by John J. Rust
Piet and his friend fired a few bursts at Geek. He fired two rounds at them. They ducked behind the deck gate. Geek shifted the USAS-12 to the machine gunner. The man dashed toward a clamshell-shaped engine removal hatch. Geek fired once, twice. A huge, bloody hole exploded in the machine gunner’s side. He dropped the M-60 and tumbled over the railing into the ocean.
Body armor wasn’t much good against armor-piercing sabot rounds.
At least now the numbers were in their favor.
Another mercenary emerged from the bridge of the fake USCG boat and opened up with his AK-74.
Correction. We’re even.
In terms of numbers, they were even at three-on-three. Piet’s men still had the advantage in firepower.
The new merc let loose a sustained burst from the bow of the enemy boat. Rastun fired back. The bad guy ducked out of sight. Seconds later, he squeezed off three short bursts. Rastun returned fire until the Glock clicked empty. He scowled.
That had been his last magazine.
He holstered the pistol and unslung the Aster 7 from his shoulder. This was probably a worse weapon to have in a firefight than the Glock.
Still, any gun was better than no gun.
Rastun fired two toxin darts at the bad guy on the other boat. He responded with a volley of 5.45mm rounds that chopped through the storage locker. Rastun returned fire. Two shots. Two misses.
And the chamber was empty.
Rastun pulled out the plastic case containing the extra darts from his vest. He had to load each chamber by hand, scowling the whole time. A dart gun with a four-round cylinder versus an AK-74 automatic rifle with a 30-round magazine. Using the word “mismatch” would win him first place in the Understatement of the Year contest.
Rastun peered around the storage locker.
The merc on the other boat fired a grenade launcher.
“Grenade!” Rastun shouted.
The baseball-shaped projectile hit off the rear of the bridge and bounced near the vent box.
Right next to Geek.
The ex-sergeant snatched the grenade and threw it away. It barely disappeared over the side when it detonated.
Rastun glanced around the storage locker. Piet used the distraction of the grenade to break cover and throw open a deck hatch. Rastun fired a dart. It sailed over Piet’s head as he slipped through the hatch.
“Shit! Piet’s below!” he shouted to Geek and Sherlock. “Cover me. I’m going after him.”
The ex-Rangers blasted away with their shotguns. Rastun crawled away from the storage locker. He snaked past Ensign Capra’s body, his elbows and legs sliding over the pool of blood.
Rastun eyed the hatch leading to the shattered bridge. When he stared down at the deck, he realized something.
Raleigh Pilka was nowhere in sight.
***
Pilka could not stop shaking. His heart slammed against his chest.
They’re gonna kill me.
Part of him couldn’t believe he’d survived all that shooting and those explosions. Luckily, Rastun’s marshal friend had been so concerned about not getting his head blown off that he didn’t see him crawl away. Pilka managed to kick open the hatch and make his way below to the storeroom. He knocked a toolbox off a shelf, its contents spilling across the floor. Pilka looked over the mess until he spotted a utility knife. It wasn’t easy, especially with his hands bound behind his back, but he eventually cut through the plastic handcuffs.
Now what? He rubbed his wrists and looked around the storeroom. Cracks, thumps and bangs filtered through the deck. Nausea burned his stomach and throat. Cold sweat drenched his large body. It was Piet. It had to be him. Pilka wanted to believe the South African was here to rescue him. He wanted to, but couldn’t. Norman Gunderson struck him as a man who didn’t give a damn about the people working for him.
Even worse, Piet struck him as a man who enjoyed killing people.
With the Sea Raptor in Virginia having been found, Pilka knew he was useless to Gunderson. He’d also ratted him out. There was no way he would forgive him for that.
What do I do?
He clenched his teeth, first fighting off the urge to throw up, then the urge to sob. He was on a boat in the middle of the ocean, a boat where two groups were shooting it out. One wanted to kill him, the other wanted to put him in jail for the rest of his life.
There had to be a way out of this.
Pilka’s gaze settled on the weapons locker.
