by Bobby Cole
“Hey, rich boy,” he whispered to John Allen, “get back here.”
John Allen raised his head but had no intention of moving beyond that.
“If you want to live another ten seconds, get back here,” Runt said darkly. He pulled his pistol and pointed it at John Allen’s head.
Ribs shrieking at him, John Allen raised himself up. With a great deal of effort, he pushed his stomach up onto the middle bench seat of the johnboat; then Runt grabbed him under his arms and dragged him to the backseat. John Allen nearly passed out from the combined pain of his ravaged ribs and his rotator cuff.
“Sit right here and don’t move,” Runt ordered, positioning himself right behind John Allen with the motor tiller in his left hand and the pistol in his right. With a twist, the motor engaged, and he started toward the bridge.
The light had disappeared. Maybe he’d imagined it. The night could sometimes play tricks on his mind. Oftentimes he would be at a dig and think he saw lights approaching. It was always just his paranoid imagination.
As he approached the bridge, its bleak skeleton looked normal except for a bulge at the base of the center beam. Was that something or not? The closer he got, the more certain he was that it was somebody.
“Don’t move, and don’t you say a word or I’ll kill you immediately. Do you understand me?” Runt said to John Allen in a menacing whisper.
Runt was worried about something, and John Allen struggled to comprehend what. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness but the outline of an old bridge. At first he hoped the structure might help him figure out where he was, but there must be hundreds of them in Mississippi, tired old antique structures that had served their communities for generations. Though this one looked like it had been bombed or something.
What did Runt see?
As they got closer, Runt twisted the throttle, picking up speed. The boat was traveling fast now, dangerously fast for a small creek in the night, but this was Runt’s world. When the bridge was less than thirty yards away, the form he’d been tracking moved. The movement was unmistakable, and Runt flew into high alert. He sensed there was trouble on the bridge and the boat would be passing right under it.
John Allen saw the form move, also, then a spooky, thin, red-laser light surgically penetrated the darkness above it. Whoever it was had a pistol with a laser sight. The thread of red light appeared to go on forever into the sky.
Just as fast, a bright white beam of light flooded the darkness and pointed straight at the boat. Then, each drop of rain falling could be seen, outlined. Barely audible above the sound of the outboard motor, a voice called out to them, “FBI! Stop the boat!”
Runt yanked John Allen in front of him as a shield and opened the throttle wide, intent on shooting past his foe rather than laboring to turn the boat around. With his right hand, he aimed his pistol at the light source.
“Stop the boat! FBI!”
Recognizing Emma’s voice, John Allen’s heart leaped, then immediately seized up in fear for her. “He’s got a gun!” he screamed as they approached the bridge.
Runt squeezed off two shots before the red laser started dancing around his head, driving him low behind John Allen.
He couldn’t understand why a single FBI agent was on the bridge. The red laser freaked him out. He’d seen them on television but not in person, and certainly not pointed at his head. The only thing he knew to do was duck behind John Allen and get the hell past this bridge.
A dull metallic thump had finally given away the boat’s approach to Emma. She could just see the outline of the craft when she heard the motor.
As it approached, she’d eased into position and decided to hit it with her flashlight and order them ashore. This seemed a far better option than merely observing them, which would accomplish precisely nothing.
After clicking on her Glock pistol’s laser sight and shooting its red beam out into the night, she’d bathed the boat in white light and felt a flush of relief to see John Allen, then quickly observed that his hands were tied. And he looked traumatized. But he’s alive! Then came two bursts of light and the sound of shots fired ringing in her ears, and she’d been driven back behind the metal pole.
When she’d peered around it, she saw John Allen’s captor scurrying behind him like a sand crab retreating into a hole. She’d tried to draw a bead on the man’s head as the boat approached the bridge, but the laser sight spent most of its time dancing all over John Allen’s torso. Seeing how close he held John Allen, she knew she wouldn’t get a clear shot from the other side of the bridge as the boat traveled away, either.
Now the boat had accelerated and was almost under the bridge. Her mind raced to process the situation, calculating boat speed, the bridge’s height, and her assessment of the threat to John Allen. She could think of only one solution.
As the boat passed under the bridge, Agent Emma Haden recalled being fourteen and fearless. Without another thought, she took off, and with three quick steps and a jump, launched herself over the far side.
The local radio chatter continued as officers reported their progress. No one was closer than ten minutes out. Agent Garner listened to the locals and cussed aloud. Their vehicle was moving so fast it felt like it was airborne as it topped each rise. The agent driving was the finest high-speed driver in their office, and each agent sat buckled in tight, mentally preparing for their arrival.
Their vehicle was a mini office, complete with Wi-Fi, and radios that could monitor the surrounding counties and municipalities. The agent with the iPad was tracking the path of the storm and keeping everyone informed.
Agent Garner was even more anxious than the others. He had texted Agent Haden twice more, asking for her location, and hadn’t gotten a response. He didn’t want to call her for fear that she was hidden someplace and the phone’s ringing would betray her location.
He contemplated calling his supervisor, but he didn’t think he had enough information to prevent more questions for which he didn’t have answers.
