21 Hours

by Dustin Stevens

  On the far end of the deck were the containers I'd just passed, thirty yards of silent cargo. That left the middle thirty yards of the deck open.

  Well, open except for the two guards standing with their backs to me.

  They were both clearly Rifkin's men, their pale white skin shining under a heavy sheen of rain. One was dressed like Tank Top, the other like one of the Spandex Twins. Despite the dire need for these guys to diversify their wardrobe, their fashion choices weren't what concerned me. The assault rifles they both held slung across their waists did.

  Both of them stood to the far side of the deck, peering down along the edge towards where their compatriot disappeared. For a moment I considered just shooting them where they stood, but I didn't trust my rain soaked, mangled hands enough to make that shot across twenty yards of open deck. I'd gotten lucky the first time. If I messed up even a single shot this time, one of the guards was bound to mow me down.

  I studied the layout of the deck once more and slipped back the way I'd came. I slid my body between the first two rows of full-sized containers to the mid-point of the ship, then dropped to my knees and inched forward. Containers rose high on either side of me as I nudged my way forward, careful to remain concealed in the deep shadows they provided. In front of me the cabin of the ship stared back, the two cleared windows looking at me like oversized eyes.

  Gritting my teeth, I worked the tire iron free from my cast. With every fraction of an inch it came, I could feel the screwdriver tip digging into my flesh, no doubt leaving a trench through my skin. Little by little it worked its way out, the inflated and waterlogged cast fighting for each millimeter. It took every bit of my concentration not to gasp out in pain as I worked it loose, fresh blood staining the shaft as it extended upward.

  Once it was out I remained on my knees for several long seconds, gulping in air and allowing the searing pain to subside. When it fell away to a numb pounding, I gripped the crook of it in my hand, the Luger just inches away on the deck by my knee.

  "Alright Pop, I need you on this one.”

  Aiming at a spot a little ways out into the open deck, I cocked the tire iron by my ear and launched it into the air. For a moment I watched the golden projectile turn end over end through the gray morning sky before dropping to the deck with a clatter just fifteen yards away. I snatched up the Luger from the ground beside me and held it at the ready, praying my spot in the shadows was good enough to keep me hidden.

  Both of the guards appeared a moment later, each of them with guns poised. Spandex walked to the tire iron and looked it over while Tank Top scanned the silent containers. If he could see me, he didn't let it show.

  "What the fuck is that?" Tank Top asked, his voice the same deep din as the others.

  "Looks like a damn car jack," Spandex said, turning his attention towards the containers and sliding up beside his partner. "Better question is what the hell's it doing here?"

  Tank Top's eyes scanned everything in front of him. I could tell he was nervous and more than a little trigger happy. Not a good combination. "It didn't just fall from the sky," he said, moving forward a foot at a time. His rifle was pinned to his cheek and his finger was inside the trigger guard. I was hoping they would move a little closer, but I couldn't wait any longer.

  From the shadows I fired five quick rounds in succession. I started with Tank Top and put two rounds in his chest, one in his cheek. Before Spandex could move I put one between his bulging eyes, another in his chest for good measure.

  On the whole, they looked like five perfectly placed shots. In reality, only the first chest shot to Tank Top went where I wanted it to.

  I pushed myself back a little further in the shadows and remained still. There was no way anybody in the cabin didn't see what just happened, not with both of their bodies still lying out in the open. Blood ran from their wounds and mixed with the gallons of rain water splashed across the deck, spreading a bloody trail around them like a spider's web.

  For several long minutes I remained in place and waited, my gaze shifting between the bodies and the cabin above. It settled on the tire iron lying motionless on the deck between the two and I couldn't help but smirk.

  "Thanks, Pop.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Part of me wanted to remain motionless. Where I was gave me a full vantage of the cabin and the shadows concealed my body. The more prudent part of my brain told me I had to move. It had to be evident to anybody watching where the shots had come from. All they would have to do is starting emptying clips into the narrow aisle way between the containers and I was as good as dead.

  Even easier than shooting fish in a barrel.

  I left the bodies and the tire iron where they were and nudged my way back a few feet. Focus still on the silent deck in front of me, I rose between the first and second rows of full-sized containers and ran back to the far edge of the ship. Only the balls of my feet hit the deck as I went, pushing myself high into the air between steps to keep the heavy boot heels from echoing.

  I don't even want to know what I must have looked like prancing around between the rows like that, but it was effective. I barely heard my own footsteps over the rain still pinging against the steel of the barge.

  I slid to a stop at the end of the container, my right calf skidding across the surface before pulling to a stop just a few feet from the edge. I remained seated and pushed myself forward to a spot behind the smaller containers and waited, watching the deck. From where I sat I could see the bodies of Tank Top and Spandex lying prone, blood continuing to flow from them. A little further up the tire iron rested on its side, the gold paint standing out against the sea of grey.

  The Luger remained poised in my hand, the barrel pointed at an angle in front of me, waiting for any sign of life. I'd used three bullets on the first guard and five on the next two. Counting the live round I ejected earlier, I still had eight bullets in the magazine and one in my pocket. I hoped that would be enough and that I wouldn't have to use near that many.

