Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  You’re probably going to hate me after this, he had said, and he was probably right. But right now, he was her only guide in this new world. And following his lead was the only way she was going to get herself and her daughter out of it alive. She remembered the tag line from a cheesy horror movie she and her friends had gone to see at the old theater in her hometown. “WHO WILL SURVIVE…” the poster had blared, “AND WHAT WILL BE LEFT OF THEM?” She wondered what would be left of her and Glory when this was all over. If they survived at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Inside, the room seemed dimly lit after the harsh light of the cutter. The smell of burnt metal mixed with the musty damp odors of the ruined house. Montrose stood by the safe, its door open. “Step away,” Blake said calmly. Montrose complied, her eyes wary. He walked over and looked inside. The book was there, on the top shelf, just as his contact had said it would be. He slid it out. It was a black leather-bound portfolio, about three inches thick. He placed it on the desk and flipped it open.

  “That what you’re looking for?” Montrose said.

  Blake studied it. “Yes,” he said. “It’s all here.”

  “Okay,” Montrose said. “Now step away from it.”

  He looked up. Montrose was holding a pistol on him.

  “I don’t normally do shit like this,” she said. “But then, this ain’t exactly been a normal job, has it?”

  “Montrose,” Blake said, “you’re being stupid.”

  “This whole fuckin’ job has been screwy from the get-go,” she said. “That shit about threatenin’ to kill me if I looked at the package…that ain’t right, Blake. And you not tellin’ us about Moon…that was even more fucked up. You were gonna kill us all from the start.”

  “That’s not true,” Blake said evenly. “We just needed extraordinary security.”

  “And rippin’ off a U.S. Senator? For a fuckin’ notebook? At this point, I got what you could call trust issues, Blake.”

  Blake spread his hands. “What can I do to convince you?”

  “You can tell me what’s in that notebook that’s so important that you’re willin’ to risk your own life for it. I know other people’s lives don’t mean squat to you. At least I do now. But you put your own skin on the line in this little wingding, and I want to know what makes that notebook worth it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Blake said. “I can’t do that. It would be worth my own life to tell you that.”

  “Dumbass,” Montrose said. “You don’t tell me, I kill you now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Blake said. “See, while you were working on the safe, I took the firing pin out of your weapon.”

  Montrose looked down at her pistol. As she did, Blake brought his own pistol up from beneath the desk and shot her in the throat. The impact knocked her backwards. Her finger jerked on the trigger and her own weapon discharged as she fell, blowing a chunk of plaster out of the ceiling behind Blake.

  He stood up and crossed the room in two quick strides to where Montrose lay on the floor. She had dropped the pistol and had both hands at her throat as if trying to stanch the flow of blood that was pumping out onto the floor. Her mouth was working like a fish’s and she gurgled horribly as the blood jetted around her gore-slicked fingers.

  "Made you look,” Blake said softly. He put another bullet into the center of Montrose’s forehead and she stopped thrashing. He looked down at her and shook his head as she died. “You should have stuck with what you know,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Moon figured they’d be coming down the road, at least what road remained. The fallen trees and other wreckage in the roadway made passage difficult, but off the road it was nearly impossible. He had taken up a firing position behind the fallen trunk of an overturned live oak tree. The ancient trunk was so huge that, lying on its side, it formed a wooden rampart as high as Moon’s chest. He had taken branches and leaves and stuck them into his clothing to break up his outline. The sky was getting lighter; somewhere, above this tempest, dawn was breaking. He would have preferred the cover of darkness, but with the resumption of the wind and obscuring rain, he was confident that he wouldn’t be seen by his quarry. Not until it was too late.

