Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  STORM SURGE

  By

  J.D. RHOADES

  "Oh," said Luigi, reposefully, "I don't mind it. I killed the man for good reasons, and I don't regret it."

  "What were the reasons?"

  "Well, he needed killing."

  -Mark Twain, Pudd'nhead Wilson

  Man plans, God laughs.

  -Jewish Proverb

  STORM SURGE copyright 2010 by J.D. Rhoades. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All places, people and events portrayed herein are products of the author's imagination. No resemblance to any actual persons living or dead is intended or should be inferred.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chernov regarded the dead bodyguard on the floor in front of him and sighed. He looked up into the barrel of the gun pointed at him.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” Mercer asked.

  “How many of my men did you kill to get to this point?”

  A slight pause. “It’s good that you care.”

  Chernov’s lips drew taut. “Some of those men were family.”

  “Five,” Mercer said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Really?”

  This time, the answer came back without hesitation. “Yes,” Mercer said. “None of this had to happen.”

  “You’re wrong. Everything here was inevitable.”

  ”Nothing is inevitable. Everything is a matter of choice.”

  Chernov noticed the slowly spreading red stain at Mercer’s left side. “Looks like one of them at least managed to get a shot off.”

  Mercer didn’t look down. “It’ll heal. Just a graze.”

  “Maybe you’re slowing down.”

  “Not enough to make a difference.” Chernov didn’t answer. “My offer still stands,” Mercer said.

  Chernov looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Even after….?”

  Mercer nodded. “Even after.”

  Chernov stared into Mercer’s eyes. “You’re a strange man, Mercer.”

  “Not really. I think I’ve come up with a pretty good solution to our mutual problems.”

  Chernov shook his head, then shrugged. “Agreed, then.”

  Mercer nodded, sealing the deal. “I’ll need the pictures.”

  Chernov hesitated.

  “He needs to know.”

  “Yes. Okay.” Chernov took an envelope out of his desk drawer and handed it over. Mercer took it, put it in his jacket pocket without a word. He nodded once, then left, stepping over the bodyguard’s corpse on his way out the door.

  ***

  The client was a short, ugly man with bad skin and thinning hair. He fumbled nervously for a cigarette. “So,” he said, “it’s done?”

  Mercer sat across the table from him, a glass of water in front of him.

  “Man,” the client said. “Whod’ve thought you’d end up taking down Alexi Chernov?”

  “I suppose you did,” Mercer said. “Would’ve been nice if youd’ve told me he was the one after you when you hired me.”

  The client put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. He looked at Mercer appraisingly. “Would you have taken the job?”

  Mercer shrugged. “I would have charged more.”

  “Well, now he’s dead, I guess you got a bonus coming.”

  “Oh, I didn’t kill him.”

  The man looked stunned. “What?”

  “The deal was, I protected you from him. I did what I said. He won’t bother you anymore.”

  The client was becoming agitated. “Bullshit. You think you scared him off?” he said, his voice rising. “Are you crazy?”

  “No. I didn’t scare him. We made an arrangement.”

  Comprehension dawned in the client’s eyes. He tried to stand, but Mercer had his gun out before he was halfway there. “Sit down. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The client sat down. His hands shook until he put them on the table. “Son of a bitch. He bought you off.”

  “Barry,” Mercer said. “Don’t insult me. Chernov hasn’t paid me a dime.” He took the envelope out of his jacket pocket with his free hand and shoved it across the table. “You also didn’t tell me the truth about why he was trying to kill you.”

  The client looked at the envelope. He picked it up, felt what was inside. His hands began to shake again.

  “Go ahead,” Mercer said. “Open it.”

  “Look, I can explain,” the client said. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Open it,” Mercer said again. “And spread the photographs in front of you.” The man didn’t move. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Mercer said.

  The client took the photographs out of the envelope and spread them on the table. He didn’t look at them.

