by Mark Romang
The tension of gripping the shuddering handlebars blanched his knuckles to an alabaster tint. His arms quivered so much he thought they might snap. One careless move could spell his demise, and focusing his concentration so intensely brought about a pulsating pain to his forehead.
Fortunately his trial ended before disaster could strike. All at once he shot out from the watery tube. Elation spread through his body as he pulled away from the killer wave. Rafter lifted a hand off the handlebars and waved a fist in triumph.
Now that the night’s haunted shadows gave way to a ghoulish gray, Rafter could see the mind-boggling devastation. Hurricane Vera was turning the Basin into a killing field. Verdant stands of mature-growth forest no longer existed. Like discarded victims from an ethnic cleansing, the felled trees lay broken in great piles in the water, forcing Rafter to slow his Wave Runner. The catastrophic damage in the Basin made him wonder how the populated coastal areas to the south had fared.
Scanning the open water ahead, he spotted Sebastian Boudreaux. The fleeing kidnapper headed almost due south. Why is he headed directly into the path of the storm? Rafter wondered. It made little sense, but Boudreaux seemed to have a clear destination in mind, a place he wanted to get to as soon as possible.
Rafter still puzzled the mystery when he heard a spine-chilling roar emanate from just behind a splotch of live-oak trees to the west of him. The noise sounded identical to the storm surge. But hadn’t he left the wave far behind? He shot a wary look toward the line of trees. What am I hearing?
He had his suspicions about what it could be. And the omen soured his stomach.
Rafter tried to channel his attention back toward Sebastian, but his concentration became hopelessly diverted toward pinpointing the augmenting roar.
He thought about turning back and trying to catch up with Annie and Gabby, but ultimately didn’t because he couldn’t bear the thought of Sebastian getting away. Since childhood, he’d always wanted to catch bad guys. And at this point in his life he had nothing to lose. He had no wife or children to mourn his passing. I’m expendable, Rafter thought. No one will even care if I die in this swamp.
He turned his head and looked once more toward the line of trees. And this time he witnessed something strange going on in the woodland. In gravity-defying procession, an invisible scourge sheared off the uppermost branches of one tree after another. The severed limbs fluttered around and around in the air as if caught up in an eddy.
And then he spotted it.
A hurricane-spawned tornado ripped through the Basin, destroying everything in its path. Based on its wide dimensions, Rafter guessed the tornado to be at least an F-3.
Realizing he had to give up his pursuit of Sebastian and change course or become twister debris, he jerked the Wave Runner’s handlebars and leaned his body portside. The Wave Runner slewed into a new direction that angled sharply away from the tornado.
The evasive maneuver caused him to lose precious speed. Rafter gunned the throttle, and the personal watercraft regained momentum in a hurry, skipping like a powerboat across the choppy floodwaters. His new route took him through narrow canals overgrown with bulrushes.
Every so often the Wave Runner’s hull clipped solid ground and sent him airborne. Consequently, the jarring jolts of hitting sandbars and crashing back down into the water pulled at his chest. His sternum felt like it poked through skin. Rafter tried not to worry, but the accumulating wetness under his lifejacket troubled him.
How much blood can I lose before my heart stops? His natural strength was nearly gone. Only adrenaline powered him now. I’m in big trouble, he thought.
Directly ahead a smattering of cypress trees forced him to make yet another course change. He looked anxiously over his shoulder to see the tornado. He wished he hadn’t.
The tornado nipped at him. Any moment and it would swallow him up. Rafter demanded more speed from the Wave Runner. The PWC jounced along at forty-five-miles-per-hour--an insane speed considering all the storm debris in the water. But he had no other alternative. It was full-throttle or die. Dear, God! Make it go away! I beg you--call it back to the sky.
But he’d used up all his miracles. The tornado inhaled him. And like a giant slurping from a straw, the tornado sucked him a hundred-foot straight up into its spinning vortex. Flying debris came at him from every direction. But he wasn’t the only living thing caught up in the tornado’s fury. Birds, cats, dogs and even feral pigs hurtled around like barnyard shrapnel. He could hear the dogs barking and the pigs squealing for mercy.
