by Rick Reed
Jack saw Moon Pie stalking toward the cashier’s window, but was unable to push free of the throng of people crowding around the “big winner.” He hesitated to pull his own gun and bully his way through, fearing that would just make the crowd worse. But then he heard Moon Pie yell over the noise, “Gimme the goddamn money!”
Jack pulled his weapon and clubbed his way forward. Moon Pie pointed the gun into the cashier’s room and fired several times. Jack couldn’t hear the shots, but he could see the burning gas escaping the barrel as round after round was fired.
Jack was halfway there when he saw Moon Pie stop shooting and heard a bloodcurdling scream.
“Shut it!” Moon Pie screamed. “Shut up or I’ll shoot your old ass!” He shot multiple times, and the screaming stopped.
Jack raised his .45 and fired into a chandelier. The chandelier exploded into a shower of sparks and glass, and the crowd to his front ran in every direction all at once. Jack was caught in a sea of panicked bodies, and forced to watch as Moon Pie fired again and again into the cashier’s office.
Moon Pie stepped back and kicked the door but it wouldn’t give. He swore and was shooting holes in the door by the time Jack was able to free himself from the crush of people. Moon Pie suddenly turned around, and the eyes in the mask stared straight at Jack. The eyes widened and then he fired the rest of his bullets into the crowd. One bullet smashed into a metal support beam inches from Jack’s face. Jack dropped to the floor and shot between the spread legs of a woman who seemed to be frozen in her tracks. Moon Pie fell back against the door of the cashier’s cage, arms hanging at his sides, while a spot of crimson grew across the front of his bowling shirt. Jack fired twice more. Moon Pie looked like he was dancing as the Bill Clinton mask jerked upward and sideways, and then he collapsed to the floor.
Jack pushed himself up from the floor. The woman was looking down at her legs and feeling down her front. “Was it good for you too?” he asked as he walked past her to Moon Pie.
Moon Pie lay dead on the floor. The rubber likeness of Bill Clinton now had extra nostrils.
“I didn’t vote for you anyway,” Jack said, and pushed the body with his foot to make sure Moon Pie was down for good. He was.
Chapter Forty-two
Quinn had no doubt that Shirl and Skippy Walker would be tied to the murder of Khaled, the shooting of the ATF Agent, and the casino robbery. He was sure because he had left evidence behind just for that reason. The rubber masks and silenced weapons found with Moon Pie’s and Shirl’s bodies would cinch the police case. If someone believed there was a mastermind, the trail of breadcrumbs would lead to Ellert, who would be dead from the chemicals in the smudge pot.
Quinn’s black Hyperflex wetsuit was complete with hood, gloves, and boots, and he blended perfectly with the dark tree line behind him. The wetsuit had two purposes. It would act as camouflage when he crossed the river, and it would protect him from the cold water if it became necessary. The night had cooled only slightly, but the water temperature was sixty degrees. He was on the Kentucky side of the Ohio, where there were no river cabins or people to worry about. He could make out the city lights of Evansville as he slid the assault raft into the relatively calm waters of the Ohio. The slight hissing noise of the raft inflating was masked by the raucous sounds of a heavy metal band playing outside Fast Eddie’s near the casino.
If his timing was right, and if Ellert did as he’d instructed, the riverboat would be disabled and drifting with the current. Nothing like a good old-fashioned jurisdictional fight to slow law enforcement down.
He remembered the shock in Khaled’s eyes before he died and was amused. Khaled had thought he was going to be the one making a killing off this piece of equipment. The black assault raft was known as the ERB 310, or Emergency Response Boat. It weighed a little over one hundred pounds and could be inflated and ready to launch in two minutes. The ERB was used by the military but redesigned for police rescue operations when speed and ease of assembly were essential. It had the capability of mounting two engines on the rear motor clamp plates, but Quinn had opted for a single fifty-five HP outboard that was capable of speeds up to twenty knots. Best of all, it was invisible at night.
