The Death Box(74)

“Vamos,” a voice yelled. “Go and kill him.”

Lightning lit, thunder answered. Rain poured down my forehead as I heard the van’s side door roll open and footsteps on the ground, splashing. They were coming for us. I jabbed my head up and down again, saw the van being used as a barricade, two or three men behind as it moved in, wipers beating.

A burst of fire turned the rock beside me into dust and I flattened against the bottom of the pool, warm water filling my nostrils and choking me. I jabbed the barrel of my weapon above the short wall and fired three blind shots, hoping to slow them for a few seconds. I’d been ambushed twice before; you might save yourself if you had time to think. The trouble was you never got it.

My shots took return fire. A lot of it. Rounds stripped through the palmetto in front of Gershwin. I wiped rain from my eyes.

“You OK, Zigs?”

“Can you get them to concentrate on you, Big Ryde?”

He pointed to the nearest stone bench, better cover. Another round of fire pushed me below the water. A goldfish wriggled beneath my chin. I stripped off my soaked jacket and felt a round sizzle past my elbow. I balled the jacket in my hands, set to mimic what countless cowboys had done in hundreds of westerns: throw their hat as a distraction, kind of.

I rolled on my back and clutched the jacket like a football. I willed every bit of strength into my arm and whipped the jacket the other direction from Gershwin, hoping every eye followed the sudden motion. I rolled to my stomach as I threw the garment, two-handing my weapon above the wall and firing low and fast. The Glock had fourteen remaining rounds and I burned through them in seconds.

A glance showed Gershwin rolling to the bench, a dozen feet to his side. The shroud of rain helping keep him hidden.

I heard shots from my side, Gershwin pulling off rounds before he flattened behind a bench splintering under returning fire. But underneath the shots I heard screaming. The firing drizzled to a stop. More screams ended with a door slamming and the sizzle of tires on drenched asphalt as the assailants pulled into the street and raced away, lost in dense rain.

I sat up as Gershwin approached, gun at his side. He was trying to find something witty to say, but his brain was aboil with adrenalin and he had no breath, besides.

Been there.

Chaku Morales stuck the phone back in his pocket and turned to Orzibel, who was pacing his office and scowling.

“There is news?” Orzibel said.

Morales shook his head. “It’s uncertain whether Ryder is dead. There was not time to look for a body.”

“But he was shot, no?”

“It’s not known. But Valdone is shot in the face and dying. Montega has a bullet in his chest. It did not pass through and could be anywhere inside him.”

“Fuck them,” Orzibel hissed. “They failed me. I pay thousands of dollars to buy failure.”

“Ryder might be dead, Orlando. No one knows yet.”

“He will be dead. If not today, tomorrow. The police … they know nothing?”

“The escape was clean, the plates stolen. The van is in the warehouse and will be painted another color.”

Orzibel paced and considered the situation. He was a warrior and Miami was his battlefield. If Ryder had somehow survived, it was a small battle, no? The war was the thing. He always won … he was Orlando Orzibel. The thought buoyed him and he congratulated himself on his calm in battle.

“Call the man and find out if Ryder is dead or wounded, Chaku. If he is alive, it won’t be for long. Perhaps the distraction will give us more room to find Leala Rosales. So maybe it is a good thing, hey? Let us get back to business.”

Morales nodded. “Mr Chalk? Did you again hear from him?”

Orzibel made the OK sign with thumb and forefinger. “The deal is done. Now it’s only a matter of time.”

A half-hour passed and the taped-off Tiki Tiki grounds were a scramble of activity. The rain had come and gone, ten minutes of pounding replaced by blue sky and benevolent cumulus as fluffy as cotton. Ziggy and I had given our statements and regained our feet. He was inside with Ms Amardara, who was less unnerved than angry anyone would wish Zigs harm, and I was showing Roy the courtyard where we’d made our stand.

“What’s Polynesian for OK Corral?” he said.

“Dunno. I’m just happy you don’t have to ask it about Boot Hill.”

“Not your Boot Hill at any rate. We’ve got blood out on the lot, and plenty of it. Someone got hit.” Roy smiled, the thought pleasing him. “We’re checking hospitals, of course.”

“Gershwin made the hits, I’ll bet. I was firing blind. He rolled from the palmetto to the bench, got a better angle. Gershwin was cool as ice all the way.”