by David DeLee
“Uh, uh, big boy,” Tara said, panting and sweaty.
She stepped on his back with both feet and pulled. The chain wound tightly around his neck again. He sputtered in surprise and frustration, but her hold was solid. She pulled. And pulled.
They splashed around in the raw sewage that soaked the ugly green carpet. Tara’s wet sandals slipped, but she held on and pulled until Reza’s death throes became weaker. Until, finally, they stopped altogether. Even after they did, Tara pulled, yanking hard one last time to make sure the deed was done. With grim satisfaction she said, “One down.”
With no remorse for the dead, she unwound the chain from his neck. Him or me, she told herself, simple as that.
She patted the dead man down and found the keys to the door, which hung open, but no key for the padlock securing the length of chain to her wrist.
“Fine. I’ll deal with that later.” She pushed him away and stood up. With her breathing labored and her face a smeary, sweaty mess she smelled her wet coverall sleeves, sopping from the spilled waste. She frowned. “Oh, that’s just gross.”
She coiled the length of chain up. She’d find a way to pick the lock or cut it off later. For now she had to get out of this room and get as far away from Bridget Barnes and Aziza Faaid as was possible.
Her prison room opened onto a great open space. Reza had left no weapon out there for her to claim, only his folding metal chair. What was this place? The walls were the same fake wood veneer that had been in her room. The floors were covered in blue indoor-outdoor carpeting but with two tiled aisles. She dropped down to one knee. There were metal slots in the carpeted sections of the floor. A regular pattern, as if at one time there’d been rows of seats secured to the floor, like in a movie theater or an airplane.
The seats now gone.
In the front section of the room was a U-shaped counter. Tara had worked at the Keel Haul long enough to recognize a bar when she saw one. The walls on either side were blank, except for brackets that at some point had held something. Tara got the sense a demolition job had been started and then interrupted, never to be finished.
She moved toward the wide windows on the other side of the room. A light blue cloudless sky filled the window panes. She began to suspect where she was and she did not like the idea at all.
Behind her the heavy metal click of a door opening caught her attention. She darted back to the wall beside the door. It opened and a young Middle Eastern man in his early twenties stepped through. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Tara took a deep breath and rushed at him.
Caught by surprise, he yelped. He began to slip the rifle from his shoulder. But before he could get his hands around it, Tara snapped the length of her chain out. The knotted end hit the young man in the chin like a punch. He staggered back. Tara pounced. Her knees slammed into the man’s chest. He fell to the ground. She pummeled his face with punches, left, right, one after the other, without letting up. The chain rattled and snapped, hitting the wall and floor with wild abandon with each thrown punch.
By the time she finished, venting some of her pent-up rage on the unfortunate man, his face looked like a bloody, deflated speed bag. Not taking any chances, she pulled the knife he carried in his belt and with two hands drove it through his chest cavity.
She stood, breathing hard and achy, and staggered back, doing her best to rein in her rage and her fear. When she felt in control of herself again, she relieved the dead man of his rifle. He wouldn’t need it anymore. She wiped the blood from the five-inch blade and dropped it into the smelly pocket of her coveralls.
Armed with the rifle at the ready and the stolen knife in her pocket she pushed through the door the man had come through. She hoped her own instincts were wrong, but as she pushed through the door her worse suspicions were proven accurate.
She frowned. “I hate being right all the time.”
A bracing early morning wind caressed her cheek. The sky was a pretty robin’s egg blue and basically cloudless. The clean smell of the ocean couldn’t be mistaken. She gripped the handrail in front of her and looked left and then right. Before her was nothing but ocean.
She turned around and looked at up and down the outside passageway upon which she stood. The ship was white and pristine with clean, sharp lines. She guessed it to be about three hundred feet long. She turned back and faced the sea.
How far out in the Atlantic Ocean they were? Well, that was anyone’s guess.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BY THE TIME BANNON and McMurphy were done getting grilled and giving statements to the local police, the FBI—Pierce was none too happy to see them there—and Homeland Security, night had fallen. Once released, with promises to give written statements in a couple of days, they drove up the coastline, returning to New Hampshire.
