by David Berens
“Hey, tall guy,” the girl said. “Little help over here.”
T.J. turned around, put his finger on his lips to shush her.
“Really?” she blurted.
“Quiet for a second,” he said. “I need to see if our kidnapper is out there.”
“You mean Country? I’m sure he is. He’s probably going to kill—”
“Hey, pipe down,” T.J. said. “Gimme one sec.”
He put his shoulder down and rammed it into the door. It popped open and he stuck his head through. The kitchen and dining table were a wreck. There was blood everywhere. Cabinets stood open, the fridge door was wide open, dishes and utensils were strewn about. T.J. wondered if they had been in a shipwreck while they were unconscious. There was no sign of anyone below, but a thumping sound in the ceiling told him they were not alone.
He walked over to the bed and unwrapped the girl. He noticed that she was cute. Auburn hair, green eyes, nice body.
“Um, excuse me,” she said. “If you’re done checking me out, let’s get the hell out of here.”
He felt his cheeks flush. “Nope. I’m goin’ up alone. Somebody—probably Country—is still on the boat. You stay down here with Nick and see if you can find a gun or a bat or a stick or somethin’.”
“Nick? You know this guy?”
“Yup. He brings toys to all the good little girls and boys every year.”
“Haha. I get it. Saint Nick. Very funny.”
“Seriously, though. You stay down here until I can find out what’s goin’ on up there. Don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you.”
Prosperity watched the guy climb up to the deck and disappear. She started poking around the junk piled all over the kitchen. There were a few knives, most smaller than a typical steak knife. She grabbed the biggest one she could find and moved on toward the cabin at the front of the boat. As it turned out, it wasn’t a bedroom, but a storage room. She found it stuffed full of mildewed life preservers and two lengths of nylon rope. She kicked at the might-have-once-been-orange floatation devices and nearly rotten emergency oars. Her kick caused an avalanche of them to spill down out of the room. She barely stepped back out of the way in time to avoid being buried by them. She peered into the room and realized there was something else under them.
She flung a couple out of her way and stepped into the room, holding her knife out in front of her. A big rusted red fuel can sat next to a wooden crate. It didn’t smell like gasoline. Maybe kerosene … or diesel. She reached down and pulled the lid of the box open. Inside, she found a dozen sticks of red dynamite. It startled her to see it and she stumbled backward. When she did, she knocked over the can of fuel and it started to pour out onto the floor.
“Oh, shit,” she murmured.
She ran out of the room and slammed the door behind her. We gotta get off this boat, she thought, running back toward the bedroom where Santa was napping. She knelt down and started shaking the man. He was fast asleep. She realized it wasn’t his snoring she heard. It was a boat. Somewhere in the distance, the familiar whine of a boat was getting closer.
38
The Great Escape
Country heard the boat roaring in the distance. He knew it wasn’t a fishing boat. It must’ve been one of those gall-dang jet boats the tourists raced around the sound. Abominable things only good for messing with the peace and quiet that most of the islanders wanted. The high-pitched whine was definitely getting closer. He dropped the girl’s body onto the deck and stumbled to the captain’s chair. He pulled out a small pair of binoculars and trained them on the horizon in the direction of the noise.
He didn’t recognize the boat, but he could tell it was definitely coming toward him—fast. He moved toward the bow and held Jed’s gun up in his best imitation of a shooter’s stance. He looked through the gun’s sights like he’d seen Jed do, but his eyes were still watery from the punch he took to the nose. He blinked a few times and cracked his neck. All the movie hero guys did that before they fired their guns, so he figured it must be worth doing.
He stared down the barrel of his gun at the approaching boat. As it got closer, he was able to make out two men. The guy driving the boat was a big man. He looked like he might be seven feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. The other dude was skinny and—
Country looked up from the gun sights. Sonofabitch. He put the binoculars back up to his eyes and the second man came into focus. Thin, tan, dark hair, dark beard, and still wearing that damn cowboy hat. That jackass. What the hell is he doin’ here now? If only he had come along the first time, none of this shit would’ve happened.
