by Ray Wench
Both Lynn and Caryn blew out a long audible breath. Lynn stood quickly and stepped over the seat. “Caryn go inside and prepare for breakfast. Send Darren to find Caleb and tell him no matter what, to stay out of sight and watch the cornfields. Hurry.” Caryn hurried into the house. A moment later, Darren came bounding down the stairs and ran off behind the garage.
Lynn turned toward the garage and motioned for the occupants to come out. She pointed at the barn and held up a hand like a stop sign, hoping those inside would understand to stay put. She wanted numbers at the table but didn't want to show everyone, just in case.
She looked at the pines searching for Lincoln. Wherever he was, he was well hidden. Caryn came back with Ruth and Alyssa in tow. Lynn did a mental head count. In all, they had more than twenty people in residence on the grounds and across the street in the three houses there. Mark and his children were gone, of course, but they still had the numbers. As the girls worked, she counted off the groups. Three kids under twelve; ten women, eight men. She debated whether or not to send word to the other families off site.
Myron and two other boys came from the garage. Melanie and Debbie came out of the house. She wasn't sure who, but someone was on guard duty watching the north-south road in front of the farmhouse. One of the boys was with Caleb watching the corn. Lincoln was in the trees. She suddenly wished she had more fighters around her.
She grabbed one of the boys. “Devon, you and Debbie take one of the cars and go tell Jarrod about our visitors. Tell him Mark isn't here. Tell a few of the families along the way. Be careful.”
Devon ran into the house to get the keys. “Debbie, where's your gun.”
The young girl blushed. “Oh, I forgot.”
With a touch of anger, Lynn said, “You have to get in the habit of carrying it. You never know when you might need it.”
“I-I'm sorry, Lynn. It just scares me.”
“I know, honey, but if you get attacked, you're going to wish you had it with you. Now please, go get it so you can protect Devon. Go.” She gave her a gentle push.
“Okay everyone, let's get ready for breakfast. Don't stand around. You know what to do. We may or may not have some guests. Let's move.” She snagged Myron's arm. He carried his bow and quiver of arrows in one hand. “Go find Caleb and help him guard the fields.”
The boy hesitated, nodded and trotted off.
The group broke into a somewhat more subdued version of their daily routine. Soft chatter broke out, but the boisterous talk and laughter that usually started their morning were absent. Devon and Debbie climbed into one of the community cars and drove off.
Darren came running back from the fields. “I told him,” he said.
Lynn nodded and tried to think of what else she should do to protect everyone, but her mind went blank. Her mind kept returning to the look in Juanita's eyes. Had it been merely a defensive look, or had she seen something dangerous there? She looked toward the trees to see Juanita and party coming into the clearing. Guess they would know soon enough.
The guests stepped forward and assumed their marching v-formation. Their weapons were more at ready than before. All eyes moved constantly, like predators searching for prey. Or was that just her overactive imagination? Regardless, Lynn decided to err on the side of caution and leave some of the family hidden. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to any member of the community under her watch. She would never forgive Mark for leaving her in charge.
She missed him, even though it had been less than a day. Lynn missed his strength and his confidence. She hoped Bobby, Becca and he were all right. She hoped they'd had a successful fishing trip. But most of all, she prayed they were on their way back.
Nine
Becca sped toward the main road, where she barely slowed to make the turn. The SUV swayed hard to the left and, for a moment, Mark feared the vehicle would roll. She S-curved back and forth across the road fighting the wheel, before gaining control. As the SUV stabilized, they rocketed forward at better than eighty miles an hour.
Mark looked through the side window at the quickly receding marina entryway but saw no sign of pursuit. An image of the man's face on the boat floated before him. “Pull over, Becca.”
“Huh? Why? Are they coming?” She turned and scanned his body, a worried look crossing her face. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Please, just pull over.”
Her brows knitted in a question, but she did not ask it. She turned into the parking lot of an old bait shop, braked and shoved the stick into park. “What's up, Daddy?”
“There were people back there on that big sailboat.”
His kids looked at him but said nothing. Becca prodded when he didn't continue, “So...?”
“So, we brought those pirates right to them. If they get captured or killed, it's my fault.”
“No offense, Dad, but that's crap,” Bobby said. “You are not responsible for every survivor’s life. We can't help them all.”
“No, but we can help those we can.”
“Maybe the pirates won't find them,” Becca offered.
Mark nodded absently. “Maybe.”
Silence lingered for several long moments. Without further discussion, Becca put the shift in drive, spun the wheel hard and climbed back on the road heading toward the marina.
Bobby said, “What are you doing, sis?”
“What's it look like, Bobo? I'm going back.”
“Why?”
“Because it's what Daddy was going to do with or without us. I chose with.”
Mark felt the tug of a smile at the corners of his mouth. His daughter knew him well. “Drive past the entrance and park in that copse.” He pointed and she did as instructed.
“There's a pretty deep drainage ditch in front of the trees,” she said.
“Go in at an angle and no matter what, keep moving. If you take your foot off the gas, we'll either get stuck or tip sideways.”
