Blowback

by James P. Sumner

  I’m probably better staying inside where possible. Moving around outside, even in the dark, leaves me too exposed—to bullets and to the elements.

  Roughly ten feet above me is a railing. It’s probably waist-high, standing in front of a door that leads inside the area directly beneath the helipad.

  As good a place as any to start.

  I slowly stand, remaining pressed against the wall, and listen for any movement. It’s a struggle to filter out the plethora of noise from the world around me, but after a few long moments, I’m happy I’m alone.

  I crouch and make my way up the curved staircase beside me, hugging the near wall as best I can without limiting my movement. I pause at the top, half-covered by the low wall, half-obscured by the railing. In broad daylight, I would be completely visible, but in the pitch-dark, I should be fine.

  I peer around, staring along the starboard side of the deck. No sign of life. I can just about see where it opens out, where the speedboat and crane are. There’s a pinprick of blurred light beyond that—presumably the bridge at the bow, but honestly, it could be anything.

  Happy I’m in the clear so far, I step out and move forward, stopping just around the corner, hidden from the door near the railing. I press myself against the wall again, feeling the metal rivets push against me through the material of my coat. My right shoulder is level with the edge.

  Lightning cracks in the sky, followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder. The wind is strong, forcing the rain sideways as it assaults the boat—and me—like a billion tiny bullets. Impressively, however, the boat remains steady.

  The rapid pitter-patter of the rain on my protective mask sounds amplified by the darkness. I’m not sure if it’s actually loud, or if it just sounds like it to me because it’s on my face, but my paranoia gets the best of me. I quickly remove it, sliding it into one of the inside pockets of my coat.

  I wipe the excess moisture from my face and take a quick peek around the corner.

  No movement.

  The boat’s picking up speed. The noise of the engine, while barely audible over the weather, will further conceal any sound from my own movements.

  Here goes nothing.

  I move around the corner, remaining pressed against the outer wall, heading for the door. I make it three steps before it swings open and hits the wall with a loud, metallic bang. I freeze and catch my breath, dropping to one knee. Thankfully, the door swung toward me, so I should be blocked from the peripheral vision of whoever steps out.

  I wait.

  A few seconds pass before one man appears, wearing a dark poncho with the hood pulled up tight around his head. He’s carrying a gun, possibly an SMG, loosely in his hands, the strap over his head and left shoulder. He paces idly forward, stopping at the railing and looking out at the ocean behind us.

  I feel an involuntary smile creep onto my face.

  The first casualty of war.

  Moving slowly, I shuffle along the wall until I reach the open door. Now behind him on his seven o’clock, I take a couple of slow breaths, steeling myself and planning my next moves.

  This needs to be swift and decisive.

  I stand and move toward him. In stride, I step through and down, stamping my right foot through the back of his left knee. He crumples down to his left almost immediately, unprepared for the attack. On his way down, I swing my left elbow and forearm clockwise as hard as I can. I time it perfectly, connecting with his temple as it reaches the ideal height. The impact has a whiplash effect on his neck, and he drops to the deck like a bag of rocks.

  I unhook the gun from his shoulder and use my foot to shove him under the bottom bar of the railing. I apply as much force as I can. I watch as he drops the ten or so feet to where I was moments ago. The force of my kick and his own dead-weight momentum cause him to roll away as he lands. A second later, he disappears over the edge, lost forever in the dark waters beyond.

  I quickly check the weapon. It’s an SMG, as I thought. A full mag but no spares. Still, it’s better than the five bullets I had to my name before. I hook the strap over my head and arm, so it’s rests on my shoulder, and push it behind me. I take a final glance around to make sure I didn’t attract any attention, then step inside, closing the door gently behind me.

  22:38 JST

  In front of me is a short corridor. It appears to open out ahead of me, but there is a door on either side before that.

  With careful steps, I continue on, stopping just before the door on the left side, which is standing open. It’s much quieter inside, so I listen for any signs of movement. Happy there isn’t anyone there, I pop my head inside.

  It’s a maintenance room, by the looks of it. No windows. Artificially lit by a single strip light on the ceiling, encased in a metal wire frame. A couple of all-weather jackets hang in the corner facing the door. The room stretches back along the corridor behind me. There’s nothing noteworthy in here, just three walls of metal shelving that have boxes and tools stowed on them.

  I move to carry on but stop myself.

  Actually…

  I step inside the room, paying closer attention to what’s on the shelves. I scan the array of tools until my gaze rests on a flat-head screwdriver—a thick, black, non-slip handle and a long neck, maybe seven inches.

  That will do very nicely.

  I head back out into the corridor, directly in front of the doorway opposite. I look inside and see a narrow, precariously twisted staircase descending into a room below.

  Hmm.

  I navigate the steps, using the wall for balance, and make my way down. I come out in a small, claustrophobic area, maybe twelve-by-twelve—if that. Standing upright, I’m six-one. There’s perhaps three inches of room between the top of my head and the ceiling.

  I look around and see two large pieces of machinery, seemingly identical, encased by a metal railing. I’m no expert, but these look like engines.

  Very interesting.