  My head ticked off five full minutes without the slightest sign of movement. The boat continued to steam down the Ohio River, working its way around a bend, meaning there must be someone at the helm controlling it. There was no way they hadn't seen what happened.

  Only two explanations seemed even quasi-plausible. One was that the crew was legit, that the guards were the only ones working for Rifkin. They didn't care, and might even be relieved, to see the guards taken out. The other, more likely, scenario was that the remaining guards were all pressed tight against the front windows waiting for me to show myself.

  I decided to wait them out.

  I was already soaked and chilled to the bone, so sitting out on the deck didn't bother me in the slightest. Curled up against the back edge of a smaller container, I was shielded from the rain and most of the wind. Fatigue was a condition I was used to by this point, any drowsiness pushed away by remembering why I was there. To find Annie and bring her home.

  My adversaries didn't possess the same patience. It took almost ten minutes, but a fourth guard emerged from the cabin.

  I heard him long before I saw him, the protesting steel of the cabin door hinges screeching across the barge. My nerves went on end and I raised myself from my haunches to a knee, pressed even tighter against a container. My eyes worked in rapid-fire fashion across the deck, checking the cabin from end to end in a relentless loop.

  The fourth guard emerged from the far side, inching his way forward. The largest gun I'd ever seen a man carry was cradled against his shoulder, a double barreled number with one stacked on top of the other. The top one was long, no doubt a rifle capable of firing a massive round. The bottom one looked to be a couple of inches in diameter and probably held some form of explosive shell.

  Whatever that thing was, it was looking for me.

  Clearly I had gotten their attention.

  The man was a carbon copy of every other Rifkin guard I'd encountered so far, dressed in head-to-toe black.
His face was shaved smooth and pale skin stared out above the gun stock. The only thing differentiating him from the others was the long sleeves of his form fitting black shirt. Quite the rebel.

  This made four heavily armed guards, my mind reasoning that had to be all of them. There was no way Rifkin could foresee needing more muscle than what he had on board. Hell, the gun this guy was carrying alone should do the trick.

  I wasn't foolish enough to believe that my niece was the only cargo of any value present, but I couldn't think of anything that needed more protection than what was on hand.

  It's not like there were pirates floating along the Ohio River.

  Unlike the two guards before him, Long Sleeves gave only a passing glance to the tire iron and the two bodies lying on the deck. He must have figured I would relocate after shooting them and kept to the far side of the deck, soon disappearing along the opposite side.

  A mixture of sweat and rain droplets rolled down my face as I remained concealed behind the container. There was no way I could hope to survive a duel with him, not with me carrying a Luger and him carrying a bazooka. Optimally I would draw him out in the open, but it wasn't going to be as easy as the first time. I eyed the front of the ship to make sure he wasn't looping back on me, then scanned the deck once more.

  My gaze settled on the two assault rifles lying motionless by Tank Top and Spandex. My hands weren't up to the task of handling them with any kind of accuracy, but they gave me a hell of a lot better chance than the pea-shooter I was carrying. I cast my eyes back towards the cabin and a plan formed in my mind. It was choppy and it was risky as hell, but it was the best I could do.

  My only other option was to stay where I was, keep playing shadow games and hope my luck didn't run out. Judging by the size of the gun he was carrying, the odds saw me coming out on the losing end of an ugly situation.

  I kept the Luger gripped tight in my right hand and pushed myself between the row of smaller containers and the first row of the full-sized ones. There were enormous gaps between the smaller ones and anybody still left inside easily could have seen me running behind them. No way was anybody going to mistake me for one of Rifkin's guards, running on my toes in blue jeans and cowboy boots.

  Water splashed up with every step, flailing about in all directions as I covered the fifteen yards as fast as I could. The soles of my boots skidded a bit as I stopped to grab up Tank Top's rifle, the ground beneath me worn slick from years of forklift and container traffic.

  The gun was too large to carry in my casted left hand. I jammed the Luger into the small of my back and held the rifle in front of me, the stock in my right hand and the barrel rested across my left fingertips. I paused just long enough to give one more quick look around before tearing for the opposite end of the cabin.

  Bloody water splashed up onto me as I went, dotting my jeans with pink speckles. The burning reappeared in my lungs and my legs screamed in protest at the exertion. Stride by stride I pounded forward, the awkward bulk of the gun swinging back and forth in front of me. With every step I expected a spark to bounce up beside me or worse, a bullet to slam into my back. Total fear, of who was behind me, of who might be waiting for me, of what would happen if I didn't make it, propelled me forward.

  It was the longest twenty-five yard dash of my life. To anybody watching from the sidelines it probably looked I was barely moving, but in the moment it felt like I had never ran faster. I slid to a stop just past the edge of the cabin, riding in on my legs. I extended them out in front of me and hydroplaned forward, twisting myself onto my stomach and laying out flat, the gun extended behind me. For several seconds I remained still, my lungs fighting to expand while I lay face down on the deck.

