Holding Their Own XV: Bloodlust

by Nobody, Joe

  Satisfied that no active threat lay in wait for him, he kept his weapon high… just in case. Crossing the threshold, Bishop was relieved to find that the command center contained only two bodies. Even so, the final skirmish of the battle was particularly gruesome, walls, equipment and floors splashed with the life’s blood of the combatants. In this room, the contenders fought not only for their lives, but for the ultimate control of the vessel on which Bishop stood. The first man he approached perished face down and wore better clothing than the others Bishop had encountered. Next to the guy’s head laid a blue baseball cap, the golden embroidery above the bill reading, “Capito,” in bold letters. As Bishop bent to check the skipper’s pulse, he said, “Good evening, Captain Cortez. It would have been a pleasure to meet you.”

  Heading to the next carcass, Bishop inhaled sharply as he shined his light on the other facedown bandit. There, on the dead man’s back, was a patch indicating the deceased was a member of a motorcycle club. “Headhunters,” he read aloud, “New Orleans.”

  Chapter 8

  It had taken several hours to search the ship for any survivors and verify that all the bodies scattered on the top decks were void of life.

  The next morning, Bishop and a group of men began the grisly task of recovering the dead. A generator was rigged to power Senhora ’s deck crane, two cargo nets full of human cadavers eventually lowered to the pier.

  Terri had elected to remain at Pete’s nearby beach house with Hunter and one of Pete’s local managers. A child had no business seeing the gory sights and sounds that were about to occur in Port Arthur, and frankly, considering Terri’s fragile state of mind, Bishop was glad his mate was building sand castles with her little one right now.

  It had been a wise decision, Bishop’s clothing covered in the blood of dead men, his hair damp with perspiration. Worse yet, they had found two more invaders who sported motorcycle club colors from New Orleans. Any doubts about who was behind the attack were evaporating quickly. The West Texan, needless to say, was in a deep, foul mood.

  Bishop was troubled by the fact that his wife had overheard some of the men talking the night before. They had been speculating about the pirates, commenting openly about the patches indicating a New Orleans motorcycle club worn by two of the deceased. Another of the dead swashbucklers carried a Louisiana Driver’s license in his wallet.

  While she hadn’t spoken her true feelings, the concerned husband was absolutely sure Terri had connected the dots. It was impossible to tell, however, if her dark mood had been further tainted by the death and destruction she had just witnessed, or the evidence indicating Blackjack Jones was not only alive, but aggressively expanding his empire. Now, after the additional discovery of hardcore-types from the Big Easy, it would be difficult to convince her of something he didn’t believe himself. “No way the perceptive Miss Terri will believe Blackjack is afraid to cross into the Lone Star Nation,” he moaned.

  As he stood back, staring at the rows of bodies now lined out on the pier, the sound of raised voices piqued Bishop’s attention. Pete was standing nearby, surrounded by a group of men who had all been waiting for Senhora ’s arrival. Heated words were being exchanged.

  Moving to his employer’s side, Bishop instantly grasped the issue that had sparked the confrontation. “I say we divide up what cargo is above the waterline and call it a day,” a hefty man wearing a red cap was bellowing. “Ain’t no sense in letting all those goods go to waste. If we just leave them here, scavengers and looters will pick that ship clean in a few days.”

  “No,” Pete replied firmly, standing his ground. “Anybody, including me, who wants any of that freight has to pay for it, just like always.”

  “Who are we going to pay?” challenged another merchant.

  “I’ll collect the money and figure out a way to get it to Captain Cortez’s family back in Brazil,” Pete offered. “He was a good man and treated all of us fairly. The members of his crew no doubt had families back home. They have lost not only a loved one, but also their primary source of income. They will probably need the money.”

  “We’re supposed to trust you ?” laughed Mr. Red Hat. “I wouldn’t trust my mother with that much cash!”

  Several of the bystanders nodded their agreement, but Pete wasn’t about to give in. “Most of you have known me for years… and have trusted me since we started trading with the Brazilians. Hell, I brought half of you in on this opportunity myself. I don’t need to steal a dead man’s money, and all of you know that.”