Then there were the inanimate objects: a mailbox, a commode, a porch swing, a riding lawnmower, and countless insulation chunks, shingles, and siding.
With tremendous effort, Rafter managed to raise his arms and clasp his hands together to protect his head. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to witness the murder weapon that spelled his demise.
Something hard and unyielding suddenly clocked him from behind at the base of his skull. It felt like a steel girder bashed his head. And then unconsciousness overtook him.
Everything went blank.
Chapter 36
Water and trees stretched for as far as the human eye could see. No matter which direction Annie looked, forbidding wetland met her gaze. She felt so tiny in comparison. Like an ant on a redwood tree, the rain-choked wilderness swallowed her up.
She and Gabby trudged aimlessly along the levee’s service road, their heads bowed to the clobbering rain. They’d ditched the Wave Runner long ago. The PWC burned up its last gas droplet shortly after they fled the fishing shack. Luckily, Annie steered the machine over to the levee before it sputtered to a standstill. They’d been walking ever since. For Gabby’s sake they stopped frequently. Her short legs tired easily. But they never tarried very long in any certain spot.
They traveled with no clear destination in sight or mind. To the west lay a murky freshwater ocean, and to the east stretched thickly wooded swampland, rife with snakes and alligators.
At the moment they sojourned north up the levee, not because civilization and safe harbor beckoned, but because this direction afforded them a partial windbreak from the rain that whorled in the wind like translucent fog. Although it was midmorning, the sun hid behind cinder-gray and plum-black storm clouds.
Annie soldiered through a spate of pain and exhaustion, driven by the small girl clinging to her hand. This must be what it’s like to be a parent, she thought, certain this would be the closest she would ever come to experiencing motherhood. She yearned for having children, but didn’t believe it would ever come to past. Finding a man willing to put up with her emotional baggage would be difficult to find.
Although her battered body threatened to shut down, her mind flitted frenetically about, never staying on one topic for more than a few seconds. She asked herself many questions, questions she could never answer on her own.
She wondered if Newton Laskey had launched a search party for her and Cooper. If she knew her boss like she thought she did, he would be scouring the Basin this very moment. She also thought of Sebastian, and wondered if Rafter had been able to apprehend him. And finally, the question that intrigued her the most, that had her curiosity doing back flips and cartwheels: Who is Jon Rafter?
No matter the circumstance, the man couldn’t be rattled. It made her wonder if he hadn’t served in the military, possibly in Special Forces. Perhaps he’d even been a cop at some point in his past. He’s definitely better at rescuing hostages than I am.
She hoped to someday thank Rafter for everything he’d done for her. She also hoped to get to know him better. Besides being attractive, he had a disarming quality about him that made her feel comfortable, completely at ease like no man had ever been able to do before.
Annie eyed the floodwater rising up the levee wall. It wouldn’t be long before the entire service road became submerged. The dire thought made her increase her pace to a trot. She practically dragged Gabby along now.
Annie felt a gentle tug on her
hand. She looked down at her small companion.
“Don’t be sad, Miss Crawford. We’re not lost. Jesus will show us the way home,” Gabby shouted her tiny voice barely audible over the wind.
“Why don’t you pray to Jesus and ask him to rescue us?” Annie suggested.
“I already have. I asked Jesus to send us a boat that we could sail home in.”
“That’s what we need alright,” Actually, a luxury yacht stocked with meats and cheeses would fit the bill perfectly, Annie thought dreamily.
“Look! There it is!” Gabby squealed as she pointed to the east.
Annie looked to the east but didn’t see anything. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“Can’t you see the boat, Annie?” She jerked away from Annie’s grip and skipped ahead.
Annie scanned the water in the direction Gabby indicated. Surely the child was only pretending. But then she saw a vessel far in the distance and her knees wobbled. A small fishing boat with a flashing red siren sped in their general direction. Could it really be that easy to prod the Creator of the universe into action?