  A bolt of lightning turned the world white for a second, followed almost immediately by the clap of thunder. Moon blinked his eyes, dazzled by the flash and the concussion. It sounded like the bolt had hit almost on top of him. As his vision recovered, Moon thought he could see a figure, moving slowly toward his position. He raised his weapon. There was nothing there. Another flash, another titanic concussion. He ducked his head instinctively, then popped back up. Too quickly, he realized. He froze, hoping no one had spotted the movement. He definitely saw someone through the curtains of rain, but they were too far away for a clear shot with the machine gun. Moon fought the temptation to begin firing anyway. He considered the idea that he might have been spotted, decided not to take the risk. It was a good firing position, but Moon had no desire for a sustained firefight. That wasn’t his style. He had made his reputation and racked up an impressive number of kills by using guile and stealth. He was the one you never saw coming.

  He wondered for a moment at Blake’s decision to bring him out of hiding. He was supposed to be the clean-up man, leaving no one behind who could be persuaded to reveal what had been done here. There was always a possibility that one of the others would find themselves in a jam, charged with crimes or hauled before some intelligence or oversight committee, and be tempted to trade on the information that one U.S. Senator had hired mercenaries to burglarize the home of another. There was an old saying: “three can keep a secret if two are dead.” Blake didn’t seem to have done the math. Or maybe he’d decided to worry later about whether Moon was supposed to kill him, too. Or maybe he was planning to kill Moon himself. Well, Moon thought, let him try. Better men than Blake had tried and gotten their throats cut for their trouble.

  Whatever. He needed to move. But then he saw the woman. She was moving towards him, head down, eyes focused a few feet in front of her. She was alone. Moon raised the machine gun, but held his fire. Where was Mercer?

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  “Look,” Phillips said. “There’s no reason we have to sit here staring at one another all day. Can I get a book to read?”

  “What?” Bohler said.

  “In my pack, up there.” Phillips gestured with his head towards the lantern room above. “I figured I’d be here alone for a bit, so I brought something to read.”

  Bohler looked nonplussed. “How do you expect to turn the pages?”

  “I’m not going to try to get away,” Phillips said. “Where would I go? And besides,” he looked around. “I’m not looking forward to seeing our furry little friends again. Once they get hungry enough, or scared enough, they may give us some problems.”

  Bohler looked up. “I don’t think I can get you up the ladder with your hands bound like that.”

  “So undo them. Look, I surrender, all right? I know it’s over. There’s no pickup for me. Just undo my hands, we go up the ladder away from the rats, and I’ll get a book to read. Frankly, Deputy, you’re not much company.”

  Bohler thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I can see the logic of getting up there. But I’m not letting you go rummaging in your pack.”

  “Then you can get the book out,” Phillips said.

  “Okay.” Bohler took the knife from his belt and walked over. “Turn around,” he told Phillips. “And remember, I’ve still got the gun.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Phillips. “I’m not likely to forget it.” He turned his back on Bohler. He felt the gentle sawing motion as the deputy cut the tape away. The moment the last bit of tape parted and Phillips’ hands were free, Bohler stepped back out of reach, the gun still trained on him.

  “See?” Phillips said, his hands up. “Safe as houses.”

  “Right,” Bohler said. “Now, this is how it’s going to be. You go up the ladder
first. Then you stand away from it. Don’t move.”

  “Got it,” Phillips said.

  “Remember, all your weapons are down here.”

  “I remember,” Philips said.

  “You’re being awfully agreeable.”

  Phillips shrugged, a smile on his face “No reason we can’t be civilized.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bohler stepped back. Phillips walked over to the ladder.

  “Slowly,” Bohler said.

  Phillips climbed the ladder with elaborate care, taking almost a minute and a half to reach the top. He looked around as he entered the lantern room. The storm had returned full force. The rain lashed against the windows, and the by now familiar howling of the wind was as loud and annoying as ever.

  “Step back,” Bohler said. “Put your back against the window. Hands on your head.” Phillips complied, still smiling. He heard Bohler coming up the ladder, slowly, hindered by the gun in one hand.

  “Want me to hold that for you, Deputy?” Phillips called out.

