Instinct hc-17

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I… I… thought I might check my messages.’ Flynn began to rise, but suddenly Michelle was right behind him, leaning over his shoulder, her breasts pressing into his shoulder blades, her amazing scent invading his sense of smell, almost overpowering him in a subtle way. She reached over and her fingers tapped on the keyboard. Flynn froze, certain that Boone would come back at this very moment and witness this little scenario.

  ‘Just tap in BaBaGee1234,’ Michelle said into Flynn’s ear. She entered the password, her breasts still crushed into his back, then stood upright, gave a little laugh and walked back to the bedroom. Flynn, despite the danger of death, still had a serious rush of blood and could not help himself turning to ogle her bottom. She glanced back over her shoulder before Flynn could look away. She gave him a tinkle of a wave and disappeared.

  Flynn exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath.

  The computer was displaying the pages that Boone, presumably, must have been browsing earlier. There were a lot of Google news searches, all on separate pages. Flynn, though not all that curious, selected one and when he realized what he was looking at, his heartbeat stepped up a few notches. His lips popped open and his whole body stiffened with terror and foreboding. He tabbed from screen to screen, his eyes scanning the pages that Boone had been reading.

  Flynn wasn’t sure how long he’d been looking at the computer when he heard footsteps crashing on to the deck above and the voice of Ray Boone screaming, ‘Shell, Shell, we need to move. Shell, we need to get the fuck out of here!’

  Flynn spun, a curious mix of emotions in him. Guilt at looking at Boone’s computer, the same at having seen Michelle naked, and puzzlement about what Boone was yelling about.

  Boone slid down the almost perpendicular stairs and crashed into the living room, gasping, rasping for breath, red-faced and exhausted. He clutched his chest.

  ‘Shit, you’re here,’ was his reaction on seeing Flynn.

  Boone ran across the room and yanked a drawer out from a cabinet, turned it upside down so the contents fell out.

  ‘You need to fuck off now,’ Boone said. ‘Just like I’m doing.’

  ‘Darling, what’s going on?’ A be-robed Michelle appeared at the bedroom door. Boone glanced at her, his face contorted with desperation. ‘Get dressed — just don’t ask, do it. Pack a few things in a holdall — you might just have time. But do not, repeat, DO NOT, arse around. Well? What are you waiting for, you silly bint?’

  Michelle blinked, stung by the insult, confused by the orders and urgency. She went back into the bedroom.

  Flynn said, ‘Boone — what the hell’s…?’ He did not finish the sentence. Flynn saw the reason for the drawer being yanked out and upturned. Fastened by masking tape to the underside of the drawer was a pistol and two spare clips of ammunition. Boone ripped the tape away, fitted a magazine into the gun, drew back the slider and eased the first bullet into the chamber.

  ‘You get the hell out of here,’ Boone said. ‘I don’t have time for chapter and verse — just go, now. Michelle? Where the fuck are you? Come on, come on.’ Boone turned back to Flynn. ‘Go, please. I’ll catch up with you sometime. Just leg it, pal. Michelle!’ he bellowed. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Boone?’ Flynn said.

  ‘I fucked up. OK? I need to get to the boat and away from this stinking shithole. Run — now, Flynn. I can’t make it any plainer.’

  Michelle emerged from the bedroom, hurriedly re-dressed, with a small holdall in hand, a concerned and puzzled expression on her face which morphed into something else — terror — when she saw the gun in Boone’s hand.

  Boone grabbed her arm. ‘Do you want to be with me?’ He shook her.

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘Then we need to go now.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, her big eyes wide with fear. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘To the boat, Flynn. Get going.’

  Flynn wasn’t about to hang around any longer. He already had the feeling that too much time was being wasted. He recognized a hunted man when he saw one. He shimmied up the steps on to the deck, the two others behind him. He hurried towards the gangplank but he stopped as a black Mercedes skidded in the dust on the quayside, maybe a hundred metres away from the houseboat, as close as a vehicle could get, just behind Boone’s Land Cruiser that had been left at a skewed angle, abandoned by Boone, the driver’s door open.