Country’s vision wavered and he suddenly felt cold. Drops of sweat popped up on his cheeks and forehead. He tried to shake off the sudden wave of nausea that swept up from his lower abdomen, but it was too late. He vomited all over his chin and down his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he must be going into shock.
“Gotta finish,” he mumbled, raising the gun.
He fired two quick shots toward Troy and his big friend racing toward him. Troy ducked, and the boat swerved suddenly, the driver dodging the shots. Country wiped his eyes and raised the gun again. He followed the boat as it made an arc around his boat. In a moment of brilliance that was normally completely foreign to him, he aimed out in front of the racing jet boat. He took a deep breath and squeezed his finger. The bang sounded really strange. It didn’t seem to come from the gun. It seemed like it had come from the back of his head. And then the pain exploded inside his brain. He hit the deck hard, unable to even raise his hands to catch himself. His head slammed into the floor and he felt his nose crunch and the blood gush down his face again. He knew his nose was a wreck without even seeing it. He sat up to see the girl dropping the anchor she must have hit him with. She jumped over the rail and onto her boat. In seconds, she had it untied and was revving her engine. Her boat and Country’s dreams of fixing this mess raced away at an unbelievable speed.
All my own fault, he thought. All my fault for trustin’ in too many untrustworthy people. Damn Jed, damn Banksy, and damn that bastard Troy. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up and saw Troy and his speed boat headed straight at him again and closer than ever. He raised his gun. No half-nekkid chick to stop him from blowin’ that cowboy hat right off Troy’s head now.
Troy watched the topless girl slam the anchor over Country’s head so hard he thought she might have killed him. He recognized her immediately. It was Clarice. He shook his head. She had lied to him all along. She wasn’t off on some save-the-whales expedition. She was running drugs for the Boonesborough and McCorker campaign. She jumped over to her boat and flung the rope off and shoved away from Country’s boat. Climbing into the cabin of her boat, she paused, looking across the bow toward Troy. His eyes met hers and he was sure, even at this distance, that there was some sadness in them. He didn’t know what the story was there, and he wondered if he’d ever get a chance to ask her about it as her boat pulled away. She was gone in a flash.
As she raced away toward the open ocean, he looked back toward Country’s boat. A shot from the man’s gun shattered the windshield on Ronnie’s brother-in-law’s boat. Ronnie ducked and Troy hit the deck.
“Flare gun,” Ronnie yelled over the wind.
He pointed to a red box strapped to the side rail behind him. Troy nodded. It wouldn’t be much against Country’s pistol, but it was all they had. He’d left his trusty M1911 somewhere and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where. Ronnie kept the throttle open wide and they were just a few hundred yards away from Country now. He clicked open the red box, removed the bright red flare gun, and shoved a cartridge into the barrel. He’d never fired one before, but it looked to be pretty simple. Point gun, pull the trigger, big bright fire flying through the air.
Troy steadied himself and raised the gun. He aimed it right at Country, as best he could. He pulled the trigger and an impossibly bright orange light shot from the gun and flew toward Country’s boat. How
ever, it did not fly straight. It spiraled around in a wild pattern and eventually plunged into the water short of his target. He was close enough to see Country laugh and aim his gun again, Troy ducked and heard the shot go off. It whizzed overhead and didn’t appear to hit anything.
He dug into the red box and found the only other flare. He shoved it into the gun and rose up for another shot. They were close enough now that it would be easier to hit the boat. He aimed at Country’s chest and froze. Not only was Country still aiming at them, but now there was another person on the deck of the boat. A jolt of recognition hit him as he watched the young man with dark hair and a stubble of beard appear behind Country. He was a good looking kid who reminded Troy of himself when he was younger. Standing behind Country, both hands raised high in a balled fist over the man’s head, was T.J. He lowered the flare gun knowing he couldn’t fire with the kid anywhere on the deck of Country’s boat. He could just as easily hit him as Country.
