Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  “STOP!” Sonny yelled. He waved his arms at the pilothouse. Consuela joined him, yelling for the captain to stop, go back. Their words were lost in the din. No one answered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The glass pane shattered at the first blow of Mercer’s fist, shards falling musically to the tile floor inside. He pulled his arm back through the hole and unwrapped his jacket from around his hand and forearm before reaching carefully through the broken pane in the door and undoing the deadbolt on the other side.

  The gun case was right where he remembered it, a beautiful glass-fronted mahogany cabinet, polished to a high sheen like the weapons inside. It had no lock; its purpose was display, not security. But the shotguns were gone.

  Mercer stood in front of the case, dripping water onto the hardwood floor, and swore under his breath. He should have known. Of course the guy wouldn’t leave such expensive toys at risk. Maybe, though, he’d left another gun somewhere in the house. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to do a long search. He bolted up the stairs to the bedroom.

  He found what he was looking for, in a leather case leaning upright in a corner of the walk-in closet. It was a Mossberg 12 gauge, not particularly fancy or ornately decorated like its relatives in the downstairs case, but it would do the job.

  He got another disappointment when he began searching for ammunition downstairs. A drawer in the bottom of the gun case was filled with neatly stacked boxes of shells. He picked one up and grimaced. The shells were all light shot, deadly to the clay pigeons Brian so loved slaughtering, but nearly useless against a human target. He rummaged through the drawer and found more of the same. He was going to need something more substantial. He began loading the shells in anyway as he walked into the kitchen. He flipped the light on and whistled softly to himself. It was an enormous space, dominated by a granite topped island in the center. One half of the island could be used as a table, the other was a built-in stove that looked as if it came from a five star restaurant. The stove gleamed as if it had never been used. But it was the wooden rack next to the stove that he was interested in. He slid one of the long knives out of its slot in the rack. It too shone with a pristine gleam, as if it had never been used. He stuck it in one side of his belt. In the other he stuck the handle of a heavy cleaver from the same rack.

  All I need now’s a parrot and an eye patch, he thought.

  At that moment, the lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Mr. Coyne,” Bohler said, “I’m going to make you a promise.” He was watching the agonizingly slow progress of the construction ferry towards the dock. The barge pitched sickeningly up and down in the chop. Bohler felt his own stomach lurch in sympathy. A waterfall of rain ran off the brim of his “Smokey Bear” hat.

  “Deputy Bohler…” Coyne began.

  “Shut up,” Bohler snapped. “You loaded those poor people onto an open barge in a goddamn hurricane because you wanted to keep your precious residents from getting their undies in a bunch.”

  “And you went along with it,” Coyne said.

  He was right, of course. That just made Bohler angrier. “Yes, sir. But I promise you, if anything happens, it’s you who I’m going to hold responsible.”

  “That’s not….”

  “Shut up.” Bohler’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it off his belt and flipped it open. “Bohler.” He listed for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He snapped the phone shut. “Power’s off,” he said to Coyne.

  “Fine,” Coyne replied. “So if you’re finished barking at me, I’m going to go get dry.”

  “Yeah,” Bohler said. “You do that.” He stood in the rain, watching the ferry creep closer. “Come on, come on…”

  “Deputy Bohler?” a voice said.

  Bohler didn’t turn. “Yeah?”

  There was a pause. The speaker stepped in front of him. He was slender, his thinning hair cut short. He was dressed in a black raincoat and holding an umbrella. He held a walleted ID up in his other hand. “I’m Special Agent McMurphy, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Bohler said. “I’m a little busy right now.”

  “I can tell,” McMurphy said, “and I’m sorry to put another item on your plate. But we need your assistance.” Bohler didn’t answer. McMurphy put the ID away. “Can we talk someplace dry?”

  “No,” Bohler said. Then he sighed. He was being childish. He was standing in the rain as penance for allowing this screwup, but there was no reason to make McMurphy suffer, too. “Yeah. Okay. We can talk in my car.”