Back on Bold Fortune, he had to surreptitiously watch Rastun to learn the code for the weapons locker. Here on Epic Venture, Ehrenberg gave him the code after Rastun and Geek left so he could get a tranquilizer rifle in case they ran into the other Sea Raptor.
That Hawaiian shirt-wearing fool had given him a shot at his freedom.
He opened the locker and grabbed the other Aster 7. Next, he took out a plastic case of darts. There were eight, four with tranquilizer, four with Golden Poison Frog toxin. Pilka cradled the Aster 7 in his arms and tried to open the case.
The darts spilled onto the floor.
“Dammit!” He got on his knees, scooped up four darts and loaded them in the chamber. When he looked back down at the remaining ones, he noticed three had blue tails for tranqs, while the remaining one had red tail for toxin.
He couldn’t afford to wait for one of Piet’s men or Rastun’s men to pass out if they got hit with the lone tranq dart. He needed to kill them instantly.
Pilka reached down for the last toxin dart.
He heard footsteps outside.
Pilka gasped and ran to a large gray refrigerator in the corner. A roll of tarp sat next to it. Pilka knelt behind it, clutching the dart gun.
The footsteps got louder.
Pilka’s sweaty hands trembled. He tried to force himself to calm down. How could he shoot anyone like this? Did he even stand a chance against someone with a machine gun?
The footsteps were right outside the door.
“Oh my God.”
It was a woman’s voice.
The footsteps resumed, only this time they were running.
The woman screamed. Pilka recognized her.
It was Karen.
***
Rastun pushed open the hatch and crawled into the bridge. Ehrenberg and Malakov crouched near the shattered helm. Captain Snider lay between them, wailing in pain, his left arm and shoulder a bloody mess. Rastun felt a pang of sympathy. He’d seen wounds like that in Iraq and Afghanistan. The usual treatment was amputation.
He crawled over to the two scientists, who treated Snider with handfuls of gauze.
“You two okay?”
“We’re fine,” Ehrenberg answered. “But we have to get the captain some help.”
“We all need help right now. Did you call the Coast Guard?”
Ehrenberg nodded. “They said they’re sending every available ship and helicopter here, but it might be a while before they get here.”
We might be dead in a while. “Where’s Karen?”
“She went to the crew compartments to check on Charlie and Nick.”
“Then that’s where I’m going. Stay here, stay down and take care of him.” He nodded to Captain Snider.
Rastun crawled to the ladder leading to the deck below. He slid down it and got to his feet, Aster 7 up and ready. He checked one cabin. Empty. So was the next cabin. He fought the urge to call out Karen’s name. Piet was around somewhere. He didn’t want to tip him off to his presence.
He also prayed Karen didn’t run into the sick fuck.
Rastun checked another cabin. A chubby man crouched in the corner.
“Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!” Charlie Montebello threw his arms over his face.
“Charlie, it’s me. You okay?”
“Y-Yeah,” he replied, breathing heavily.
“Where’s Karen?”
“She-She was here, like, a minute ago maybe. I don’t know now.”
Rastun nodded. “Stay here.”
“O
-Okay.”
Rastun continued on, trying to prevent his worry for Karen from overwhelming him. He also thought about Nick Tamburro. Hadn’t he been in the engine room when Piet attacked? Had he survived the RPG strike?
He cleared the rest of the cabins and stood atop the ladder leading to the lowermost deck, the one containing the storeroom and whatever was left of the engine room.
His radio crackled.
“J-Jack?”
It was Karen. He held his breath. Something wasn’t right about her voice.
“Jack, where are you?”
A chill went up his spine. Her voice was shaky, filled with fear.
Swallowing, he hit the reply button. “I’m here.”
A pause. A very long pause. “I’m in the storeroom. You have to come to the storeroom.”
“I’m coming.”
He stopped himself from charging down the ladder. If he let emotion rule him, he’d get careless. Careless people got killed, and many times got others killed.
Rastun went down the ladder, scanning the corridor. He took one step forward, another. A haze of smoke hung in the air, probably from the wrecked engine room. It stung his eyes and seared his nostrils with the stench of scorched metal and fiberglass.