Agent Garner had plenty of experience worrying about his fellow agents. He sighed and, directing his thoughts to Emma, said, “Please be careful.”
Runt had panicked when the white light illuminated his boat. He’d pointed his pistol in the general direction of its source and fired off two shots to buy time to get under the bridge.
Now, as fast as he dared, Runt guided the boat beneath the bridge span and worked frantically to pull John Allen around to protect his backside, which was about to be exposed to the shooter.
He was still yanking John Allen into position when a falling movement in front of him flashed through his peripheral vision, followed immediately by a crash that almost submerged the bow of the boat and nearly catapulted him down after it. He just managed to keep his feet as the stern heaved back down, then fought his way to an understanding of what had happened. The shooter had launched herself into the damn boat. The spinning light that had accompanied her landing was her flashlight flying off into the creek at impact. Her weapon’s laser sight waved around and finally pointed straight up in the air.
Still fighting to balance the boat, Runt pointed his pistol at the shooter and grabbed the tiller to steer away from the bank they were about to crash into. Then he let off the gas and shoved John Allen aside and to the floor of the boat as he moved to the middle seat and pointed his pistol right at the shooter’s head.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, standing in the darkness. The boat glided in the dark water as the motor idled.
Emma had hit awkwardly on the bottom of the boat. Her legs had shot out from under her on the wet surface, and she’d landed on her back on a homemade metal anchor. She had a death grip on her pistol, but the nerves in her arm were on fire, and she couldn’t move it to aim.
Finally sorting the situation out, John Allen knew he had to help. He rolled over and kicked Runt in the knee as hard as he could. The flimsy boat tipped, and Runt grunted as he went over the side. As soon as he splashed, John All
en pushed himself over the middle seat, his arms still tied tight behind him.
“Emma! Emma! Are you okay?” he screamed as he tried and failed to get up.
Emma’s mind told her to stay calm, but she wanted to scream. She could see John Allen’s silhouette and hear his voice, but she couldn’t speak. The anchor had knocked the breath out of her and has also affected the nerves on the right side of her body.
The rain continued to fall, and the night was darker than ever. The only light was the red laser that was like a pointer leading right to the barrel of the pistol in front of John Allen’s face. It was only eighteen inches away, but his arms wouldn’t move. He strained mightily against the restraints, but they didn’t budge.
Emma was slowly getting her wits back. The drop from the bridge had been farther than she’d expected, and the landing a whole lot rougher. But, then, she didn’t know what she’d expected. She’d just jumped.
Water thrashed outside the boat, and John Allen felt the boat being pulled, then its side dipped steeply down as Runt groaned and pulled himself back on board as he’d done a hundred times before. There was nothing John Allen could do about it.
As soon as Runt was in the boat, he snatched Emma’s pistol from her and stood dripping above them both while he thought about what to do. When no clear next move occurred to him, he simply sat on top of John Allen to pin him down and stared at his new captive. He could see her outline, and the white FBI letters on her hat seemed to glow.
“Who are you?” he said, pointing the agent’s pistol at her, and his own at the top of John Allen’s head.
Emma had begun to catch her breath and realized she was in a bad situation. At this moment it seemed hopeless. The outboard motor continued to idle, and the boat drifted down the creek. She ignored Runt and looked at the man she’d been worrying about. “At least I found you, John Allen,” she said with a sigh.
John Allen managed a smile that no one could see. “Yes, you did. Are you okay?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Runt waved his arms wildly and asked more loudly, “I said, who are you?”
Emma took a deep, painful breath. “I’m Special Agent Emma Haden of the FBI, and you’re under arrest,” she explained with much effort.
Runt laughed as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Is this about the Indian rocks?”
“Not really,” she said, trying to think of what to do and say. “It’s much more serious than that.”
“How about that! I’m wanted by the FBI?” Runt said, and laughed again.
He sat in the darkness on the Nanih Waiya Creek and enjoyed the moment. His nerves had settled down, and he was back in charge. Runt liked being in charge, and the pistols fueled his ego.
Emma twisted to get off the anchor and exhaled in pain. Without his arms for leverage, John Allen was helpless against the weight of Runt. He could hear Emma’s voice just a few feet from him, and it sounded better than anything he’d ever heard. She’d tracked him down. That amazed him. How had she figured it out?
“Why are you here in this godforsaken place to arrest me?” Runt asked.
Emma’s arm was getting its feeling back. It had gone from burning to tingling.
“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “I’m really just here for John Allen.”
Runt was cocking his head sideways like a dog that’s confused by something.
“Give him to me and we’ll let you go,” she said, recalling some of her negotiation classes. Promise anything.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“I know you’re just the guy Winston makes do all the dirty work. Just let us out on the bank, and you’re free to go.”
“You got balls, lady,” he said with another laugh, then added, “Looks to me like I gotta dig two graves tonight.”
Again John Allen tried to move but couldn’t. So he said, “In a few minutes there’ll be a dozen FBI agents here, Runt. Just give it up.”
“Here in this swamp?”