  Inside the patrol car, the rain that still clung to them turned the air inside thick and damp. The windows fogged in seconds. Bohler turned the car on and cranked the defroster as high as it would go. McMurphy had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of the blowers.

  “We’re looking for this man,” he said, producing a photograph from a coat pocket.

  Bohler took it. “Looks vaguely familiar,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “We’re not sure what his given name is,” McMurphy said, “but his last known alias was Kyle Mercer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Okay,” Blake said. “Showtime.”

  “What are you talking about?” Worth said. He gestured at Sharon and Glory seated on the floor. Both had duct tape wrapped around their heads and over their mouths. Their hands were bound behind them with more duct tape. “What about them?”

  “Not a problem,” Blake said. “Just a slight change in plans. Worth, you’ll be checking the cable junction alone, and while you’re down there, confirm that the last boat’s gone. Barstow stays here with these two. The rest of us proceed with the original plan.”

  “The original plan,” Phillips said, “called for no one knowing we were ever here.”

  Blake nodded. “And if these two are found with bullets in them, it’ll be a pretty good indication we were here, don’t you think?” No one answered. “No,” Blake went on. He looked at the two women on the floor. “We drown them.”

  “Not right away, though,” Barstow said. He grinned at them. “We may not need that deck of cards to keep us amused after all.”

  “For God’s sake,” Phillips said, “Will you for once stop thinking with your testicles?”

  “Work first,” Blake said. “Then R & R.”

  “I can live with that,” Barstow said.

  ***

  Mercer crouched in the bushes next to the house. He could hear movement inside, and voices, but he couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. The front door opened, and he froze, trying to make himself invisible. He saw a group of coming down the stairs: a man dressed in an olive-drab hooded poncho, carrying a submachine gun. The person who followed was pulling a hood up. Mercer couldn’t make out their faces, but they were carrying what looked like an oversized briefcase. They were followed in turn by another pair of men, also armed. One of the men had a pair of bags over his shoulder. From the way he walked, Mercer could tell they were heavy. The man with the bags headed off towards the north end of the island, the other three walked the other way. Mercer waited. He didn’t see Sharon or Glory anywhere. He looked up at the house. He didn’t think he was going to like what he found in there. He slipped out of the bushes.

  ***

  “See, here’s the thing,” Barstow said. “I understand the whole ‘work now play later’ thing.” He looked down at Sharon and Glory. “But it seems to me we have a little time to play right now.” He began to pace slowly back and forth in front of them, savoring the way their eyes followed him. “So tell me, ladies,” he said with elaborate courtesy. “Which one of you is going to be the first to give me a blowjob?”

  Neither one answered.

  Barstow pretended offense. “Come on, now.” He looked pointedly at Sharon. “I know you’ve sucked a few dicks in your time. And I know you don’t want me to be the first to teach your little girl the finer points of giving head. So what do you say, Mama? You or her?”


  The MILF closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her face. She opened them again, looked up at Barstow, nodded. “Excellent,” he said. He unzipped his pants, savoring the despair in the woman’s eyes. It was always sweeter for him when the woman had no hope. He fished inside his pants, trying to pull himself out. He reached down, ready to pull the tape away from her mouth. “This is gonna be sweet,” he said. “You’re gonna make it extra sweet for me, aren’t you honey? You don’t want me getting bored. Go ahead and cry if you want. I like it when they cry.” He noticed her eyes then. They were wide, looking behind him.

  He let go of the tape and turned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mercer brought the cleaver down as hard as he could. It was a fine blade, meant for sundering meat from bone, and it performed as advertised. It chopped through the bearded man’s skull with a crunch Mercer could feel all the way up to his shoulder, splitting the man’s head straight through, almost to the jawbone. The silver blade seemed to hang up for a moment before Mercer jerked it up and back. The blade took a moment to come free, and when it did, it was stained red and gray with blood and brain matter. Barstow fell, his body twitching and convulsing at the outrage done to the nerve centers. Mercer held the cleaver off to one side, flicked the larger chunks off. He was totally calm as he looked at Sharon.

