A Viable Threat (A Martin Billings Story Book 4) Read online

  A VIABLE THREAT

  A Martin Billings Story

  Book 4

  A Novel of Caribbean Crime and Suspense

  ED TEJA

  Published by Float Street Press

  Copyright © 2021 by Ed Teja

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. It's good to pretend that none of it happened. If you were there when it all went down and remember things differently, that's okay.

  This is book four in the series.

  #1 UNDER LOW SKIES

  #2 DEATH BENEFITS

  #3 IN HARM’S WAY

  “Potentially, a government is the most dangerous threat to man's rights: it holds a legal monopoly on the use of physical force against legally disarmed victims.”

  — Ayn Rand

  1

  Five of them arrived a little after midnight. They moved quietly, approaching the hull of our boat slowly in two rubber dinghies powered by electric motors. The gentle hum of the motors, the lapping of the water that the dinghy shoved against Irreparable Harm's steel hull was soft—whisper quiet. Barely audible.

  In a noisier harbor they might have gotten away with it, but the commercial harbor of St. Anne, tucked a bit out of the way in the lower half of the Caribbean, wasn't a bustling seaport. A few ships sat at anchor in the still night, and most people were either ashore or in bed.

  That evening I had my hands full... of a lovely lady named Gazele. When she wasn't snuggling with me in the shadows of the aft deck, Gazele owned and operated several businesses on St. Anne. She was an industrious lady.

  Tonight, however, the business we were engaged in was intensely personal.

  With business slow at her bar/restaurant, The Barracuda, she'd asked Sally Walker, her friend and waitress, to run things while she and I came out to my ship. I'd been happy to provide the proper morale-boosting activities, and we made the most of her unexpected evening off. Fortunately, at the moment the uninvited visitors arrived, we were lying together on a mattress in the dark. We'd been that way for a time, neither of saying anything, just enjoying being close, touching each other, and watching the lights from the city flickering on the surface of the water with the changing tide.

  We were mellow and enjoying the quiet. Under those circumstances, the soft, muffled thunk of padded grappling hooks hitting the railings on either side of Irreparable Harm, catching right about midships, and very near to us, provided plenty of warning. Someone trying so hard to be quiet sent a sinister message.

  Gazele and I looked at each other. “You got company,” she mouthed.

  I nodded.

  We got up quietly and slipped on some clothes. I grabbed my trusty Gerber tactical knife; Gazele flashed me a wicked smile and picked up the rum bottle we'd dedicated part of the evening to emptying. She pointed to herself and the port side and smiled. I acknowledged her with a nod and headed to the starboard side. When tasks suddenly pop up, it's easier to deal with them if you divide the labor.

  I padded barefoot to the railing, stopping at the spot where the grappling hook was scuffing up my paint. The moonlight was teasingly bright and when I looked down, it illuminated a dark figure hanging awkwardly on a knotted rope. Below him, a black rubber dinghy, powered by the electric motor and holding two more dark figures, slipped forward toward the bow. The intruder beneath me watched them go, waiting for them to get in position.

  The three men dressed in black clothing, including a black ski mask that had to be stiflingly hot in the tropical night. Each had an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder, suggesting that this crew hadn't come to out to sell us magazine subscriptions. We were about to be boarded without so much as a by your leave.

  This turn of events displeased me. After all, Irreparable Harm is my boat, all hundred and twenty feet of her—and according to maritime law, the captain, me, gets to decide who comes on board. Fortunately, resolution of the issue was simple enough. Here this villain was coming higher on the rope and stopping again to dangle from there. I decided to accept the offering of the shiny grappling hook. It took seconds to cut through the rope just below the knot. The rope let go, and the climber fell to the water.

  At the instant it let go, he sensed what I'd done. He turned his head upward, as if seeing me would help him. I couldn't see his face, but I could picture his startled expression as he suddenly plummeted toward the water. Moments later a satisfying splash told me that the man had met the water. I watched as he began swimming forward to join his colleagues.

  I crept over to the port side to check on Gazele, who was staring over the railing with one hand on her hip, the other clutching the rum bottle. She flashed me an amused expression as a dark head began to rise cautiously up above the railing. Raising the rum bottle, she brought it down hard, striking it against the dark blob that was his head. The man cried out and a dark, gloved hand grabbed at the railing, snatching it at the last instant. Dear Gazele calmly brought her bottle down again, this time smashing the hand. He cried out, his fingers let go of the railing, and then he disappeared into the dark water below.

  Staring down, it was possible to make out the man thrashing as he swam awkwardly forward, heading toward the dinghy that had come along that side.

  “All the fun will be at the bow now,” I said.

  Gazele seized the grappling hook, unhooked it from the railing and tossed it into the drink.

  “Then we best move the reception committee,” she said.

  The muffled clunk of grappling hooks from forward told us they were at it again. I think it was Einstein who said that repeating the same actions and expecting a different result was a sign of insanity. Their Plan B seemed an awful lot like their plan A to me.

  Gazele turned and looked at me. “You get interesting visitors out here.”

