Read The Venetian Judgment Online
Authors: David Stone
The Venetian Judgment (26 page)
They were all wearing bug-eyed sunglasses, faded blue jeans, brown leather boat shoes, and heavy turtleneck sweaters that bulged around their waistlines, clearly hiding weapons.
They passed through the dining room in single file, looking neither right nor left, staring straight ahead like Sagger missiles homing in on a target. They went right past Dalton’s table without giving either of them a sideways glance, banged out through the swinging doors, and headed at speed in the direction of the dock where the
Subito
was tied up.
Subito
was tied up.
Dalton gave Levka a wry look, tossed some new Turkish lira on the table, and stood up. He didn’t look back, but he knew Levka was right behind him as he cleared the doors and walked out onto the pool deck. He was a little nervous about going into this with Levka at his back. This was very likely their first tactical contact with the crew being run by Levka’s Gray Man, and Levka’s loyalties might be under some strain.
In a few seconds, the three men had reached the
Subito,
Top Kick stepping onto the rear deck while the other two started peeling back the plastic sheeting. They had the sheeting off, folded and stowed away inside the cruiser in a couple of minutes, while the older man moved around on the deck, checking the ship out. There was no doubt they were getting ready to take her out of the marina.
Subito,
Top Kick stepping onto the rear deck while the other two started peeling back the plastic sheeting. They had the sheeting off, folded and stowed away inside the cruiser in a couple of minutes, while the older man moved around on the deck, checking the ship out. There was no doubt they were getting ready to take her out of the marina.
“So, boss,” said Levka, “how you want to do this?”
“Quietly, for starters. No gunfire. Still got your piece-of-shit pistol?”
Levka made a face.
“No offendings, boss, but is not a piece of shit, okeydokey?” Dalton smiled at that, keeping his eyes fixed on the deck of the
Subito.
Subito.
“Okeydokey, Levka. You look like a guy who could be working on a boat. See that box over there?” he asked, indicating a cardboard box full of rags that sat by the pool filter. Levka nodded. “Okay, pick it up, slip your not-a-piece-of-shit pistol into the rags, start carrying it out to the dock there. I’ll follow at about twenty feet—”
Which puts you in front of me when the action starts.
“Don’t look at the men on the
Subito.
Take your time. Look busy. They won’t be taking the lines off for a couple of minutes. You follow?”
Subito.
Take your time. Look busy. They won’t be taking the lines off for a couple of minutes. You follow?”
Levka did. He picked up the box without another word, fumbled with something at his waist, and then started out along the jetty, ambling casually, looking to Dalton as if he were about to start whistling, which he did not actually do. Dalton picked up a copy of the
New Anatolian
that was fluttering on a nearby table, folded it in half, and eased his Beretta into the fold, pushing the paper under his left arm.
New Anatolian
that was fluttering on a nearby table, folded it in half, and eased his Beretta into the fold, pushing the paper under his left arm.
Then he began to stroll slowly along the same dock, stopping to look at a runabout here, a gaff-rigged ketch over there that looked as if it belonged in Nantucket, a forty-foot matte-black Kevlar cigarette boat farther along the jetty, four huge Mercs on the stern, which fairly shrieked of smuggling . . . Up ahead, Levka had reached the berth beside the
Subito,
where a large sports fisher with a flying bridge, closed up tight, was rocking gently in the sea lift, her rigging clattering in the onshore breeze. He set the box down on the sports fisher’s fantail, extracted a rag, and began to scrub vigorously on the brass letters affixed to her transom: MEVLEVI. Dalton had the vague idea it meant “dancer” or “dervish.”
Subito,
where a large sports fisher with a flying bridge, closed up tight, was rocking gently in the sea lift, her rigging clattering in the onshore breeze. He set the box down on the sports fisher’s fantail, extracted a rag, and began to scrub vigorously on the brass letters affixed to her transom: MEVLEVI. Dalton had the vague idea it meant “dancer” or “dervish.”
One of the younger men on the rear deck of the
Subito
had come up from below and was now standing on the stern board, staring hard at Levka, his face like a knot and his unibrow beetled.
Subito
had come up from below and was now standing on the stern board, staring hard at Levka, his face like a knot and his unibrow beetled.
Dalton was now about fifteen feet away, still wandering. The man stepped off the stern, came up to Levka, leaning over him now, his suspicions flaring up. He nudged Levka, saying,
which Dalton, who recognized it as Russian, interpreted to mean something along the lines of “Hey, asshole, what are you doing?”
which Dalton, who recognized it as Russian, interpreted to mean something along the lines of “Hey, asshole, what are you doing?”Dalton ambled past just as Levka looked up with a
Hello, fuck you
grin and said, in pretty-good Russian,
which needed no translation at all. The man’s face turned dark red, and he reached for Levka’s collar just as the barrel of Dalton’s Beretta slammed off the back of his head. He went down on the dock, hit hard, and looked like he’d be there for a while.
Hello, fuck you
grin and said, in pretty-good Russian,
which needed no translation at all. The man’s face turned dark red, and he reached for Levka’s collar just as the barrel of Dalton’s Beretta slammed off the back of his head. He went down on the dock, hit hard, and looked like he’d be there for a while.Dalton left him with Levka, vaulting up onto the stern board of the
Subito
just as the second inside man, perhaps feeling the dip as Dalton hit the swim ladder, stepped out of the darkness of the pilot cabin, squinting into the sunlight, his eyes widening as he realized he was staring right into the muzzle of a large blue-black semiauto.
