Tortugas Rising

by Benjamin Wallace

  “Alive.” The sergeant barked, letting go of the barrel.

  Brittany and Paul dropped to the ground.

  Paul whispered, “You lead the way.”

  Brittany started crawling. Paul froze as he watched her crawl toward the front door.

  “Baxter is a nutcase but he sure can hire people,” he said to himself and scrambled on all fours so he would not lose sight of the girl.

  He enjoyed the view until they reached the lobby. Brittany stood and burst through the doors into the warm night air. The humidity hit her hard in face. The guard hit harder. She fell to her side, but caught herself on the spiral column.

  As one guard ran to subdue the girl, a second swung at Paul as he came through the door.

  Paul wasn’t looking where he was going. He ran too close to the guard for the punch to be effective. The guard’s arm wrapped around Paul’s neck. The brute locked his arm and began to squeeze.

  Paul gasped for air as his face was crushed against the guard’s chest.

  Brittany’s attacker turned to assist with Paul.

  The guard struck the gun from Paul’s hand, “I’ve got him. Get her.”

  Brittany was back on her feet, a purple bruise already forming on her cheek. She struck at the guard. There wasn’t much behind the punch, and if she had landed it she would have most likely snapped her own wrist; but it startled the guard and he was forced to fall back into a defensive position.

  Paul spun. Now the guard’s forearm was across his throat.

  The guard chuckled, “You dumb shit.”

  Paul tried to respond, but the grip on his throat prevented the words from coming out and air from getting in. His head felt like it was going through the loop of a roller coaster. Light faded. His vision narrowed. He reached up and tried to punch the guard. The angle was wrong. The strikes were light slaps.

  The guard laughed, “Good night, princess.”

  Paul’s hands found the guards ears. He pulled.

  The guard screamed and he twisted his head to lessen Paul’s leverage. He pulled tighter against Paul’s throat.

  Paul pulled forward until the guard’s chin was on top of his head. Paul let go of the ears, grabbed the guard by the back of neck and dropped.

  The impact sent pain through Paul’s tail bone and his head into the guard’s chin.

  The guard fell to the ground. Blood streamed from his mouth. Paul rolled onto his stomach and tried to regain his focus. The world blurred. He wheezed.

  Brittany flailed at the second guard. An assault of limbs targeted his head and groin, each one deflected with a natural ease. His training was impossible for her to penetrate. He blocked kick after kick and an array of unpredictable punches.

  However, his defensive stance did not block bullets.

  Paul was beside her before the man dropped.

  “You killed him.”

  “One shot, too. I’m getting better at this.”

  Paul grabbed two clips from the fallen guard that matched the H&K in his hand. He fired several shots through the door to keep their pursuers behind cover.

  They crossed the wide path in front of the casino, and tried to lose their pursuers in the maze of meandering walkways that ran across the island.

  They took the path’s tributaries without a destination in mind. Paul’s legs ached; years of sitting on the couch had kept him free from gym-related injuries but did nothing to condition him for a wild weekend running gunfight. A half mile later a cramp had slowed him to a hobble.

  “Run,” Brittany said softly.

  There had been no sign of their pursuers, but she was not about to stop running until they were safe.

  “I can’t run. I’ve never liked running.”

  “We don’t have a lot of options,” she said; she was wrong.

  The path ended in front of a wide swatch of pavement that extended as far as they could see in both directions.

  The test ring had been built on Master Key to fulfill the residents’ love of expensive cars. Once operational, they would give driving lessons to the public for a price. A racing school was already in talks to open a branch of their school on the island.

  They followed the track east for a tenth of a mile and found the answer to Paul Nelson’s leg cramps. It wasn’t pretty. It was yellow. A VW Beetle convertible sat poised on the racetrack ready to impress absolutely no one with its performance.

  “What the hell?” Paul threw up his hands.

  “They were doing a magazine shoot of convertibles.”

  “And this is what they brought? I’m canceling my subscription.”

  “It beats running.”

  “Not by much.”

  The keys were in the ignition. Paul dropped in behind the wheel.

  “This is just going to take us in a circle,” Brittany said as she climbed in beside him.

  “We’ll take it to the end and run from there.”

  He turned the key and the engine purred.

  “Aww. What a cute sound.” Paul punched the dash.

  “I like it.”

  He put the Beetle in gear. Paul planned to drive in the dark. The car, however, decided it knew best, and washed the track with its halogens.

  “Stupid car.”

  He mashed the gas and the Beetle responded – slowly. Drawn by the headlights, the guards scrambled onto the track.

  Paul cranked the wheel and tried to run the group down. They scattered into the bushes as the Beetle hummed by onto the footpath.

  “What happened to the plan with the track?” Brittany grasped the dash and dug in with her nails.

  “It really wasn’t much of a plan.”

  Paul fought the little car to keep it on the path. The twists and turns came suddenly, thrashing the pair about. The fact that he had not let off the accelerator made the turns that much quicker.

  They found the main artery of the island and turned west. The path had been designed for foot traffic and electric carts, and afforded little in terms of width.

  One of these carts soon crossed their path. Paul swerved to avoid it. Partially out of reflex, partially out of a fear of crippling the car.