He made one more trip to the back of his truck, carried the other item delivered by Khaled, and mounted it to the metal plate for the second engine. The Browning M2HB .50 caliber air-cooled machine gun was the same type used in World War II but was in use still. It was a formidable weapon capable of firing a 710-grain 12.7 mm armor-piercing round at almost three thousand feet per second. It fired 550 rounds per minute with an effective kill range of over a mile. The one drawback of the weapon was the weight. Eighty-five pounds and another forty pounds for one hundred rounds of belt-fed. 50 caliber ammo.
Quinn inspected his own personal weaponry. Satisfied that he hadn’t neglected anything, he finished shoving the raft into the water and climbed inside. He lifted the top receiver of the Browning, inserted the belt of .50 caliber ammo across the top of the bolt, and closed the receiver. He pulled the charging handle and drove a four-inch bullet into the bore of the weapon, then set the safety.
The Suburban was clean. He’d left nothing behind that could tie him to the vehicle. It was clean. It was time. He started the engine, and sped across the water to the riverboat. He pulled alongside, tied the raft off to a steel ladder on the riverboat’s side and climbed. His destination was the wheelhouse, where he would take out communications and navigation. He reached the wheelhouse, drew his weapon, and opened the door.
* * *
“Where are the keys?” Quinn demanded and struck Captain Bruce in the head with the butt of the gun.
Bruce fell to the floor, bleeding.
Quinn pointed the pistol at the navigator, John Keep. “I won’t ask again,” he said.
Captain Bruce was a brave man but not a stupid one. The keys were in his pocket. He dug them out and slid them across the floor.
“Good man,” Quinn said. “The only hope you have of regaining control of this vessel is to stay alive.” He motioned with the silencer and said, “Back there.”
The muscles in Keep’s forearms rippled. He was a big man, and he wouldn’t let anyone treat the captain like this. Keep helped Captain Bruce to his feet, and they did as instructed.
“On the floor. Face down.”
Captain Bruce lay on the floor and said, “Mr. Keep. Would you join me, please?”
Quinn said, “Not you, big man. You come here and shut the engines down.”
“We can’t let him do that, Captain,” Keep said.
Quinn pointed the pistol at Keep’s head. “One of you. I don’t much care which.”
Keep clenched his fists and moved fast, but Quinn was faster.
Captain Bruce watched in horror as Keep’s head came apart, throwing blood and brains and bits of skull against the back wall. “You bastard,” the captain said, and pushed up from the floor.
“If you don’t shut the engines down, you’re next,” Quinn said.
Bruce stood beside his first officer’s body and said, “Screw you, buddy.”
“Just as well,” Quinn said. The end of the silencer spat twice, and Bruce’s body lay crumpled next to his dead friend.
Quinn examined the dozens of switches on the panel and found the controls for the engines, shutting them all down. Next, he fired several bullets into the communications console. A hard thud came from somewhere below his feet, and then another. The room tilted slightly. “I believe that was your starboard ballast tank, Captain,” he said. “You are now dead in the water.” He smiled at his own joke and then left the wheelhouse.
* * *
Pons felt the whump of the blast and hoped Stu Sanders had gotten clear.
The explosion was the signal. Why else would they disable the boat? Shirl was nowhere in sight. Someone yelled, “The boat’s sinking.” Soon other voices joined in and then, inevitably, the shoving.
Pons didn’t see any of the casino security officers
on the third level. The door to the cashier’s cage stood open and a gray-haired woman in a Blue Star Casino shirt stood in the doorway, crying. Pons wondered where the hell security was and then figured they were probably engaged at the exits. At least he hoped they were at the exits.
He headed for the cashier’s cage just as the gray-haired woman and a shaky young man fled from there, not bothering to secure the door behind them. The panic was full blown, and people fled in all directions. The exit doors to the stairwells were in total chaos with people jammed so tight no one could move. There was nothing he could do for them. But he could find Shirl and arrest him.