“I found you,” Emma pointed out. “They know where I am.”
Runt stood up, kept one pistol on her, and pushed one into John Allen’s temple. He realized she’d made a good point. They probably would have an idea where she was. He needed to get out of the area. He looked around and didn’t see any movement on the bridge, or any lights anywhere. The silence was comforting, but he believed what she said. And he was smart enough to fear the FBI. Knowing he had more creek to travel, which meant adding more distance from the bridge, he felt he could still complete his task. That’s what Winston would want. He wished Winston were here to help, but when had he ever been there for him? He realized she was right: he was just the guy always doing Winston’s dirty work.
Runt looked her over. His eyes were well adjusted to the night. The FBI agent looked injured. Maybe she broke her back on his anchor? He needed to be in the back to operate the motor and steer. He had her pistol, but he wished he had more zip ties to bind her hands.
Pointing the pistols at each captive’s face, he advised them, “Okay, I’m going to the back of the boat, and I don’t want either of you to move a muscle. We’re going for a boat ride.”
The agent nodded. With that communicated, Runt stepped over the middle seat and sat down on the rear. The boat was only fifteen feet long, so everybody was within arm’s reach of one another.
While he paused to orient himself on the creek, he held the agent’s fancy laser-sighted pistol on her with his right hand and revved the engine with his left. Runt sat, trying to decide what to do. This was more than he’d bargained for, but he knew better than to just let them out of the boat. They would hunt him down. His survival instinct said he should bury them somewhere and get the hell out of here. The fact that no one was approaching made him decide to keep to his original plan and just expand it by one grave. It was still early in the night, and he had plenty of time before daylight. The stormy night played right into his hands.
Emma pushed with her legs so she could see John Allen, who’d fallen back from the middle seat onto his knees and was staring at her. He was in bad shape, and seeing it tore at her in a way nothing ever had.
Chapter 36
The FBI agents had homed in on Emma’s last reported location. Agent Garner had talked to the Neshoba dispatcher, and she’d assured him that two deputies would be there at any moment.
He took a deep breath, hoping that they’d find her immediately and that the situation would be under control.
“How far out are we from that bridge?” he asked the driver.
“Four, maybe five minutes,” the driver guessed.
Agent Garner had never been in this part of the county in his life, but the GPS was usually accurate. His cell phone rang, and he didn’t recognize the “251” area code displayed on the screen but quickly answered.
“Agent Garner.”
The caller identified himself as an Alabama state trooper and explained that one of his men had just apprehended Winston Walker at the Hooters on the eastern shore of Mobile Bay. He quickly hit the high points of the arrest and confirmed again that the fugitive, Winston Walker, was in custody. Agent Garner was energized, thanking the trooper and promising to call him back.
“One down,” he said as he tossed the phone in the cup holder, but then his elation vanished. Who was in the boat with John Allen, then?
Agent Haden purposefully stretched her legs while she studied Runt as he drove the boat. He was a fool, she realized. But if she wasn’t careful, she knew this fool would kill her.
She didn’t waste any time trying to think of how she could have handled the situation better. Her entire focus was on trying to keep both of them alive.
John Allen couldn’t move, and he felt useless. He could see that Emma was in pain, and he knew she was injured because of him. Hell, she’s going to die because of me, he thought.
He wanted to say something but couldn’t think of the right words. “Sorry about all this,” he said finally, in a voice j
ust loud enough for Emma to hear over the motor. “They came for me in the night.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured when I found your phone at your house, or whatever it is.”
“It’s a barn,” he said with a soft laugh. It felt odd to be laughing, but he did.
“Yeah, I noticed,” she said, almost giggling as well. Emma knew he was hurting, but his sense of humor was a good sign that he wasn’t mentally broken and panic-stricken. Many people would be, and terror wouldn’t help the situation at all.
“You got a plan?” she asked as she stretched again, trying to feel her left ankle. Her arm strength was returning, and she pressed her leg into the aluminum bench seat and could feel it flex. No broken bones.
“I was just about to arrest him myself when you dropped in on us,” John Allen joked.
“You looked like you needed a little help,” she said with a small smile. “So, do you know where we’re going?”
“No idea. I sure need my arms untied.”
“Just hang on, I have a plan,” she said to him as she studied Runt.
“That fast, you have a plan?”
“You’d be surprised.”
John Allen could barely hold his head up. His body had been strained and stressed for almost twenty hours. The thought that she’d formulated a plan reassured him. Prior to Emma dropping from the bridge, his plan had been to jump out of the boat and stay submerged as long as he could, then hopefully swim away underwater. The plan made him nervous because he knew he didn’t have the ability or strength to keep his head above water for long.
In the rear of the boat, Runt continued winding the boat down the narrow, serpentine creek. He couldn’t hear his captives talking over the motor’s roar and the noisy rhythm the rain beat on the flat-bottom aluminum boat. He was watching the agent closely, though he’d seen the outline of her waist and back and knew she didn’t have another pistol on her. He wasn’t worried about John Allen—one push into the water and he’d be a goner. The man didn’t have the strength or energy to swim.