Becca hit the ditch at about a thirty-degree entry. The ditch was dry, which helped with traction. As she hit bottom, the front wheels struck large rocks and bounced. Becca pushed the pedal down a little more and turned head on into the climb. Once free of the bottom, she turned the wheel so they rose on a diagonal up the slope. Twice the wheels spun, digging for purchase, but halfway up the wheels caught and had no problem reaching the top. Becca found a small clearing and drove inside.
“That should be good.” He opened the door. “Bobby, tear some branches free and cover the back end.” As Bobby got out, Mark stood and stretched. His clothes were drenched. Fortunately, it was not cold, but the slight warm breeze still sent a chill through him. He shuddered like a dog throwing off rain water.
His kids joined him and he said, “Here's what's gonna happen and there is no debate. We'll go through the trees. If I remember right, they'll end about twenty yards from where we were parked. From there we should be able to see the entire marina. If the pirates are gone, we'll turn around and leave. If they are still there, we’ll watch and do nothing. However, if we find they discovered the people hiding on the boat, well … we'll worry about that if it happens.”
Without waiting for a response, Mark set off through the trees till they reached the edge of the tree line. He motioned to stop and lowered to one knee. Five boats were in the channel. Two had docked, their crews searching the marina. So far it didn't look as though they’d found the people on the sailboat. The other three boats worked to salvage the wreckage of the two vessels that collided, with some men in the water while others stood ready on their boats holding rope.
Mark reached back without looking. “Glasses,” he said, like a doctor asking for a scalpel. Bobby slapped them into his hand.
He did a slow pan from left to right and counted about fifteen men. Too many to go up against. He focused the glasses on the sailboat. Nothing moved, not that he expected anyone to. If he were on board, he'd be hiding somewhere too.
He swept the glasses left. No one on shore was looking throug
h any of the docked boats. One man checked the gas pumps for fuel. Two more men entered the marina store. A crash of glass echoed across the open grounds.
Another man went up the road, following the SUV's flight and vanished from sight. Perhaps, looking to see if they'd really left the marina. “Bobby,” Mark whispered. “Cut through and keep an eye on him.” Bobby nodded and left without a word.
Mark turned his attention back to the boats in the channel. The man with the binoculars on the first boat chasing them stood on the bow directing glasses in their general direction. He was not large but had a powerful look and military bearing. He panned toward them. Mark said, “Get down.”
Mark dropped prone but kept the binoculars trained on the man. He wondered if this was their leader. As Mark's opposite brought his own binoculars in line with him, he lowered the glasses and placed his head on the ground. He waited thirty seconds before sneaking a peek. The man had moved on. Though relieved, sweat trickled down Mark's face. Lifting to his elbows, he focused the glasses on the leader.
The man on the boat turned his attention toward the sailboat. He scanned past, did an abrupt reverse and sighted in on a spot. Something must have caught his eye. Had he seen a peeking face, too? From this angle, he saw nothing that would set off an alarm. A voice reached him, though the words were unclear. The leader waved his arm, attracting the attention of someone on shore. A man trotted down the dock to the leader's boat. Given his orders, he turned and ran back down the dock to the shore. There he called his men together, spoke and pointed at the sailboat.
Five men turned and walked to the long dock where the sailboat was moored. Mark's heart froze. Each man carried an assault rifle of some sort. Whoever was on board was in trouble. Unless it was some sort of smuggler's boat, there were few places to hide.
The men boarded, their boots thumped loudly on the wooden deck. The boat rocked beneath their weight. They spread out and searched. Two men remained on deck while the others disappeared below, their weapons leveled and ready, like a trained military entry team. The sight of their professional approach sent a chill through Mark.
Almost as an afterthought, Mark slid his rifle in front of him without breaking eye contact with the sailboat. A sudden commotion came from within the cabin. He could not see what was happening, but heard several screams, possibly from one or more females, followed by a solo shot, then two short bursts.
Mark lowered the binoculars and lifted the rifle sight to his eye. He made a quick adjustment to the scope and drew a bead on one of the men on deck. He stood several feet back and slightly to the side of the doorway down. The second man climbed above the cabin and pointed his gun downward at the opening.
More shots and screams. Mark tensed. He readied himself, mentally and physically, and spoke in a calm voice. “Becca, switch places with Bobby. Send him here. If you hear me start shooting, take out the man Bobby's shadowing.”
Becca didn't say a word. Mark didn’t hear her go. He wondered what kind of man sends his daughter off alone to kill someone. Sick was the only word that came to mind, although he was sure Lynn could come up with many more appropriate names.
Activity on the sailboat cleared any other such thoughts from his head.
Moving backward, one of the armed men, came through the doorway. His gun pointed at what looked like a family of three, a woman and two children. A second gunman prodded them up the stairs. The tall, slender, dark-skinned woman had both arms wrapped protectively around the two children.
“Hey, Boss,” the top side gunner yelled across the water to the leader. “Look what we found.”
The leader said something to the man at the wheel and the boat edged closer and pulled up alongside the sailboat. Mark couldn't hear the exchange, but a loud laugh followed. A moment later another voice drew Mark's attention back to the stairs. The third man appeared, dragging a black man by the shirt collar. The body bounced up the steps and was dumped to the deck. A large blood blossom stained the upper right side of his chest.