  His argument resonated, several others voicing their agreement with Pete’s speech. Bishop, still hovering nearby, estimated that the throng was about equally divided on the issue.

  Not to lose momentum, Mr. Red Hat stepped close to Pete and poked the ex-cop in the chest with two fingers. “Who the hell died and made you the harbormaster?” he growled. “I don’t trust you any further than I can throw you, which about now, is a good ten feet. Fuck off, Pete. I’m going to tell my boys to load our share, and then we are going to head back to Texarkana. You all can do what you want with the rest.”

  “Take it easy, friend,” Bishop recommended in his best calming tone, stepping between Redtop and his boss. “We’re having a civilized discussion here. Cool heads should prevail.”

  “And who the fuck are you?” sounded the aggressive gent, scowling down his nose at the shorter Bishop.

  “I’m a friend of Pete’s,” Bishop replied coolly, and then added, “and to be honest, I’m one of his hired killers, so why don’t you chill your jets and have a sensible conversation?”

  The stare-down continued for a few seconds before Redhead turned back toward the anxious crowd. “He’s just one guy,” he reasoned with the onlookers. “And he’s not that big either.”

  Then, without warning, Red Hat spun around and launched a massive strike, his over-sized fist slicing through the air. Bishop, however, was no longer there.

  The blow punished nothing but empty space, Bishop having already moved beside Mr. Red Hat. With a graceful sweep of his boot, he knocked both legs from under the off-balance aggressor as he pulled backward on the man’s shirt.

  In a flash, the portly antagonist was flat on his back, the “security expert masquerading as a mercenary” standing above him and smiling.

  Stunned and shocked by his new position, Red-man tried to rise to his elbows and draw breath at the same time. Bishop’s boot, however, resting on his sternum, was pressing with just enough force to foil both efforts.

  “I’ll let you up if you’ll give me your word that you’ll be a rational fellow,” the West Texan advised.

  “Why you little… I’m going to get up and beat your…. Let me up, damn it!” Red growled, struggling under Bishop’s heel.

  Try as he might, the adversary just couldn’t get any leverage, the pressure point being utilized by the man standing over him thwarting every attempt.

  In fact, the struggles of the guy with his back on the pier were comical. Cursing, groaning, and flaying his limbs, Red Hat finally gave up when several rubberneckers began chuckling at his vain attempts to free himself from the boot. “Okay, okay! You made your point, Mister Hired Killer. Let me up, damn it!”

  “You’re going to be the picture of calm and reason?” Bishop asked, his arching eyebrows betraying his skepticism. “Cause I’m not going to be so friendly the next time. Pete doesn’t pay me to simply put jerks like you on the ground. He likes for me to make them bleed.”

  “I’m good… we’re good. It’s all good,” nodded the fellow on the ground.

  Bishop studied the man with a wary eye before opting to give his opponent a second chance and remove the boot. Then he leaned down and extended his open palm to help the defeated man stand. Mr. Red Hat accepted the offered hand, and the humiliated trader made it to his feet… but he didn’t let go. Instead, his grip shifted to the West Texan’s wrist while his free hand balled into a tight fist and coiled to swing.

  Bishop had anticipated the tri
ck and seemed almost disappointed in the antagonist’s clumsy attempt. Before his opponent could launch another punch, the security expert had reversed the grasp and applied his other hand, completing the counter-maneuver by twisting on the hefty man’s arm with tendon-snapping force.

  In a whirl of movement, Bishop bent Red’s arm behind his back, the tortured wrist pulled so high it forced the taller man to bend at the waist. A vicious kick then followed, Bishop’s boot impacting his adversary’s ass so hard, the red hat went flying off the owner’s head.

  Red staggered forward, streaks of white-hot pain surging up his spine. Before he could straighten, Bishop kicked him again in the same spot.

  A yelp of pain soared from Red Hat’s throat as he dropped to his knees. Showing no mercy, Bishop struck again, this time the blow so brutal, it lifted the trader’s shins completely off the ground.

