by Dick Wybrow
Doing so now, stealing a boat, he knew he had the stuff. And strangely, it was a skill he never knew he had. Covert. Sly. Cunning. I could be an action hero.
* * *
The taller man looked back at the large beach house. The lights were out, and the Widow wouldn’t be happy with them if they came in and woke her with little reason. Still, letting some kid run around on the boat was out of the question.
“Okay,” he said to the man digging around in the sand for his cigarette. “We better shoot him.”
* * *
He lay flat on the dock, creeping toward the other coil of rope.
Then he suddenly lost a measure of confidence. The second one would be far harder to unwrap without being seen. Maybe he should wait until the guys way over on the beach went for dinner or a bathroom break.
That's not what an Action Hero does! Fuck it!
He would take the risk. Then he would tell his agent about it, proof of his mettle, his strength, his untapped talent, and who knew? It could be a whole new career path.
But he would want to be one of those smart action heroes, not just firing guns, but clever, like Indy.
He reached for the rope, but it spit at him, which was weird. The Actor realized someone had just shot the rope.
* * *
"That ain't a kid, man!"
"What?"
"Not a kid." The tall man sprinted for the dock. "Look!"
They both ran toward the boat.
"Definitely not a kid," the other man said. "That's the hairiest ass I've ever seen!"
* * *
Shit, shit, shit, shit!
The guys on the beach, of course, hadn't shot at the rope. They were shooting at him.
He was busted, so he switched modes from action hero to terrified fleeing disposable extra.
No, no. Not an extra! I don't want to die.
He hopped over the side of the boat and landed hard but was quick to his feet, powered by pure white-hot fear. Running along the deck, his own footfalls merely amped up his terror. Thwak, thwak, thwak, thwak, thwak!
"Hey, hey!"
Another shot rang out.
He could hear them on the dock, running fast, as his heart rabbited, and all he wanted to do was breathe, but his lips had locked in place, refusing to cooperate.
In the cabin was the wheel. He just had to fire it up and throw the accelerator, and he would be off. He could still make it.
There was no key.
* * *
The first gunman stopped running and put a hand on the other's chest. "No, no," he said. "Go to the shed and get one of those big lawn bags. The black ones. And chains."
"What for?"
"Because someone might have heard the shot, dumbass!" he said. "He might work for another outfit. Once we kill that man-kid, we gotta sink him in the ocean so no one will find him."
* * *
The Actor panicked, looking for any place that might have the key. Cupholders, the two sideboards, the shelf.
Nothing.
He stole a look outside. The two men on the dock had stopped and were standing just a few feet from the beach. They would be there in seconds.
He spun back to the cabin then looked at the rail. He could go over the boat, swim away, except he couldn't really swim.
"Fuck!" he shouted and spun in a circle. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Then something banged against his leg. It was his robe, something in his pocket.
He pulled out a long, shapeless key strapped to a small black metal skull. When he'd pulled it out of the motorcycle, it had looked all wrong. No ridges, no grooves. It was like a tiny metal sword.
Maybe… maybe he could use it to pick the lock.
Again, outside, he heard the footfalls coming closer. One of the gunmen was heading his way. Just the one, sure, but he had a rifle. It didn't matter if it was one guy or an advancing horde of them. All it would take was one bullet.
The Actor dropped to one knee and jammed the spike-like key into the ignition. He thought if he maybe twisted it around, forced the lock, he might might have a shot. Not likely, but—
Then the key did something he didn't expect. It made a strange, slinking sound then a clunk.
The Actor swallowed and turned it. The boat roared to life.
Chapter Twenty-One
Without the Actor or Anza on the back of the bike, I threw caution to the wind. When I got back on the highway, I only had to say one word to the bike. "Giddyap."
The motorcycle got me back to the ferry for Cozumel in about twenty minutes.
My arms were aching and my legs stiff. I'd simply held on the entire time, trying desperately to anticipate the turns, banks, and straightaways, but mainly, I was holding on for dear life.
When I finally arrived at Anza's place, the sun was peeking up over the horizon.
I quietly slipped Anza's key into the lock. The brass letter A on the key chain ticked against the door a few times. I cracked open the door and crept inside.
The map was still on the table, and clicking on a lamp by the window, I studied it.
An access road ran down the beach, and it looked like that would be my best chance at getting into the compound. There was little use in checking the tiny homes for Uncle Jerry. In at least a half dozen of them, I would be at risk of being seen.
My plan—well, Anza's plan—had been to head to the hangar and look for an opportunity. Somehow, I would have to get on the plane and hide. Once Uncle Jerry was in the air, I could pop out and tell him the plan. Simple.
"It won't work."
I spun around and said, "What?" in a voice I didn't recognize. I knew her roommate was inside. I was being quiet, trying not to wake him, but my nerves had been doing that crackly arc light thing all the way back. On edge.
Angel was standing in his doorway in full-on drag mode with a big head of black hair, silver sequined dress, long fake nails, and a pair of purple boas around his neck.
"You sleep in all that?"
"No," he said and came around to sit on the couch next to me. "I just got home. The club closes at four. We had a few drinks afterward. I just got in and was getting ready for bed."