  They collided. Paul clipped the front wheel with his side of the car and turned the cart over. He chuckled.

  A moment later they flew by another golf cart.

  “If all we have to contend with is golf carts – I could get used to this car.”

  A jarring impact pulled them back into their seats and the roar of a powerful engine preceded another jolt from behind.

  Paul adjusted the tiny rearview mirror. A convertible Camaro charged at them and mashed the rear end of the Beetle closer to the front.

  “Hey, he didn’t have to turn his lights on. And where did he get a Camaro?”

  “From the shoot?”

  “No fair, I didn’t see that one.”

  “What difference does it make? Just outrun them.”

  “Outrun them?” Another crash forced Paul to make a dramatic steering correction. “That car is easily twice as powerful and, like, a thousand times cooler than this one. We’re not outrunning anyone.”

  A fourth crash was quickly followed by a fifth.

  “What do we do?”

  Paul turned on the high beams and tried to read the road ahead. “We use this crappy car’s crappy size.”

  He jerked the wheel violently and caught a side path. The Camaro followed.

  Paul fought the wheel on the narrow cart path and somehow managed to toss Brittany the gun. It hit her lap and fell to the floor.

  “Shoot!”

  Every time she tried to grab the gun from the floor the violent shaking would drive her hands back to the dash.

  Paul took another hard turn and found himself in the island’s shopping district.

  Designed like a mountain ski village, the paths did not get much wider. The buildings were set close to one another; small side streets branched off in every direction. The front wheel drive and lack of power allowed Paul to turn down
the alleyways and drives without a squirrelly back end. Paul had his edge.

  The guard’s heavy foot, combined with the power of the Camaro, caused the larger car to drift and crash into the walls of the boutiques that lined the path.

  Paul stayed in the shopping center and worked his way in and around the square as he crossed and backtracked in the narrow confines. And, like a Tom and Jerry cartoon, the Camaro did its best to follow.

  So far the guards had destroyed the Ralph Lauren, Coach and Sak’s storefronts. Alarms rang out through the square as the cars raced around it.

  A storefront window shattered as the Camaro’s rear end swung wide and jumped the curb. It took out a support post, and the roof began to sag. The driver floored the Camaro to get clear of the falling debris, the wheels spun uselessly as white smoke poured from the tires. The roof collapsed and pinned the car beneath it.

  Paul turned out of the square and headed north. The path narrowed again and they found themselves on the test track. He turned east and gunned the engine.

  Brittany loosened her grip on the dash. Her fingers hurt from the tension and she found it painful to open them. She found the gun on the floor and handed it back to Paul.

  “Hopefully, were done with this.” He placed the gun between the seat and the console. “There’s no way they’re getting that Camaro out of there.”

  The silver Corvette traded paint with the yellow Bug as it slammed against them. The driver was alone and grit his teeth as he pulled away for another strike.

  Paul cursed the Bug again and jerked the wheel to counter the Corvette’s strike.

  “Seriously? We got like the only crappy car they brought?”

  The smell of burning rubber wafted past his nose, and the pull of the car momentarily decreased. The Corvette had rubbed the front wheel, slowing his progress.

  The Corvette pulled away. Paul grabbed between the seats for the gun, but it was caught under the seatbelt latch. He was wrestling with the pistol as the Corvette collided with them again.

  A fifth hit helped shake the pistol free; Paul aimed across his door and opened fire.

  The Corvette’s brakes chirped as the antilock brake system activated. The Beetle pulled ahead on the race track.

  The Corvette rammed them from behind, trying to force the Beetle to turn toward the center of the track.

  The first turn of the track was upon them. It banked steeply to allow maximum speed through the turn. Paul checked quickly to make sure Brittany was still buckled in. Out of sheer habit he had latched his own belt when he first got in the car.

  They entered the turn.

  “Just try and go limp.”

  Paul veered right. The Corvette went left. The little yellow convertible shot up the embankment and into the air as it cleared the lip of the track. The Corvette slammed on its brakes.

  Brittany screamed. Paul squealed. The Beetle flew for only a moment before crashing into the beach. A wall of sand rose up around them as the car’s body dug into the shoreline. The airbags deployed. The engine continued to purr.

  Paul began breathing again and wrestled to get the car under control. It ran straight – no matter how much he turned the wheel, it ran straight. The impact with the surf was almost as rough as the landing. The car stopped instantly.

  With the airbags already used up, Paul found nothing to stop his face from striking the steering wheel. His chin bled profusely and he found no desire to talk. Crashing waves beat against his head. The surf sounded muffled.

  Brittany had struck the dash and was dazed.

  Paul undid his seatbelt and stood to see over the back of the car. He swayed uneasily. His footing was uncertain.

  The Corvette had made its way off the track and was still coming for them. He couldn’t find his gun.

  The silver ’vette slid to a stop in the sand. The driver stepped out and leveled a submachine gun at Paul.

  “Get out of the car!” Paul heard him yell this just before a red stitching of bullet holes appeared across his chest. Paul spun to see a man beside him holding an assault rifle; smoke rising from the barrel. Dazed, Paul turned back to the car. Another man was helping Brittany from the car.