Bannon drove. His clothes had dried, but were now stiff and uncomfortable, and he smelled like smoke and diesel fuel. His ribs still hurt, his ankle ached, and his cut lip stung. He couldn’t remember when he last felt this achy and sore, and knowing by tomorrow he’d feel even worse didn’t help. In the meantime, he looked forward to a long, hot shower and a few hours of sleep.
McMurphy didn’t wait. He leaned against the door and was asleep before Bannon reached Atlantic Avenue. He slept the whole way north, snoring the whole time.
An hour later, Bannon pulled to the curb in front of the Keel Haul.
As soon as he switched off the engine, McMurphy straightened up, as alert as if he’d been awake the whole time. “That was fast.”
Bannon unlocked the Keel Haul’s front door and entered the bar, greeted by the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. The bar was dark except for the backsplash of light that glowed from under the bar, a neon sign for Anchor Steam beer, and a pale rectangle of light spilling in from the kitchen door where the swing door was propped open.
McMurphy relocked the door behind them. They found Chief Johnson behind the bar chatting with Reyes sitting on a barstool across from him. Both men were drinking coffee.
Bannon crossed the room, noticing O’Neil seated at one of the back booths, his back to the wall, his legs stretched out. His Sig P229 in his hand. Still dressed in the gray FBI sweatshirt and dark sweatpants, Safiyyah Zayd was curled up and presumably asleep in the opposite seat.
The TV over the bar was on. The sound muted. The burning yacht and what was left of the Tumandar’s Scout was on the screen. An arc of high pressure water from a fire truck pumper was turning the roaring boat fire into column of oily black smoke. The video was from earlier in the night. The scroll read: TERROR ATTACK AT THE HARBOR.
“Been watching the news,” Johnson said, sipping coffee. “Holy crap, Commander, I’d buy you a drink if we weren’t in your bar.”
“Thanks, Chief, but a cup of that coffee is what would hit the spot right now.”
“Coming right up.” Johnson pulled the glass pot from the machine and poured.
“I’ll take that drink,” McMurphy said going behind the bar to serve himself. He rummaged through the ice before coming up with a bottle of Coors Light. He twisted the top off and drank.
“Things always this exciting around here, sir?” Reyes asked as Johnson handed Bannon his coffee.
“Just another Saturday night,” McMurphy said between sips of his beer.
“Everything okay here?” Bannon asked.
“Quiet,” Johnson said. “Most excitement we had was chasing away some persistent old coot in a captain’s hat demanding we open the place up for him.”
“Repeatedly,” Reyes said. “Wouldn’t take ‘we’re closed’ for an answer.”
“Captain Floyd. A regular.”
“I gathered,” Johnson said.
Bannon took his coffee and walked over to O’Neil. The young man straightened up and started to swing his feet off the bench. “No need for that here, Troy.”
“Yes, sir.” Still nervous.
“Here, it’s Brice.”
“Yes, si—Brice. Nice place you�
��ve got.”
Bannon looked around. “I like it. How’s the arm?”
He wasn’t wearing the sling. “Good as new.” He raised it to demonstrate and winced. “Almost.”
Bannon smiled then glanced at Zayd. “Any trouble from her?”
“Not a peep. I mean it. She literally didn’t say a single word all night.”
“Yeah, well, with the closest thing to a lead we have burned up in the Boston Harbor, she’ll be saying plenty if she knows what’s good for her.”
Bannon finished his coffee. He turned, intending to return the empty mug to the bar before going upstairs to his apartment. “Chief, you good to hold down the fort a little while longer? I’d like to grab a shower and some rack time.”
Before Johnson could respond, a deafening explosion blasted the front door open. The door blew across the room, followed by a blast of fire and a plume of gray-black smoke.
Bannon ducked.