"Sorry, Angel. I was trying to be quiet."
"That's what I mean. Anza's hide-in-the-plane scenario? You stomp around like an elephant, and they'll hear you," he said. "Or see you."
I went back to the map. "I'll be fine." He watched me trace my finger down the road. I found a spot that would take me within a hundred yards of the hangar.
"So you're going to ride up on that roaring motorcycle and just park it? They'll hear that, too, dumbo!"
I'd thought of that. "I'll just… ask it to be quieter."
"Ask it? It's a motorcycle. It's loud!"
"You have a better idea?"
That drew a big smile from Angel. He said, "I'm good at maps, and I've looked at this more times than I can count." He tapped a blue line with a purple fingernail.
"That's a river."
"Bonehead," he said. "This is a tiny island. There are no rivers. It's a creek."
"Okay."
"We take the bike up here, and you get in and swim…" He paused and looked me up and down. "Or float down to the edge here," he said, tracing his nail down the blue line. "It goes right behind the hangar. You'll be soggy, but you won't be dead."
Not bad, actually, I thought, but I had noticed his use of the collective pronoun.
"Um, 'we'?"
"Of course," he said and stood up. "Like I said, that thing is a roaring beasty machine. You park it anywhere along that access road, and they'll hear it shut down. I can drop you off and keep going, bring it back here." Angel glided to his bedroom door.
I said, "You would do that?"
"Sure," he said. "I'm a little drunk, but I prefer to ride that way. It heightens the buzz." He slipped back into his bedroom and closed the door.
I pulled out the Actor's phone and used it to take a picture of the map. I had tried to memorize the important bi
ts, but I could sometimes get lost coming back from the bathroom at a restaurant. And I certainly didn't want to get lost on a Mexican drug cartel's private estate and have to ask some mean-looking dude with a pointy bang-bang stick for directions.
This is really stupid, isn't it?
Helping your friends is never stupid. But it's not safe, no.
I thought about that for a moment.
He risked everything for me last time. I owe him.
But it's more than that.
Well, you said I gotta be good. Do good things. Then I can be with you again.
No, silly. I mean you're not doing this as payback, and you're not doing it because I told you to. Admit it. There's nothing wrong with loving your friends.
I save that word for you, Cassie. Just thinking her name started my eyes watering.
I miss you, sweetheart.
I miss you, too, but you need to focus so you don't get shot or caught. You don't know how to fly planes, so I can only imagine what sort of services you might provide them.
Is that supposed to make me feel brave? I don't feel very brave.
You don't have to be very brave, Razzie. You just need to be brave enough.
A moment later, Angel burst into the room. He was wearing a leather catsuit with shiny studs with spikes up and down both arms and down the legs and at the wrist wraps. His black gloves were fingerless. On his head was the teal bicycle helmet, which I felt clashed with the intertwining purple boas. However, I kept that wee assessment to myself.
"I'm ready."
"That's your riding outfit?"
"Sure," he said, grinning madly. "But not necessarily motorcycle riding." He did a spin. The gloves weren't the only thing "-less."
"Jesus, do you have any, you know, pants that are more, uh, pant-like?"
"These aren't pants. They're chaps," he said and tightened one of the buckles across his thighs. "They'll do in a pinch."
"That black seat really picks up the sun. It might still be a bit, you know, hot."
"Oh, Raz," he said and strode past me, his chaps over fishnet stockings showing off a well-toned ass that could crack a diamond if one were jammed between its cheeks. He grabbed the handle of the front door. "Promises, promises."
* * *
Anza heard the shots and was fighting back tears when she finally saw the boat rocketing toward her. In truth, she had no idea if the Actor was on the boat or whoever had fired the shots was instead.
There wasn't time. She ran into the water and began swimming out. A massive wave slapped against her as the wake of the boat caught up. Whoever was driving dropped the throttle. Ten seconds later, she was at the back of it, eyeballing the small ladder. She looked up to the cabin.
Dark. Then, in a flurry of fraying yellow material and panic, the Actor ran out, and her heart sang. Extending a hand, he helped her aboard then ran back to the cabin.
She noticed a thick rope trailing from the back of the boat out into the deep darkness beyond. She called out, "Why are there ropes here? What is this?"
Once again, the Actor hit the throttle to get the boat going forward, as far away from the beach house as he could get. Over his shoulder, he shouted, "It's part of a dock! Get rid of it, 'kay?"
* * *
It was the first time I could remember riding bitch.
It had taken more than a minute to get the bike to start up. I didn't think Bucephalus necessarily had anything against drag queens—more like it was exceptionally choosy about who took the reins.
It had chosen me, I suppose, because I'd been kind to it. Strangely, then, it felt like a bit of a betrayal, but with a soft cooing voice, I'd convinced it to fire up and let Angel take control.
Thankfully, the island wasn't terribly large, so my driver knew just about every road by name, even the ones that didn't have names.
"This used to be called Chill Road!" Angel shouted back over the din of the motorcycle. "A stupid name, but sometime last year, some Texas college kids ripped it down to put the sign in their dorm."