  Four men climbed out of the Mercedes, all dressed in summer shirts, shorts and sunglasses. The summer attire didn’t somehow seem to go with the weapons they were openly carrying. They were varied. An AK47, an H amp;K machine pistol and two similar weapons Flynn did not recognize. All did similar jobs. That of firing short deadly bursts of bullets designed to rip people to shreds. Each also had a pistol in a pancake holster at his hip.

  Boone came on deck, Michelle in tow.

  A shout went up from the men — a primeval roar, really, as when a human being locks on to his prey — and they fanned quickly out, bringing their guns across their hips into firing positions. The weapons burst into life.

  Flynn dived, Boone dragged Michelle to her knees. She screamed. Bullets thudded into the deck, furniture and fittings, and the glass-topped cane table disintegrated spectacularly.

  Boone fired off two shots from his pistol, wayward, unaimed panic shots.

  Flynn raised his head cautiously to see the men now line abreast, walking towards them. They would be here within seconds. They halted as one unit and again raked the boat with gunfire. Flynn slammed himself to the deck, bullets whizzing dangerously above him, inches at most, smacking into the superstructure and furniture, spinning one of the chairs around.

  Boone dragged Michelle behind Flynn. Just a glance over his shoulder and he saw her petrified eyes, but had no time for sympathy or words of reassurance. Now was the time to keep moving, to try to stay alive, although both aspirations were becoming less likely as ammunition continued to crash around them.

  Boone rose, fired six shots double-handed at the oncoming men. He caught them by surprise this time, and with a bit more accuracy. One reeled away, dropping his weapon and clutching his arm. A hit. Boone loosed off the remainder of the seventeen shot magazine, forcing the men to keep their heads right down, until the hammer clicked on empty and the slide locked open. He flicked the magazine release and let the empty container clatter on to the deck.

  ‘Run to the front of the boat and jump,’ he said between his gritted teeth, fitting the spare magazine into the handle and yanking the slide back to reload the chamber.

  Flynn grabbed Michelle and they scuttled along the deck like crabs. Boone rose again and emptied half the new magazine at the men. They were not so brave under fire, their line and cockiness had gone to pot and they were hiding behind any cover available. At the same time, the painful screams of the one who’d been winged could be heard as part of the general cacophony.

  One of them ducked behind a barrel.

  Boone swung his gun purposely at him and fired at the barrel. It had previously contained fuel for the boats and was now virtually empty — with the exception of fumes, ideal to be ignited by a spark to become a deadly bomb.

  Within a microsecond of Boone’s bullet entering the barrel, it exploded with a huge, spectacular burst of red-hot flame and torn, jagged metal, and the man cowering behind it was thrown, alight, across the quayside, spinning like a grotesque Catherine wheel, his shape black against the blast, ten feet off the quayside into the creek, where he splashed down with a fizzle.

  The heat whooshed across Flynn’s shoulders as he leapt across the gap from the prow of the houseboat on to the quay, landing with the agility of a big cat, stooping and turning to Michelle to encourage her to follow him.

  She jumped the gap easily, dropping on to the quay. No need for Flynn to steady her. Boone was just behind.

  The only problem they had in running away was that they were now completely exposed to the two remaining, active gunmen and there was at least another hundred metres to sprint before t
here was any kind of cover for them.

  Flynn checked over his shoulder.

  Michelle was a foot behind him, Boone twenty, both with terror on their faces. Boone’s arms were pumping, his face glowing from the exertion that must have been affecting his heart. He looked like he might explode with the same ferocity as the barrel and Flynn had a parallel thought about the weak heart beating within his friend’s chest.

  ‘Go,’ Boone screamed at him.

  Flynn’s head jerked forwards. He vaulted what seemed to be an old railway sleeper left diagonally across the deck. Michelle followed easily.

  There were more shots, Flynn ducking instinctively as he. felt them zing by just above his head.

  Then a sudden bad feeling hit Flynn, making him stop and turn — only to see that Boone had been shot and was half-lying, half-kneeling across the railway sleeper. His left shoulder had been blown apart. Boone dragged himself up and looked at Flynn. Then there was more shooting as, sixty metres further back, the uninjured men came on relentlessly.