O’Neil jumped to his knees. Using the back of the booth as cover, he aimed his Sig at the now missing front door.
With a scream, Zayd sprung up into a sitting position, wide awake now.
“Stay with her,” Bannon yelled to O’Neil. He pulled his .45 and started to move for the door.
Reyes was crouched behind a table he’d flipped onto its side, his gun out. McMurphy and Johnson remained behind the bar. The Chief had found Bannon’s 12-gauge shotgun and had it aimed at the door.
A second blast came from the back.
Bannon heard the back door smash against the wall. A well-planned, two-prong attack, trapping them. Whoever it was, they were after Zayd. But how? No one knew she was there except the people in the bar, Grayson and Kayla.
McMurphy called out. “Kitchen.”
Bannon shouted, “Go!”
McMurphy vaulted over the bar with surprising agility for a man his size. He cuffed Reyes’ shoulder. “You’re with me, seaman.”
The two of them sidled up to either side of the propped open kitchen door.
They had one advantage. The attack team had to come through the two pinch points. If they could keep them from getting through to doors, they could hold them off until the police arrived. Three minutes. That would be all they needed.
Bannon pulled his cell phone out and dialed 911 as the front windows smashed inward. Two canisters had been tossed through the glass, shattering it. They hit the floor, bounced, and spun, spewing thick gray clouds of smoke.
“They’re here for her.” Bannon pointed at Zayd. “They don’t get her.”
O’Neil pulled Zayd from the booth and pushed her to the floor.
Like Reyes had, Bannon flipped a table onto its side and ducked behind it. He kept his .45 aimed at the front door. Johnson remained behind the bar, aiming the shotgun at the front door. Smoke filled the bar. Fast.
It would be their undoing. Bannon knew it, but there was nothing they could do about it.
The seconds ticked by.
McMurphy slipped through the open door into the kitchen. Automatic gunfire echoed from the tight space back there. Bannon felt pulled in two directions. He wanted to go help his friend, but he couldn’t abandon the front of the bar.
Another second passed.
The smoke reached Bannon. Not smoke. CS gas. Tear gas. His eyes began to water. The smoke burned his throat. He coughed.
Bannon heard more objects bounce on the floor. One, followed by two more.
More gas canisters?
No, Bannon realized. He shouted, “Grenades!”
He dove toward the back of the bar. The grenades exploded. First one, then quickly the next two. The table he’d crouched behind slid across the floor, clipping him in the calf. The roar of the explosions made his ears ring. Paper napkins fluttered through the air.
O’Neil shielded Zayd with his body and covered his ears. He twisted around and pointed his gun at the front door. Tears streamed down his face. Bannon’s vision was blurry. His eyes burned.
“Chief,” Bannon shouted. “Still with us?”
“Yeah.” He coughed. “And hopping mad.”
“I can’t see!” O’Neil shouted.
“Don’t rub your eyes,” Bannon warned.
From the kitchen there was a loud bang and more shooting.
Then it happened.
The first of several dark-clad figures rushed through the front door. They wore gasmasks. They looked like shadowy wraiths on a ghostly plane through the smoke and tears.
Bannon shot the first one. He died instantly. Johnson fired off a shotgun blast. The boom was followed by a gasmask-muffled cry of pain. The attackers came in low and immediately spread out. Bannon fired off two more shots. It was impossible to know if he’d hit anything or not.
Their attackers returned fire, using automatic weapons. Bullets chewed holes in the wall. Glass broke. Pictures broke and fell from the walls and crashed to the floor.
Bannon dropped low, where the smoke was only a thin veil. He saw a group of men, single-file, moving along the side wall. They were going for Zayd.
O’Neil popped off a couple of shots. On his hands and knees, he tried to shield Zayd and coughing between trigger pulls, he didn’t hit much.
“O’Neil. Take Zayd through the kitchen.” It was quiet back there. He hoped McMurphy and Reyes had secured an exit for them. Besides, back there, they didn’t have any tear gas to contend with. Bannon blinked and fired a shot at the lead man advancing along the side wall. The man was a vague, blurry, black shape. The shape cried out and collapsed to the floor.