Gun in hand, Pons put his back against the wall just outside of the vacated cashier’s cage. He spun around and went into a crouch as he entered and found the room was empty. All of the drawers were open and paper money was scattered around like confetti. He was too late.
He walked to the doorway. He wasn’t sure the boat was going to sink, but Stu had said something about chemical agents near the air ducts. It was time to go. He could swim. And so could many of these people.
He ran for the exit that led to the outside deck. He intended to direct people to that exit but had to abandon that plan. Ahead of him was a man in a Halloween mask with a gun in one hand and two large canvas bags in the other. The man was pushing against the doors but they didn’t open. He knew this was Shirl.
Shirl took something from his pocket and was fiddling with the lock when Pons came up behind him and shoved his duty weapon against his neck. “Federal Agent,” Pons said. “Shirley West, you are under arrest.” He took Shirl’s gun and slid it into the back of his waistband.
“Now unlock the door.”
Shirl used a key and unlocked the door to the upper decks and pushed one open. Pons shoved him outside. The deck was deserted but lit by strings of colored Christmas lights that spanned the length of the top deck.
He shoved Shirl face-first, against a steel wall beside the doors. “Hands on the wall, Shirl. You know the drill.”
Shirl said, “You’ve got my gun. Can I take the mask off? It’s like an oven in here.”
“Leave it,” Pons ordered. “I’ve never arrested a president before.”
“Who’re you with? FBI?”
“I’m holding the gun and you insult me.” Pons did a quick pat down of Shirl’s outer clothing, and then said, “In case you couldn’t hear in there, Officer Shirley West, you’re under arrest on federal charges. Attempted murder of a federal agent, conspiracy to commit robbery, and illegally carrying a silenced weapon. If that was an explosion I heard, you will be going away for a very long while.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a cop. I’m carrying a gun, so what? And I had the mask on as a joke.”
“And you just happened to have a key to the locked exit doors,” Pons said.
“Yeah. You’re making a false arrest, and I’m gonna sue your ass. If you knew what was good for you, you’d run while you had the chance.”
Shirl was very talkative. Before Pons registered this as a danger sign, something slammed into his back and then again. He stumbled into Shirl and fell to the deck.
A black-clad figure approached from the direction of the wheelhouse, and Shirl did a double take.
“Help me move his body out of sight,” Quinn said.
“What’s going on?” Shirl asked. “How did the FBI get on this?” He pulled the rubber mask off and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “Why are you wearing that getup?”
Quinn ignored the questions and asked, “How many of the charges went off?”
“I only felt one. They were supposed to go off all at once, right?”
Quinn said nothing. He had felt two explosions. Ellert hadn’t done his job. No surprise. He and Shirl dragged Pons’s limp form across the deck and disposed of him behind a metal container that had LIFE RAFTS stenciled on the side in four-inch black letters.
“You killed a federal agent,” Shirl said and bent to retrieve his silenced pistol from Pons’s waistband. While he was bent down, he felt his ankle for his own hideout piece. The .38 revolver was still there.
“Correction,” Quinn said. “We killed him. A jury won’t make the fine distinction as to who pulled the trigger.”
“What now?” Shirl asked.
“Finish your job.” Quinn shoved the rubber mask back into Shirl’s sweaty hands.
* * *
Jack passed a cocktail waitress as he exited the stairs onto the third level. Something about her seemed both familiar and wrong at the same time. He turned around to stop her but he was too slow. She was behind him and shoved a compact semiautomatic in his gut.
“Don’t move, Murphy,” the waitress said, and he saw it was the female agent, Crenshaw.
“You look . . . different. Sorry about the confusion at the hospital, but I didn’t feel like being arrested. And what is it with this ‘Don’t move’ shit? Do they teach you that in spook school? When White was still alive, he said the same—”
She head butted him and he staggered back. The blow had taken him by surprise. Before he could recover, she yanked his gun out of his hand.
“You killed White,” she said. “Don’t think I won’t kill you.”
