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He had been slouching down on a bench against the back wall, probably just hanging out and shooting the breeze. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him straighten up, then jump to his feet, and he was on my back before the first guy hit the floor.
He was strong as well as quick. He got an arm around my throat and I was seeing stars in just a few seconds.
No matter how much you study martial arts and dirty fighting, there just aren’t that many good counters to a choke hold from the rear. The best one is to keep your opponent from getting behind you.
I had missed that one. He was behind me, and he had a knee in my back and he was pulling hard enough to make my neck creak. I tried to knock him loose with my elbows, but he put enough distance between us and I couldn’t reach.
My throat felt raw and I could hear my heart pounding, even over the sound of the two of us scuffling. I needed air but there was none coming in.
I tried to run him backwards into the wall, but he braced a foot against the bench he’d been sitting on and just pulled back harder.
But to do that he had to take the knee out of my back. I was close enough now and I slammed an elbow in to his kidneys and heard him grunt. But the bastard held on.
The world was getting dim and blurry and seemed far away. I knew I didn’t have a lot of time before he turned my lights out. There was only one thing I hadn’t tried yet.
Moving as quickly as I could, I dropped to one knee. He dropped with me, but he had to bend over from the waist to do it. That gave me enough room and I turned, whipping a leg at his ankles and sweeping him off his feet.
He held on, which was a pretty good trick, but now he was on his back and holding the back of my neck. I took in a deep breath. It sounded like an old man dying and it felt like sandpaper going in but it was the sweetest breath I’d ever taken.
I took just a half second to enjoy it but that was too long. My friend on the floor dropped his arm from my neck and kicked at my face. I didn’t block the kick completely, but I managed to slip it off my face and onto the side of my head.
Good, Billy, I thought as stars exploded in my head. Very good. Protect that handsome profile at all costs.
I managed to shake it off in time to see the second kick coming, and this one I knocked to the side with both hands. Then I lunged over it and grabbed at his throat with my left hand. When he blocked that I brought my right hand around and slammed it into his face.
His muscles went slack for just a second, but it was enough. I hit him again, a text book right to the point of his jaw, and he went completely limp.
I gave him a ten count with my fist cocked. Then I raised his eyelid and looked.
Nobody home. That’s really tough to fake. If somebody touches your eyes and you’re in there, you flinch. You can’t help it.
He didn’t flinch, and his eyes were rolled back into his head. He was out.
I stood up and moved over to check the first body.
He had a pulse, slow and steady, and his eyes were empty.
I looked around the room for something to keep them quiet. There were no coils of rope, no rawhide lanyards—nothing. These guys were barely nautical at all.
I wondered if one of them was Patrice du Sinueux, the voodoo houngan himself. Maybe I should kick them each a couple of times, just to be sure. Nothing major; just break a couple of ribs, loosen a few teeth.
It occurred to me that I could check it easily enough. Nicky had said he had a tattoo of a snake on his arm. I bent down beside first one unconscious man, then the other. No snake tattoo. Not on either one of them. That made it a little easier to leave them lying there, instead of pitching them over the side.
I stood up. I didn’t have a whole lot of time. Sooner or later somebody would find my two friends, and it was safer to bet on sooner. I needed to tie them up quickly and get on with searching the ship.
I gave the room a quick inspection. In a drawer of the chart table I found a roll of electrical tape. It would have to do.
I got both men onto their stomachs with their mouths taped shut. I used the rest of the tape on their wrists, binding them behind their backs, and then taping their ankles together.
I also went through their pockets quickly. They each had a large folding knife on their belts. I took both and threw them out the door and into the water.
The man at the wheel had a small automatic pistol in his pocket. I checked it over quickly. It was a Rossi .380, a respectable weapon. There were rust patches along the barrel and a greasy feeling of too much gun oil on the grips. I wiped it on his shirt and stuck it in my belt.
The rest of the stuff in their pockets was uninteresting: money, cough drops; the man from the bench had a large ring of keys and a blackjack. The wheelman had a few polaroid pictures of naked women, tied up and begging for mercy. I could make out a background with a couple of ringbolts, a mop hanging, and a shelf next to a rusting porthole. It looked like the shots had been taken on board a ship, probably this one.
It was nice to get a reminder of who these guys were and why I was here. These were not simple, honest merchant seamen. They were concentration camp guards, sadistic killers who enjoyed throwing people by the dozens into the ocean to die.
The world has come a long way since the Nazis, we tell ourselves with little pats on the back. Sure. Tell it to the Khmer Rouge. Mention it in Bosnia and wait for the laugh. The fact is, there have always been and always will be plenty of work for the kind of guy who likes to hurt people. Many governments recognize that and quietly round them up for official work. Other people, like these two, prefer to operate in the private sector, where they could torture somebody without a lot of red tape.