Bannon coughed up phlegm. His nose ran and tears rolled down his cheeks. His eyes burned so badly it felt like acid had been thrown in his face.
Suddenly, the fire alarm began to ring. Johnson had found the alarm pull handle behind the bar and tripped it. Bright white emergency lights snapped on, diffused in the smoke like headlights on a foggy morning. The sprinklers activated, showering stagnant, foul-smelling water down on them. For the second time that day, Bannon was soaked through to the skin.
One of the attackers lobbed a grenade behind the bar.
Johnson scrambled over the bar, rolled, and jumped as the grenade exploded.
The sprinklers began to dissipate the gas.
“Chief! Fall back. Fall back!”
Soaking wet, O’Neil pulled Zayd along the back wall moving low toward the kitchen door. He passed behind as Bannon provided cover fire, and Johnson scrambled across the floor toward the kitchen, too, returning fire as he backed up.
Johnson reached the kitchen door the same time O’Neil and Zayd did. He grabbed the woman and pushed her through the doorway. The Chief followed her through. Bannon did his best to hold the forward attacking force at bay.
“Commander!” O’Neil shouted. “Look out!”
Behind him near the kitchen door, O’Neil shouted again, “Get down!”
Bannon dropped down to the floor.
The seaman squeezed off several shots over Bannon’s head.
An attacker near the bar had had Bannon in his sights. Hit twice in the chest, Bannon’s attacker fell back, toppling a table and several chairs. In response, others opened up with automatic fire. Hit by a hail of bullets, O’Neil cried out.
He fell back, his arms splayed out.
Bannon ran to him.
The young man hit the floor, his body riddled with bullets and wet blood. He laid facing up at the ceiling.
Bannon placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Troy, stay with me, son.”
O’Neil coughed up blood. His face streaked with tears and snot and blood, yet he forced a smile. “Don’t let them win, sir.”
“I won’t. You have my word.” Bannon saw an approaching shape in his peripheral vision. He twisted around and fired two rounds, killing the man instantly.
“I done good, didn’t I, sir?”
“Outstanding, seaman.”
“You said, you’ll do it for the next guy.” He coughed up more blood. “I’m glad… it was…for you, sir.”
More gunfire erupted from the kitchen.
He charged for the kitchen, O’Neil’s dying request firmly in his thoughts. “Don’t let them win.”
He swung around the door jamb, gun first, but he was too late. Johnson and Reyes were on the tile floor. Reyes had taken a bullet in the side. None of them wore vests. None of them had expected this. Johnson had a gash under his eye, a bruise already forming.
“They were waiting for us. Got me with a rifle butt,” Johnson said. “They got the woman. I’m sorry.”
Bannon checked on Reyes. The young man was applying pressure to his own wound.
“Seven of them, sir. Nothing we could do.”
“McMurphy?” Bannon asked, coming to his feet.
The back door had been blown open with explosives just as the front door had been. He could see the gravel parking area out back and the night sky over the side streets and parked cars. There was no sign of their attackers.
Bannon heard a groan and followed it to find McMurphy struggling to sit up on the far side of the cooking stoves. His head was covered in blood. He cradled it in his hands. “Please tell me we won.”
Bannon helped him to his feet. “Far from it.”
“Zayd?” McMurphy asked.
“Gone.”
Johnson looked around. “Where’s O’Neil?” He called out, “O’Neil!”
Bannon glanced at the door, aware of the sound of approaching sirens. He looked at the door back into the bar. “He didn’t make it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TARA TOOK A MOMENT to get her bearings. She wasn’t an expert on boats, like Bannon and McMurphy, but over the years she’s been around them enough to know which end was which. This one appeared to have been a transport vessel of some kind, perhaps a large ferry. It was large and rode low in the water. She figured at least three decks in addition to the bridge deck.