  “It's usually boring and quiet. Maybe they came to see you.”

  “I not thinking so,” she said.

  “We’d best go see if Bill and Tim have noticed we have company.”

  She smiled and hefted the rum bottle. “If we move quick, maybe I can treat myself to a few more skulls. I see no need to let those boys have all the fun.”

  “Enjoy yourself, but we need to let at least one get on board.”

  “Why?”

  “To chat. It would be nice to find out what in the world these kids think they are doing out here and why they are doing it.”

  “You think they got the wrong boat?”

  “I doubt it. There aren't any other boats this size around. But they have something wrong.”

  “Then we best go see what there is to find out,” she said, taking my hand. With her swinging the rum bottle casually by her side, we went forward.

  2

  As we strolled forward, I scanned the bridge wings. Earlier that evening, Ugly Bill, my friend, and partner, had ensconced himself in the wheelhouse with my little brother, Tim. I hoped they'd heard the arrival of unwanted guests. As much as I wanted to shout out a warning, I didn't want to let the miscreants climbing to the foredeck to be aware that anyone else was on board. They'd know they'd lost the element of surprise, but they could still count on having the strength of numbers.

  Bill and Tim would be awake. We had something of an evening planned out. All too soon, Bill was supposed to take Gazele ashore. She wanted to help Sally close the bar. Sally, for her part, was expecting Bill to spend the rest of the evening with her. It was a neat little package.

  Brother Tim had recently joined the crew. He'd arrived to let me know th
at he wanted to take his life on a new path. “I want to learn about deep-water sailing,” he said.

  Bill greeted the news enthusiastically. “I'll teach you all there is to know,” Bill said.

  “Fantastic!”

  “But we must start with poetics. It's the core of everything.”

  For some reason, Bill had always gotten on well with Tim, and the two of them had jumped right into the program. They'd been hard at it since he arrived. In addition to poetics, for the record, Bill also threw in detailed lessons on such arcane skills as using a sextant and performing basic navigation—basic meaning anything that didn't require the electronics that Bill considered the bane of civilization. None of it was frivolous. Anyone who survived Bill's rigorous idea of “learning to be a sailor” could be expected to single-handedly pilot a canoe across the Pacific in the middle of a typhoon.

  Tim had turned out to be a surprisingly eager audience for this rogue style of edification. So, despite the late hour, I knew that Bill would be awake, not off guard, and likely upset over having his lecture on the virtues of the French Villanelle (as a concise, yet expressive and undervalued, nineteen-line poetic form) interrupted.

  Gazele and I passed along the railing, going under the bridge wings and up the sloping fore deck. Ahead of us, three of the dark figures, each carrying an automatic weapon, crept from the shadows into the glow from the anchor light on the masthead. They were heading for the ladder that went up to the wheelhouse.

  Above us, a shadow on the bridge wing glided toward our searchlight. I recognized Tim's slender form as he swung the light around, pointing it at the ladder and flipping it on, flooding the entire fore deck in the blinding, high-intensity beam.

  Caught in the glare, unable to see, the men froze in place. The back two glanced at the third. It was an unprofessional move. Anyone watching now knew which of them was the team leader.

  The team leader raised a clenched hand, starting to make a signal. Ugly Bill chose that precise moment to step out of the shadows alongside the man. Startled, the team leader spun to face him. Bill moved like a cat, striking him with the butt of a shotgun, and he crumpled. The sight of Bill's large, hulking figure combined with their team leader collapsing into a limp pile did its work, and when Bill leveled the shotgun at the remaining two, they held their frozen postures, unable or unwilling to move a muscle.

  I stepped to the railing next to the grappling hook. A man, probably the one Gazele had dunked earlier, was on his way up the rope—wanting to join the party. I cut the rope, and he fell into the dinghy, making a woofing sound that told me it had knocked the wind out of him. I walked across the foredeck, being careful not to come between Bill and his prey, and cut the rope tied to the grapple hook on the other side. There was a splash.

  “I've closed the doors. This should be all the party goers,” I said.

  Bill waved the barrel of the shotgun meaningfully. “Moving very slowly and carefully, you lads should put down those weapons before someone gets hurt,” he said. As they hesitated, he chuckled. “Now would be a good time. Your buddies are having a little swim and it isn't likely you will get help.”

  They glanced at each other, then crouched, lowering weapons to the deck, putting them down before standing. “Now put your hands on your heads and back up about two feet,” he said.

  Being well-trained and thoroughly intimidated operatives, they did as they were told. As they moved back, I stepped forward and picked up one of the guns. It was a commercial assault rifle, not the military gun I expected. Still a nice weapon, though. I trained it on the men and Bill handed Gazele his shotgun. The wicked, delighted grin that spread across her face as she pointed it at the men impressed me. I didn't envy those boys. I would be terrified.

  Unencumbered, Bill walked over to the larger of the two men. He grabbed him by the shoulders, picked him off his feet, and walked to the railing, where he unceremoniously tossed him over the side.

