“Don’t worry, I have a boat,” he said.
“A real boat? Or a fucking little blue and white French row boat that you take out on the lake for quaint little picnics where you and your female companion dress in matching seersucker outfits.”
“Oh, we definitely take it out for picnics, but we don’t row it, and we don’t wear fucking seersucker. We do, however, need to lower it into the water, as it’s up on the lift in the boathouse for winter.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few minutes at the most.”
“Well, then we better get our asses out there, Babs. There’s no telling how long we have before they storm the house. What’s the fastest route?”
“There are several doors on this level that access the grounds, though the ones on the north and south sides are the most discreet.”
“We have camo creeps to the north, so we better go with south,” I said.
Before we could move out, however, we needed to get armed and ready for action, so I decided to slip my pistol into my shoulder holster, and pull out my HK 94 submachine gun, as it had a little better range. Lux had her service pistol, which was a Glock 17, while Babs, being an arms dealer, of course, had some fancy-ass modified Beretta 92 pistol with an extra large capacity magazine. Bridgette, being Babs’s main squeeze, also had one of his modified Berettas, and that meant we were one big, well-armed, happy family. Well, perhaps not quite happy—but dysfunctional, which made us more like a real family.
“Alrighty then. Let’s do this,” I said.
“After you, Asshole.”
We moved down the hallway and formed up at the door, where the lack of any window meant we had no way to see if our escape route was clear. We were, therefore, going out blind, and, as I reached for the latch, was surprised when Lux suddenly placed her hand on my shoulder.
“Wait, Tag. Don’t open it yet,” she said, nervously.
She abruptly kissed me, her lips warm, soft, and inviting, and it was hard to believe that we’d been arguing only a moment ago. I would have expected a slap or perhaps a gut punch but never a kiss. Women were truly insane, and understanding the complexity of their emotions and behavior would be nothing less than a lifelong endeavor. She pulled away and readied herself, throwing back the slide on her gun and chambering a round.
“So, what was that all about?” I asked.
“In case something happened, I didn’t want our last moments together to be an argument,” she said.
“Anyone else feel the need to kiss me?”
“Definitely not,” Babs said.
Bridgette just smiled uncomfortably.
“OK, everyone, weapons at the ready.”
“Wait—are we sure that there’s not another way?” Lux asked.
“This is our best option, Lux. What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked, as I unlocked the bolt and slowly turned the doorknob.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Not So Great Escape
IRONY WAS A cruel mistress, which I realized the moment I opened the door and stepped outside and saw, to my horror, one of our bearded menaces lying in wait only a short distance away. The unusual, though fortunate, thing was that he wasn’t facing the house at the moment but was, in fact, facing a tall hedge. His hands were out of view holding what I suspected was a far less effective weapon than the silenced Steyr AUG A3 submachine gun that was slung over his shoulder, and his range was no more than a couple feet at best depending on the state of his prostate. Our terrorist, by divine luck, was busy taking a piss and, obviously, hadn’t expected the people he came to kill to come walking out of the door directly behind him. Unfortunately, for our urinating terrorist, the human body often had uncontrollable responses to chaotic situations. During moments of stress, the urge to urinate was very common, so common, in fact, that police routinely checked bathrooms at a crime scene because the perpetrators, more often than not, peed during the course of their illegal activities and unwittingly left either prints or DNA evidence behind in the least likely of places. So, here we were—stuck watching a trained jihadist desecrate Babs’s fine hedge, while I tried to figure out the best way to deal with the bearded intruder.