  Boone’s head angled up, and a bullet struck the back of his skull. His face exploded from the inside out, as the bullet, having bounced around his cranium at a thousand feet per second, tumbled crazily and exited, removing Boone’s nose and mouth.

  Michelle screamed. She too had stopped to look. She ran back to Boone, his body now prostrate across the sleeper, blood pooling under him, body twitching.

  Michelle ran quicker than Flynn could reach out to stop her.

  ‘We can’t do anything,’ Flynn shouted, but to no effect.

  She sank to her knees by Boone’s shattered head and a dreadful wailing sound erupted from her.

  The gunmen had stopped running now, were approaching at an easy, confident stride, their shoulders rolling. Then they stopped twenty metres short of Boone and one of them raised his weapon. Flynn saw it was the H amp;K.

  ‘No!’ Flynn bawled, believing the gun was going to be fired at Michelle, who at that range would be torn apart. He moved towards her, then realized his mistake. The machine pistol was aimed at him, not her, and as this dawned on him, he reacted. Using his forward momentum, he curled away and launched himself off the quayside into the brown, brackish water of the creek which he knew was deep enough to dive into.

  As his feet left the ground, a bullet impacted his left side and turned what would have been a graceful dive into an uncoordinated messy spin of arms and legs, like a gull being shot out of the sky. He hit the water hard, went under, inhaling and swallowing huge mouthfuls of the muddy concoction.

  He writhed painfully as he sank. Unable to see a thing, he kicked out frenetically with arms and legs, feeling like he’d been hit by a baseball bat connected to an electricity supply.

  He fought panic, realizing that it would land him in a dirty watery grave. The first thing he had to do was remain calm, surface and purge his lungs of what he’d swallowed, even though that action could result in death, too.

  But he had no alternative. He had to go up and hope the guys weren’t serious about finishing him off.

  With a huge effort that sent an explosion of pain through his side, he kicked upwards and broke the surface, choking and spluttering. He opened his eyes and was momentarily confused at finding himself surrounded by darkness. Air sucked automatically into his lungs and he realized he’d surfaced right underneath the slatted wooden boards that formed the unsteady quayside.

  He trod water, looking up, knowing that his upsurge to the surface must have made a noise, his coughing and spluttering not having been exactly surreptitious.

  His side hurt. He inhaled and spat out — quietly — and saw no blood in his saliva, giving him hope he hadn’t been shot in the chest. However, it was fucking creasing him and as he rocked gently in the water, holding position, his ribs felt like they were scraping together like tinder. Maybe the bullet had just gouged him. His self-absorbed musing stopped.

  Footsteps on the planking six feet above his head. Shadows moving. Talking, muttering.

  Flynn kicked across to one of the stanchions, pile-driven into the mud, holding up the quay, and hugged it, trying to keep his breathing even, trying not to emit any pathetic squeaks of pain.

  The gaps between the planks were uneven — it was a shoddily built structure and Flynn had a theory that it was the Ba-Ba-Gee keeping it upright. Sunlight shone through some of the wider gaps between the planks, whilst other planks tightly abutted each other.

  He could see the soles of shoes right above him, hear urgent whispering and Michelle moaning further down the quay. The men had stopped, now no longer talking. They were listening, trying to locate Flynn.

  He heard a slide being pulled back, then slotted back into place, one of the scariest noises in the world. A gun being loaded, ready to fire. Flynn could not say which weapon it was until it opened fire.

  It was the AK47, the Kalashnikov, the widow-maker, Russia’s present to the world. The man holding it opened fire and Flynn recognized its very individual signature noise. Whoever was firing it was doing so randomly down through the quay, spraying bullets through the planks into the water below. A guessing game. They had easily worked out they hadn’t fatally shot him, and that he must now be underneath them, cowering in the water.

  They got that bit right.

  The bullets tore through the wood, splintering it. Flynn gripped the stanchion and hoped for the best.