He ignored it and looked at the storeroom. The door was open.
Rastun halted when someone stepped out of the room. It was Karen. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her expression told him all he needed to know.
She was terrified.
He saw the reason for that terror standing behind her, a muscular, middle-aged man with a graying buzzcut. The barrel of his SIG Sauer P226 pistol traced a slow line up and down Karen’s brown hair.
“Greetings, Mister Rastun,” said Andres Piet.
FORTY-EIGHT
“Let her go, damn you.” Rastun raised his dart gun, looking for a clear shot. But Piet kept half his body inside the storeroom, and the other half shielded by Karen.
“She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?” Pilka’s left hand slid across Karen’s stomach. She closed her eyes and grimaced. “I watched you that day you were at the nature reserve. You two were going at it like animals in heat. I can’t blame you with prime pussy like this.”
Piet’s hand ran up to Karen’s breast. He squeezed it hard. Her jaw tightened.
“You fucking bastard!” Rastun stared at Piet’s hand. Could he put a dart in it? If he missed, Karen was dead.
He couldn’t risk it.
“Put down your gun,” Piet demanded.
“Put down yours.”
Piet chuckled, running his thumb over Karen’s breast. Rastun could barely hold back the tidal wave of rage. Never in his life had he wanted to kill someone so bad.
“You know, I don’t have to kill her.” Piet moved the barrel of his SIG behind Karen’s ear. “But I can make her suffer. A bullet tearing through her ear, powder burns on her face. She wouldn’t look pretty after that, would she?”
Karen visibly swallowed.
“Then I shoot her elbows, her hands, her knees, her breasts. I have fifteen rounds in this pistol. Fifteen body parts I can shoot. How long can you stand it, seeing the woman you love bleeding and screaming in pain?”
“Shut the fuck up, you sick shit!”
“I’m only here to get Raleigh Pilka,” said Piet. “Just let me and my men have him. Then we’ll be on our way, and you can go look for your sea beastie and bugger this leggy whore to your heart’s content.”
Rastun knew that was bullshit. Piet had no intention of leaving anyone on Epic Venture alive.
“Drop your gun.” Piet pressed the barrel against Karen’s ear, causing it to fold. Karen shut her eyes tight.
Rastun stared at Piet through narrowed, furious eyes. He forced himself to lower the Aster 7, then drop it to the floor.
“Kick it away,” ordered Piet.
Rastun did so.
“Now the rest of your weapons.”
He removed his Glock, the flash/bangs and his Night Stalker combat knife, dropped them on the floor and kicked them down the corridor. Rastun still had his Blue Tanto tactical knife in his right pocket, where he put it the night before when he and Geek fled the mansion. Not that the damn thing did him much good now. The moment he stuck his hand in his pocket, Piet would start putting bullets in Karen.
“Good boy,” Piet snickered. “Isn’t he a good boy?”
He squeezed Karen’s breast. She grimaced in pain and revulsion.
“Now,” Piet continued. “Get on your radio and tell your friends to stop shooting at my men and throw down their weapons.”
Rastun took a deep, angry breath. He looked for any possible opening to take down Piet. None existed. Even if one did, what could he do with a switchblade in his pocket versus a gun to Karen’s head?
His hand moved to his radio. “Geek. Sherlock.”
Someone coughed at the other end corridor.
Rastun glanced past Karen and Piet. A bearded man with a paunch stumbled through the smoke coming from the engine room.
It was Nick Tamburro. Blood streamed down his arm and face. He walked with a limp.
“Wha…What’s goin’ on?”
“Tamburro! Get back!” yelled Rastun.
Piet’s SIG came off Karen’s ear. He twisted around and stood sideways, still shielded by Karen. He aimed his pistol at Tamburro.
Rastun took off running.
Three rapid cracks came from Piet’s SIG. Patches of blood burst from Tamburro’s chest. He fell backwards.
Piet turned back to Rastun.
I’m sorry, Karen.
Rastun lowered his shoulder and plowed into Karen.