  “I don’t blame you for not wanting to see them again,” Mercer said. “They’re hard to look at.” The client didn’t answer.

  “Barry,” Mercer said, “this business...it's tough on people. If you're not careful, it can turn you into something you don't want to be.”

  “I can explain,” Barry said, more weakly this time.

  “You've got to have rules to live by, Barry. You have to have some kind of a code. Otherwise, you're just another dumb killer. An animal. Don't you agree?”

  A glimmer of defiance flashed in Barry's eyes. “I guess. Since you've got the gun and all.”

  “Yeah,” Mercer said. “I do. And I'm good with it. Which is why you hired me. But I also have some rules about using it. Like I told you at the beginning. Remember?”

  Barry just nodded.

  “I don't know if you do, Barry,” Mercer said. “Why don't you tell me?”

  “Well, for one thing, you said you never went back on a contract.”

  Mercer nodded. “And that's part of my problem, Barry. What else?”

  Barry shook his head. Sweat was beading on his forehead. “I don't remember.”

  Mercer sighed. “I guess not. You only remember what benefits you, am I right?”

  Barry's voice trembled. “Why don't you just get it over with, Mercer?”

  “Because I want you to understand, Barry. I don't want you to die thinking you got sold out for money. I want you to know that you brought it on yourself. And how.”

  “Why?” Barry's voice cracked.

  Mercer smiled. “Because it'll hurt more that way. So let me remind you of the rules I set out. I don't kill anyone who doesn't need killing.”

  “Yeah,” Barry said. “And who gets to decide that?”

  “I do. I'm the only one I trust.”

  “So what, you think you're God now?”

  “No. I don't think God would have the kind of dilemma I have.” He gestured down at the photographs spread on the table. “Look at what you did, Barry. You beat her to death. You killed her with your bare hands.”

  Barry looked up defiantly. “And I’d do it again. Bitch was cheating on me.”

  “Yes. Did you also know she was pregnant?”

  “That’s how I knew she was screwing around. Ten years ago, after I was married, I got a vasectomy. She was pregnant, it wasn’t by me.”

  “I know,” Mercer said. “Doesn’t mean you had to kill her. Or Chernov’s unborn child.”

  Barry went white. “It was…” he stopped.

  “Yeah. Like I said, Barry, there was a lot you didn’t tell me. I don’t like being kept in the dark. But I wasn’t going to go back on my word. And there was the problem. You clearly need killing here, Barry. But we had a deal. So when I found out the real truth, why Chernov was after you, I made him an offer.” Mercer sighed. “He didn’t believe me at first. There was a lot of totally unnecessary bloodshed before he agreed that what I was proposing was a reasonable way out of our problem.” He stood up. The gun never waver
ed.

  “Please,” Barry said. “Don’t.”

  “See, Barry, I’d promised to keep you safe. Then it occurred to me. The word I gave was that I'd keep you safe from the people who were trying to kill you. I didn’t say anything about keeping you safe from me.”

  Barry leaped up, tried to turn and run. Mercer shot him once, the bullet striking his temple and spinning him the rest of the way around. He walked over. Barry was shaking and twitching on the floor. Mercer stood watching as the convulsions slowed, then stopped. There was no question the man was dead. Not with that much of his head gone. He wouldn't need a second shot. Mercer took out a handkerchief and wiped his prints off the gun. He leaned over and wrapped Barry's fingers around it. There’d be no gunshot residue on the weapon, but maybe no one would look too hard after they saw the pictures on the table. With a little luck, whoever investigated would decide that the man had killed himself in a fit of remorse over what he’d done, and good riddance. Mercer left, stepping over his former client’s body as he did so.

  The next day, Mercer was enjoying a late lunch in a favorite diner when he looked up to see two men in long back coats coming in. They looked around as they wiped their wet, snow covered feet on the mat, scanning the few people there. Their eyes came to rest on Mercer. He was reaching for the pistol in the briefcase beside him when he saw Chernov standing behind them, holding a briefcase of his own. He relaxed. There wouldn't be any killing with Chernov in the room. He always kept several layers of people between himself and the killing. At least in public. The two men took a nearby booth and Chernov slid in opposite Mercer.

