14 Barracuda by Quiller Barracuda (epub)

Author:Quiller Barracuda (epub)
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-11-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13 : DANCE

This was the scene. This was the scene of the execution.

We were moving at less than cruising speed and there was less noise from the diesels. The wake bannered from the stern across the sea towards Miami. There was a vessel a mile off, perhaps less; it was difficult to judge distances by moonlight on a reflecting surface. The vessel was marked only by its riding lights. Two or three more stood off our port quarter, farther away, one of them with lights shining on deck and from a line of portholes below. Another looked as if it had way on, and showed both red and green lights. It was heading obliquely in our direction but wouldn’t pass close, no closer than half a mile.

Water slapped below the bows; the night was peaceful.

The man Vicente was still turned towards us in the cabin, looking at Nicko. Fidel the Cuban wasn’t aware of the moment; he sat humped against the bulwark nursing his pain, his eyes closed and his head on his chest. Across from him, five feet from where I was standing, Roget the black leaned in a crouch to keep the profile of the big Suzuki below the rail. He also was looking at Nicko. The fifth man was at the helm, his back to us. Above the cabin roof the radar scanner-swung, and a penant flew against the stars.

This was the scene.

Nicko pulled his gun.

‘Fidel.’

Kicked the Cuban’s foot to get him conscious. Fidel lifted his head and looked up into Nicko’s bright little eyes, and shrank.

‘Get up.’

Didn’t move. He couldn’t look away from the man above him. His lips began forming words that made no sound.

‘Get up!’

It took a little time, a few seconds, because he was in a lot of pain; but he got to his feet and Nicko looked into his face.

Turn around.’

We rose on a crest and there was Miami again, jewel-bright in the distance, riding out the night. I wished Fidel could have turned his head and seen it, because it was so pretty. It might have reminded him of Juanita.

‘Kneel. On your knees.’

Somewhere a lanyard was slapping timber to the wind of our passage, strumming in the quietness, passing the time. Flotsam drifted past, a cement bag, I think, or a life-jacket.

‘Nicko. Not with the gun.’ Vicente, from the cabin.

Nicko turned with a jerk. ‘Jesus Christ, we’re miles —’

‘Not with the gun.’

The tone almost quiet, but with a lot of emphasis, a lot of authority.

Fidel didn’t hear them, or didn’t follow the meaning; he knelt facing the bulwark, his back to Nicko, praying softly in Spanish. There was nothing I could do for him and I don’t think that in any case it would have been wise. If anything happened he would be in the way, fatally, perhaps, in the way.

‘Listen, for Christ’s sake, one shot won’t make any —’

‘Nicko. If you use a gun, Mr Toufexis is going to know. He is going to know from me. You’ve seen Mr Toufexis with people, Nicko.

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