  I head back up the stairs and along the corridor until I reach the doorway at the end. There isn’t much room on either side of it for full cover, but I press myself against the wall as best I can and look inside.

  There are a couple of windows on the left wall. On the wall directly opposite is a notice board and various pieces of health and safety information. There’s a door on either side of it leading, presumably, to the open deck and speedboat. Along the right wall is a modest-sized kitchen area. It looks fully functional and kitted out in much the same way I envision most restaurants are.

  There’s a seating area that dominates the middle of the room, which is where I see two men talking, both with their backs to me. I’m guessing one is the helicopter pilot, given he’s wearing a light gray jumpsuit. The other looks similar to the guy I disposed of earlier. Same thick jacket. Same gun that I now have.

  They’re close to each other and maybe eight or nine feet from me. The buzzing fluorescent lights will be shining out onto the port side deck, so whatever happens next will be visible to anyone who might walk past at the time.

  This needs to happen quickly.

  I spend a second debating whether or not the pilot is innocent. My gut’s telling me he probably isn’t. That he’s Yakuza, just like the rest of them. But unfortunately for him, it ultimately doesn’t matter one way or the other. If he’s alive, that’s a potential way off this boat for someone, and I can’t allow that. I would prefer this not to be a one-way trip for me, but it definitely has to be a one-way trip for Kazawa and Miley, so he’s got to go, I’m afraid.

  As before… as always… I plan my attack and run through the execution in my head before moving an inch. Temporarily disable the pilot on my way to killing the armed foot soldier. Then kill the pilot.

  Easy.

  I grip the screwdriver and hold it upside-down, so the long neck is hidden and pressed against my inside forearm. That way, they won’t see it until it’s sticking out of them.

  Here we go.

  I step over the threshold
and move with purpose into the middle of the room. The guy with the gun notices me first and turns, revealing a brow furrowed with confusion and a mouth hanging open in disbelief. The pilot hasn’t reacted by the time I draw level with them.

  Same approach as before, with an added step this time. Like building a deadly dance routine.

  I smash my foot through the back of the pilot’s knee. As he buckles, I produce the screwdriver and jab it with powerful and lethal precision into the armed guy’s throat. This works well for two reasons. The first is that the initial blood loss is significant, which both weakens him now and makes him easier to finish off later. The second, if you get it right, is that it damages the vocal cords enough that he can’t scream. He drops his weapon, clutching desperately at his throat.

  I turn back in time to catch the pilot’s head in both hands on his way down. Using gravity to my advantage, I quickly position my hands so one’s on the base of his skull and the other is cupping his mandible. A quick twist results in a clean break of the neck and an instant kill.

  I refocus on the remaining guy, whose eyes are currently bulging with a recognizable fear. I step behind him and place my left hand over his mouth, pinching his nose in the process. I then reach over his shoulder with my right, yank the screwdriver from his throat and slam it into his chest between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side, puncturing his heart. I hold it in place for a few seconds until the struggling stops, then lower his body to the floor.

  Two more down.

  I retrieve the screwdriver, wipe it down on my sleeve, and stash it in one of my pockets.

  I look to my right at the kitchen layout. All the utensils are stored away in drawers and compartments. Various pans hang by their handles on hooks high on the wall. There are preparation surfaces on either side of a large, two-door oven with a six-point gas burner stovetop.

  Hmm.

  Gas.

  I glance at the ceiling, reminding myself I’m underneath the helipad right now.

  Interesting.

  I move over and open the cupboards underneath the surface on the left of the oven.

  Shelving. Plates stacked and clipped in place. Paper towels. Cups, glasses… nothing exciting.

  I move to the one underneath the right surface and open it.

  Bingo!

  Three large compressed gas canisters, all fixed securely in place, with rubber piping feeding into the oven through a hole in the side. I reach in and loosen the clasp holding the piping in place on the middle of the three canisters, just enough to create a small pinprick of a gap, so the gas slowly escapes. I close the cupboards again.

  Let’s call that an insurance policy.

  I stand and make my way over to the door in the opposite corner, which I’m guessing leads back outside. This is going to be the tricky part. There’s a lot of wide-open real estate between here and the bow. Those two douche-monkeys are either underneath it somewhere in a cabin, or on the bridge. Whichever it is, that door’s my only option.

  I reach for the SMG, flick the safety off and get a comfortable grip on it. Adrenaline is keeping the host of aches and pains off my brain’s radar right now, which I’m thankful for. Even my hand is holding steady.

  I move to the side of the door and rest against the wall, gripping the handle. I close my eyes for a second. Preparing. Focusing.

  Come on, Adrian, you’ve got this. It’s time Kazawa and your crazy stalker realized exactly who they were fucking with.

  I twist the handle and slowly push the door open.

  Whoa!

  I wasn’t prepared for the elements outside. The storm is raging to full effect, and the crosswind tore the door from my grip, slamming it open against the side.

  I walk through and stop dead in my tracks.

  The speedboat is ahead of me, with the small crane off to the right. There’s a small stack of crates to my immediate right, just next to the slightly raised platform the door opens out onto.

  There are three guys by the speedboat. Another two by the crane. One by the port side barrier. Two more starboard side.