  “No women,” he said, in a reasonable tone. “No children. No civilians. Those are the rules.”

  She was screaming behind the tape. He looked over at Glory. She was silent, but her eyes were fixed and staring at the man behind Mercer on the floor. The man was still shuddering and flopping, the spasms slowing as the brain gave up and shut down. He reached down and tried to pull the tape off the girl’s mouth first. It was wrapped all the way around her head. He growled in frustration and pulled the knife from his belt. A sharp pain in his leg made him grunt with surprise. He looked down. Sharon was kicking him as hard as she could, rolling her body over awkwardly to get at him.

  “Cut it out,” he snapped. “I’m trying to get the tape off.” She wasn’t paying attention. She was screaming something at him behind the tape. He dodged out of the way of another kick.

  “Look, I’ll…Jesus, stop it!” he said as she lashed out at him again. “I’ll cut her hands free, then I’ll give her the knife. Okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped over Glory’s outstretched legs, putting her body between himself and the enraged woman on the floor. He sliced through the tape binding Glory’s wrists together behind her, then carefully laid the knife on the floor and stepped back. The girl massaged one red and swollen wrist, then the other, never taking her eyes off him. She picked up the knife, looked at the dead man on the floor. Then, she reached behind her and fumbled for the tape.

  “If you let me cut it,” he said, “It’ll be easier.”

  She hesitated, then looked at her mother. Sharon was laid out full length on the floor, wet with sweat, her breath coming in gasps through her nose. Glory held the knife out to Mercer. He cut the tape away from her face with a few swift strokes. “Ow! Fuck!” she said as she pulled it away from her hair, the gummy tape taking more than a few strands with it. She knelt by her mother, who was shuddering and sobbing, tears rolling down her face. “Mom,” she said urgently. “Mom! I’m okay!”

  Mercer tapped her on the shoulder. She flinched at the contact, then looked up to find him holding the knife out to her, handle first. “Careful,” he said. “It’s a very good knife.” Glory cut the tape away quickly, and Sharon sat up, throwing her arms around her daughter. Mercer stepped back and looked around the room. He spotted the machine gun propped up against the wall. He picked it up and slung it on his shoulder, still holding the cleaver in one hand. He turned to find Sharon on her feet, holding the knife out in front of her.

  “Didn’t you ever hear the one about not bringing a knife to a gunfight?” he said.

  “You stay away from us,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “Mom,” Glory said, “he saved our lives.”

  She gestured shakily with the knife to the dead man on the floor. “Look at what he did,” she said, her voice rising, almost cracking. “Look at what he did.”

  “He was going to rape you,” Mercer said, “both of you. And then he was going to kill you. He was going to do both of those things in as painful a way as he could manage. And he was going to enjoy it. I know his kind. He was probably going to make one of you watch while he did the other one.”

  “You didn’t even give him a chance,” Sharon said. “You didn’t give him a chance to give up.”

  “He didn’t deserve one,” Mercer said. “He needed killing.”

  “He’s right, Mom,” Glory said. She looked down at the body on the floor, her eyes narrowed. “That bastard tried to kill me before you got here.”

  “We haven’t got time to debate this,” Mercer said. “We need to get to the ferry.”

  “They must have left by now,” Sharon said.

  “They wouldn’t leave without us,” Mercer said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sharon said. “It was pretty much a madhouse.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Mercer said. “Come on.” He walked back into the shadows, came out with a shotgun in one hand. He held it out to Sharon. “If you have to use this,” he said, “Aim at the face. The only loads the guy who owned it had were for shooting skeet, so it won’t do much good otherwise.”

  Sharon looked at the gun. “I’ve never even shot a gun before.” She looked up at Mercer. “No.”