Noise was a key issue as well as letting him finish before I acted. If I got close and spooked him, he might turn around and pee on me. The only thing worse than being pissed off was being pissed on, and I’d already taken my shower today and certainly wasn’t going to follow it up with anything golden. It also seemed like dirty pool to hit a man at a moment like this, and I’d rather take him down man-to-man, not man-to-man with his penis in his hands. Sadly, I had an experience very similar to this in Afghanistan ten years ago, and it hadn’t ended very well for the other guy and still haunted me to this day. The night I had rescued my esteemed friend John from his downed helicopter, we had stumbled upon a Taliban fighter taking a number two, and I was forced to rudely interrupt his dump and knock him the fuck out in order to keep him from alerting his friends. It went against everything I had ever held sacred about taking a shit and, worst of all, violated the International Accord on Bathroom Etiquette that was ratified in 1902 in Geneva Switzerland. Even the Nazis, the ultimate perpetrators of evil, had a strict code when it came to invading certain matters of personal privacy, although their particular eccentricity didn’t concern bathroom etiquette. Their issue was sex—so much so, in fact, that they would never barge in on a suspected spy if they thought he or she was in the process of getting busy and would instead wait patiently until their target finished his or her business. The American and British spies would go on to use this knowledge to their advantage by doing all their spy work under the guise of romantic trysts performed behind the closed doors of brothels and sleazy hotel rooms. That’s how you won a war in the good old days.
The tango was now giving his member the obligatory final shakes that would keep the last drip out of his pants, which meant that he was pretty much done urinating. It was therefore time to act, so I silently slipped closer until I was only a few feet from the man.
“You shake it more than twice, and technically you’re playing with it,” I said.
The guy turned around, obviously shocked and probably a little embarrassed until recognition crossed his face—at which point, his expression transformed into full on hatred. Now, it was time for me to be surprised, for my urinating nemesis was none other than Stinky! His right forearm, which I had shot on the slopes of Davos, was bandaged, and, seeing his sorry state, I could kind of understand why he might still be holding a grudge.
“You! You fucking pig! I’ll kill you this time!”
He was so enraged that his mind went into full attack mode, and he came at me like a great bearded freight train—not even bothering to make use of his Steyr AUG A3 submachine gun which was still slung over his shoulder. I waited until he was only a step away then twisted my HK around and struck him hard in the face with the butt stock, the impact knocking him immediately unconscious. Somehow, at that moment, I was reminded of that old adage that said if you go out seeking revenge, dig two graves—one for your enemy and one for yourself. In this case, it would have been wiser for Stinky to skip the whole grave digging part and, instead, have an icepack and some ibuprofen waiting at home.
“You’ve got a real way with people,” Babs said, from behind me.
I turned back and shrugged.
“What can I say? I’m a people person.”
I dragged an unconscious Stinky into the bushes then scanned my surroundings, relieved that I didn’t have to fire my weapon. It was silenced, but it still made noise, and the term silencer was an overly optimistic description of the device, and it should have, instead, been called a diminisher because it only diminished the gun’s loud report, and anyone in the immediate area would have likely heard its muted cough. Fortunately for us, all appeared to be quiet on the lake side of the house, though the same couldn’t be said for the front, as somewhere nearby we could hear harried Arabic, and the people speaking i
t didn’t sound very friendly. The natives were getting restless, and that meant we needed to get our asses down to the dock.
We followed the quaint stone pathway as it wound through the garden towards the lake and had almost made it to the shoreline when automatic weapons fire started raining down on us from the house. We ducked down behind a low stone wall, only to have additional shots start ringing out from our camo creeps in the pine grove to the north. We were now officially more fucked than a fucked woodchuck, if a fucked woodchuck could get more fucked. The shooters had us flanked, and, while we might make it to the beginning of the pier, we’d be mowed down long before we got to the boathouse. Either we needed Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility or some poor soul had to go get the boat and bring it closer. As luck would have it, I was that poor soul, and I needed to get it done sooner than later, because the longer we fiddly fucked around in this spot, the more likely the tangos and the fucking Fuchs would close in and kill us all.
“When I yell Allahu Akbar, I need everyone to give me cover fire while I run for the boat.”
“You’ll be gunned down before you get anywhere near it, you idiot!” Lux yelled, angrily.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to run the entire way.”