FORTY-NINE
Karen and Piet tumbled to the ground. Rastun dropped on top of them. He glimpsed Piet’s SIG fly out of his hand. It clattered down the corridor.
Karen, sandwiched between the two men, cried out in pain. Rastun feared he broke a couple of her ribs when he tackled her.
But it was the only way to save her life.
He rolled off her and pushed her away from Piet. She tumbled inside the storeroom.
“Shut the door! Stay—”
Piet sat up and punched Rastun in the jaw.
“Jack!” Karen screamed.
“Stay in there!”
Rastun shook off the pain as Piet started to rise. Rastun lay on his side and kicked the South African below the knee. He grimaced and sagged. Rastun launched himself off the deck and into Piet’s gut. Both men hit the deck as Karen shut the hatch. Rastun got to one knee. He punched Piet’s face.
The South African grabbed his wrist at the last moment and twisted it. Crushing pain shot up Rastun’s arm. He bared his teeth, holding back a scream.
Piet used his free hand to punch Rastun twice below the armpit. He gasped for breath.
Piet let go of Rastun’s wrist and gave him an upper cut to the chin. He just managed to stay upright.
Piet yanked the AK-74 off his shoulder. Rastun again jumped to his feet. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle, forcing it away from him. Piet pushed back. Rastun felt the pressure grow in his arms as he struggled with the bigger, stronger man.
He rammed his knee into Piet’s gut once, twice. The South African lost his grip on the rifle. Rastun yanked it out of his hands.
Piet pivoted and delivered a sidekick. He struck the AK-74. It struck Rastun in the gut. He stumbled back.
Another kick from Piet nailed Rastun in the side. He dropped the rifle. Piet went for it.
Rastun jumped on his back. He snaked his right forearm around Piet’s throat and squeezed. The South African grabbed Rastun’s arm, trying to pull it away. Rastun had to fight to keep the pressure on Piet’s throat.
He dragged Piet further down the corridor, away from the AK-74. The man’s knees started to buckle. He gasped and hacked, trying to draw air into his lungs.
Then an arm reached around Rastun’s head. Piet doubled over. Rastun flew over the mercenary’s back. He slammed onto the deck.
P
iet was on him. Two meaty, calloused hands wrapped around Rastun’s throat.
Now he couldn’t draw in any air.
Rastun gripped Piet’s wrists, trying to pull his hands away. He failed. The pressure on his throat increased. His lungs burned.
He hooked his thumb and index finger under Piet’s left thumb. Rastun wheezed for oxygen that would not come. He pulled back on Piet’s thumb. Pulled…pulled . . .
SNAP!
Piet howled. His hands came off Rastun’s throat. He doubled over, holding his thumb.
Rastun sat up and sucked in a lungful of air, then another one.
Don’t let up.
Rastun sent three right jabs into Piet’s stomach. Next came a palm strike to the mouth. Blood spilled from Piet’s lips. Rastun went for the AK-74.
Piet grabbed his ankle. Rastun pitched forward onto the deck. He rolled on his back. Piet stomped toward him. Rastun kicked at his stomach. Piet blocked it. He lifted a booted foot and brought it down. Rastun rolled out of the way.
Something drenched his pants. He heard a sloshing sound. Other smells clung to the air beside smoke. Salt, diesel fuel and the coppery stench of blood.
Little waves of murky liquid flowed past Rastun. He had something else to worry about besides Piet.
Epic Venture was taking on water.
***
What are you waiting for?
Pilka remained behind the tarp, staring at Karen. She was doubled over on the floor, clutching her mid-section and crying. She had been hurt, hurt bad.
Good.
Pilka looked down at the Aster 7, then back at Karen. He should do it. The bitch had ruined his life. Bad enough he had an ex-wife trying to take away what little money he had, but that slut had also robbed him. That mansion had been his. The money it would have brought in when he sold it should have been all his.
But she took it from him, all because she’d been too damn stupid and too damn sentimental to abort that grubby little cunt of a daughter.
Do it!
The thumps and grunts continued outside. Piet and Rastun fighting. What if one of them came in here right when he stood up? Could he shoot them in time? Both men were trained killers. He was not.