  Paul fell back into his seat and peered through the windshield at the black launch from the Rainbow Connection. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked into the face of a thick and burly man.

  The hand on his shoulder was huge. The forearms were like knotted rope. Hairy, knotted rope. “Mr. Nelson.”

  The words swam in his head, fighting to get upstream as everything poured from his consciousness.

  “We got your distress call, Mr. Nelson. We’re the cavalry.”

  Paul passed out.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The large black craft crashed into the side of the jet-boat. Fiberglass cracked and the smaller craft capsized. Steve hit the water; he didn’t see where Katherine went.

  For a moment he could not get his bearings – what was up, what was down. There was no light in the water until the shadow of the black craft passed overhead.

  He kicked violently as he tore off the tuxedo jacket. It was pulling him down. His shoes were working against him, as well; the heavy Sketcher oxfords felt like lead on his feet.

  He broke the surface and spun, looking for the girl. The engine of the black boat roared in his ear, first to one side, then from behind. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the hull of the craft, looking up into the barrels of two shotguns. The bores were dark and deep. The eyes of the guards were hardened and cold.

  “Drop the gun Bennett.”

  The gun? He had already dropped it. It was on the bottom of the channel, somewhere near the tux jacket. He raised his hands slowly out of the water. One guard shouldered his weapon, and reached for Steve’s hands.

  Steve ran through his options. He could try to pull the guard in, letting the weight of his shoes drag them both to the bottom. He might be able to get away. But he realized that it wasn’t just his shoes dragging him down. It was his legs. It was his body telling him to quit. He had nothing left, and a desperate attempt at escape would certainly get both him and Katherine killed. Where was she?

  “Over there, I think she’s unconscious,” a voice from the boat said. A splash followed.

  Steve held his hands higher and grasped those of the guard. They pulled him into the boat. Two guards kept their weapons on him. But he was done.

  A few moments later they sat Katherine beside him. She was awake and sputtering. A trickle of blood ran down her face and collected on her wet evening gown.

  “The old man wants to see you.”

  Steve sat back in the bench and put his arm around Katherine.

  # # #

  Savage was waiting for them back on the dock. His grin was menacing.

  “I told you we just wanted to talk. But you had to keep shooting at me. Baxter wants you alive. So you’ll be alive.”

  The blow came out of nowhere. Savage hit like an ogre. Steve felt his head try to spin off his neck. He did not feel his body hit the dock.

  Katherine screamed and lunged at Savage. A guard held her back. Savage approached her.

  “And you, Ms. Bernelli. Baxter wants to see you too. And unless your prince here makes the right call...it’s not going to end well for you. I hope he was worth it.”

  He cracked Katherine with the same strike that took out Steve. She saw it coming and rolled with the punch. There was just enough time before the second swing, to spit blood into the face of Rick Savage.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Paul’s mouth tasted like rust. He rubbed his jaw and winced at the pain caused by the contact.

  He remembered trying to bite off a piece of the Beetle’s steering wheel, but little else. He didn’t know where he was, who had brought him here, or what he was wearing, but it itched.

  He looked down at his chest. A multi-colored hemp shirt draped from his shoulders and continued down past his crotch. He wasn’t sure what the pants were made of, b
ut they weren’t pretty either.

  Across the room was an open door. Whoever had him, trusted him. He sat up in the bed and leaned forward to peer around the door’s opening. Before he could move toward it, a man walked in.

  “Good,” he noted Paul’s upright and conscious position. “How’s the face?”

  Paul tried to mutter “Gorgeous,” but spit out a mouthful of gauze instead.

  “You busted yourself up pretty bad on that steering wheel. Air bags don’t work well if you try to use the same one twice.”

  He hadn’t even felt the gauze. He probed his teeth with his tongue looking for gaps. There were none.

  “You kept them all. Though there are a couple you’ll want to have looked at when you get back to the mainland.’

  “Where am I?” Paul spoke carefully for fear of losing a tooth.

  “You’re on a ship called the Rainbow Connection.”

  “The hippie’s ship?” He stumbled over the “s’s”.

  “Yeah, sure.” The man chuckled.

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re the good guys, Mr. Nelson.” A large figure filled the doorway.

  “Friends of the environment. I get it.”

  David Jefferson entered the room. He was dressed in a black outfit. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal the massive arms that had pulled Paul from the car.

  “No, we’re not protectors of the planet; just the country. I’m Special Agent Jefferson – Homeland Security.”

  Paul lifted his arms to study the hemp shirt. “Whatever you say.”

  “Sorry about the clothes. The undercover wear was all we had.”

  “Where’s the girl? Where’s Steve?”

  “Ms. Daniels is resting. We don’t know where your friend is.”

  “We have to go get him.” Paul rose to his feet. He marveled at what good the rest had done him. Jefferson pushed him back onto the bed.

  “Relax, Paul. May I call you Paul?”

  “May I call you Susie?”

  Jefferson stiffened. “All right, Mr. Nelson.”

  “I want to see a badge or an arm patch or whatever you guys use.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You shot at us. You chased us down in a big black boat and shot another boat out from underneath us.”