  “Funny,” Bohler grunted. Phillips saw the machine gun first, poking up above the hole in the floor. Bohler’s head followed a second later, his eyes fixed on Phillips. Phillips didn’t move. Bohler came up the rest of the way until he was standing a few feet away from Phillips. He seemed more relaxed. “Okay,” he said. “Now where’s the pack?”

  “Right over there,” Phillips said. “On the floor.”

  When Bohler looked, Phillips crossed the distance between them in a half second and threw a circular crescent kick at the hand holding the gun. The kick connected solidly and the weapon flew from Bohler’s hand. Phillips followed with a brutal punch to the face. Bohler went down.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  The woman stopped a few feet in front of Moon’s position and raised her hands.

  “If you think that’ll stop me from killing you,” Moon croaked, “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not armed,” she said.

  “I don’t care,” Moon replied. “Where’s Mercer?”

  “He’s not coming,” the woman said. “He says it’s not his fight any more.”

  “You’re lying. Mercer!” Moon tried to shout the last word, but his voice hadn’t reached that volume in years. He gritted his teeth. “Get over here,” he ordered the woman. She approached slowly. He could see she was trembling. She came around the edge of the tree on the side where the torn roots dangled sadly in the rain.

  “Turn around,” he said. “Keep your hands up.” She did as he ordered. “Call Mercer,” he said. “Tell him to come out. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Mercer!” Sharon called. “It didn’t work! He didn’t believe me!”

  Maybe it was something in her voice that tipped Moon off. She didn’t sound nearly as frightened as she should have. Perhaps he heard the sound behind him on some subliminal level. Or maybe the sixth sense that seems to protect some men in battle had kicked in. But Moon, without even thinking, instinctively ducked to one side, so that the knife which had been aimed towards the center of his back passed between his right side and right arm. As the hand holding the knife appeared in front of him, Moon clamped down with his arm onto the forearm. His unseen attacker’s other hand had snaked around his throat, pulling him back into the man behind him. Moon shifted the machine gun to his left hand and tried to fire one-handed at the woman, but she was already ducking away and his shot went wide and high as the barrel rode up with the recoil. Another bolt of lightning rent the sky above him. The near-simultaneous detonation of thunder that accompanied it left his ears ringing and his eyes flash-blind. That didn’t matter, though; he knew exactly where his target was. He snapped his head back to try and smash his attacker in the face, but connected with nothing. The man had Moon pulled tightly against him, his face next to Moon’s right ear. He heard a grunt of effort and the grip around his throat tightened. Moon turned his head so that his throat was in the crook of Mercer’s elbow, lessening the direct pressure on the windpipe and allowing him to breathe more freely. He tried to bring the gun back, but the barrel was too long and the strangler too close. The hand holding the knife was still out in front of Moon’s body, pinned by his right arm. He tossed the machine gun down and grabbed at the wrist, gouging painfully at the pressure point, grinding the sensitive nerve harshly against bone. Mercer gasped in pain and the knife fell to the ground. Moon felt the grip around his neck relax slightly and seized the opportunity. He smoothly shifted his feet, crossing his left leg behind his right, then continuing the motion so that he stepped around Mercer with the lower half of his body, ending with his left knee behind Mercer’s right. He shoved backwards and down, causing Mercer to stumble. The pressure on his neck released, Moon whirled and smashed upward with the heel of his hand, aiming for the underside of Mercer’s jaw. Mercer was too quick, however; he snapped his head back and Moon’s palm-heel strike missed, barely grazing the tip of Mercer’s nose. Mercer snapped a quick right of his own straight into Moon’s face. Moon staggered back, pain detonating in his head. He pushed the agony aside by sheer force of will, sending it somewhere else. He saw the whiteness of a bandage peeking out from beneath Mercer’s shirt and remembered something Worth had mentioned before he died. He aimed a punch at Mercer’s face, then dropped it at the last split second so that Mercer’s blocking move also missed. Moon’s blow connected solidly with Mercer’s wounded shoulder. Mercer cried out in agony, his face going white, his eyes fogging with pain. His hand dropped slightly and this time Moon did hit him in the face, with a roundhouse punch that drove Mercer to his knees. Moon smiled and lashed out with a right footed side kick, again to Mercer’s shoulder. Mercer gave another strangled cry and toppled over. He rolled as he hit the muddy ground, then tried to rise on his one good arm. Moon kicked him in the side, smiling at the satisfying snap of a rib breaking. He reached down to pick up the machine gun.