  The resulting splash told us he'd missed the dinghy.

  Bill came up behind the last man standing. Grabbing him by the waist in both large hands, he lifted him into the air. Bill rotated the man by crossing his arms, turning him upside down. The man flailed his arms and legs around as Bill carried him to the railing. He wasn't a big man, only about five-seven, and Bill is six-four, so holding his captive wasn't even a challenge for him. We all watched as Bill held the man out past the railing, dangling him upside down, then shifting his grip until he held him by one ankle.

  Bill stared down at the dinghy. “You lads have about one minute to get out of here. Head back to shore and tell the fellows on the other side I expect them to do the same.”

  I peeked down to watch them scramble, pulling the man out of the water, starting up the motor and heading off with a lingering look back toward their colleague.

  “Now that we are alone, we can have a little chat,” Bill told the dangling man. “I have a little job for you. A couple of them. In a bit I'm going to let go. When I do, if Newton was right, you will hit the water. At that point, you can assume you have been invited to leave. I suggest, no, I insist, that you take that opportunity to get the hell out of here. Got that?”

  “Yessir.” The feebleness of his voice told me the man wasn't sure he'd live out the night.

  “Your second job is to get back to wherever home is. You are to tell whoever sent you out here that you boys fucked up. Whatever he or she intended, whatever message you were to bring or demonstrate, the actual result was to piss me off. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Also, you should mention that I've decided to keep your team leader as my overnight guest. If the boss wants him back, then I will expect a personal visit. Here is the protocol: Tell your fearless leader to show up here tomorrow, alone, and at a civilized hour for social visits, say ten. He or she is to come alone, armed only with an apology, an explanation, and an appropriately humble attitude. Be clear that ten doesn't mean noon or seven—it is a precise time. If this boss cares for his team leader over there, I expect a gift as well. I'm thinking about fresh donuts and three double espressos. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I have to wait, if I am stood up, or if there are no donuts and coffee, good coffee, I'll be taking your team leader in to the authorities. We will file charges against him for piracy, as that is what this was. Now, is all that clear as it can be with the blood rushing to your head?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then repeat the main points.”

  “He is to come alone, exactly at ten, with donuts and coffee.”

  “And an apology.”

  “And an apology.”

  “And a humble attitude.”

  “Humble, sir.”

  “Tell him it should be espresso. Dark roast. The coffee, not the apology. You tell him not to bring any drip grind crap. Drip grind suggests insincere motives.”

  “Yes, sir. Alone and no guns.”

  “Good boy,” Bill said. “Now swim home.” He smiled as he released the man's ankle and let him drop.

  “I do hope that boy can swim,” Gazele said as we watched him hit the dark water. “That's a fair way back to the dock.”

  “His buddies will be lurking in the dark. They'll fish him out,” I said.

  “Long as they didn't lurk below and he didn't land on one of his buddies when I let him go or some shit, he should be fine. Special-forces types better be able to swim like fish,” Bill said. “Hell, with all they cost us taxpayers, they damn well better be able to fly.”

  “US Special Forces?” she asked.

  “US something or other that think they are special,” he said. He jerked a thumb toward the fore deck where Tim was binding the team leader's hands behind his back with flex cuffs that Bill always insisted we keep on hand. “I doubt this creep will have any identification or special certificates on him to enlighten us as to who he is.”

  Tim put a knife and a 9-mm G
lock automatic on the deck. “Nothing on him but these,” he said. “Not even a cyanide capsule.”

  “Disappointing,” I said.

  “And you get to keep those things, Tim,” Bill told him. “Law of the sea and all that. When you defeat pirates, they forfeit their gear.”

  “Like the spoils of war?”

  “Exactly.”

  Tim grinned ear to ear.

  Gazele made a puzzled face. “But why would the US military do this? You boys are Americans and Martin was a SEAL.” She looked at me. “Are they just being stupid?”

  “The fact that these boys are US military doesn't mean the military sent them,” Bill said.

  I nodded. “Their tactical training wasn't bad, but they didn't have good mission intelligence, or it was stale. I think they assumed I'd be on board alone.”

  “We should find out what's going on soon enough,” Bill said. He walked to our prisoner and pulled off the man's boots and tossed them aside. Then he took off the man's pants before putting another set of the cuffs on his ankles. “He'll be less likely to think highly of his chances of escape without his boots and pants,” he said. “It's basic psychological warfare.”

  I gathered up the three automatic weapons. “These things are dangerous to have around,” I said.

  “The safeties are on,” Tim said.

  “I'm thinking the kind of dangerous that comes from them being weapons confiscated in some DEA raid. We really don't want the authorities demanding our paperwork on automatic weapons.”

  “Good thinking,” Bill said. “Get rid of them.”

  I walked to the railing and tossed them over the side.

  “What was that all about?” Gazele asked.

  “We don't know what's going on,” I said. “Assume for a moment that they are really diabolical, then imagine how it would look if whoever arranged this had alerted the police that someone on a freighter was smuggling guns weapons.”