by Bobby Akart
“Give it up, Patrick,” he shouted as he spotted another glimpse of blood. “You’ll never get off the key alive if you don’t stop now. I will kill you!”
Mike meant it. There were no investigations associated with officer-involved shootings. Deadly force didn’t have to be justified. He wouldn’t be restricted to desk duty for weeks while internal affairs found a way to crucify him. In his mind, it was open season on would-be killers. The only thing that confused him was why did Patrick find it necessary to attack Phoebe? He could’ve left anytime he wanted with everyone’s blessing and a picnic basket full of food as a parting gift.
Mike ducked below the fronds of a low-slung palm tree and then twisted his body sideways to slip between the trunks of two more. That was when the six-inch carbon-steel butcher knife was thrust into his chest.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Tuesday, November 5
Bay St. Louis, Mississippi
Lacey had grown up on the water, and during her childhood, she’d spent a lot of her time around marinas. After parking their truck near the restrooms of the Bay St. Louis Harbor and Pier, they stepped into a moribund version of the vibrant and active marinas of the Florida Keys.
Her eyes surveilled their surroundings. There were no gulls wheeling and diving for bait fish that would normally be seen splashing around the docked boats, scooting away from predators above and below them. There weren’t would-be sailors toting their dock carts from ship to shore and vice versa. Only the bell-like clanging of steel cables on aluminum masts reminded her of home.
A misty haze hung over the warm water. Earth’s atmosphere and its environs struggled with a form of bipolar disorder. Parts of the planet, at the surface and below, behaved normally. The Gulf waters still managed to remain seasonally warm. However, the air temperatures shattered records around the globe. As the cloud cover increased, and temperatures continued to steadily fall, it was a matter of time before the great oceans of the world would lose the battle and become colder.
A gust of wind caused the sailboats to wobble in their slips, and their rigging became agitated as a result. The clanking sound rose to a crescendo, and then, in a blink of an eye, the wind stopped blowing, allowing the vacant boats to rest.
“C’mon, Tucker. Let’s see if the rumors are true.”
Lacey led the way toward the marina office near the start of Rutherford Pier. At the end of the eleven-hundred-foot fishing pier, several anglers were trying their luck. Lacey thought about her dad and Jimmy. One of their daily duties on Driftwood Key was to feed the inn’s guests, as well as themselves. She imagined fishing took on a whole new level of importance, as it probably did for these people on the pier.
“Hey, Mom. Look over there. It’s the, um, third pier out. There’s a man talking with a group of people.”
They picked up the pace and rushed along the waterfront until soon they were jogging toward Pier 4. The chain-link gate to the last pier of the marina had been held open by a bait bucket with several dead fish inside. The smell forced Tucker to cover his nose. Lacey, however, found it somewhat familiar and comforting.
They turned down the pier, where they were met by an older man walking briskly toward them. Lacey tried to appear cordial, making her best effort to hide her apprehensiveness.
“Excuse me,” she began. “We were told there might be charters heading toward Florida. Is that true?” She looked past the crusty old fisherman as she spoke.
“Depends,” said the old man.
“On what?” asked Tucker, slightly annoyed that the man was playing games with them. He was concerned about leaving the truck unattended and continuously glanced in the direction of the parking lot as they spoke.
“My boy and me are running some folks to Florida. There’s room for two more. The last two seats are pricey.”
“We don’t have any—” Tucker began before Lacey interrupted him.
“How pricey? We have things to trade.”
The man took a deep breath and sighed. “Lady, tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll let you know when it’s enough.”
“We have gasoline.”
“Good start. How much?”
“Maybe thirty gallons, give or take. Plus what’s in the truck.”
“Can’t siphon from these new vehicles,” he muttered. He began to walk away from the negotiations.
“It’s an older truck. Ford Bronco.”
The boat captain’s interest was suddenly piqued. “What year?”
“Mom, let’s go,” said Tucker, reaching for Lacey’s hand. He could tell where the conversation was headed.
“Sixty-seven. Pristine condition. Drove it here from California.”
“Deal. Truck and fuel for two seats.”
“No way! Mom, we can’t do this. That’s Dad’s truck.”
The captain laughed. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You wanna get—”
“Shut up, asshole!” Tucker was incensed. He walked up to the captain with his fists balled up, ready to fight. “He just died!”
Lacey forcefully grabbed her son by the arm and pulled him back toward her. “Tucker, stop it. He didn’t know.”
“Hey, listen. I’m sorry. I just have to get a fair deal and—”
“How is taking our truck for a couple of seats on a fishing boat a fair deal?” Tucker demanded.
“It is what it is, kid. Do you two wanna go to Florida or not?”
“Mom, let’s go. Okay?” Tucker was morose and sincerely wanted to take his chances on the road rather than give up his dad’s truck.
Lacey touched her son’s face and smiled. “It’s okay, son. Dad would want us to be safe.” She turned to the captain.
“Truck and fuel for two seats. And you have to take us to the Keys.”
“No way! That requires an extra fuel stop.”
Lacey held her hands up, urging him to reconsider. “Before you answer, see what we’ve got to trade. The other thing, our gear comes with us. It’s all we own.”
