by Nick Thacker
The boat shifted, sunk down another few inches quickly, and then settled. I was once again amazed at the buoyancy of the wrecked craft. It was doing its best to stay afloat, fighting against the inevitable.
“You’re just going to leave me here to die.”
“Probably,” I said, “but you get to choose whether to die from a bullet to the head or from drowning. Your choice.” I raised the gun and held it up to the side of his head.
“You — you know,” he coughed. No blood, but that wouldn’t be far behind. “You know him.”
“Yeah?”
“I thought you already knew about it. That’s why we’re all here, right?”
He was gasping for breath, but I wanted to keep him talking. Now that he was talking.
“Who sent you? Simple question.” I turned the pistol at aimed it at the man’s rear end. Not sure if he knew or cared where I was about to send the next piece of blistering lead, but he got the point.
“It’s — it’s obvious, man,” he said.
“Nothing about this is obvious. Who sent you?”
He stared up at me as the boat slipped beneath the water for good. I sloshed around in it, hoping there wouldn’t be any trouble getting back to the Wassamassaw. It was a few yards off, not anchored, so it would be moving with the swells of the ocean and the wind. If I was lucky Frey would keep us steady enough to get there with only a short swim.
This guy was giving me nothing, so I figured the least I could do was offer an olive branch, maybe see if that helped jog his memory a bit. I looked up at Joey, standing at the edge of my yacht waiting for the signal. We’d discussed very little before I’d jumped ship to this guy’s boat, but I was clear about one thing, and I was ready for it.
“Now, Joey.”
He gave me the thumbs-up and disappeared from view for a moment. A few seconds later he reappeared and threw down to me the object he was holding. I caught it, one-handed, then turned back to the bleeding man.
He cocked an eyebrow as he stared at it.
A life ring, with the words Wassamassaw painted on the side of it. A certified floatation device that was a requirement on all marine vessels, but most of the time ended up being nothing but a moniker-bearing decoration.
“You’re saving me?” he asked.
“Hardly,” I said. “But it’s a conscious thing, you know? Keeps me happy, able to sleep at night.”
“It’ll be hours before anyone finds me.”
“At least. But the water’s warm. Maybe use the time constructively, to think about something cool to say to your boss if they do find you?”
He glared.
“Or just spend your time fighting off the sharks. I’m sure they’re hungry.”
I turned to leave, my legs now completely soaked up to my thighs, but my feet still standing on the boat’s floor. The edge of the boat was higher, to my left, and placed an unsteady foot on the top of it, six inches beneath the surface. It was like walking up a submerged staircase. The hull of the Wassamassaw was directly in front of me now, either by some expert commandeering on Frey’s part or some serendipitous wind movement.
I grabbed at the built-in ladder on the side of the Wassamassaw and started up. Halfway to the top I stopped once again, turned and looked down. The guy was floating inside the tiny little ring, bobbing up and down. There was no sight of his boat.
“Give me something, man,” I said. “Tell me who sent you. Just a name is all I need.”
The man’s glare didn’t change, but I thought I saw something soften in his eyes. He’d given up. Resigned himself. They’d sent him on a suicide mission with the hope that he’d at least do some damage to us. He realized that now, and I could see it on his face, even through his glare.
“You should already know this, Dixon. Your father sent us.”
24
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, IT’S your father?”
Joey was watching me towel off. I was fully clothed and dripping all over the brand-new floor in the main cabin, but I didn’t care. I wanted to move, to figure it out, to take action.
I was feeling the heat rising inside me, both a boon and a curse. It would help me focus, keep me laser-targeted on my mission. But if I left it unchecked it would get out of hand and I’d devolve into a state of rage-induced panic.
One of the benefits of my Army life and post-Army training is that I know myself very well. I know my habits, my reactions, my emotional state. I’m pretty in tune to those inner workings most people just allow to come and go and not really think much about, and I’m pretty good about understanding them.
And right now I didn’t know what to think. I was pissed, sure, but I also wasn’t sure if I believed it. Hell, I’d started this mission with the expectation that I’d be avenging my murdered father, and now the dead guy who’d tried to kill us was telling me that my father was the guy who’d set it all up.
It didn’t add up. None of it. The only thing that did add up was that if my father was involved, if he wasn’t actually dead, he was in over his head.
And that sounded like my old man.
I shook my head and watched the last few remaining droplets of saltwater flick off my hair and land on the carpet. I’d jumped from the sinking boat and swam back to the Wassamassaw, where I was able to reach the ladder on the side of the yacht and climb aboard. The water felt good, but nothing else about this moment did.
“I don’t know, Joey. I don’t get it either.”
“But he’s alive?”
“I don’t know, I said. I haven’t seen him.”
“But that guy said he was working for him. You think —”
“I have no idea what to think.”
Frey popped out the bridge again and joined us in the cabin. He looked at Joey, then me, as if wanting to ask a question. Finally he walked over to the bar in the corner and started looking around.
I watched him for a moment, then turned back to Joey. “This sucks.”