Subito
just as the second inside man, perhaps feeling the dip as Dalton hit the swim ladder, stepped out of the darkness of the pilot cabin, squinting into the sunlight, his eyes widening as he realized he was staring right into the muzzle of a large blue-black semiauto.
He opened his mouth to warn the Top Kick, who was still inside, but Dalton managed to persuade him not to by shoving the pistol’s muzzle into the man’s open mouth and then, after a brief introductory grin, kneeing him in the nuts
very
hard. The impact lifted the man up a few inches, causing him to shatter a few front teeth into bloody stumps on the muzzle of the Beretta.
very
hard. The impact lifted the man up a few inches, causing him to shatter a few front teeth into bloody stumps on the muzzle of the Beretta.
He folded himself into the teak deck, holding onto his nuptials and making a thin hissing sound through his bloodied front teeth. Levka was on the stern board now, his pistol in hand, as Dalton stepped lightly through the open gangway into the pilot cabin.
He found himself in a trim, beautifully appointed, and professionally laid-out cabin with a panoramic view that took in the entire marina. Leather chairs were arranged around a small teak-and-brass coffee table, a navigator station off to the left, and a large wood-and-leather pilot seat faced a control panel filled with every conceivable electronic option a wealthy young shooter could imagine.
Unfortunately, Dalton was quite alone in this lovely space.
He froze, checked his six, saw no one. In the forward section of the pilothouse, a gangway led down to the cruiser’s main salon. Presumably, there’d be a master stateroom up in the bow and a smaller sleeping cabin off the main salon. A couple of heads, a galley.
A lot of places to hide and wait.
Dalton stepped to one side, his pistol up and ready, ducked warily down and gave the main salon a quick once-over. Again, no one.
He was pretty confident that Levka, who was still on the deck dealing with the other two men, would have seen Top Kick if he had scrambled out of the forward hatch and jumped to the mole. For that matter, Top Kick didn’t look like a guy who would cut and run.
Which meant he was somewhere in the cruiser, armed, waiting. This was a tactical situation that called for some delicacy.
He felt a step behind him, pivoted, and saw Levka standing there staring back at him, an odd expression on his face, his Croat pistol in his hand. Levka lifted his left hand up, touched his index finger to his lips, and then pointed straight down at the deck in front of him, his eyes widening.
Dalton looked down, saw a silver ring set into the teak boards, and realized they were standing over the engine-room hatch cover. It was a little off-seam, as if it had been pulled shut but not locked.
A nice move,
he thought.
he thought.
Wait for the searchers to move on down into the main body of the cruiser, pop up behind them, and kill them both. Levka followed his look and then grinned at Dalton. He bent down and reached for the silver ring, but Dalton put out his hand and signaled for him to stop.
He motioned for Levka to stand back and cover the hatchway, and then he stepped over to the cabin wall beside the navigator’s station. There was a red fire panel there, with a series of breakers and gauges. There was also a yellow-and-black checkered lever with a plate above it that read:
ENGINE ROOM FIRE SUPPRESSION
CAUTION: CARBON DIOXIDE
RISK OF ASPHYXIATION
Levka saw the sign, nodded vigorously, braced himself. Dalton tripped the lever, a klaxon alarm began to blare, and there was a distinct hissing sound from under the floorboards as the fire-suppression system released a cloud of carbon dioxide vapor into the engine room under the pilot deck.
Two minutes later, the hatch cover flew open and Top Kick popped up like a jack-in-the-box, gasping, his face blue, his eyes running, waving a large blue-steel Colt .45.
Dalton stepped in, took the muzzle in an iron grip, jerked it viciously upward and back, trapping the man’s index finger inside the trigger guard and breaking it, a muffled but audible snap as the Colt came loose.
Levka stepped forward, stuck the muzzle of his HS hard up against Top Kick’s cheek, and grinned fiercely down at him.
Well
,
that settles the issue of Levka’s loyalty.
,
that settles the issue of Levka’s loyalty.
“What about the other two?” Dalton said, not taking his eyes off Top Kick, who was holding his right hand in his left, pain in his weathered face, as he dealt with a badly broken trigger finger, so badly broken that a bloody stump of jagged pink bone had ripped its way through the flesh and was now sticking out sideways about a half inch.
Levka was breathing a little hard, but he got his answer out anyway.
“In the stern. Found cable ties in fishing box. They trussed up good. One you knee in nuts, he not a very happy boy. Other one still out. Maybe for good. You hit pretty real hard, boss.”
Dalton recalled Levka’s jaunty offer while waiting to be shot in the head—
“With handy service of Dobri Levka, you don’t have to bust big fat dead men around place all by self, ruin good suits like you got.”
“With handy service of Dobri Levka, you don’t have to bust big fat dead men around place all by self, ruin good suits like you got.”
“Anybody on the pool deck see any of this?”
“No, boss. Don’t think so.”
“Go make sure.”
Levka was back in two minutes.
“All quiet. What about this one?”
So far, Top Kick had uttered not one word.
“Get him out of that hole.”
Levka reached down and lifted Top Kick out of the engine compartment by the collar of his sweater, set him down in front of Dalton. The man stood there, swaying a little, sweat on his face, a five-by-five granite block of obstinate hate, his black eyes cutting from one to the other as he waited for the inevitable bullet he had learned to expect in his trade.
Dalton glanced at Levka, who took a cable tie out of his pocket, jerked the man’s thick arms around, crossed his wrists behind his back, wrapped the tie around them, and tugged tight. It must have hurt like hairy hell, but Top Kick didn’t make a sound. He just went on glaring sudden death at Dalton. Dalton gave him a big, cheerful grin, reached out, and patted his cheek affectionately.
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