Death Mark (Mason Dixon Thrillers Book 2)

by Nick Thacker

  The boat was no longer being controlled, and the shooter had no idea. He was digging in his pockets for more ammunition, staring us down the whole time.

  “They’re going to hit us now,” Joey said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “They are.”

  I had a dilemma. I could aim for the man who was still alive, possibly kill him, and we’d be safe from further attack, but there would be no way to navigate out of the way before their boat smacked dead-on into ours.

  Or I could let him live and hope he noticed that his guy was dead.

  Frey made the decision for me.

  The Wassamassaw lurched sideways again, but this time it was caused by the beginnings of a sharp turn. Frey had rolled the wheel hard to the right, and we were nearly rocked off our feet. Our slower speed made it possible to turn sharply, and while we were still in danger of a collision, the movement of the boat apparently had gotten the shooter’s attention.

  I saw him look at us, on the Wassamassaw, then down at his own teammate. I saw the recognition in his eyes, and then I watched him look back up at me, fury on his face.

  Please make the right call, I thought. Live to fight another day.

  He raised his pistol, and I tracked him with my own assault rifle. There was no way he would get off the shot from there.

  And the boat was still hauling toward us. Maybe five seconds until it hit.

  Come on, man.

  I was forced to wait him out. I couldn’t shoot him — he was the only thing keeping all of us alive, and it was up to him to keep it that way.

  “He’s not going to do it,” Joey said. “He’s going to let it —”

  The man suddenly jumped forward, landing hard on the passenger’s seat. He leaned over, the gun falling from his hand. Then, in one fluid motion, he yanked the wheel hard to the left.

  I watched as he just about lost his balance, but he held on. The speedboat surged up and out of the water, hitting a wave at just the right moment to send him, the dead driver, and the ton of plastic and metal screaming into the air.

  But they missed us.

  If Frey hadn’t pulled us to the right, and our shooter hadn’t pulled himself to the left, we’d all be scrambling to bail from two sinking vessels right now.

  The man turned and looked at me when the boat hit the water again. It didn’t slow down, and it didn’t turn. He kept his hand on the wheel, but the driver’s head fell sideways and onto the shooter’s arm. Still he held on.

  Joey pulled off a few shots, but all flew wide.

  “You going to take a shot?” he asked.

  I looked at Joey, then back down the barrel of my rifle. It was an easy shot from this distance, and even though we were pulling apart and increasing the distance between us, I knew I could make it.

  So I did.

  The three-round burst of fire sailed through the air, and I knew it was a direct hit even before it landed.

  “You missed,” Joey said.

  I shook my head. “Look again.”

  He did, and I waited.

  Suddenly a plume of smoke surged upward from the engine, and the boat stopped moving.

  “You hit the engine?”

  The man ran up onto the back of the boat and knelt down, fiddling with the motor, but another surge of smoke and fire caused him to recoil, then fall back onto the seats.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” I said.

  “Why not just finish him?” Joey asked. “Bastard tried to kill us.”

  “We don’t need to,” I said. “He’s toast.”

  “You think he’s taking on water?”

  I nodded, then fired three more rounds. Two of them hit their mark. “Yeah,” I said. “He is now.”

  The man was screaming, likely obscenities directed at us, but I couldn’t hear a word.

  “We just bought ourselves time,” I said. “And I’d like to head over and see if he’ll talk.”

  “He’s not going to give us anything,” Joey said.

  “He’ll either give us something or he’ll die,” I replied. “This way it’s his call, not ours.”

  Joey nodded, understanding. “I’ll have Frey turn around and pull up next to him, then.”

  “Thanks, Joey.” I looked at him, then at the dead speedboat about a quarter-mile from us, then walked into the room. “We’re going to get her back,” I said.

  “I know,” he answered.

  “But we can probably use a drink to clear our heads,” I said. “Agreed?”

  He forced a smile, a genuine grin of encouragement, masked by a set of genuinely concerned eyes, and nodded. “Agreed.”

  22

  NO ONE DROWNS ON PURPOSE. It’s like one of the major themes of humanity. If you’re a relatively normal, well-balanced human, you don’t drown yourself. You can’t even do it on purpose without help from someone or something else. You need a weight, or a strong guy who’s okay holding you neck down, or else an accident.

  The guy in the speedboat had none of those things. He was way too far out to make a swim for the shore — hell, I couldn’t even see the shore anymore — and there were no weights, strong guys, or accidents laying around on his boat.

  That meant he wasn’t going to drown himself. That meant he was ours. It was just a matter of time, really, and we weren’t in a hurry. Technically, overall, yes we were in a hurry, but in this moment in this situation, I didn’t give a shit about getting out to him really quickly.

  Let him wait.

  So I let him wait. I walked inside and let Frey steer and let Joey pour me a drink. Old Fashioned, just the way I liked it with a decent high-rye bourbon, a block of ice, a Luxardo cherry, and stirred slowly and deliberately with about five splashes of bitters that Joey had pulled from somewhere below the counter.

  It was delicious, and I needed to keep my mind occupied while we waited for our enemy to sink a little bit, so I engaged.

  “What’s the bitters?” I asked.

