Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  I needed to play off his ego. Praise him. I knew he loved that.

  “So how did you have my father murdered without anyone ever suspecting anything other than a mugging?”

  “You’re ready to get down to it?”

  I knew how hard this was going to be for me. But I needed to keep him talking. And I had to know.

  “I’d at least like to know what I’m going to die for.”

  Charles Zane adjusted his seat, now facing me straight on. He slid his chair back a foot, which put him potentially in range for me to sweep my feet under him. But I knew I had to wait. A fall from a few feet wouldn’t have any chance of incapacitating him.

  “Sadly, it’s not all that great a story. I wish I could tell you your father infiltrated my criminal enterprise and was talking to the CIA, but that’s not the case. He just asked questions one too many times. And I’m not one to take chances.”

  “What questions did he ask?”

  “Well, now we have to go back a little bit. As I assume you now understand, Doug Anderson is a wild card. And not the good kind that you want in your poker hand. He had many vices, the young girls only being one of them. And these would be exacerbated when he dabbled in his own drug supply. He’d get touchy. And not just with the women. His daughter and his son were on the receiving end at times. Not sexually, but physically. The kids missed school all the time for ‘being sick’. But they weren’t really sick. They’d gotten the wrong end of the belt or Doug Anderson’s fist. I know you think I’m a monster. Rightfully so, I might add. But I’m not the punch-your-kids-in-the-face type of monster. So I tried to get Doug to stop. The problem was that Doug was good, no, Doug was great for business. It’s like a professional sports league. If you commit a serious crime, you’ll be let back in the league, but only if you’re a great player. They have no time for someone who doesn’t produce. Well, Doug produced for me. Made me millions of dollars a year. Helped buy yachts like these.”

  Zane extended his hands toward the boat, as if I hadn’t noticed how extravagant it was. Being stuck on the deck, I couldn’t see out to the ocean, but I could tell the waves were getting slightly bigger. The boat had started to move back and forth a little more.

  “And it’s hard to just get rid of someone that valuable,” Zane continued. “Trust me, I thought about it. Would have worked out better for you if I had. Your father as well.”

  The anger I’d been trying to suppress suddenly rushed back to me. “You murder the good people and let a rapist child beater live. You better hope there’s not a hell.”

  “Sorry, but there’s no afterlife that levels everything out. Some people are just dealt a shitty hand. Like your father.”

  I tried to relax. I couldn’t risk being this close and not finding out.

  “So what exactly happened?”

  “You really want to know? You’re surely going to be disappointed.”

  “I don’t want to know. I need to.”

  “Alright. I’ll tell you,” he said, shuffling his chair even closer. “So, Doug’s son Mason was a student of your father’s. I guess this all started about eighteen months ago now. As was the norm with the Anderson kids, they missed school occasionally. As I’d said, it was because Doug would lay a hand on them. The problem was, some parents in the Oakland school district were clients of Doug’s. You think drugs and you think some homeless guy on the street, but it’s not always that way. There’s plenty of parents hooked on the shit. A housewife’s party used to involve a bottle of wine. Now they throw in a few pills for fun. I’m sorry, getting off track a little bit. The point is, Doug had too many clients in Oakland and I didn’t like them crossing paths so often. So I suggested he send his son somewhere else for his junior year of high school. And Mason transferred to Northgate. That’s when he got your father as a teacher. And your father proved to be a very intuitive man and sensed something was up. He asked Mason if there was a problem with his home life. Mason, knowing the beating he’d take if he told the truth, told your father no. But your father wasn’t convinced. Apparently, he started calling the Andersons’ home, leaving several messages. Doug came to me at this point and told me all that was going on. I told him Mason had to drop out of your father’s school, which he did, even though they were only a few weeks from the school year finishing. We thought that would be the end of it. But your father was dogged. I never met the man, but I can safely say it’s a trait he passed down on to you. Your father kept calling.”

  I was gaining more respect for my father by the second. This story was going to end in grief, but I already knew that. I tried to focus on the bravery that Dad had shown.

  Since he watched me, Zane could tell I was proud of my father’s actions. He continued, “Doug finally returned your father’s call and told him that Mason was a klutz and always falling around the house. That was the reason he’d have bruises or the occasional black eye. He also informed him that Mason dropped out and was transferring schools to be closer to home. Being a few weeks before the end of the year, I’m sure your father knew it was bullshit. Of course, Mason wasn’t going back to any school. I told Doug it was too big a risk. He could homeschool him if he wanted. Apparently, this wasn’t enough for your father. He kept calling even once the year had finished. I think he was actually worried about young Mason’s well-being. Very admirable. He found out the Andersons’ address and showed up at their house one day. He was a persistent little fuck, I’ll give him that.