“Oh, did you and Mr. Walmart have something going?” Jack asked. He still had White’s silenced pistol in his waistband, which was both bad and good. If Crenshaw found it, she might just shoot him. If she didn’t, he might have a chance. So far, she had been willing to talk, so maybe she wasn’t up to homicidal mode yet.
“White was going to kill me,” Jack said. A trickle of blood run down his forehead.
“Shut up,” she said. “Where’s Quinn? If I think you’re lying it will be the last thing you say, asshole.”
It took all of his willpower not to knock the dog shit out of her. Well, willpower . . . and the fact that she had a gun stuck in his ear.
“You don’t want to kill me,” Jack said. “I can help you get Quinn.”
“Wrong answer.”
He felt the barrel dig into his ear but she didn’t pull the trigger. He was getting tired of this game. Either she was going to shoot him, or she wasn’t.
“Listen, Crenshaw, there’s an ATF agent named Greg Pons up here somewhere. He’s trying to stop people from being killed by that psychotic asshole you’re looking for.”
She didn’t say anything or head butt him again, so he continued.
“I know you CIA types think you’re all smoke and mirrors and all that happy shit, but White’s dead. And after that explosion I think a state police officer named Stu Sanders is dead. For all I know, ATF Agent Pons might be dead. I’m all the help you’ve got. I can help you get Quinn.”
“I should kill you now so you don’t get in my way,” she said dryly. “But, as you say, you might find Quinn. Seeing you want to arrest Quinn, it might be fun to watch.”
And distracting. He didn’t think she cared whether everyone on the boat died, as long as she got to Quinn. Jack’s best chance was to show her he was as crazy as she was.
“I’m not planning on taking Quinn alive. So if you want to shoot me, get it done or give my gun back and get the hell out of my way,” he said.
He felt the pressure against his ear ease and she backed away.
“I shouldn’t do this,” she said, “but I feel like we owe you something for keeping after Quinn even after he killed your friends. You should be working for us.”
Jack’s blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?”.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you knew.” She dropped her arms to her sides and said, “I’m really sorry about your friends. Quinn didn’t leave anyone to . . . he doesn’t leave witnesses.”
Jack’s pulse pounded in his ears. He’d been out of touch with everyone for a while. His knees felt weak and he leaned against the wall. Who was she talking about? Killian? Liddell? Susan? Katie!
He studied her face, but he couldn’t tell if she was
lying. “Who?” he managed to say.
She reached out to steady him, and her act of kindness frightened him more than any gun could. He pulled away.
“Everyone you care about. You can get even,” she said. “Help me. I’ll fix things with your bosses. Quinn will be dead, and you’ll be a hero.”
Jack wished she would shut up. She was like the devil whispering in the choir loft. He knew she would kill him the second he was no longer useful.
She went on, “Quinn doesn’t care how many people die. But we do.”
“We—meaning you. Your partners don’t seem to have any qualms about killing. And by the way, where is that other limp dick, Thompson?”
She said, “You make jokes, but we’re dead serious about finding Quinn. You were fouling everything up. Thompson and White wanted to kill you back at the hospital, but I just want Quinn.”
“Scout’s honor?” Jack asked.
She took a deep breath, and said, “You’ve shown some initiative. So I’m going to tell you what you’re up against. His real name isn’t Quinn. It’s whatever he wants it to be. He doesn’t exist. He was one of us, but now he’s not. Five of our best agents caught up to him a month ago. Three are dead. White and Thompson are what is left of the team.” She smirked and said, “No offense, Murphy, but you’re not a pro.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “But most of your pros are dead.”
“White is a moron compared to Quinn. You have no idea what Quinn can do. He was . . . is . . . one of the best. He trained most of our agents. He trained me.”
She surprised him by handing his .45 back. “Regardless of what you decide, you’ll need that to get off this boat.”
“We do this together,” he said. “And then you disappear. I don’t tell anybody. And I don’t need your help with my boss.” I’m getting fired and I don’t give a shit.
“Oh, I think you’ll change your mind about needing my help.”