“Dangit.”
T.J. brought his fists down onto Country’s back, and the gun went off, splintering one of the crates and revealing several rifle barrels inside. Country grunted and rolled over, his entire front covered in blood and his eyes glowing white out of the dark, sticky mess. His arm came up, and T.J. saw the pistol. Some instinct made him kick, and he connected with Country’s hand, sending the gun skating across the deck until it came to rest next to the box of rifles. T.J. dove for the gun, but Country’s hand clamped down on his ankle and pulled him backward.
Country got to his feet, looking like the creature from the black lagoon. T.J. scrambled for the gun, but Country dove on top of him. The air went out of T.J.’s lungs, and stars flashed in his eyes as he saw Country reach out and grab the gun. Country grabbed T.J.’s throat and pointed the pistol at his nose. The rage in the man’s eyes was horrific. T.J. tensed for the shot. He heard a thud, and Country grunted.
He opened his eyes to see Prosperity hitting Country on the back with an oar. She wasn’t doing much damage, but it was enough to make him crawl off T.J. and lunge at her.
He heard some shouting and realized it was coming from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see a boat. It was closing fast, and he thought they might be planning to ram them. He recognized one of the men as Troy, the guy who had kept him company waiting for his mothers to get off work at the strip club. In a split-second decision, he shoved Country hard to the side, grabbed Prosperity by the shoulders and jumped overboard, heaving her as far as he could.
They splashed down and he pointed to the boat.
“Swim! As fast as you can.”
She nodded and started flapping her arms in the water. She wasn’t a great swimmer, and he worried they weren’t going to get far enough away from Country. On cue, he heard the man shouting from behind them. He looked back to see they were only twenty feet away and Country had his gun pointed right at Prosperity. With a maniacal laugh, Country pulled the trigger.
Troy watched helplessly as T.J. grabbed the girl and leapt overboard. He saw Country stand and aim his gun at them. He waited for the bang, but it never came. Country squeezed the trigger again and again, but nothing happened. Well, I’ll be dang, he’s out of bullets, Troy thought. He tapped Ronnie on the shoulder and pointed at the two people in the water.
“Get to them. Gotta get ’em out of there.”
Ronnie nodded and turned slightly in their direction. They were far enough from Country’s boat that Troy thought they might be able to slide between them and pick them up.
He watched Country go ballistic. He flung the pistol out into the water toward T.J. and Prosperity. It splashed short of them. Country started kicking things in the boat. Pieces of broken crate started flying. White powder billowed up all around him and caked into the blood on his body. He looked more like a ghost than a man. His screams were turning into mindless shrieks, and Troy urged Ronnie to go faster.
Country reached down in a fit of adrenalized strength and picked up one of the crates. He heaved it over the edge of the boat with a big splash. He reached down to grab another crate and Troy saw him come back up with one of the AK-47’s. He raised it skyward and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Troy wondered what the heck he was doing, until he picked up a second gun. He clicked something on the side and pointed it up. The familiar chug of automatic gunfire sent chills up Troy’s spine. It was a sound he knew too well from his tour in Afghanistan.
Country was jumping up and down in a joyous romp, firing bullets everywhere. And suddenly, he stopped. He ran to the bow of his boat and shook his fist at Troy. Time slowed down as Troy realized what was about to happen. Country’s rifle swung upward, making the slow arc to point at them. Without thinking, Troy raised his flare gun and fired. The bright orange light burned his eyes as the flare shot out. It whined and whistled and shockingly, flew true. The fireball slammed into Country’s crotch and he screamed, falling backward. The shots from his rifle flew harmlessly into the sky above them. Country tried to stand and get away from the flare, but it was somehow tangled in the man’s shorts. He dropped his rifle and began beating at the magnesium burning on his groin as he tried to run backward away from it.