  “Don’t,” a voice said.

  Moon turned. The woman was standing by the sundered roots of the tree, holding a pistol in a two handed grip. “Don’t,” she repeated.

  “Your hands are shaking,” Moon said.

  “I’m close enough,” the woman replied, “that it shouldn’t make a difference.”

  “If you can pull the trigger.”

  “She can,” Mercer said. He had risen to his knees. “She dropped the hammer on your pal Phillips.”

  Moon smiled sardonically. “So it’s come to this?” he asked Mercer. “You’re letting the women take care of your business?”

  “That’s my daughter you took, asshole,” Sharon snapped. “That makes it my business, wouldn’t you say?”

  Moon shrugged. Without warning, he dove toward the gun on the ground. Sharon’s pistol shot caught him in the right side. He grunted in pain, but continued his lunge for his weapon. He’d actually scooped it up off the ground and was bringing it to bear when Sharon fired again. This shot caught Moon in the middle of the chest and drove him back against the tree trunk, forcefully enough to spear him onto the ragged end of a stripped and shattered limb. The splintered branch entered his back a few inches away from the exit wound of the bullet and came out of his chest, covered with gore and bits of flesh. Moon looked down in surprise at the new appendage that seemed to have appeared as if by magic. “Fuck,” He croaked. Blood poured from his mouth in a sudden cataract. He convulsed once, twice, then died.

  Mercer stood up and walked over to Sharon. She was shaking, the gun still held out in front of her. Her eyes were fixed on Moon, hanging impaled on the tree. He could see the white surrounding her pupils. Mercer gently took her wrist and lowered the gun.

  “Next time,” he said, “Just shoot the motherfucker. Don’t give him warnings.”

  Her voice was unsteady. “I didn’t know if he’d go for the gun.”

  Mercer looked over at Moon. “Guys like that,” he said, “always go for the gun. Always. It’s probably kinder not to give them the hope that they’ll get it.”

  He looked down the road, in the di
rection of the Buchan house. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go get your daughter.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Blake walked back out into the bedroom, the notebook underneath his arm. The girl was staring at him, wide-eyed. She had heard what had gone in the next room, her imagination filling in the gaps. Blake was pleased to see that her earlier sass had evaporated in the sound of gunshots. He reached up and keyed the mike on his headset. “Mercer.”

  There was a moment of silence, then the voice came back. “I’m here.”

  “Have you thought about my proposal?” he said. “Because your time’s running out. Or maybe I should say hers is.”

  “Yeah,” Mercer said. “But I took care of your sniper and the deputy. I’d call it a gesture of good faith, but the truth is, they were just in the way.”

  “See?” Blake said. “I knew we’d see eye to eye. I confess, Mercer, I’m sorry I doubted your professionalism. I have work for a man like you. Tell you what. Why don’t we all sit down and talk about it. Nice and snug in the lighthouse.”

  “What about the woman? And the girl?”

  “Well,” Blake said, “I think they’d just be in the way, don’t you? But oh, I forgot. You have a problem with killing women and children. No way you can get over that?”

  “Not really,” Mercer said. “Guess we can’t see eye to eye after all.”

  “Which puts us back to our original proposal.”

  “How do I know you haven’t killed the girl already?”

  “Excellent point.” Blake took the headset off and walked over to where Glory sat in the chair.