  My eye found the sight along the top of the barrel and focused in on the far corner I'd just came from. I waited long enough to make sure the guard hadn't seen me before rising to my knees and then my feet. I kept the rifle trained out in front of me and stepped backwards, turned and leapt up the stairwell towards the lookout deck above the cabin.

  There was no way that anybody watching inside had not just seen me. I could only hope there wasn't another guard in there or that they couldn't radio out to the one patrolling the deck.

  My boots touched soft against the grated tops of the metal stairs, hollow tings ringing out beneath me. Rain dripped from every ledge as I moved upward, covering the dozen or so steps two at a time. My boots hit the steel landing at the top and swung out from beneath me, my body hanging suspended for several seconds before crashing down on to my side. My entire left side screamed in agony as I gasped in ragged breaths and scrambled forward on my knees, the gun still gripped tight.

  My left hand throbbed inside the clumsy implement that had once been a cast and my left hip bone protested beneath me as I fell flat onto my stomach. I ignored them all, remaining several feet back from the ledge of the overlook and positioning the rifle. With every fiber of my being I pushed the various pains from my mind and focused down the barrel, aiming a few feet above where I was sitting just a couple minutes before.

  I've never been in the military. Jail was the closest thing to a structured organization I've been affiliated with in my entire adult life. But in that moment, lying there staring down the barrel of a rifle and counting seconds until an enemy showed himself, I felt like a sniper. I was protected from the rain and I was out of sight. I could stay there all day waiting.

  It only took another two minutes.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I probably should have felt something resembling remorse. Regardless what my rap sheet said, violence really wasn’t my nature. I was always a bit more cerebral about these things, a result I think of growing up with a twin sister. If we were angry with one another, striking her wasn't an option. Instead, I learned how to assess things, to manipulate them to my advantage. Even in prison, I aligned myself with people like Rosie to keep from having to fight my way through.

  Lord knows I got in my fair share over the years anyway, but it was never something I sought out.

  This was different though. My mind was locked on a singular objective, the end justifying any means necessary. I had already killed six people and engaged another in arena-style combat. I was lying prone on the roof of a barge staring down the barrel of an assault rifle, waiting for someone to show themselves, and I didn't even care. This asshole was going to get mowed down, along with anybody else onboard that stood in front of getting my niece back.

  One of the first things that happened when I went to prison was what they called delousing. I removed all my clothes and they sprayed my entire body with a spray chemical meant to kill all lice, crabs, or other bodily contaminants they didn't want inside. Once I was dripping with the foul smelling solution, I took a hot shower and passed through to the inside, where I received my prison uniform. They said it was to ensure cleanliness in the facility.

  Funny thing was, I hadn't felt clean since the moment that spray hit my skin. I knew in that very instant that I would never be the same sincere kid I was just an hour before. It was the lowest point of my life. If killing every man on this ship ensured that my sister never felt anything resembling that or that my niece could continue living the life she was meant to, then I was going to do it.

  And I wasn't going to think twice about it.

  After two minutes, Long Sleeves grew impatient and showed himself. Not on the edge of the boat where I expected him to, but creeping from the shadows between the containers in the middle. He must have seen that I wasn't hiding along the far edge and inched his way inward, inspecting where I'd hidden and how I'd done it. I could only see the front few inches of his gun barrel, but I knew he was crouched right where I'd been.

  I thought for a moment he was going to continue moving forward to check on his cohorts, but he never emerged from the shadows. It was clear to the world that both men were dead, if not from the gunshots then from losing the massive amount of blood that now painted the deck around them. His weapon nudged its wa
y out almost a foot before it stopped, swung side to side, and started to retreat back into the shadows.

  I had a choice. I knew where he was and could easily make the shot from where I lay. He was in the exact same position that I feared being in, stuck in a narrow alley with limited retreat options. I could fill the gap with an entire clip of bullets and bank on at least a couple of them cutting him down. At the same time, in the off chance I missed I was exposing my position.

  The image of that massive weapon filled my mind and small shudder passed through me. Once he knew where I was, it wouldn't take more than for him to lob a couple of explosive rounds up here and I was toast. He might destroy part of the cabin in the process, but something told me that didn't matter at this point.

  I watched the tip of his gun recede down to the last few inches of the barrel before I pulled the assault rifle tighter against my body and squeezed the trigger. There was no recoil at all from the big gun as a dozen rounds blew out in quick succession. I sprayed along each side of the gap, paused, added a second spray in a zigzag pattern just to be sure. Once almost two dozen bullets filled the narrow void between the columns of containers, I paused and waited. I waited for a return hail of bullets and I waited for some kind of propelled grenade to fly up out of the shadows at me.

  What I got instead was a thick tendril of bloody water. It ran in a winding pattern beginning somewhere in the darkness and extended out towards Tank Top's body. The dark red of the fresh mixture was much brighter than the faint pink of the previous kills. There was blood, and there was a lot of it.

  That was four.

  This time I rose without waiting. If there was anybody else, they would have joined Long Sleeves or they would have shot me as I ran across the open deck. Cincinnati was now far behind me. It was time to find Annie and get the hell off this boat.