And then he fell. In trying to escape, he had inadvertently backed into the stairway down into the boat. As the man disappeared down into the cabin, Ronnie slid their boat alongside his. Troy grabbed a rope and threw it down to T.J. He wrapped his arm around Prosperity, and Troy pulled them toward the back of the boat. T.J. climbed in first and then reached back to help the girl.
When they were all safely aboard, Troy heard Ronnie shout.
“He’s on fire.”
Troy turned to see a heavy smoke billowing out of the boat drifting inches away from them.
“Go, go, go!” Ronnie and Troy both turned to see Prosperity waving at them. “Dynamite. There’s dynamite in there.”
“Hang on,” Ronnie said.
“Wait!” T.J. yelled. “The old guy’s in there!”
But it was too late, Ronnie had hit the throttle. Troy fell back and grabbed hold of the chair. The sudden rush of speed was shocking and they were a hundred feet away from the burning boat in seconds.
“Gotta go back,” Troy yelled to Ronnie. “It’s Michael.”
The big man started a wide turn to take them back, but before they could get around, the other boat exploded. A massive fireball shot up from Country’s boat. The shock wave from the explosion buffeted them with waves and threatened to capsize their own boat as well. Debris rained down, and a huge cloud of smoke billowed up from the empty spot where Country’s boat had been just seconds ago.
“Oh, damn,” said Ronnie. “I’m sorry, Troy. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. If we had gone back to get him, it would’ve killed us all.”
Ronnie slowed the boat and cruised toward the floating, smoldering mess.
39
Campaign Stop
Troy was shocked at how much damage the dynamite had done. The boat was not only blown up, it had disintegrated. The biggest pieces of the hull that survived were only a few feet long. There was no sign of Country’s body or Michael’s either. Troy was sure they were blown to bits. He felt a pang of regret for the old man. He had liked him a lot and was sure they would have become lifelong friends.
Likewise, there was no sign of the guns or of the drugs. Obviously, they were sitting at the bottom of Nantucket Sound. Troy made a note of their coordinates for the dive team that the authorities would surely send out.
“Hey,” Ronnie said. He pointed his finger out in the distance. “Who’s that?”
A boat idled out on the horizon. Troy thought he recognized it as Clarice’s boat. He reached down and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Looking through them, he could see someone standing on the deck, looking through a pair of binoculars back at him. It’s her. She lowered her binoculars and blew him a kiss. He watched as she disappeared into the cabin. Her boat swung around and sped away.
Troy wasn’t sure if he felt be
trayed, surprised, sad, or happy as he watched her go. He opened his mouth to say maybe they should follow her, but before he could say anything, he heard a groan.
He looked around to see who was in pain, but it wasn’t coming from anyone on the boat.
“There,” T.J. said, his arm extended.
Troy ran to the side of the boat. An intact wooden crate bobbed up and down in the gentle, rolling waves of the ocean. A man with a white beard covered in soot had two arms stretched over the crate.
“You guys just gonna stand there watching me drown, or can I get a little help here?”
Troy and T.J. hit the water at the same time. When they reached Michael, Troy hooked his hands under the older man’s arms. As he tugged him away from the crate, Michael pointed at the box.
“Bring that, too.”
T.J. pushed it along, and after Troy helped Michael onto the boat, he and Ronnie pulled the crate aboard. Michael was just as shocked as they were that he had survived. He had woken to hear the gunfight and then saw Country come flying down the stairs on fire. He rushed past him, climbed the stairs, and dove into the water just as the boat exploded. The shock wave from it shoved him down under the water, and for a few seconds he was disoriented and thought he might drown. But after it was over, he found himself floating toward the surface, and luckily found the crate to latch onto.
“What’s in there?” asked Prosperity.
“The woman who’s going to take down Frank McCorker,” Michael said, tapping the top of the crate.
The McCorker campaign headquarters was a flurry of activity that Troy hadn’t seen there before. It made sense, though. The election was tonight. The interns were all frantically dialing numbers reminding people to get to the polls and cast their votes. Frank was counting on them. Troy pushed open the door and strolled in with Michael right behind him.