  “Well, give it to me, then,” Glory said. She reached for the shotgun.

  “No!” Sharon snapped. She took the gun awkwardly.

  “Come on,” Mercer said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “So,” Bohler said, “what’s the story on this Mercer?”

  “Contract gunman,” McMurphy said, “Did some work for the Russian mob in Chicago. Not associated with any particular organization. Pretty much a freelancer.”

  “All I know is what I’ve read,” Bohler said, “But isn’t that pretty unusual?”

  “It is,” Bohler nodded. “But apparently the guy was good enough he could write his own ticket.” McMurphy’s mouth tightened. “Unfortunately, the last hit he did was on a confidential informant we’d been cultivating for two years. A guy named Boris Vercansky aka Barry V.”

  “Bad luck,” Bohler observed. “You think this guy’s around here?”

  “Mercer dropped off the radar two years ago. We thought someone had taken him out in retaliation for Vercansky. But then Chicago PD pulled in a guy on a forgery rap who told them he’d been in the business of creating fake ID documents. As you might imagine, that got Homeland Security interested, and that got us into the mix. He gave us a list of the fake identities he’d created for the Russians.”

  “So this guy Mercer…”

  “Had a full set of documents—driver’s license, Social Security Card, passport, the whole works—in the name of Max Chase. We ran the fake social, and we found that a Max Chase is employed by Pass Island Management Corporation.”

  “What the…why would Pass Island need a hit man?”

  “We think he’s trying to retire,” McMurphy said. He smiled without humor. “Unfortunately for him, it just doesn’t work like that.”

  Bohler peered through the window of the patrol car. “Okay,” he said, “Well, if he works for Pass Island, he’s probably getting off that boat that just landed. Come with me.” The rain pounded down on them as they exited the vehicle, and Bohler had to grab his hat to keep it from taking flight. A gust of wind got up under McMurphy’s umbrella as he attempted to raise it, turning it inside out. McMurphy swore and struggled with the ruined umbrella for a moment, then cast the twisted thing away in frustration. They jogged towards the ferry landing, their black dress shoes squelching in the mud.

  A pair of deputies in their bright yellow rain slickers were trying to control the stampede off of the barge. Some of the people were staggering, and Bohler
saw one of them grab onto a light pole and get violently sick onto the ground.

  “He could be anywhere in this madhouse,” McMurphy called over the wind. Bohler just nodded grimly. People were running for their cars. “HOLD UP!” Bohler tried to shout, but the soaked and nauseated workers of Pass Island were having none of that. They were hell-bent on finding anyplace dry.

  “Sir?” a voice said. “Officer?”

  Bohler saw a tall skinny kid with a shock of sun-bleached blonde hair standing with his arm around a young, pretty Latina. The girl was shaking, her light brown skin underlaid with a ghastly pallor. “Sir?” the kid said again.

  “Yeah, son, how can I help you?” Bohler said.

  The kid gestured back towards the barge. “I think they may have left a friend of ours behind.”

  “What do you mean, left behind?”

  “On the island.”

  Bohler stared at him. “Son,” he said, “If this is your idea of a joke…”

  “It’s not a joke,” the woman said. “Our friend Sharon, and her daughter. They were on the boat with us. We didn’t see her on the boat on the way back.”

  “Did you tell the captain?”

  “We tried,” the young man said. “He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t turn around.”

  “God DAMN it!” Bohler exploded. One of the deputies turned around, a look of shock on his face. “Henderson!” Bohler snapped. “See of you can get the Coast Guard on the radio. We may have someone left on the island.”

  “Oh, shit,” Henderson said.

  “Oh shit is right. Don’t just stand there, Deputy, move your ass. See if they can get a chopper over there.”

  “Yessir.” Henderson jogged off towards his car.

  “Torres.” Bohler said to the other deputy. “Find me the jackass who just drove that damn boat away from the island without checking to see if he had all his people.”