Before she could utter another word of protest, I yelled Allahu Akbar and ran like hell for the dock. Shots rang out and thudded into the ground around me, but the return fire sent the bad guys ducking for cover. I reached the beginning of the dock, and, as I ran with all my might, I heard a fresh round of gunfire come from the house. Shit. That was the signal that my window of opportunity was rapidly closing. I took four more steps and dove off the pier, praying I was far enough out that the lake would be deep enough that I didn’t hit bottom and break my neck. To my relief, there was plenty of water—plenty of ice cold, freezing fucking mountain water—the experience akin to lying in a bed of needles, where the pain and shock was so hellish that it enveloped your entire body in one quick mind numbing blast. The only thing that kept me going was the simple fact that I’d had assloads of cold water combat training as a PJ, which now helped me buckle down and swim hard in spite of all the things my body was screaming at me. Progress was slow because of the drag of my clothing, but it was also insulation, and I would gladly trade warmth for speed at this moment.
I was almost to the boathouse when more shots started landing in the water around me, and I was forced to take cover by swimming behind one of the pilings of the pier. Bullets were raining down on me, thudding into the wood and churning up the water, which meant I was going to have to dive down deep and swim the last twenty feet underwater if I hoped to have any chance of making it to the safety of the boathouse. Unfortunately, immersing my head under the cold water for that long wouldn’t be very pleasant, but I hoped my friends back on shore would appreciate my sacrifice if we managed to survive this encounter.
I took a deep breath and went down, clearing my ears against the pressure—the dull thud of bullets ripping into the lake’s surface giving me a constant reminder of the danger that lay above. At last, I saw the shadow of the boathouse just ahead and angled up and surfaced in front of the ladder, praying my penis hadn’t suffered any long-term neurological damage from the cold. I climbed out, and my teeth began to chatter, but I was happy to be out of the water—the cold mountain air now feeling warm compared to the ice-cold lake. I found the lift controls and hit the button to lower the boat, but, to my astonishment, nothing happened. Fucking fuck.
I wondered if the tangos had been smart enough to cut the power, and so I decided to visually trace the electrical line from the lift to the far wall, and there I saw saw that it lead to a breaker switch beside the door. Duh! I probably just needed to turn on the power—something I would have already done had I come in through the door like a normal person. I raced across the room, my wet shoes squeaking and leaving a trail of watery footprints, then clicked the breaker switch to the on position and returned to the lift controls to try the same button. This time the boat started lowering into the water, and, as its deck dropped into view, I got a good look at Babs’s little runabout, and realized it was a classic 1960’s era Riva. I had spent many summers on Lake Tahoe, which was famous for its vintage motorboats, so I instantly recognized such a beautiful piece of nautical history. The Riva represented Italian styling at its best with its sleek polished wood sides and a deck that curved down until it reached the waterline at the stern. It was, in my opinion, one of the world’s sexiest boats, and it would be a crime if it were to be damaged in our little escape attempt.
It was now floating free as I unhooked the lifting harness and jumped into the cockpit. The key was in the ignition, and I prayed the batteries were still good as I hit the start buttons. The throaty V8 engines made several turns before thankfully roaring to life with a couple of thick puffs of smoke that rose from the stern amidst the deep rumble that played like sweet music to my ears. In a perfect world, I would have liked to have let the engines warm up properly, but, in our imperfect world, I had people to rescue from a deadly menagerie of hostile terrorists and mysterious assassins.
I checked my HK and hoped the immersion in the water hadn’t fouled the action. Satisfied that it appeared to be in working order, I put the Riva in gear and backed out of the boathouse. Once I was clear, I put the throttle into neutral and stayed low in my seat as I tried to get a bead on where the tangos were hiding. I heard shots and looked up to see two figures on the main deck, so I took careful aim and fired a three round burst at each of them. My shots sent them scampering for cover, and, with a brief reprieve, I put the boat in forward and raced the short stretch to the beach, throttling back at the last minute in order to let the bottom gradually dig in and stop in the soft sand. I took aim and fired another burst at the house, and it allowed Lux, Babs, and Bridgette to grab the gear and hurry down to the beach and climb into the boat. With everyone aboard, I threw it in reverse and gunned the throttles, the powerful engines easily pulling us back off the sand. The shore slipped away into the distance, and our escape was looking to be a success until the terrorists started firing again—sending a cacophony of bullets tearing up the water all around us. I performed the boat equivalent of a bootlegger by turning the wheel hard to the right, and it brought the bow around a hundred and eighty degrees. At that point, I slammed the throttles all the way forward, and the Riva rose up out of the water and onto a plane, each second gaining more speed and, in turn, distance. As we reached a blazing forty-eight knots, we were soon out of their range and the shooting came to a end.