  “Homemade,” Joey answered.

  “You’re making bitters now?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not hard. Pretty straightforward, really, and you can make it taste like whatever you want.”

  I swirled the drink in my right hand and stared at it. Tried to decipher it, to decode it. Took a long, deep sniff, then a small sip. Just enough to wet my tongue, and then swirled it around all over again as it splashed around in my mouth. I swallowed, then took a deeper swig, this time aiming for the bitters with my taste buds.

  “Chocolate,” I said.

  “What else?”

  “Clove?”

  He nodded. “Close. It’s a hint of anise, actually. But in such a small dose, and with the cinnamon added, I think it’s pretty clove-y also.”

  “It’s good. Really good. What’s the base?”

  “Michter’s.”

  “Good choice.”

  We stood there for a minute, Joey behind the bar and me in the middle of the room, waiting. It was awkward, just pretending like there wasn’t a guy who had previously tried to kill us slowly sinking into the Atlantic off our port side.

  “He’s going to shoot at us, you know.”

  I nodded again. “Yeah, probably.”

  “What’s… uh, you know.”

  “The plan?”

  Joey took a drink, stared at me the whole time. Yeah, boss, I could hear him thinking. What the hell is the plan?

  I shrugged. “He’s literally a sinking ship. Not going anywhere. We’ve got another two minutes at this speed before we’re even close enough for him to attempt to swim over, and I’d bet he’s willing to at least try something.”

  “Something? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean he’s not going to go for the kill right away. Put yourself in his shoes, Joey. He’s drowning, knows his life is on the line, and the only thing — literally the only thing — that’s giving him hope is that we’re here. Coming toward him. Knows we’re a couple minutes away.”

  “So what makes you think he won’t j
ust try and take over our boat?”

  I looked at him. Smiled. This was an easy one. I remembered a time in my training, early on, when our commander took us out into the woods for a survival training exercise and we found a deer, trapped in a bear trap. It had been left and forgotten by a hunter, or my CO was a far better commander than I’d given him credit for. Either way, the deer was squealing, a small, tired bleating that made us all feel sorry for it.

  ‘What’s he thinking?’ The CO asked. ‘Why is he just laying there, not scared of us?’

  The answer, then and now, was simple: we were his saving grace. We were the only thing between him and the slow, desperate clutches of dying a painful death. The deer knew it, and the man in the boat knew it, too.

  The man in the boat might have had a weapon or two lying around, and enough brainpower to use it, but he also knew that if he did use it, we’d simply turn around and hightail it out of there.

  “Because he doesn’t want to die,” Joey said.

  I took another sip. No need to give him the satisfaction.

  “Because he knows we’re his only shot,” he continued. “He will try something, won’t he? But not right away. He knows that. He’s figured it out, same as us. He’ll wait, bide his time, try to get us to board. Or to get him to board our ride, and then he’ll make his move.”

  “He’s hoping we take hostages.”

  “Yeah,” Joey said. Then he looked at me with a strange expression. “Do we?”

  I turned to the entrance to the bridge of the Wassamassaw and started walking. “Frey,” I called. The man poked his head out just as I got close. “Pick up the pace. Let’s buzz this guy once or twice and see what he does.”

  Frey nodded. “You got it, boss.”

  “Joey,” I said, turning back around. “Pour our driver a drink. No reason he should be left out.”

  23

  THE THREE OF US, WITH our three Old Fashioneds, made haste for the guy in his sinking speedboat. He was still standing, waiting. Patiently, even. Like he knew the play — we would come by, ask him to talk, maybe exchange a few shots, then we’d leave.

  He had the same expression on his face: a combination of rage and confusion, as well as pure stupidity, but now I thought I could see a good bit of expectation as well. He’s got a plan, I thought. Just as we’d suspected, this guy was going to try to make a move. For our boat, or our weapons, or both. He didn’t want to die today.

  Hate to be the bearer of bad news…

  Frey had a good read on the Wassamassaw’s movement. He was a capable boat captain, which surprised me, but I guess I’d never asked if he’d driven before. I had no idea if boats were his thing or not, but he seemed to have a strong, steady hand at the wheel.

  Frey moved us out and around the other boat, now halfway submerged and sinking fast. He positioned us into the wind, so we’d float back toward the smaller boat on our own, but also so that if we needed to get away quickly we’d be able to without having to worry about the currents keeping us close together.

  All the while keeping his right hand poised with his drink in hand.

  Man after my own heart. Frey may have been an odd fish, but he had some likable qualities. I downed the rest of my own drink and walked out on deck to watch our progress.

  The man on the other boat was unarmed. He knew the drill. He knew what was at stake.

  Maybe he’ll talk.

  “How close are we getting?” Frey yelled.

  “I want to smell his breath,” I replied.

  Frey didn’t answer, but the boat turned inward and toward the smaller vessel and all of the sudden we were on him. The two watercraft bumped together, Joey leaning way over the edge of the Wassamassaw to grab the railing of the smaller vessel.

  “Leave it,” I said.

  The boats moved back apart, first a few feet and then almost ten. The ocean is a curious beast, and I have always found it fascinating how we take it for granted. We’re smarter, we think, than the great blue, but we forget how absolutely and unbelievably powerful it really is. Within seconds, the boats were so far apart again that Frey had to commandeer us closer.