Joey nodded.
“We’re going to get her back.”
He nodded again.
“We’re going to get her back now, and then I’m going to have a word with my dead father.”
Frey walked over, carrying a glass of brown liquid. I raised an eyebrow, questioning.
“Rum,” he said. “Flor de Cana.”
I nodded. “Good choice. Mind pouring me one?” I asked.
“Me too,” Joey added.
We waited for our drinks, Joey taking a seat on the couch across from me, while I sat in one of the armchairs that had come with the boat. I liked the chairs, as they fit my larger frame well enough and didn’t force me to sit up perfectly straight.
“Who are you getting back?” Frey asked. His voice caught me off guard, almost as if I’d forgotten he was there.
“She — she was with us before, last time we were out on the boat. Joey’s girlfriend.”
“They took her. I’m going to get her back.”
Frey listened, taking this in, sipping his rum. I wondered if the anxious, timid man behind the bar was up for something like this. I wanted to bring him back, but he’d already proven helpful and we were already out on the water.
“I’ll do whatever I can, guys,” Frey said.
Joey nodded, accepting the help, so I made a silent agreement with myself that I would keep Frey at arm’s length, away from anything too dangerous.
When our drinks arrived, Joey took a long sip and then stared at me intently. I knew what he wanted.
I sighed. “I don’t know, Joey.”
“Well let’s come up with a plan together, then. No reason you have to do all the heavy lifting.”
I nodded. Joey liked plans. I didn’t. But in fairness to him I knew we’d need to at least come up with something remotely resembling a plan. It was safer that way, and it would force me to consider all the variables.
“They’re racing in before the weather,” I said. “That means we’re probably not going to beat them in a head-to-head race.”
“But they’re coming toward us, right?” Frey asked.
“Generally, yeah. Heading north to Charleston. But we need to make sure we’re aiming directly at them in order to intercept.”
“If we want to intercept,” Joey said.
I frowned. “What do you mean? What else would we be doing?”
“Why intercept Elizondo, though? He’s going to have plenty of security there, on board at least. And what are we supposed to do? If he doesn’t want us on board we’re not getting anywhere close.”
I nodded. True. “Okay, but then how will we get to Elizondo?”
“Why would we? We’re not supposed to kill him.”
He was right. Of course. Of course. I put the back of my hand on my forehead, enjoying the momentary respite from the heat. When had the heat gotten here? It was hurricane season in South Carolina, and out on the water it was usually even chillier. But it was hot here, now.
“It’s hot in here.”
“It’s in your head, Dixon.”
I looked at Joey. Then at Frey. I felt the heat, from inside. He was right, it was inside me. Calm down, I urged myself. You’re supposed to be a master of your own emotional state.
But I was still confused and angry. Maybe even a little bit scared.
“We still need to get to Elizondo, don’t we?”
“Sure, but there’s not really any sense trying to get on his ship. Like I said, he’ll be well protected. But we do need to keep him alive.”
“Right,” I said. “So how do we do that?”
Frey cleared his throat. “Maybe we try to take out the guys trying to take him out?”
It made sense. Really, it was the only way to do it. The guys who’d taken Shalice had done it as a threat: we were supposed to keep Elizondo alive until he’d made his delivery. If Elizondo was taken out, the implied threat was that they’d take out Shalice.
So the only way to play great defense in this situation was to play great offense.
“So we’re going after my dad.”
“Seems that way, if he’s really behind it.”
I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. I was still pissed, but things were starting to click into place.
“He needed me to be a part of this scheme. He knew I’d be able to get the job done right — to kill Elizondo — but he wouldn’t dare just come out and ask me to do it. Hence all the cloak and dagger.”
“And faking his own death.”
“And that. Right.”
“So he’s really behind it?”
“There’s a lot of money involved. So yeah, I can almost bet he’s behind it.”
25
I GREW UP IN A small town in a small state. Technically the state isn’t the smallest of them all — Virginia is far bigger than Rhode Island, Connecticut, and the two forgotten twigs of states up near Maine — but to an adventurous kid who longed for the more part of life, Virginia felt as small as anything else.
It was ironic, then, that I felt the immense expanse of land behind our Virginia homestead was my true home — it was just endless woods, creeks, and enough game to keep a family of four alive. And it had. My father and I hunted just about every weekend growing up. I didn’t know about licenses and permits, lotteries, or any of the other stuff hunters are supposed to know about. We just walked out our back door, looked for a good direction to start walking, and then we started walking.
Sometimes my brother would come with us. Most of the time he’d stay at home with Mom, cooking or learning some of the what my father called ‘more delicate’ skills. He’d always been a momma’s boy, but for some reason my father hated that. He’d always treated my little brother like shit, and the day he ran off with a chick he’d met at the mall was the last time I’d ever seen him.
In truth, my old man treated all of us like shit. I was a set of arms to help carry firewood, or to load his guns, or to fetch whatever it was he thought he’d just shot, even though I was a far better shot than him by the time I was twelve. He treated my brother like shit, accusing him of being gay all his life like it was some sort of criminal offense to be gay.