  Red was trying desperately to crawl away, but Bishop was having none of it.

  “It’s greedy fucks like you,” growled the West Texan, delivering another solid kick, “who mess up people’s…,” and another blow, “...fucking lives!” followed by yet another impact of Bishop’s boot.

  Unable to even maintain the four points of his hands and knees, a moaning, crying Red rolled over onto his back, his face twisted in anguish.

  Stepping in close to the groaning man at his feet, Bishop paused, his eyes boring into the helpless prey who was now completely at his mercy. It was one of the most bone-chilling expressions Pete had ever seen on any human being.

  Bishop’s eyes were cold, almost reptilian in their color and depth. His head was slightly bent, nostrils flaring as his system built a reserve of oxygen in preparation for the final assault. The hunter’s shoulders were forward, as was the weight on his feet. Here was a predator, bowed for combat, ready to deliver inconceivable violence. There wasn’t a hint of fear, hesitation, regret, or clemency in his eyes. Everyone watching was sure Red was about to be slaughtered.

  “Bishop! Stop!” Pete ordered, trying to establish control with a firm tone. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

  There was no reaction from Bishop, Pete’s words seemingly having no more effect than a man yelling at a cobra as it reared to strike.

  “Bishop!” Pete tried again. “Please! Let him go.”

  The second attempt made it through, Bishop blinking once, twice, and then shaking his head as he tried to clear the bloodlust from his brain. He straightened and then scanned the ring of anxious faces who were waiting to see his next move.

  Taking a deep breath, Bishop stabbed a finger toward the man at his feet. “People like this are why we have rows of bodies lying over there,” he barked. “We would all be better off if scum like this guy and Blackjack Jones no longer walked the earth!”

  With that, Bishop pivoted and stomped away in a huff. After it was clear the West Texan wasn’t coming back, two men rushed to Red’s side.

  As they drove back to Pete’s beach house, Bishop exhaled in a deep sigh before beginning his apology, “Pete, I’m sorry. I kind of lost control back there. It won’t happen again.”

  “You had visions of Ketchum Jones in your head while beating that man, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I did,” Bishop answered honestly. “I’m not sure why. I guess I’ve got a little post-traumatic stress of my own bouncing around between my ears.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t kill him. And,” Pete brightened, “everybody was on board with my idea of compensating Cortez’s family after you literally kicked Frank’s ass.”

  “I didn’t set out to bludgeon anybody… it’s just… well… that guy took a cheap shot at me, and somehow I equated the way he used dirty tricks and physical violence to take what he wanted with Blackjack Jones’s way of doing business. Neither of those men has any honor. Both are completely unscrupulous, cut from the same cloth in my opinion. I have never had a tolerance for bullies and have always been inexplicably compelled to beat their asses.”

  Waving a dismissive hand through the air, Pete responded, “You had just finished pulling two dozen fresh cadavers from what looked like a floating war zone. You spotted men wearing biker colors from New Orleans among the outlaws. We brought your wife here to help her heal, and what happens? A bunch of dead bodies show up, coupled with more evidence that the monster who stripped her soul is still alive and operating in Alliance territory. I understand, Bishop. Other than a couple of kicks too many, I was secretly wishing it was me putting a boot up Frank’s ass. He’s always been a jerk. I’ve never liked the man.”

  “I appreciate your understanding, boss. I’m sorry if I’ve tarnished your reputation in any way. I’ll offer my resignation if you wish. I shouldn’t have lost control.”

  Frowning, Pete answered, “No, Bishop, I don’t want your resignation. What I do want you to do is clear up this mess concerning this madman in Louisiana. He’s touched both of our lives now, and while my coffee supply isn’t nearly as important as Miss Terri’s health and wellbeing, he has killed a dear friend and a crew of innocent sailors. Besides, he’s hurt my business more than you know. I need to think on this, mull it over for a while. I want you to do the same.”

  “Understood, Pete. Believe me, there’s going to be little else on my mind for a while.”