Annie waved her arms wildly to attract the boater’s attention. Please, Lord, make them see us! She prayed. At first she thought her attempts to get noticed went unheeded. But then like a sublime ending to a scary fairy tale, the men in the watercraft spotted them and angled the boat toward their location.
“See, Annie, all you have to do is ask and God will give it to you.”
The boat idled up alongside them about twenty seconds later. A man wearing a hooded raincoat disembarked the boat and held out his hand. A friendly grin broke across his face. “You girls need a lift?” Newton Laskey shouted.
“Nice of you to finally show up, Newt,” Annie muttered as she handed Gabby over to her boss. She watched Laskey secure the girl safely into the boat, and then turn his attention to her. She grabbed his hand and stepped into the boat.
There were four other men seated in the boat. She recognized all but one of them. The three she recognized were her coworkers, men she considered dear friends. Palmer Hawkins, Kevin Brubaker, and Otis Grant all greeted her with tired smiles.
“Where’s Cooper?” Newton Laskey asked her as she collapsed onto a seat between Hawkins and Brubaker. She’d been operating solely on adrenaline for several hours. And now that she and Gabby were out of danger, the “shakes” associated with adrenaline withdrawal captured her limbs. Nausea was sure to follow.
Annie shook her head sadly. “He didn’t make it. Blaine Boudreaux confessed to shooting him.”
“Oh, dear God,” Newton Laskey mumbled, looking down, unable to mask his grief.
Annie felt awful as she watched sadness darken her supervisor’s face. Laskey was a former Marine who would rather be impaled by a rusty pitchfork than leave a man behind. He always took it extremely hard whenever an agent died under his command. Fortunately that rarely happened.
Laskey turned to Otis Grant, who sat at the wheel of the boat. “Take us home, Otis, before this godforsaken swamp kills us all.
“Wait, we have to find Jon,” Annie said.
Confusion painted a frown on Laskey’s face. “Who is Jon?”
“Jon Rafter, a man who lives around here. He rescued Gabby and me from the storm surge. He’s trying to catch Sebastian Boudreaux. They’re both on Wave Runners, and both were headed south the last I saw them,” Annie explained.
Laskey shook his head. “Both you and Gabby need medical attention. We’ll take you and the child into town, then return to search for Rafter and Boudreaux. And Frank Cooper’s body,” he vowed, his shaky voice suddenly brimming with determination.
Chapter 37
New Orleans
Mario Brinkman felt old and conspicuous as he loitered outside Julie Brinkman’s tenth grade history class. Passing faculty and a few roaming students of John F. Kennedy Senior High cast wary glances his way. Fortunately they didn’t demand a reason for his presence.
The single offspring from a Jewish father and an Italian mother, Brinkman’s olive skin, dark hair, and ebony eyes imparted him with a somewhat Middle-Eastern look, which caused some overly paranoid people to cast suspicious looks his way. He finally had to shave his beard and buzz his wavy hair to divert suspicion.
His modified appearance seemed to be working well. He only generated interest on elevated terror alert days. He actually didn’t mind receiving the once-over. He was glad his countrymen were being vigilant. America’s enemy is a merciless foe that will stop at nothing to wage its cowardly war against innocent people with differing religious faiths. Profiling had its critics for sure. But ask any counterterrorism expert and they’ll tell you watchful eyes are sometimes the best defense against terrorists.
Brinkman leaned his head over just enough that he could peer through the door’s windowpane. Students sat quietly at their desks and appeared to be taking an exam. They didn’t notice him peeking in.
Brinkman directed a furtive gaze toward his ex-wife, who sat at her desk. This was the first he’d seen her since that gray day when their divorce became official. He quickly noticed she’d drastically cut her long hair. It was short and fashionable now, and suited her well. The years are being kind to her, he thought. She doesn’t look forty-three.
His heart raced. He hadn’t been this nervous since the day he’d asked Julie to the prom. He almost turned and walked away, but something stopped him and he watched helplessly as his hand rapped the glass.