  “Need a lift?” I called out.

  The man glared.

  “Just checking,” I said. “We don’t want you to die out here, friend.”

  He yelled profanity back toward me. I’m not one to cringe at the use of curse words and foul language, but whatever he said made me hesitate.

  “Listen,” I yelled. “Come aboard. We can talk.”

  “I’m not telling you a damn thing,” the man said.

  “Fair enough. Frey, get us moving again.” I said it loud enough for the man to hear, also knowing Frey was poking his head out the back door of the main chamber, far from the bridge. He looked at me, waiting.

  “What do you want?” the man asked.

  “I want answers, asshole. Not that hard to figure out, you know?”

  “I’m just here because I was told to stop you.”

  Frey and Joey were watching on, intrigued. I stood there, the AR15 up and ready, just waiting — begging — the man to make a move.

  “Well, you failed. What’s your boss going to do about that? You got a comm in there?”

  The man actually looked around, as if he hadn’t thought about it before that moment. Finally he looked back up and me and shook his head.

  “So… a rendezvous? Scheduled appointment?”

  Again, a head shake.

  “So you’re out here alone. Sinking. Give it five minutes, you’re toast. Treading water. Maybe less. What have you got to lose?”

  “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Sure you can, asshole. You can tell me who you’re working for.”

  He stared.

  “Tell me who’s going after Elizondo. God knows you’re not making it to that meeting, am I right?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m coming on board. Want to stop me?”

  The man just stared. Empty. No expression whatsoever. I’d seen this before — he was done, given up. Waiting for an opening in the bleak death of failure. And I knew exactly what that meant: he’d be glad to have me aboard, because it would mean he might have a chance.

  It was a small chance, a sliver of opportunity, but it was a chance nonetheless.

  He knew it, I knew it. I wanted information, he wanted revenge.

  Joey gave me the eyes, but I ignored him. He took my assault rifle, trading me the 9mm. It would be a better close-up weapon, and the AR would be a far better mid-range choice.

  Frey moved back inside while I threw my leg up and over the side of the Wassamassaw, heading down the ladder that led to the lower decks and, in this case, the water. The sinking boat was about five feet away, and the man’s legs were soaked by now, but he didn’t move.

  He waited.

  I climbed down, watching him the entire time.

  At the bottom rung, I spun around and jumped. Made it to the edge of his boat, which didn’t help the sinking factor at all, but both of us retained our balance. I sloshed through the rising water collecting in the speedboat’s bottom, then trudged up to the man.

  The dead captain was slouched over, still very much dead. I took a quick look at him to assess any possible threat, then turned back again to the man who had given us so much grief in the past hour.

  “Who sent you?” I asked.

  He clenched his jaw.

  I raised my pistol.

  “You going to fight back?”

  He shook his head.

  “Stupid move, asshole,” I said. “I’m armed, threatening you, and I’m your only shot at getting out of here alive. So let me ask you again: you going to fight back?”

  He stared. Reading me, or trying to. I didn’t let him. I kept my face calm, not even upset. Stoic, even.

  I raised my pistol, just a flick of my wrist to let him know that I meant business and I wasn’t going to screw around with any tricks.

  And that’s when the tricks started.

/>   He immediately moved for his back, reaching a hand behind and pulling out a pistol. I knew it was a gun before I even saw it. He’d done exactly what I planned on, exactly what I’d been trained to read. The way he’d been standing, amidst a sinking boat in the middle of the Atlantic, the way his face showed me nothing useful. It was all part of it. All a piece of the puzzle I’d been putting together.

  His move is going to be to try to trick us. To lure me to his domain, onto his turf.

  Sinking turf, but still turf.

  I read it perfectly. He was still outnumbered, still underprepared. He didn’t stand a chance.

  My weapon was ready, his was not. The half-split-second difference made all the difference, and I raised mine and fired, sending a shot through the thigh of his right leg first, then twisted, readjusted, aimed and fired again. Sent another through his knee. A little low, but that’ll do the trick.

  He went down, fast. Splashed in the water and actually disappeared for a second before he came back up for air. The gun he had been trying to grab for had disappeared as well, so I took the third shot without worrying about retaliation.

  Another shot to the leg, this time hitting his other thigh. Hitting the knees destroys a good leg, just about no matter how you crack it, but hitting someone in the thighs does something entirely different: it pisses you off. It’s painful, but not enough to pass out, and it doesn’t do enough damage to really put you out of commission forever unless you accidentally hit an artery. And while I’m a heck of a shot at this range, I knew I wasn’t going to hit anything necessary.

  But I did hit him where it really hurt: both physically and mentally. He now knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He was stuck here, dead on the water, unable to swim even the three feet it would take to get to my boat.

  I looked down at him, flopping like a fish out of water, except that half of him was in the water, and felt no pity.

  “Who sent you?” I asked again.

  He struggled, twisted around. This is the moment, I thought. If he knows, he’s telling me.

  “You taking me off this boat?”

  I shrugged. “Depends on whether I like your answer or not.”