  “Doug answered the door and your father demanded to see Mason. Doug wasn’t going to let him. You see, Mason had a fresh black eye. But apparently, Mason heard the commotion at the front door and started walking down the hallway. Your father looked past Doug, saw Mason, and noticed the brand-new bruises. At this point, your father took out his phone and said he was calling child services. Doug hit the phone out of your father’s hand and shoved him against the wall. No punches were thrown, but it got physical. Your father asked for the phone back, but Doug saw his life flashing before his eyes. He refused. Your father shouted that he was going to Child Protective Services and then the police, and he stormed out the door. Doug immediately called me. I told him we had too much to lose. He knew what that meant. And since your father was about to drive away, it was something that Doug would have to take care of himself.

  “He told Mason to wait inside. He put on a long jacket, grabbed a large knife, and ran to his van. Started following your father. Doug told me later he was surprised that he headed into San Francisco. Your father worked in the East Bay, so it was unlikely he lived in the city. But that’s where he drove. With Doug following him. Another surprise was him parking just a block above the Tenderloin. Not exactly the best spot for old white guys. But Doug knew it might be the perfect spot to get away with what was to come. He parked his car and when he saw your father start walking up Jones Street, Doug went to the next parallel street and sprinted up two blocks. He then walked back across to Jones Street and darted into a little alley that your father would have to walk by. Your father approached the alley and…”

  “Stop!” I shouted. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  It was too much. I didn’t need to hear how it ended. I already knew that part.

  I started sobbing. For my father. For myself. And for my mother, who was about to be all alone in this world.

  Despite all my grief, I knew I couldn’t let it get the best of me. I had to stay focused.

  I quickly gathered my emotions and began to think about all that Zane had told me.

  One thing that had always bothered my mother and me was why my father had been in San Francisco that night. I now had a good guess. Gary Rodger’s law firm was about four blocks above the Tenderloin. Parking is always impossible in the city and my father must have seen an open spot and decided to walk the remaining blocks.

  If you don't know San Francisco, it’s hard to understand. But a lousy area like the Tenderloin can turn into a nice area, perfect for a law firm, in a matter of a few city
blocks.

  Of course, I could never be sure, but it made perfect sense. He’d just had his phone taken and been thrown up against a wall. Not to mention the fresh black eye he’d seen on Mason Anderson. He probably wanted to talk to Gary about his options. My father knew Gary kept long hours and probably assumed the office was open.

  I took a deep breath. Charles Zane didn’t say anything, showing a rare moment of compassion. Or he just enjoyed my misery.

  It was a lot to take in. It explained many things and despite my own dire circumstances, I was glad to find out. And I felt my dad died a hero. He was trying to protect one of his students. He was doing a heroic deed. Of that, there was no doubt.

  It was hard to not think about how it ended for him, though. Walking up Jones Street when Doug Anderson jumped out and…

  I tried to push it out of my mind. I wanted to remember him as someone looking out for his students to the very end. That’s what he’d want.

  I bowed my head. “I’ve found out everything I wanted to know. Let’s get this over with,” I said.

  “That’s it?”

  “You can’t let me go, so what’s the point?”

  “I can’t let you go. You’re right.”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” I said.

  I was playing possum, not ready to concede death. I was going to fight till the very end.

  I just hoped my little charade would get him to let his guard down. Even just a little bit.

  “I’ve gained respect for you, Quint. It’s not going to save your life, but I don’t have the stomach to torture you.”

  He started to bring the gun out of his sweatshirt. My life was about to end, unless I could pull off my improbable plan.

  I’d only have one chance, so I had to time it perfectly. I couldn’t attempt it too early. I had to wait until he stood up. The legs of the chair were currently between my legs and his. They’d soften the blow too much to cause any damage. Plus, a fall from that short distance wouldn’t knock him out, and knocking him out was my best chance.

  My feet were tied together, but that wouldn’t prevent what I had to do: sweeping my legs into his with the utmost ferocity.

  Zane began to rise. He grabbed the chair and started to slide it away from where he stood. His eyes turned away from me for a brief moment.

  The next few seconds would determine whether I lived or died.

  I swung my legs out to the left to gain some momentum. And then, with all the force I could muster, swung them back in the direction of Charles Zane…

  37.

  And connected with more power than I could have ever expected.

  The back of Zane’s head was facing me and he didn’t see it coming. My legs connected with full force and took both of his feet out from under him.

  He started falling backward toward me. Before he hit the deck, I had my legs raised again, ready to pounce.

  Zane hit butt first, but it happened so quickly that the whiplash sent his head backward, striking the boat’s rigid floor. He hit hard and I prayed it had knocked him unconscious, but I had no time to wait and find out.

  Before he had a chance to gain his bearings, my feet came down full speed on his face. I hit him flush in the nose, blood exploding from it immediately. I made sure to crash down with both heels, the hardest parts of my feet.

  I raised my legs as high as I could and brought them down once more.

  I did it again. And again. And again. And again.

  The rope started to loosen, so I moved my feet around, trying to get free as I raised them between kicks.

  I brought my feet down together four more times in rapid succession, alternating between his nose and his forehead.

  Zane was conscious, but barely. The effect of hitting his head on the hard floor combined with my repeated blows had him in bad shape. But he was still making noises.

  And I couldn’t take any chances.