A leaf crunched behind him. Mark didn't flinch, nor did he look as his son settled softly on the ground six feet away. “When I start shooting, take the two gunmen on the left. I'll start with the ones on the speed boat. We'll work inward and meet in the middle. We need to clear them away from the family.”
His son made no reply, but Mark heard a slight exhalation and knew Bobby was now on target.
On the sailboat, the first gunman ripped the young girl from the woman's arms. “No!” she shouted and reached for the child. The man behind the woman yanked her back by her hair as the girl was lifted and tossed overboard to the waiting arms of the leader. He caught her, turned, took several steps holding her away from his body, like she was a baby with a smelly diaper, and handed her down to the man at the wheel.
“Get ready,” Mark said. He moved his sights from the leader to the pilot. With no one to guide the boat, he would have more time to get the leader.
One of the attackers hoisted the black man to the side of the boat and shoved him to his knees. The shooter holding him lifted his gun to the back of the man's head. “Bobby?” Mark said with a touch of concern in his voice.
“Got him.”
Mark didn't wait any longer. He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The pilot pitched forward and flipped over the gunwale into the water. A second shot followed a split second later and the man about to execute the wounded black man fell sideways, a red mist settling over him. The kneeling man, unable to stay upright fell forward and he too dropped to the water.
The men on the sailboat all turned toward Mark and Bobby. Bobby punched a hole through the man on the left. Mark tracked the fast-moving leader and pulled the trigger, but missed, as the man dove headfirst off the bow onto the deck below.
Damn! He fought to remain calm. He couldn't allow that boat to get away with the child on board.
He scanned across the deck but had no target. With no idea where the child was, and afraid to shoot blindly, he hoped for a lucky shot at the leader. To his left, Bobby shot again. Return fire ripped through the trees overhead. The men hadn't taken long pinpointing the point of attack.
To Mark's dismay, the speed boat pulled away from the sailboat. He focused on the wheel. A hand gripped the bottom, guiding the craft into a turn and down the channel. Mark sighted and fired fast. The bullet passed between the wheel spokes, buried deep into the wood and missed the fingers. The boat swerved, zagged back, kissing off the hull of the sailboat before accelerating away. Mark could not get a clean shot.
A bullet plunked into the ground inches to his right ending any further thought of stopping the boat. He rolled away from the shot as another struck the ground right where he'd been. “Let's move,” he said.
“Way ahead of you, Dad.” Bobby was already on the move. Mark found his feet and, keeping low, ran an evasive pattern toward a thick tree. He reached it just as a series of bullets carved into the trunk. He leaned against the tree and tried to catch his breath, as well as calm his racing heart. That had been close.
He couldn't see Bobby, but he heard the report of his gun. He peered around the trunk to get a bearing on the shooters’ positions and noted there was one less and they were on the move. The two remaining gunmen ran down the dock seeking to reach land. Sporadic shots came from the boats still in the channel, but they weren't on the mark.
Mark and Bobby fired almost simultaneously, but neither found a target. The running men returned random fire. They reached shore and turned toward their boat, however, before they'd gone five steps in that direction, Becca stepped out from behind a porta-potty and fired nearly point-blank. Both men staggered backward. Becca continued firing until they hit the ground and stopped moving.
Ten
“Kendra!” a voice screamed from the sailboat. “Kentae!” That same voice went shrill. Becca reached the dock first and pounded down its length.
“Bobby,” Mark said, “Give Becca back up. I'll keep you covered.
His son broke cover on the
sprint. Mark kept his sight trained on the receding boats. As the boat raced around the bend in the channel, Mark lowered the rifle. He waited several moments to make sure no one returned before he stepped from cover.
He made his way to the sailboat and about to climb aboard when Bobby came running from around the cabin. “Gangway, Dad.” Mark stepped to the side as Bobby hurdled the gunwale and raced down the metal dock. Though his son was in a hurry, Mark had no sense of threat against him. He stepped to the deck and crossed in front of the cabin. Along the side walkway, a wet Becca, the black woman, and a young boy sat huddled around the wet, wounded man.
The man groaned. Mark set the rifle down and squatted. “Give me some room, son,” he said, scooting the boy to the side. Becca had already torn the man's shirt and used a portion of it to wipe away the blood for a better look at the wound. She looked up at Mark and frowned as she pressed the wet cloth against the hole.
Mark turned to the woman. Tears streamed down her face. “Do you have any medical kits or supplies on board” She wiped her face and nodded. “Please, get it,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft and calm, but thinking she should have already been moving to get the supplies instead of sitting there crying. She got up and left, the boy trailing behind.
He leaned over the body. “Did you check for an exit wound?”
“Yeah,” Becca said. “The bullet’s still in there. He needs a doctor.”
Mark pinched his lips together in a thin line. That meant transporting him back to the farm. He knelt next to the man. “Hey! Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes and nodded.
“Let me hear you say it.”
“I ... can hear you.” His voice was a gasp. He was already losing strength. They might never make it back to the farmhouse in time.