As we rode, Angel explained his idea again. His job would be to ride down the road running alongside the compound. The Mexican drag queen dressed in leather and buttless chaps had suggested I roll off the bike when he slowed down near the drop-off spot.
"I ain't rolling off a moving vehicle!"
"Don't be such a pussy," he called back, purple boa flapping in the wind, slapping at my face like it was making fun of me. "I'll slow down."
"No rolling off!"
As we banked, finally taking the road where I was going to sneak over and find the creek, Angel struggled with the bike, which still seemed none too happy another stranger was in control.
In truth, I wasn't really "riding bitch." I'd instead taken the seat where the Actor had ridden when we'd gone to meet up with the twins, meaning it wasn't a seat so much as the small luggage rack on the back of the bike.
I shifted uncomfortably on the metal grating as the bike shimmied, trilled, and wobbled. I reached out and placed a hand on the back of the seat, petting it slightly. I whispered, "It's okay. We're just going to help out a friend. You're doing great."
Strangely, the motorcycle settled down a bit and rode more smoothly. My initial assertion that it was more than just a bike felt right. And with that, I did feel an obligation to treat the creature properly. I patted it again and offered a thank you.
"We're nearly there!" Angel shouted over the wind and sped up.
Instead of answering, I squinted through the dust we'd kicked up. Behind us, I saw a small blue car. Old, beat-up, it looked like its driver was pushing the car to its limits to make it down the road.
I hadn't seen it earlier, but as I'd been focusing on not falling off and dying, I hadn't really been looking.
The roads had been packed with tourists—pedestrians, bicycles, and cars—deeper in town, but outside the town, we'd been on our own for the past ten minutes. Until then.
Angel called back again, "Just beyond that crumbling shed, about a hundred meters, you'll see the creek. Goes right under the fence. That'll take you outside the hangar and…"
But I wasn't listening. The car behind us was speeding up.
* * *
Uncle Jerry was happy to be outside in the morning sun again.
The dirty white van with its thick plastic seat covering rolled and bounced across the dirt road toward the hangar, tossing the aging pilot around like an old shoe in a tumble dryer. Twice, the driver had warned him to sit still.
"If your head breaks that window, Silvio will take it out of your ass!"
Jerry was sure he'd grown at least two lumps on the left side of his head from smacking the glass, but even that hadn't bothered him. Right then, he wasn't locked in a room, chained to an old bed.
Soon, he would be in the sky again—under a watchful eye, sure, but no chains, no one yelling, no derisive scowls, no threats. Just a boy and his plane in the deep blue sky. Maybe one day, he would just keep flying, over the ocean somewhere and do an Amelia Earhart. He could land on a deserted island and drink out of coconuts, make friends with washed-up sporting equipment.
Of course, even that bleak life was not an option. The plane had trackers all over it, and they would eventually find him. No, he had to take the only joy left to him, flying.
As the hangar grew larger, bobbing and swaying in the front window, he heard a low rumble and turned his head. Off in the distance, on the frontage road, he could see two people on a motorcycle just enjoying the day. He sighed.
Something purple flitted in the sun. The rider on the back sat strangely, the wrong direction.
Jerry almost laughed. "That doesn't look comfortable."
Then, about a half mile behind the bike, he saw a small blue car going faster than the old machine should, clawing through the dust.
Those people out there, free, driving and enjoying their day.
That guy on the back won't enjoy it much if he tumbles off and that little blue car uses him like a speed bump
.
Then he got the strangest feeling. Something familiar. Before he could identify it, the driver took a sharp turn on the hangar's access road, and his view of the road disappeared.
* * *
Anza felt she was getting the hang of the go-fast boat, especially with the sun now showing her the way. They traced the shoreline, and every other minute, she looked down at the navigation software. The trip all the way around the coastline would take somewhere around seven hours, a long time to go without being seen.
"Maybe we should move away from the shore a little," she said to her friend. "People, they can see us from there."
In the dim early sun, a woman hanging out her wash gave Anza a furtive wave. Anza couldn't help but wave back, trying to smile and look causal.
"I think—" Anza said then stopped. She turned back to see the Actor hunched over a seat, staring out the back. "What are you doing?"
The Actor turned toward her, and his eyes went wide. "Keep an eye on where you're going!"
"I am," she said and spun back.
A large buoy surrounded by an old wooden dock floated just off their bow. She flicked the wheel away from the shore, giving it a wide berth.
They had only been on the water about an hour, but already she was growing tired, anxiety draining her strength. Their plan depended on getting to the drop point out in the middle of the ocean. She was terrified they wouldn't make it in time or that they would be caught by the US authorities or Mexican authorities. Or worse.
She lifted the lever beside the wheel and pushed the boat faster. Watching the Actor in the wraparound mirror, she saw, again, he was facing the back… staring at nothing but blue water, blue sky.
They had decided that if they did get stopped for any reason, they would play off that he was some wealthy Hollywood actor out for a jaunt on his new boat. He did have some low-level notoriety. If nothing else, they could play dumb and turn back before finding a way to reestablish their course to get to Jerry's ditching spot.