more weapons. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he told the refugees, “someone tie them up.”

  Twenty-odd prisoners leaped forward in response. It probably would have gone more efficiently if they didn’t keep getting in one another’s way, but Ray let them have their fun. In a few moments the three were tied and gagged and Ray had distributed their guns to refugees who professed familiarity with the weapons.

  “Keep your eye on them while we take care of the rest,” Ray told them.

  “Let us go with you,” one of the Kazakhs offered.

  Ray shook his head. “This job is for professionals. You stay here and guard these bozos.”

  They reluctantly accepted his advice, and Ray returned to the stairway, where the Angel stood watching him.

  “I didn’t think you’d need my help,” she said.

  Ray snorted. “Not with those idiots. But there’s five left. Let’s check the bridge.”

  The Angel nodded, and they went up the walkway to the deck above, where all was still darkness. Ahead, in the bow, they could see the lit bridge and the figures who occupied it, who were unidentifiable at this distance.

  They moved quietly toward the light. Halfway there, Ray put out his arm in warning and he and the Angel stopped. They could hear something slithering before them in the darkness.

  “The snake,” the Angel said quietly, and suddenly before them loomed IBT.

  Ray thrust himself forward between him and the Angel.

  “Stop right there,” Ray said coldly, “or I will seriously fuck you up.”

  The human part of IBT’s body was raised up. He was as tall as a tall man standing, while the coils of his snake body writhed behind him.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Billy Ray,” Ray replied, “and I owe you big for what you did to my wife.”

  “Wife?” The expression on the joker-ace’s face went puzzled. “I don’t—” He suddenly caught sight of the Angel beside Ray. “She’s your wife?”

  “That’s right,” Ray said in a flat voice.

  “I remember,” the Infamous Black Tongue said. “It was in Kazakhstan, on the battlefield. Neither of us were in our right minds then.”

  “Whatever—” Ray said, and the Angel took his arm, stopping him before he could move.

  “He’s right, Billy,” the Angel said. “It’s what you’ve been telling me all this time.”

  “I am sorry for what happened,” IBT said.

  “As am I,” the Angel replied. “But there’s no time for apologies now. What’s happening on the bridge?”

  “We made a deal with the man who calls himself Witness. A million dollars to take us to refuge in Cuba. But it was all a trap—he just wanted the money and people he could sell into servitude. He plans to scuttle the ship once we’re out to sea, take off the ones he thinks would be useful, and let the old and infirm drown.”

  “Where’s the Witness?” Ray asked.

  “On the bridge. He has Olena.” IBT looked desperate. “We have to rescue her, but he has guns.”

  For the first time Ray noticed that blood was oozing out of several segments of IBT’s colorful banded serpent body.

  “You’ve been shot,” Ray said.

  IBT shook his head. “That’s not important. He has Olena. We must rescue her.”

  “All right. Calm down,” Ray said as he saw the desperate look return to the joker’s face. �
��Let’s see. There’s five of them—”

  IBT shook his head. “Three. He sent out three men to guard the refugees in the hold—”

  “We took care of them,” Ray said.

  “—and then two sentries to patrol the deck,” IBT said, then added with some satisfaction, “and I took care of them.”

  “Okay,” Ray said. He didn’t ask for details. “Uh, you didn’t run into a tall, pale, skinny guy in a dark suit, did you? Probably wearing a patch over one eye.”

  “No,” IBT said.

  “Good. He’s one of us.”

  IBT nodded.

  “All right,” Ray said. “Time to take the bridge.”

  It took only moments to arrange the ambush. IBT led them to a place of concealment where they had a decent view of the control room through the front windows shielding the bridge deck. The windows were already shot out, shattered in IBT’s original hopeless assault. They could see six people in the dim light of the chamber. Two were thugs with guns, one was Olena, the other two were the captain of the Schröder and his mate, who was steering the ship. The last—

  “It’s him,” the Angel said.

  It was the Witness. Ray had encountered him first during the mission on which he’d met the Midnight Angel. He knew that this Witness and the Angel had a history between them, but she’d never revealed the extent of it and he’d never asked her. “Well,” he said, “no sense in putting this off.” He looked at IBT. “Get in place. Move when you hear the shots.”

  “Give me three minutes,” IBT said.

  “You got it,” Ray said, and the Tongue slithered off into the darkness.

  “You don’t want to do this,” the Angel said.

  “Kill these guys?” Ray shrugged. “Not particularly.”

  “No.” The Angel smiled. “You’re not cold-blooded. Hot-blooded, yes. But you can’t kill from ambush.”

  “There’s always a first time,” Ray said.

  “Not if there’s another way.”