46
Nick Aprea came screaming up the road in a massive SUV with a lone cherry-top spinning. Three police cars with sirens wailing, red, white, and blue lights flashing, followed in his wake.
Nick was the first man out of his vehicle, weapon drawn.
“Police!” he shouted, aiming down on Cardona and Frankie. “Stop firing. Drop your fucking weapons!”
Vincent Cardona and his cousin were smart enough to hold fire when the bulls arrived. They tossed down their guns and were arrested on the spot.
Malic’s men answered by firing at Nick. The uniformed cops raised their police-issue nine-millimeters and returned fire as Nick led the charge past the crippled limousine and deployed inside the compound walls.
Peter Maniacci was arrested by the next wave of cops arriving on the scene. He was beating the shit out of the sheik’s man, whom he’d tackled running down the road with the aluminum suitcase and the ten-million-dollar Matisse.
The exit through the gate and the only way out was partially blocked by the crashed limo. One of Malic’s men panicked when the cops arrived, jumped in his Porsche, and tore across the lawn past the pool, ripping up the rose garden. The desperate man spun a one-eighty at the compound wall, spraying a rooster tail of dirt and grass, and then jammed the transmission into first and roared back toward the front gate.
Nick stepped into the center of the destroyed garden and fired. His automatic jammed. He fired again. An empty click.
The driver shifted into second. He cracked a tight smile as he rocketed toward Nick.
That’s when Mateo stepped out of the shadows and fired three rounds.
The driver took a bullet to the forehead and slumped sideways. The weight of his dead body pulled the steering wheel crazily to the right. The Porsche veered away from Nick, ramped up the coved edge of the pool, and splashed ass-down in the deep end, the car’s headlights burning skyward like klieg lights.
Nick ejected his jammed clip and slapped in another. He nodded his thanks to Mateo, who headed back to the front of the property.
Nick pulled a flashlight off his belt, saw that the door to the pool house had been kicked off its hinges, and ran in that direction.
Hassan exploded out of the pool house door with a loaded AK. He saw Nick pounding the turf in his direction and let loose with a short burst of automatic firepower.
Fully exposed, Nick fired on the run and then dove into the pool. The AK bullets followed, puncturing the skin of the Porsche as a wild-eyed Hassan ran past to the far end of the property and leaped up and over the compound wall.
Angelica, in a short skirt, diaphanous blouse, and bare feet, moved gingerly over the rocky shore toward the inflatable boat tied off on the next dock. She didn’t want to let go of Jack’s hand, but he had another thought and headed toward the cigarette boat to disable it.
As he stepped onto the dock, an arcing trail of bullets splintered the wooden slats in his direction and forced him to move back, hug the cliff, and join Angelica at the inflatable. All he could see in the dark was the muzzle flash. With manic strokes he oared the boat out into the waves.
Hassan had started his descent from the top of the cliff, just below the compound wall, firing as he struggled to maneuver down the slick wooden stairs in his leather boots.
He jumped off the stairs onto the grassy outcropping and sighted in on the Avalon inflatable, disappearing in the distance. He let off a tight burst that fell short as Jack paddled safely around the bend of the peninsula to his moored boat.
Hassan felt a bullet invade his space before he heard the discharge. A divot exploded out of the cliff face. Hassan arched his back, swung his automatic sky-high, and fired over his shoulder at Nick Aprea, who was raining bullets on him.
Hassan knew that if Angelica got away, he would spend the rest of his life in prison, and that was not an option. He spun around; sprayed the top of the cliff, forcing Nick back; threw the AK over his shoulder; and took the stairs down three at a time.
Jack stepped on board his craft first. He reached out a hand to pull Angelica up, but she slipped into the water and swam to the transom, where he all but lifted her onto the deck. Angelica’s blouse stuck to her body like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest. She stepped into Jack’s embrace, wrapped her arms around him, and squeezed.
“Thank you,” she said, nailing him with her blazing green eyes.
When Angelica stepped back, she glanced down at herself, as did Jack. She was very beautiful and very exposed.
“If I’d known you were going to save me, I’d have worn a pair of shoes.”
Jack’s grin was tight as he pulled up the anchor, started the engine, and headed north toward Marina del Rey.
“There’s a towel in the head,” he said over the roar of the engine. Angelica walked into the dimly lit cabin, throwing an appreciative look back at Jack as she closed the bathroom door behind her.
He was running on pure adrenaline from the rush of the assault. Because of the natural curve of the landmass, he chose to power into deeper water for a more direct route home. The lights of the Terranea resort shone like a beacon in the distance. Jack could see a cargo container ship moving from San Diego north in his direction, but it was still in his rearview.
Then the deep thrumming of a high-powered boat turned his stomach to water. He glanced over his shoulder but couldn’t make out the cigarette boat on the dark horizon. Hassan was running without lights. Jack instinctively reached for the radio and then remembered that his equipment had been smashed to hell after the attack in the marina.
He pushed the throttle to max, checked the load on his Glock, and pulled the .22 from his ankle rig. As Angelica walked out on deck with a towel wrapped around her hair, he handed the gun to her.
“You know how to fire one of these?”
“It’s not over?” she asked fearfully. Yet in the next moment the slight crack in her resolve turned to ice. She unwound the towel and threw it over one of the deck chairs. “It’s just point and shoot,” she said with the ease of a mob wife. “Uncle Frankie,” she said by way of explanation.
“Right.”
Jack pulled out his cell and handed it off. “Dial 911 and have them patch us through to the Coast Guard.”
She dialed the phone and then looked up. “No bars, Jack. We’re in a dead zone.”
“Not on my watch.”
Jack vowed not to let that reality come to pass.