“Show me,” he said with a gruff.
The man whistled for his son to join them, and ten minutes later, the deal was struck. Tucker and Lacey carried their belongings toward the end of the pier with the assistance of the boat captain. As they got closer, music could be heard wafting from the old trawler as if they were preparing for a booze cruise.
Half a dozen people milled about on the dock, sizing up Lacey and Tucker as they approached. Between the duffel bags, ammo cans, and their weapons, they made quite an impression on the group. Most of them stood at the edge of the dock as far away from Lacey and Tucker as they could get.
Their fellow passengers came from all walks of life, refugees returning home or seeking a warmer climate. After the passengers realized mother and son weren’t a threat, they exchanged pleasantries to break the ice. The newcomers were assisted on board by a man and his wife who had taken up seats on the stern’s bench seating alongside their young daughter.
The forty-five-foot fiberglass fishing boat had been used by the captain and his son for years along the coastal waters. Their commercial fishing operation targeted cobia and amberjack for sale to fisheries that package seafood for grocery stores.
The captain instructed them on where to stow their gear, and he showed them the sleeping quarters with bunks for eight people. As they shoved their duffels, weapons, and ammo cans under two of the bunks, Lacey mentally performed a quick head count. There would be ten adults, three children, and the two boat owners on board, requiring them to sleep in shifts. Not that it mattered. Traveling by water would relieve the stresses and danger of the final leg of their journey. Giving up Owen’s truck in exchange for their safety was sad, but necessary.
Without warning, the captain started the 855 Cummins diesel engine. The Big Cam, as it was known, produced six hundred horsepower, allowing the vessel to cruise at fourteen knots, or about sixteen miles per hour.
“Looks like we’re about to get under way,” said Lacey with a hint of excitement. So many memo
ries flooded through her mind of growing up. As a child, she’d loved going fishing with Hank and her uncle Mike. She had been thrilled when he told her, at age twelve, it was time she learned to drive his Hatteras. Lacey had absorbed every detail of traveling on the ocean from her dad. It had been years since she’d taken a boat out on the water. Although this vessel stank of fish and diesel, it was comfortingly familiar.
Tucker, however, was still dejected over the decision to give up Black & Blue. “It sounds like it.” His voice trailed off.
Lacey noticed her son was unable to make eye contact with her. “Honey, all of this sucks. All of it. Let’s get to Driftwood Key and regroup. Okay?”
Tucker reluctantly nodded. Lacey felt horrible for her son, who was forced to become a man. She didn’t want to give up one of the last tangible memories of Owen that they possessed. However, she felt in her gut it was the right thing to do.
And then, as if to reinforce her decision, shouts were heard over the steady rumble of the diesel engine. Tucker scrambled out of the sleeping quarters first, followed close behind by Lacey. They emerged onto the aft deck, where they froze.
The family of three was huddled at the back of the boat, looking toward the pier. A large man led a trio walking briskly toward the boat. His deep voice bellowed, clearly and succinctly heard over the low rumble of Big Cam.
“Get off the boat! Now!”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Tuesday, November 5
Driftwood Key
The knife plunged into Mike’s chest. It pierced the skin just below his left nipple and sank to a point where it almost pierced his diaphragm near his lungs. The force of impact immediately knocked the air out of him as he spun to the ground. With the knife sticking out of Mike’s chest, Patrick pounced at the opportunity to finish him off.
“You’re done, Detective Mikey!” he shouted as he tried to grasp the handle of the knife and twist it.
Only, Mike wasn’t done. He’d held onto his sidearm despite falling hard to the ground. He raised his knee to block Patrick’s attack and then fired a shot into the murderer’s already wounded shoulder.
Patrick screamed in agony as the hollow-point round exploded inside his body, tearing tendons away from bones and shattering everything in its path as it tumbled around. Now Mike had the upper hand.
He sat up and groaned. He grasped the knife handle and slowly pulled it away from his body. His adrenaline-amped ears picked up the tearing sound as the serrated edge further damaged his chest cavity. He knew immediately that he might have cut his lung.
He was having difficulty breathing that was made even more difficult as Patrick rose and punched him in the side of his rib cage. The blow caused Mike to lose control of his gun, which flew into a twisted mess of mangrove roots.
Now neither man had a weapon except their fists.
Mike regained his breathing and ignored the incredible pain burning in his chest. He climbed on top of Patrick and began to mercilessly pummel the man in the face, upper body and shoulder where his wounds were the worst.
“Let it all out, Detective Mikey!” Patrick emitted a wicked cackle that caused blood to fly out of his mouth.
Patrick swung back with his right arm, slamming his fist into Mike’s rib cage. Mike temporarily lost his balance before rearing back and slamming his fist into Patrick’s jaw.
“Why, asshole? Why did you do this?”
“I shouldn’t tell you!” Patrick shouted back before having a coughing fit.
Mike stopped slugging him and jammed his fist into the gaping wound where Patrick’s left shoulder used to be.
“Arrrgggh!” Patrick screamed again. Then, inexplicably, he began laughing. It was menacing. Evil. Insane.