  “Shame about Barry,” he said.

  “Not really.”

  Chernov gave him a tight smile. “You’re right.” The waitress came. Chernov ordered coffee. Mercer asked for the check.

  “You have put me in an awkward position,” Chernov said.

  “Sorry.”

  “I am in your debt,” Chernov went on. “Very much in your debt. But one of the men you killed getting to me was my sister’s youngest son.”

  “He didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. But you see my problem.”

  “I do. You're caught between two different rules. Just like I was.”

  Chernov sighed. “Always with you it is rules.”

  “You know I'm right,” Mercer said. “One rule says you have to kill me for what I did to your sister's boy. Another says you have to let me live because of what I did to Barry. If you weren't a man who lives by rules, you wouldn't be sitting here scowling at me. I'd either be dead or you'd ignore me.”

  “Your problem, Mercer, is that you think you can make up your own rules. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “It’s worked pretty well so far.”

  “So far.”

  “So, what solution have you come up with? I'm interested.”

  Chernov sipped his coffee. “Have you ever considered retirement, Mercer?”

  In fact, Mercer had just been considering that exact thing. His side where the bullet had grazed him was still raw and burning. What hurt worse was what Chernov had said to him yesterday. “You’re slowing down,” Chernov had said, and what hurt most was that he was right. Five years ago, no one would have even gotten a shot off at him. He didn’t answer.

  Chernov took a manila envelope out of his briefcase. He pushed it across the table at Mercer. Mercer didn’t take it.

  “New driver’s license,” Chernov said. “New passport. Even a new social security number. A legitimate one. Oh, and a new bankbook with a considerable sum of money deposited in your new name. All that has to happen is for Kyle Mercer to disappear.”

  “And the alternative?”

  Chernov shrugged. “War. With me. And while I have no doubt you would do some more damage, eventually you’d make a mistake. You see, Mercer, there's another rule at work here. That rule is, I like my Sunday dinners with my family quiet and peaceful. I don't want to have to listen to my bitch of a sister yapping at me about this every week.”

  Mercer reached out and took the envelope. He didn’t open it, just weighed it in his hands. “I’ll need your wallet,” Chernov said. “We’ll need to make it look good.”

  “You going to plant it on some luckless bastard?” Mercer said.

  “No. I think delivering it to her covered with blood would be sufficient to stop her wagging tongue.”

  “Not my blood, I hope.”

  Chernov smiled. “No. There is plenty of blood to go around.”

  “What if I don't like the new name?”

  “You'll get used to it.”

  “Probably. It may take a while. It took me a while to get used to being Mercer.”

  The check came. Mercer took out his wallet. He looked at it for a second. He opened it and took a small photograph out.

  “What is that?” Chernov asked.

  Mercer looked at it. “Nothing that you need to worry about,” he said. He pushed the wallet across the counter at Chernov and tucked the photo in a shirt pocket. “Don’t worry,” he said, “there’s nothing to tie this to Kyle Mercer.” He picked up the check, then looked at Chernov. “You could at least pick up the bill for lunch,” he said.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Chernov said. He took the wallet and tucked it in his pocket. He picked the check up off the table. “We have a deal then.”

  Mercer nodded. “Yeah. We have a deal.”

  “Any idea where you might go?”

  Mercer looked out the window at the snow falling. “Someplace warm, I think.”

  Chernov smiled, almost fondly. “You have a rare opportunity here. Not many people get to leave this life behind.”

  “You ever think of doing it?”

  Chernov shook his head. “No. I don’t waste my time thinking of things that cannot be.” He stood up. “Have a good life, Max.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO YEARS LATER

  “Blake,” the man at the back of the boat called out, “I don’t think this guy is dead.”