  Then the gun did exactly what he would have prayed for. Flynn heard the firing mechanism clunk and jam and the bullets stopped as suddenly as they’d started. The AK47 was a very robust weapon, but it had to be lovingly maintained and decent quality ammunition was always best. Flynn guessed that neither was the case here.

  The shooter cursed. Flynn could hear the man trying to loosen the slider and drag it backwards to clear the problem.

  After taking a deep breath against the agony in his side, he pushed himself away from the upright, silently he hoped, and started to breaststroke quietly under the quay, pushing his way through the debris that had accumulated on the surface. This included a lot of floating rubbish, polystyrene cups and, gruesomely, the carcass of a dead boar. Horrified, Flynn reared away from this, trying to contain a gagging reflex in his throat. He kicked away, remaining underneath the quay, moving further and further away from the houseboat which he could still see behind him. The water was still muddy brown, but was warm, and he noticed he was leaving a trail of blood, already attracting little fish that fed in a frenzy of tiny splashes. He knew he had to get out, dry off and see what damage had been done. He was feeling weak and woozy now.

  He grabbed another stanchion, paused, looked back, listened, watched. He groaned noisily when a shot of pain tore at his ribs, like a lion had scraped a claw along them, then inserted the same claw for an extra jolt. Working his way around the stanchion, he found a thin rope ladder tacked to it. Flynn grabbed hold of the bottom rung and slowly eased himself up until he could raise his head just above the quay and peer back to the scene of the incident.

  He watched with horror.

  One man was kick-rolling Boone’s body to the edge of the quay, his lifeless limbs flailing with each revolution of his body.

  Another man was holding Michelle down on her knees, his hand wound tightly in her hair, causing her face to warp in agony as she was forced to watch the other man flatfoot Boone’s body off the quayside into the water below.

  A third man, the one shot by Boone, stood as witness to this, his right arm dangling uselessly by his side, blood dripping from the wound.

  When Boone’s body splashed into the water, they turned their attention to Michelle, who struggled to break free from the man holding her hair. He held tight.

  Using the last of his waning strength, Flynn hauled himself on to the quay and rolled quickly out of sight behind a low wooden fence that surrounded two large waste disposal bins. He squatted low and pulled up his shirt to inspect his own wound.

  He almost fainted when he saw a huge chunk of his side had been go
uged out. Steeling himself, he touched it warily, gasping and nauseous, using his wet fingers to probe. There was some relief when he was sure the bullet had not entered him, but if this was what it was like to be winged, he didn’t recommend it. There was a lot of damage and blood was pouring out. He pulled off his T-shirt, rolled it into a ball and held it against the wound.

  Keeping low, he started to work his way back to the next creek where his beloved Faye2 was moored next to Boone’s boat. He knew he was leaving a trail of wet footprints and spats of blood, and he hoped it wasn’t a trail the men would even look for. But he moved quickly, with a loping sideways gait to compensate for the agony he felt in his side.

  By the time he reached his boat he was gagging for breath, light-headed, legs dithery and weak. But he knew he didn’t have the time even to think about treating himself.

  If the bad guys were thinking about coming for him, the trail he’d left could have been followed by a child and he didn’t want to take the chance of them turning up. He jumped on board with the mooring rope, turned the hidden cut-out toggle and started the engines. They came to life first time. Then, with a wistful glance at Shell, Flynn crept out of the creek and into the main river channel, setting out west towards the estuary and open sea. Once there, he steered north and fixed the autopilot that would take him right to the harbour mouth at Puerto Rico, and would automatically steer a safe route through any other shipping they might encounter.

  Guilt burned away at him like a laser for leaving Michelle to her fate, which, he thought bleakly and in a cliched way, would be worse than death… followed by death. But he knew he could not have saved her without being killed himself.

  He stripped off in the cabin, and seeing his blood dripping on the floor reminded him of how Boone had failed to clean the blood on Shell, the boat he’d named after the love of his life. Flynn thought of the irony of the name of his boat, Faye2. Faye was his ex-wife’s name. Not the love of his life.

  Then he stepped into the narrow shower to clean himself off and treat the wound, hopefully discover it wasn’t life threatening.