“Where to, Babs?”
“Head southwest, and don’t worry, we’re in the clear. This is the fastest boat on the lake, so nothing can catch us now.”
Just as I was about to turn back around towards the front of the boat, I saw another vessel coming up quickly from behind.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course.”
“Any idea who that might be?” I asked, pointing at the boat behind us.
“Merde.”
“Sorry, Babs. It appears that this is the second fastest boat on the lake.”
Our pursuers were driving a more contemporary vessel, and, judging by it’s sleek low profile and long sloping bow, I was guessing it was likely a Donzi—a brand that built some of the best powerboats in the world. That meant they would have us outmatched in top speed, and, as I feared, they were slowly gaining on us. Soon, rifle fire erupted from the chase boat, and we all ducked for cover just as several bullets thudded into the hull of the Riva. Babs didn’t look too happy, and I couldn’t blame him, as it was a crime to shoot a boat this beautiful. I, therefore, turned the wheel left and right, driving in an erratic serpentine pattern in the hopes that it would make us less of an easy target. It seemed to work, as the next round of shots missed, but every inch they drew closer improved their odds of scoring a direct hit on one of us.
“Babs, can you grab my assault rifle out of my bag and switch places with me?”
&n
bsp; He pulled my rifle out of my bag then crawled into the front section of the boat, and we switched places, allowing me to take hold of my beloved M4. I chambered a round and put the selective fire on single, but, just as I took careful aim through the Trijicon ACOG scope, another burst of shots came from the other boat, imbedding into the decking right next to me and sending up a spray of splinters into my face. I’d had more than my fill of these fuckers, and having a long-range weapon in my hands, meant it was time for some payback. I got a feel for the up and down movements of the boat then took aim and fired at the driver. It went slightly right and penetrated the center of their windshield, and, now that they knew we could shoot back, the man at the wheel started erratically changing course.
I once again tried to sight in on the boat, but it was a lot harder to hit a moving target, so I, instead, decided to choose a proper height point then patiently wait for them to cross horizontally into my field of fire. They slipped into my crosshairs, and I squeezed off two more shots, the first missing but the second hitting the shooter in the passenger seat. Perfetto! Another guy pulled him into the back of the boat, and a new person grabbed the rifle and took his place. To my surprise, it was Stinky, and I had to wonder how in the hell that fucker ended up in the boat. He was looking like hell with a big bruise visible on his forehead, and I had to admire his persistence, though he was probably being spurned on by adrenaline and the vast amount of burning rage swirling around his tortured mind. He started firing on full auto, but the bullets found no target and instead flew well above our heads. Driving and shooting were two things you should never do angry, and, now, these jackasses were doing both.
I waited until they crossed my line of sight again then fired, scoring another hit—only this time it was the driver. His head jerked back then bounced forward, leaving his body slumped over the wheel as the boat veered dramatically left and headed straight for the shoreline. Stinky stopped firing and desperately tried to pull his wounded friend off the wheel, but, by the time he looked up, they were only a hundred yards away from crashing onto the beach. He grabbed his weapon and jumped over the side and hit the water so hard that his body bounced and cartwheeled like a rag doll over the surface. Water wasn’t all that soft when you were traveling at fifty miles per hour, and he learned that lesson the hard way. It would truly be a miracle if he survived, but, as horrible as his exit from the boat had been, I had a funny feeling that I’d be seeing him again. His boat, meanwhile, continued on without him, careening up onto the shore and flying over an embankment where it disappeared into a dense thicket of shrubbery.
Topless Agenda Page 21