But worst of all, and probably the reason I’ve never been able to forgive him, was the way he treated my mother. The sweetest woman I’d ever met, she was the person in my life I looked to for structure. She was a rock, teaching both her boys how to clean and cook fish and wild game, turn anything we dragged inside into food, and how to take care of ourselves. She was the calm, balanced individual who knew she only had a set amount of time with her cherished offspring before we figured out the hell we lived in and made a break for it.
My little brother went first, heading out at the ripe old age of sixteen, and I suspect it had more to do with not wanting to be under the same roof as his old man as it did with the beautiful blonde he’d met at working the sunglasses kiosk at the local mall.
My mother never forgave herself, but she never let me know it. I took off a few years later, running for the Army as fast as my asinine youth could muster. My old man just about popped a hernia when I told him, and I thought that would be the first time he’d ever hit me. Maybe it was his own military training or it was the fact that he hadn’t had a drink in a couple hours, but he didn’t hit me then.
Instead, he started hitting her. My mother, the woman everyone loved and no one wanted to upset. I don’t know where it came from — maybe he thought having a gay son and a deadbeat one was the worst offense God could give a man, even though neither were true: I was successful in the Army. Very successful. I was sent all around the world and trained by the best there was, and I liked every minute of it. I didn’t like the Army in general, and that was part of the reason I got out as soon as I could.
The Army is the kind of thing you wear like a loose-fitting shirt. You can grow and change inside it, but it’s always going to be the same. The fit doesn’t change, you do. It fit me at first, then it didn’t. I’m not a clothes, guy, but even I buy a different shirt every few years or so.
So I ended up vagabonding it until I made it out to South Carolina. I was thirty-eight years old and I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I felt terrible for not knowing, but I was too damn stubborn to admit to myself that maybe just getting a job to make ends meet wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
I rented a tiny apartment in Edisto Beach, but I drove up to Charleston one afternoon and got a job bartending at a dive bar just south of the city. The shifts were terrible, but I found that I had a knack for service — I liked people enough, and I was good behind the bar. I also liked the owner, who let me sample the liquors after every shift, which made me a better bartender but a far worse driver.
I stayed there for five years, then opened my own place in Edisto Beach, and the rest is history. Seems funny to me that my old man, the man I’d sworn to push out of my life for good, had once again gotten his claws around my neck and was squeezing with all his might.
My old man was the reason we were all here, and in a funny way I respected him for that. He’d pulled me into this business of mine — the one outside what I did as a bar owner — and he’d lured us into his web of lies, still somehow controlling his kid’s life even though we rarely spoke.
I was sitting in the cabin, on the armchair I loved, thinking about him and Hannah and Joey and Shalice, and even thinking a bit about Frey. I was planning, which was uncomfortable to me, but I was coming up with something that I thought would work just fine. Best of all, if it worked it would culminate in a climax where, for once in my life, I got to win.
I took another sip of Frey’s chosen drink, the Flor de Cana, and smiled.
I’m coming for you, old man.
26
“WAKE UP, DIXON,” JOEY’S VOICE called to me.
I opened an eye. “I’m not sleeping.”
“Good. What’s the plan?”
I stretched, trying to hide the fact that I had been asleep for the past fifteen minutes. I shrugged.
“Reall
y? You haven’t been sleeping, and you still have no idea what we’re going to do?”
I looked around, trying to get a bearing on where we were. As usual, in the middle of the day on the ocean it was damn near impossible to determine your location with any hope of accuracy, so I looked over to the bridge. “Frey,” I called, “where are we?”
He walked out, still holding his drink, or at least the third incarnation of it, and shrugged back at me.
“Really?”
“We’re… floating. That’s about all I can manage.”
I shook my head. “You got us out of that scrape back there, didn’t you? You're a better pilot that you give yourself credit for.”
“Th — thanks,” he said. “But I was hoping we’d switch it up now that we’re not under attack.” He stopped, his eyes rolling back in his head for a moment as he thought. “Wait a minute, you guys do know how to drive this thing, right?”
Joey smiled. “No, we usually just hang out at the dock. Makes for a great party, and we don’t need to learn anything new.”
I stood up, stretching again, my fingers brushing against the laminated off-white ceiling. I walked over to Frey and stuck my arm out, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Frey.”
He nodded. “Yeah, of course. I — I always wanted an adventure.”
“You married?”
He shook his head.
“You have kids?”
Again, a head shake.
“Then I hereby recruit you as driver of this little dinghy, Frey.”
He smiled. “I don’t really know how.”
“Frey, listen. Every time Joey and I have, uh, done whatever it is you think we’ve done, we’ve learned something. That’s part of the adventure. We need a driver, and you’re the right guy for the job.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, honestly? Because you’re here.”
“I see.”
I waited, not wanting to give him any other reason to back out, while simultaneously hoping he’d want to back out.