"What?"
"I just always wanted to say that."
It was 7:34 AM. I was still in my pajamas, sipping coffee and reading the paper. Bravo had a thing for Clint Eastwood movies. I don't know why; after having lived and worked with him for several years now, he made Clint look like a pansy. I was certain that Bravo had already completed his customary morning workout regimen, showered and eaten by the time he did his bad Eastwood impression (the still-wet but perfectly groomed hair gave it away).
"Feeling cheery this morning, are we?" I asked, wishing the headache that daily verified my caffeine addiction would go away.
"Yes." And with that, he was gone.
I had learned that short replies were never good. I finished my coffee, folded up and set aside my newspaper, and began cleaning my gun. I had just finished reloading it and placing it back in the holster when Bravo returned.
"Rico, come with me."
We were in San Diego at the time (on the lam as usual), and we proceeded to walk down to the harbor. Bravo pulled me into an alleyway between two buildings and began to explain.
"We have been offered $3 million to dispose of Frank Coletraine. His yacht is currently out to sea. It should be returning to harbor tonight. I have procured a boat and supplies for the job."
With that, we left the alleyway and met a man down by the water, standing next to a boat. He was a large, fierce-looking man, whose country of origin I could not determine. Bravo approached and spoke a few words to him in a language I did not recognize. The man's eyes betrayed his fear of whatever it was Bravo had said. He allowed us onto the boat, slowly backed away, then turned and ran as if for his very life.
The boat contained a scuba suit, some food and water rations, and a small arsenal of weaponry. "I didn't ask for these," said Bravo, as he dumped all of the weapons in the water. We headed out of the harbor and, once on the open sea, he bade me don the scuba gear. Bravo pulled a GPS device out of his bag and turned it on. It immediately displayed heading coordinates.
"I planted a tracking bug on Coletraine's yacht before he left," stated Bravo.
"And why, exactly," I asked, "did you not instead plant an explosive device on his vessel?"
"Where is the thrill in that?" was his reply.
Frank Coletraine did not deserve just to be blown up, anyway. He had introduced large amounts of illicit drugs into the California coastal region. He had felled ten police officers in four different skirmishes in the city. He was at the top of the CBI's Most Wanted list. He was also at the top of the Chinese Mafia's Most Wanted list, for recently kidnapping a senior member's daughter. Bravo had contacts within the Chinese Mafia, and they knew well of his exploits. They had hired him to get her back. No wonder Bravo hadn't just blown the ship to kingdom come.
We followed the GPS device's directions for about two hours when we finally saw it. A small spec on the horizon, Coletraine's yacht. Bravo pulled a small object out of his bag and handed it to me.
"Rico, you will place this on the hull of the ship. I will take care of the rest. We will meet back in the boat."
I took the item and we slowly took the boat closer in. A thick fog had begun to roll in, concealing us from our target. (Sometimes I think Bravo controlled the weather, too; the experiential vindication of that idea would not have surprised me in the least.) Guided by the GPS, we were able to row silently directly up to the yacht and secure our boat to her. I slipped into the water and began to swim toward the front of the boat. Once there, I submerged and attached the small device Bravo had given me to the hull. As soon as it was attached, it began to beep slowly. I was not desirous to see how long the beeping would last, so I surfaced and began to make my way back to our boat.
At that moment, I saw something. It was a large, black object that had fallen from the yacht to the water. Taking a moment to process, I realized it was a man, one of Coletraine's armed guards. A few seconds later, I saw another, similar object land in the water. And then another. And another. And another. I dodged the bodies floating in the water and made it back aboard the boat just as Bravo was coming off the yacht. He had the Chinese girl, still tied up, and he was sporting a bloody lip.
"One of them got lucky. Now let's go."
We untied the boat and started the engine. We were off. The yacht didn't move.
That night, back at the condo, I turned on the local news. (It was always interesting hearing reporters' interpretation of the events I had lived.) The Chinese girl was safe and back with her family, and 3 million of their dollars were safe with us. As expected, the top story was on Frank Coletraine.
"The US Coast Guard picked up infamous drug dealer Frank Coletraine today in his yacht, 25 miles off the coast of California. Coast Guard officials say they received an anonymous tip of Coletraine's whereabouts, and that they were able to locate his yacht due to a homing beacon that had apparently been planted on the ship's hull. Coletraine was found on the deck, handcuffed and shackled. Five body guards were found dead in the water, as well, and although autopsies have not yet been performed, initial examinations show no trauma of any kind. Upon arrest, Coletraine was found to be quite shaken and was repeatedly muttering the phrase, 'Go ahead, make my day. Go ahead, make my day.' Back to you, Tom."