  I brought the heels of my shoes down on his face one more time, with as much force as I could exert. I focused primarily on his nose, which was collapsing into his face. It was grotesque, but I was fighting for my life. I didn’t have a choice.

  And finally, mercifully, the knot came undone. I kicked the rope off and my legs were free.

  This made it easier. I started rotating between my left heel and then my right heel, bringing them down on Zane’s face and head.

  I did it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

  His face was starting to looked like a smashed tomato. Not that I cared.

  I couldn’t risk having him stumble away or I was a dead man.

  As I continued to bring my legs down on his face, I looked for the gun. I saw it. He must have dropped it when I initially took out his legs. It was directly behind his back.

  To be safe, I brought my feet down five more times on to Charles Zane’s head. I heard a few barely audible, shallow breaths, but he was now struggling for air. And for the first time, I exhaled. He was not going to be getting up anytime soon. If ever.

  I now had to concentrate on getting out of these handcuffs. My plan with Zane had worked to perfection, but if I remained cuffed in the middle of the Pacific, it might all be for naught.

  I swung my right leg over his body and slowly brought my foot down on top of the gun. It was a pistol that looked like it took six bullets. I pushed it in my direction, careful not to move it much. I didn’t care if it took five pushes to get me, I just didn’t want to accidentally shove it too far past myself.

  After four small pushes, I brought the gun directly next to my butt. I raised my backside to push the gun toward my wrists.

  I heard another belabored breath from Charles Zane, so I brought my right foot down three successive times on his nose. There was an odd silence after the last kick. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like life was leaving his body.

  I didn’t celebrate. Despite him being a murderous thug who deserved anything he got.

  It was time to concentrate on my own survival.

  Another moment of truth had arrived. I had a little room to wriggle my wrists around. My goal was to lift up the gun and shoot through the handcuffs, breaking them to free myself. It wasn’t going to be easy. How do you shoot through a little chain link? I’d have to get lucky.

  The other option would be to try to shoot out the metal bar that my handcuffs were wrapped around, but it lay right at the base of my spine. Any deflection could paralyze me. Effectively a death sentence considering my situation.

  I reached for the gun and was able to pick it up rather easily. I couldn’t tell by the weight how many bullets were in it. But considering the difficulty of what was to come, I hoped it was fully loaded. I’d likely need more than one bullet.

  Now for the tough part. I had to shoot the gun from behind my back. And not only that, I had to break the chain link that connected the handcuffs.

  I positioned my wrist and leaned the handcuffs into the nozzle of the gun, which I made sure pointed away from my body.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said.

  And fired the pistol.

  There was a noise as it hit through the deck and ricocheted. But I was not freed from the handcuffs.

  “Fuck!!!” I screamed.

  There was no telling how many bullets remained in the chamber. Maybe an experienced shooter would know, but I had no idea. If, by chance, there had only been one, I was screwed.

  I spent a good thirty seconds repositioning the gun in my grip. I tried to feel for a bigger piece of the chain. Once I did, I put that flush against the pistol.

  And fired again.

  More noise as the bullet deflected toward the bottom of the boat. But I wasn’t freed.

  “Dammit!!!”

  A terrifying thought came to me. What if the bullets penetrated the bottom of the yacht, causing a leak? I’d be stuck in the middle of the ocean on a sinking boat.

  But it’s not like I had a choice. No one was coming to my rescue.

  I had to get
out of these handcuffs.

  Even if I risked creating more holes in the boat.

  I repositioned the handcuffs, spending a good minute trying to line up the greatest surface area against the nozzle of the gun.

  I fired. But once again, nothing happened.

  I decided to take a few seconds and collect my thoughts.

  And that’s when I started to smell the smoke. Here I was, worried the bullets would puncture the bottom of the boat. Instead, I’d hit the gas tank, or a gas can, or a fuel line. Regardless, I’d started a fire.

  Somehow, against all odds, I might have a fate worse than drowning to death. Burning alive while handcuffed.

  I repositioned the gun in my grip for what seemed like a tenth time. It wasn’t easy. My wrist was behind my back and I had to shuffle it around to make sure I wasn’t shooting back up toward my own body.

  “Please work this time,” I said to myself.

  I fired again. Nothing.

  There were two bullets left. At most.

  The smoke now came up from below deck. It was no longer just a smell; I could now see the black flumes rolling past me. I coughed a few times when the wind sent it in my direction.

  I had been trying to shoot off the chain link, and it had amounted to nothing. So I decided to try something different. I put the cuff around my left wrist flush up against the pistol that my right hand held. There was a chance I might be blowing my left hand off, but I had to risk it.

  The other way was just too difficult, with so little surface area to hit. Especially shooting from behind my body.

  I positioned the cuff at an angle where I thought the bullet would be headed away from my wrist. Assuming it wasn’t redirected.

  I didn’t waste any time and fired the pistol. The noise was different than the one I’d heard on the first four shots.

  I began to raise my hands from behind my back, figuring I’d be met with the resistance that had accompanied each previous attempt.

  But this time was different.

  I raised my hands up without being met by any impediment.