  Pete’s beachfront home, normally a safe haven of contentment and relaxation, was eerily silent and forlorn. Despite the brilliant, afternoon sun and the constant rhythm of the waves, the occupants were quiet and contemplative.

  After showering and disposing of his blood-soaked clothing, the West Texan suggested a walk on the beach. “We don’t get to see the ocean much. We should take advantage of this opportunity, let Hunter find some shells, maybe even slip on our swimsuits and catch a few rays ourselves.”

  Terri merely nodded her agreement, adding only, “Should I take my pistol?”

  “Oh, no. I figure all we need are some towels, sunscreen, and flip flops,” Bishop replied, trying to distract her from her obvious concerns. Terri scowled at his attempt to make light of the situation, so Bishop continued, “We’ll be fine. No one is around for miles.”

  Pete’s property was located on the Bolivar Peninsula, a narrow strip of land situated between Port Arthur to the northeast, and Galveston to the southwest. “My sister bought the place after moving to Beaumont. She loved the Gulf and wanted a weekend getaway where she could capture the waves, seabirds, and sunrises on canvas. She really was quite a talented painter. I wish now I had taken the time to visit her here more often,” Pete explained, his face twisting into an expression of remorse.

  Hunter, for his part, thought finding seashells was about the best idea he’d ever heard. Equipped with a plastic bucket, colorful spade, and a lathering from a tube of sunblock Terri had found in the bathroom medicine cabinet, the young man was eager for a new adventure.

  After being carried over a low range of dunes, Bishop had set his son down on the open expanse of beach and repeated the only rules for the outing. “Don’t go in the water; there are sharks. Don’t touch any dead animals that have washed up on the beach. The jellyfish have stingers worse than a wasp. Now go and find the biggest shells you can!”

  Both parents jumped to help as their son turned to rush away and fell face-first into the sand. After helping the stunned child back to his feet and brushing off his shirt, Bishop shared a piece of fatherly advice, “Walk before you run, son!” Bishop laughed as he brushed off the frustrated boy. “The sand is different here, so take a few minutes and get used to it. We have plenty of time.”

  With a squeal of delight, Hunter was off again, scoop in one hand, dangling bucket in the other.

  As they stayed close and watched their offspring explore every square foot of beach, Bishop addressed the elephant in the room. “We found more dead pirates with New Orleans colors,” Bishop stated bluntly. “I think you are right; I am convinced that Blackjack is still alive. In fact, I lost my temper this afternoon because of him. I beat a man silly on the pier a
nd embarrassed myself in front of Pete. Now Ketchum is eating us both alive from the inside out.”

  “What happened?” Terri asked, a look of concern spreading across her face.

  For the next ten minutes, Bishop recounted the episode. “I kept feeling like that man with the red hat was related to Blackjack somehow. That people like that were such a big problem and threatened us all.”

  “I can understand that, believe me,” she stated simply.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do about Blackjack, but something has to be done. I need to talk to Nick about all of this, see what the big guy has to say,” Bishop replied.

  Terri merely nodded, then slowly continued strolling while staring at the endless horizon above the blue waters. Finally, she brightened and said, “Well, he’s not here… not right now, not in this place. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the afternoon and see if the ocean can wash away some of the images that stain our minds.”

  Chapter 9

  Two days after returning from Beaumont, Terri noticed that her husband hadn’t shaved.

  “A new look? Mid-life crisis?” she asked.

  Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Bishop merely nodded. “I thought I would try something different. Shaving is overrated.”

  “Don’t you think you should check with the woman who kisses that face before making such a decision?”

  His eyebrows going north in a quizzical manner, Bishop was surprised by Terri’s sudden burst of humor. “You’re in a good mood,” he responded in a warm tone.

  “You’re going to New Orleans. You’re going to kill Blackjack Jones,” she blurted out.

  Again, the West Texan was shocked by her blunt revelation. His first instinct was to lie, but he couldn’t do that. It just wasn’t in him. The truth shall set you free , he thought. “You figured that out, eh?”