Marc sighed and said, “I will go. Ringo, you are in charge.” He slipped the rope under his arms as a safety line, then used his arms and legs on the thicker pulley lines to descend to the pitching deck. Timing it by watching the swells further out to sea, Marc made an easy drop of eight feet to land on the Malice. Right before he stepped to the deck, Marc saw a huge darkness looming further out to sea, and he noticed the waves sounded different in that area, too.
He dismissed it as heavier clouds, and after hugging the captain, his old friend, had the man take him below deck to the safe. Water sloshed calf deep, with papers and debris rocking from side to side on the small waves.
“You may leave,” He said to the captain, and waited until he had the space to himself. He lifted the chain over his head, put in the key and opened the safe. Inside were three ornate wooden boxes, each one ten inches by eight inches by two inches, each with Duvalier in gold script on the lid. And Marc remembered:
February 6, 1986, Baby Doc Duvalier, son of Papa Doc, the greatest leader in Haitian history, readied to go into exile and leave his beloved Haiti the next day for France. Marc and Ringo met with him while gunfire and chants for “Death to Duvalier” came from outside the grounds. He said, “There are three small boxes, given to me from friends in Sierra Leone, that are in a place my father kept hidden. I believe you know it, in the cottage in Pètion-Ville. Bring it to me tomorrow. I will need it abroad.
Marc found the boxes, but never saw Baby Doc off in his exile. Marc remembered that when he had to flee, He had a friend hide the boxes. That friend was the captain of the Malice. This, today, was the first successful attempt to bring them to Marc in America.
He opened each box. The inside was lined in black velvet, and filled with diamonds of various colors and dimensions, from pea sized to thumbnail. In the center of each box was a single, canary-yellow diamond the size of a quail egg. He closed them, put the boxes in a small canvas backpack, and exited to the deck. Marc knew his life was about to change.
~*~
John and Randall advance steadily on the pier and were able to see nothing further than thirty yards ahead, with occasional clear patches to fifty or sixty yards.
It was in the second clear patch they saw Jean Claude standing by a square pillar, his eyes wide in surprise. Jean Claude raised an M4 and cut loose at them without letting up on the trigger, sounding like a jackhammer working for twenty seconds straight.
They had no place to hide. John was hit in the foot, and Randall once in the thigh, then Jean Claude’s barrel rose steadily higher from the continual recoil and the rest of the rounds sprayed the sky. When the rifle was empty, the Haitian threw it down and ran from them, disappearing into the rain.
John looked at his foot. A hole on the outside edge wept blood. Another half inch and it would have missed him. There was no pain, and wouldn’t be until the shock wore off. Randall leaned against the railing, holding one hand against his thigh.
“How bad?” John asked.
“Caught the outside of my leg and cut a gash. Hurts like a bastard, but I’m okay. He just fired a hundred rounds at us and we only got nicked. Let’s get these assholes.”
Back near the Quarterdeck, Hunter waited, timing her shot. She heard a long burst of automatic fire from up the pier, a very long burst. It worried her, but she refocused. She waited until the boat was in the trough between two huge waves, then squeezed and released the trigger, sending a burst of six rounds into the engine area. The three tracers made red lines in the air and disappeared into the boat.
She fired three more bursts, then moved her sights to the closer boat and fired a longer burst into it. Yells came from the boats and the shore, although faint in the wind.
Black smoke lifted from the engine compartments and swirled away in the hurricane. Both boats drifted now, helpless.
Three men on shore hopped into the Escalade. Hunter swung the M4 and fired a thirty-shot burst at its engine. Men scrambled out of it and ran into the trees and brush to the rear of the SUVs. Several fired long strings from their M4s at Hunter, and bullets splatted into the restaurant high above her head. They could not see her.
For good measure, Hunter shot the engines of the other vehicles with several quick bursts. She duck-walked away from the railing and was walking to rejoin Ariel when the psychic ran to her, carrying two small canvas bags.
Hunter looked beyond her for the two men, but didn’t see them. Ariel said, “They ran. I couldn’t stop them. But they left these.” Inside each bag was a one hundred round magazine.
Hunter loaded a fresh magazine into her rifle, made sure a round was chambered, then said, “Stay close behind me. We’re joining John and Randall.”
John and Randall moved forward, weapons ready. Deepening heavy rain and mist mixed with terrible swirling winds descended on them, and a looming, metallic, groaning darkness seemed to be coming closer.
John couldn’t see ten feet. He said, “Randall?”
There was the sound of a sudden, desperate struggle, and John hurried toward it. He reached Randall at the same time as Hunter, who came with Ariel right behind her, and they all saw two Haitian men struggling on the floor with the Apache.
Before John could react, Hunter put a dozen full-auto rounds of .223 into each of them. Randall rolled to his feet and checked himself for bullet holes, then nodded at her.
Jean Claude seemed to materialize from the gloom as he charged them. He extended his gun hand to shoot and was so close that John grasped his wrist and threw the Haitian over the railing into the sea.
“That’s three,” John said.
“Stay ready.” Hunter said, then she stopped walking. A different sound came from the ocean. She said, “There’s something big out there.”
Ringo and Young were pulling up Marc when they felt a deeper darkness looming high beside them. A metallic groan seemed to emanate from all around them as the pier vibrated.
Marc was almost over the railing when Young screamed, “It’s a ship!”
The abandoned freighter materialized in the storm, it’s starboard side at a right angle to the pier. It wallowed in the waves and wind, then lifted on a swell and slammed into the pier with a crashing, rending sound that sent the men sprawling on the floor.