  They’re all holding weapons. They’re all staring at me.

  Well…

  Fuck.

  29

  22:56 JST

  Time doesn’t even have the decency to stand still. There are eight guys in a wide semicircle in front of me, and I have nowhere to go.

  Luckily, I’m holding my gun ready to shoot. These guys are holding theirs simply to keep them off the floor, which isn’t the same thing.

  Plus, I’m me, and they’re not.

  They’re dead men.

  I apply a simple formula in my head. A tried and tested calculation I worked out very early on in my life:

  Instinct plus adrenaline, multiplied by confidence, equals unparalleled violence.

  That basic equation has solved every problem I’ve ever had. And the good thing about math is that it’s universal. It works every time.

  I squeeze the trigger, firing a short burst to my left as I slam the door shut behind me. I dash right toward the crates—my only option for cover. I drop the first guy stood by the port side railing. I slide behind the boxes and lean out to the right. Another quick burst drops the nearest guy by the railings on this side. His friend seeks cover of his own by the crane.

  Two down. Six to go.

  I’m maybe down a third of the mag already. I can’t afford for this to turn into a long, drawn-out firefight—I don’t have the ammunition for it.

  I need to be economical.

  I move back to the left side of the crates, ducking momentarily as a short hail of bullets splinter the wood above my head.

  I poke my head out, not even for a second, to catch a glimpse of my next target. It’s small, but I have a clear shot. Three guys on the left have sought refuge behind the speedboat. Rookie mistake. The first rule of a gunfight: never take cover behind anything flammable.

  I switch my weapon to single-fire mode, pop out, and fire two rounds at the speedboat’s exposed fuel tank.

  The explosion is instantaneous and deafening. I turn away, screwing my eyes tightly shut so as not to ruin their adjustment to the dark. The brilliance of the blast is rivalled only by the scalding devastation it’s created. The ferocious roar even silenced the raging storm around me.

  I look over.

  Huh?

  Where is it?

  I look around and see nothing.

  That’s weird.

  Then I hear something that makes me look up, and—

  “Oh, shit!”

  I dive right, out from behind the crates. The blackened, burning remains of the boat lands on the deck, a little bit nearer to me than it originally was. The blast must have catapulted it skyward. The impact did what the weather and the turbulent tides have so far failed to—the yacht rocks and sways uneasily in the water, and for the first time since getting on this damn thing, I’m momentarily unsure of my footing.

  Jesus!

  Well, I think it’s safe to say the three guys who chose to hide behind it are regretting that decision now.

  The repeating stutter of automatic gunfire pings off the railings around me.

  Fuck! Forgot about them…

  I move left, back into cover. The heat from the flaming wreck nearby is overpowering, making it harder to breathe as it burns the oxygen from the air.

  Beats being shot, though.

  I chance a peek out of cover. I can only make out two guys by the crane now, ducking behind it at the far side, near the starboard rail. Can’t be a hundred percent, but it looks like I took out one of the three over there with the speedboat, which would be a nice bonus.

  I need to think about this for a moment. I can’t move left and go around to flank them because of the burning wreck. There isn’t anywhere to move to the right unless I want to get wet, so my only option is to move forward and engage. But they have a tactical advantage; in the far left and right corners from where I am are stairwells leading down to the lower deck
. There, they can potentially restock their ammunition and get help from their friends. Being lured down there would be suicide. Too much cover for the enemy. Too easy to get trapped.

  Unless Miley and Kazawa are down there, in which case, what choice do I have?

  One problem at a time.

  I fire a couple of blind rounds to force them behind cover, then move out. I quickly turn and raise the gun to check above me, making sure no one was hiding out by the chopper.

  Clear.

  I turn back and move toward the crane. Crouched, purposeful steps. The gun is trained dead ahead, always following my line of sight, as if linked by invisible string.

  Movement.

  One of the guys was ducked behind the railing that overlooked the stairwell. My gaze snaps to him. My arms and weapon follow.

  BANG-BANG!

  A double tap. Instinctive. Rapid, like snapping my fingers.

  I reach the crane and pause behind it for a moment. No sign of movement. Did the other guy make it down the stairs?

  I move around and continue, aiming for the stairs. As I draw level with the opposite side of the crane, I see a blur of movement, mostly concealed by the night.

  Shit!

  Uh!

  No… he didn’t go downstairs.

  Rookie error, Adrian.

  The guy was crouched behind the crane. He popped out and clocked me with the butt of his gun, right in the side of the head. I dropped and slid across the soaked deck, colliding with the railing that borders the stairs.

  That shook the cobwebs loose. Jesus…

  He races toward me, raising his gun, refining his aim with each step.

  Fuck this. I’m not getting taken out by some no-name, low-level Yakuza.

  I scurry to my knees and lunge forward, pushing both his thighs with my hands as he reaches me. His legs fly out from under him, and he falls forward, head-first and rigid. I allow my own momentum to carry me to the deck, so the guy falls on top of me.

  Except he doesn’t.

  His head catches the top bar of the railing on the way down. I heard the dull, hollow dink as it connected. Sounded painful.