Mike grabbed him by the neck and started to choke him, causing Patrick to spit blood all over his face.
“Talk!” Mike demanded, releasing the death grip he had on Patrick’s larynx.
Patrick began to cough up more blood. He’d lost a lot of blood, and his organs were beginning to shut down. He was on the verge of going into hypovolemic shock. Somehow, he managed enough strength to allow his demented mind to taunt his pursuer.
“You would’ve never caught me.” The words came out in a gurgle.
Mike winced and grimaced as pain shot through his body. Blood was pouring out of his chest, soaking through his sweatshirt. He slugged Patrick again.
“Tell me, dammit!”
“Too easy,” Patrick hissed through his blood-covered teeth.
He started to choke and cough violently. Mike tried to maneuver his head to clear his airway. He didn’t care if the guy died. He just needed to know why he’d attacked Phoebe, first.
Then, with one last effort coupled with a hideous laugh, Patrick spoke again. “I’m Patricia.” He smiled, and blood poured out of both sides of his mouth until he died with his eyes staring into Mike’s.
Mike shook Patrick by the arms in an attempt to revive him. He pounded the man’s chest to restart his heart.
“What do you mean?” he shouted his question, and then his body convulsed. He suddenly felt like someone had wrapped a belt around his neck and pulled it tight, cutting off his ability to breathe. His eyes grew wide, he gasped for air, and then everything went black.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Tuesday, November 5
Bay St. Louis, Mississippi
The men slowed their pace and walked steadily toward the frightened passengers waiting on the dock to board. A few of them had just stepped onto the boat. At the man’s instructions, they panicked and scrambled off the fishing vessel, falling hard onto the wood dock before crawling away.
Lacey glanced at the wheelhouse to gauge the captain’s reaction. He’d disappeared. She turned her attention back to the men and saw that they all had their guns drawn, pointing them wildly at the trembling passengers on the dock as well as in the direction of the boat.
Unexpectedly, three shots were fired a hundred feet away from down the pier. The son had returned and immediately opened fire on the men. He struck one of the assailants in the back of the head, throwing blood and flesh onto the dockside passengers. They screamed and then jumped into the harbor in fear for their lives.
The remaining men turned on the captain’s son and began firing. Each shot several times in the young man’s direction, but they all missed. In a gun battle, especially between shooters who are untrained, it’s not unusual for over ninety percent of the rounds to miss their marks. However, it just took one to kill.
Lacey jumped at first and then dropped to her knees when the thunderous boom of a shotgun blast occurred from just over her shoulder, immediately followed by another. The captain had emerged with his marine shotgun and wasted no time firing upon the attackers.
They spun around to shoot back, catching Lacey and Tucker in the crossfire. They fell to the deck and scrambled for cover, although the fiberglass sides wouldn’t necessarily protect them.
Bullets and shotgun pellets were flying in all directions. Lacey had managed to crawl up the slight slope toward the bow and out of the line of fire. She eased her head over the railing to watch.
There were two dead bodies lying on the dock, surrounded by blood. Both of them had been shot in the head. One of the shooters had dropped to a knee. Bleeding from his chest, he continued to fire at the captain’s son until he finally found his target. The young man was struck in the shoulder, spun around, and then fell off the dock but not before striking his head on the transom of a boat as he hit the water.
His father, the boat captain, saw this and unloaded a barrage of shotgun fire. He’d squeeze the trigger, rack another round, and then fire again. He stood strong against the last man standing on the dock, the leader who had demanded everyone get off the boat. Brutally wounded himself, he finished the battle with a kill shot, nailing the captain in the heart, who instantly fell to the deck.
Exhausted, the killer dropped to his knees and began waving his gun around. He tried to shout, but blood gurg
led from his throat and into his mouth. His eyes were wild as he became increasingly incoherent.
“Off … my … boat!” he tried to yell, but it was barely audible as he began to lose his breath.
“Mom!” shouted Tucker as he tried to gain his footing only to slip and fall in the captain’s blood.
“I’m okay.”
“Off!” the man yelled as he spit out more blood. He raised his weapon and tried to shoot in their direction. All that resulted was several clicks barely heard over the still-running diesel engine.
Tucker regained his footing and held onto the rail to greet his mother as she made her way past the wheelhouse. She was incredibly calm under the circumstances.
“Quick, untie the dock lines.”
“What?”
“We’re leaving,” she said as she pushed past him. She pointed toward the bow and carefully made her way past the dead captain. When she reached the entrance to the wheelhouse, she pointed at the man who’d wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter.
“You. Untie that line.”
“But …” He was uncertain if he should follow Lacey’s instructions.
“Now! We’ve gotta go.”
The man jumped at her stern tone and nervously began to untie the line. Lacey entered the wheelhouse. The enclosed space included an eating area, a small galley, and a traditional wooden six-spoke ship’s wheel.
“We’re clear, Mom!”
Lacey turned the wheel and nervously grasped the throttle. This boat was much older than her Dad’s, but the basics were all there, including console-mounted electronics. At first, she gave it too much throttle, and the boat rushed forward. Tucker and the family were thrown to the deck.