  Blake glanced back from his position at the wheel. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Look!”

  Blake turned. The massive plastic ice chest where they had stashed the body ran the width of the boat. It was the size of a coffin, meant to be filled with ice and a day’s catch. Now it was shuddering, as if a big fish inside was thrashing against the walls. As Blake watched, the lid lifted up slightly and fell back down. Worth put his hand on the lid as if to stop it and looked up. Blake couldn’t read the expression behind the mirrored glasses, but Worth seemed calm enough.

  It almost seemed a shame to do what they were about to do. The guy now rustling around in the cooler had immediately told them everything they wanted to know, and more, as soon as Worth had showed him his knife and explained things. Blake had been pleased to see that Worth had gotten what they needed with a minimum of drama. Once that was over, Worth had again taken the initiative and done what needed to be done--two shots to the back of the head. The guy had never known that, despite their promises, cooperation only saved him agony, not saved his life. He never knew what hit him.

  Or so they thought. As Blake watched, the lid of the chest raised up again an inch or so. Worth slammed it back down, a little harder. Looked like two in the noggin wasn’t enough for some people. It wasn’t unheard of; Blake had seen guys with half their heads blown away, still crying for their mamas. For a while.

  “What do you think we should do?” Worth asked.

  Blake shrugged and turned towards the bow. The boat rolled and pitched slightly in a light chop. The sun pierced a few feet beneath the surface, turning the sea a deep jade green. The sky was brilliant blue, without a cloud. That would be changing soon enough. Blake looked down at the depth meter.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re out far enough.” The sandy bottom had dropped away below them at the edge of the Continental Shelf, and the surface was turning to a dark gray-blue that shaded nearly to black in spots. Blake thro
ttled the big engines down to a rumbling purr like a big cat’s, giving them just enough speed to make headway. He went to the back of the boat. Worth still had his hand on the lid. Now Blake could hear a low moaning from inside the box. For the first time, Worth looked upset. Blake wondered about that for a moment, but decided to cut Worth some slack. It was pretty damned creepy.

  “I shot him twice, Blake,” Worth said.

  Blake shrugged again. “It happens. A few minutes, it won’t matter.”

  “I should do him again.”

  “Why?”

  Worth shook his head. “Drowning, man. It’s…it’s a bad way to go.”

  “So is getting shot. Now help me get him out.”

  Worth drew the pistol from his waistband. Blake stepped back slightly, muscles suddenly tense. He wondered if he’d made a bad move leaving his own weapon up in the bow. He kept his voice calm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just let me do him one more time. So he won’t drown.”

  Blake threw up his hands. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Just get it done, okay?” Worth raised the lid. The moaning grew louder, and now Blake could hear the rattling intake of breath. Whatever they did or didn’t do, the guy wasn’t long for this world. Worth pointed the pistol into the box and fired once, twice. There was a brief thumping and rattling against the sides of the box, then silence.

  They did the rest of the job without speaking: hauling the awkward weight out of the chest, affixing the weights to ankles and wrists, tipping the body over the side of the boat. It sank instantly, leaving only a lacing of bubbles that was soon erased by the sea. Worth stared at the spot where the body had gone for a moment, then went and sat in the back of the boat, looking out at the water. Blake shook his head and went to the center console. He cranked the engines back up and headed for home. Blake thought about what he’d just seen. So Worth had a fear of drowning. Blake had spent too much time in, around, and under the water to fully relate to that. He wondered if the people behind this mission had made a mistake picking Worth, considering that water was about to be a big part of the team’s life very soon. He wondered if he’d made a mistake in not insisting on picking his own team. Blake gave a mental shrug. There was nothing to be done. And it wasn’t water that spooked Worth, it was drowning. He’d already seen some of the man’s strengths, and had been briefed on others. On balance, Blake decided, it would take too much time to replace Worth, not to mention the trouble of disposing of him. No one was perfect, after all.