A few students, as well as his ex-wife looked up at the sound. Julie looked surprised but not angry to see him. She left her desk and strode toward him. And for a split-second he flashed back to their wedding day. Julie had looked ravishing in her sleeveless gown, walking slowly down the aisle toward him, alternately smiling and biting her lip to keep from crying.
She wasn’t smiling this time.
Julie Brinkman opened the door and stepped out. “Mario? Is everything okay?”
He felt his face flush. “Um, yeah, everything is great. Hey, I know this isn’t the best time or place to talk, but I couldn’t find your number in the book.”
“I dropped my landline. I only have my cell phone now.” Julie said softly as she glanced back at her students.
Brinkman fumbled for the right words to say. Confessing his feelings always made him clam up. He looked at his shoes. “How’s the teaching profession going?” he finally asked, unable to think of a better segue.
Julie Brinkman sighed. “It’s sad. Most of the kids just aren’t that interested in history. They’re too distracted with their social lives, Facebook, and video games to want to study a history book.”
“That’s too bad. Someday they’ll be like me and wish they’d taken history more seriously. You can learn a lot from the past.”
“Really? Give me an example.”
“Well, not studying history ensures you’ll keep repeating the same miserable mistakes.” Brinkman prayed Julie would read into his modest statement and realize just how contrite he was about his failings as a husband.
She looked at him intently, as if from a slightly different perspective. “What you’ve said is very profound, Mario. Many of society’s ills can be linked to not studying history. Those who lived before us are crying out warnings from the grave, but we refuse to listen.”
“Spoken like a true historian.”
“I’m sorry, Mario. I’m sure you didn’t come here to be lectured.”
“No offense taken. Lecturing is what you do for a living,” Brinkman said. He looked at her steadily, his courage beginning to build. “You look great. I like your hair like that.”
“Look, Mario, I don’t mean to be rude, but the bell is going to ring in four minutes. These hallways are going to fill with students. So whatever you came to say, just say it.”
“I’m sorry, Julie. Maybe I should catch you some other time.” He almost left it at that. But then he noticed she still wore her wedding ring, and his heart quickened with hope. “But I really have some exciting ne
ws and I wanted to share it with you. Sometime tomorrow, U.S. authorities will arrest Carlos Zaplata in a multi-agency sting operation. The DEA has credible intelligence that he’s on his way to the Gulf Coast to extract, or most likely terminate American distributors under his employ. This is a black operation, but I wanted you to know beforehand.”
“Why is that? Why should I be privy to such classified intelligence?”
“Because I wanted to see you again. This is a dangerous operation and there’s a chance, actually, quite a good chance that something could go wrong. Zaplata will not hesitate to put up a fight and take out as much law enforcement officers as he can. He’s a cerebral criminal but becomes volatile when cornered.”
Julie half-smiled and folded her arms. A familiar response she did whenever she became irritated with him. “So, you’re finally going to catch your man. Whatever are you going to do with yourself when he’s behind bars? Are you going to set your sights on the rest of the Veracruz cartel and track them all down to the ends of the Earth? When will it ever end, Mario?”
Brinkman looked down. Her scathing response surprised him.
“I’m sorry, Mario. I’ve rained on your parade, I’m sure. It’s just that I’ve put all this behind me a long time ago. The bitterness ate me up. I had to let it all go. You should do the same. I’m afraid your lust for revenge is going to get you killed.”
Mario sighed. “It’s not just revenge I’m after, Julie. I want closure. But I can’t have it until I know Zaplata is behind bars. No family should have to go through what we did and bury their kid because they overdosed on Zaplata’s heroin.”
“Are you really sure the heroin came from Zaplata?”
“Positive. I went to great lengths to track the origin of sale, all the way from Zaplata’s drug labs to the pusher on the street who sold Eve the drugs.”
Julie absently twisted the tennis bracelet dangling from her slender wrist. She looked at him deeply, her mocha eyes becoming moist. She dabbed at a runaway tear. “I’ll pray for your safety, Mario. And for the success of the operation. Call me when it’s over. I’d like to know how it went.”