Brazen Violations

by Jonathan Macpherson

  Chapter 66

  Betts lay curled up on the transom board, clinging to a handrail at the rear of the boat with the little strength he had left. As the vessel bounced over the choppy open water, moving further out to sea, he could feel water in his lungs rolling up and down and was unable to take deep breaths. His head was light and his chest ached like nothing he’d experienced before, like it was being split in half. He was sure death was not far away.

  He guessed they had been on the water for about half an hour when the engines stopped. He had nothing on his mind but lying still, hoping no one would see him, hoping the pain would ease. If he were spotted, he figured he would be better off falling into the water and drowning than facing Doc’s family. The thought of any more physical punishment was unbearable.

  He glanced over his shoulder back at the harbor lights, a good four miles away. He noticed the flashing red and blue police lights. With the boat rocking and his vision slightly blurred, he couldn’t make out how many cop cars were there. Maybe two. If they can figure out where we are, maybe I still have a chance. Maybe.

  Canella laddered down from the bridge and down the steps into the galley, where Cakes was lying on a bed, looking over a laptop computer as Doc tended to his leg with a syringe. Mitch was handcuffed to a handrail, and Peter sat quietly.

  “You’re going to have to go to emergency, soon as we’re done,” Doc said.

  “So much for having a doctor in the family,” Cakes said.

  “I’m no surgeon. This is one nasty break,” Doc said.

  “As long as you keep me filled with that stuff, I’ll manage,” Cakes said. “Your boy wasn’t kidding about the USB. There’s more than enough here to put us away for a few lifetimes. Photos, buyers, sellers, quantities, locations of bodies. It’s a compilation of our greatest hits!”

  “And what about the copy? Where’s the copy?” Canella asked.

  “We haven’t got to that yet,” Cakes said.

  “So,” Canella said looking at Mitch, “where is it?”

  Mitch didn’t answer.

  “I’m going to be completely honest with you; this is it for you guys. The only comfort I can offer you is that it will be quick and painless. But you’re going to have to tell us where the copy is,” she said. “The screaming of your nephew is probably not the last sound you want to hear. And there’ll be plenty of screaming if we have to cut him up and put him in the lobster pots,” she said.

  “She’ll do it,” Cakes said, “believe me, she’ll do it without blinking an eye.”

  “I didn’t make any copies,” Mitch said. “I was bluffing. When would I have had time to make copies? Think about it!”

  Cakes rammed the gun into Mitch’s head.

  “Easy, Cakes,” Canella said, “I think that makes sense. I’m willing to believe it. I’ll tell you why. Because your sister is still alive. And if a copy of that file should turn up anywhere, and we get investigated, your sister will come to a terrible, brutal end. You can be sure about that. So if you made a copy, best tell us now, so it doesn’t turn up by accident. Sound fair?”

  “Yes. I’m telling you the truth. There’s no copy.”

  “Well, what do you say, boys?” Canella asked.

  “I think I can buy that,” Doc said.

  “Yeah, okay, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” Cakes said, “but I don’t think he deserves to go quick and painlessly. Take a look at my fucking leg. I’ll never walk properly again.”

  “If you’re thinking of cutting him into pieces and leaving DNA all over my boat, you can think again,” Canella said.

  “We don’t have time for fun and games, the water cops are probably on their way,” Doc said.

  “He’s right. Alright, everybody out on deck,” Canella said and lead the way.

  “You get the prick off the rail, but keep him cuffed,” Cakes said, handing the Berretta and a handcuff key to Doc. Cakes pulled himself up the steps with the handrails and limped out onto the deck.

  Keeping the gun on Mitch, Doc un-cuffed him from the rail, then cuffed his hands together and ushered him out from behind the table. Mitch looked across to Peter, giving him a slight nod.

  ***

  Betts lay out of sight, shivering uncontrollably on the transom, his breathing labored. His core temperature was dropping by the minute and his whole body was numb. He could feel his heart beating against the solid chest-cam. It was an odd sensation, like his heart was in a tin lunch box. He knew he was dying and that the cops on the wharf were not coming. He was resigned to it, but he didn’t really mind. He was numb on the inside too, devoid of emotion. He figured that must be the body’s way of dealing with death. Or maybe it was the mind’s way. He heard footsteps on the deck just a couple of yards away and stopped breathing, wide eyed.

  Canella stood by the stern of the boat in the dark, watching as Cakes and Doc brought Mitch and Peter out into the cool night air.

  “I’m thinking we just throw them over the side. Hypothermia will take care of them. Natural causes, instead of murder one,” Doc said.

  “No way! The shore ain’t that far from here, they could make it back,” Cakes said.

  “They won’t last half an hour,” said Doc. “Plus you get the slow kill you want, everybody wins.”

  “There’s no point killing him slowly if I can’t watch him die! Defeats the whole purpose!” Cakes said.

  “We got to do it right,” Canella said.

  “Yeah,” Cakes said, “no liabilities. A bullet each to the head, then overboard.”

  Betts felt the fury and hatred return inside of him, felt his heart rate quicken as it surged with a burst of adrenalin. He reached for his ankle and found, beneath the leg of his his pants, his Smith and Wesson 642 palm-sized pistol was still in the holster. He unclipped the leather pouch and pulled the gun out. The hell with waiting to die. If I’m going to die out here, I’ll take at least one of these animals with me. Hopefully all three.

  “Alright,” Canella said, “both of you over here by the back of the boat.”

  Peter was sobbing as he and Mitch walked to the stern, the boat rocking on the waves.

  “Stand right up against the gunnel wall and face the water,” she said.

  They did as they were told. Peter was crying now as they stood side by side at the stern, looking over the waist-high gunnel wall across the dark water to the harbor lights, a world away.

  “Alright, go on. Don’t get it on the boat,” Canella said.

  “I’m not doing it. You do it!” Cakes said.

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” Doc said.

  “This is your mess, why the fuck should I be doing the..”

  “Coz you got involved with him, that’s why! It’s your mess too! Now be a man, and clean up your mess!”

  “We’ll both do it, okay?” Doc said. “I suppose you want me to do the kid?”

  “I’ll do the fucking kid, alright!” Cakes took Canella’s .44 magnum and hobbled over and propped himself sideways against the gunnel wall.

  “Don’t get a drop of blood on my boat!” Canella said.

  “You ready to watch your little nephew get his head blown off?” Cakes said. Mitch didn’t respond, looking straight ahead. He tried desperately to hide his emotions but he whimpered softly.

  “Just look at the stars, Pete,” Mitch told his nephew.

  “Okay, little man,” Cakes said to Peter, “just lean over the back of the boat a little bit.

  Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. I promise,” Cakes said. He cocked the .44 magnum.

  “Just lean forward a little more,” Cakes said.

  Peter leaned over the gunnel wall.

  “We do it together,” Cakes said.

  “On the count of three,” Doc said. “One.”

  Peter looked down and saw Betts lunging up, seemingly from the water, like a vision. Betts stood on the transom and shot Cakes in the middle of the forehead, killing him instantly. Canella sucked in a huge gasp, immediately racked with grief a
nd pain as she watched Cakes fall to the deck.

  “What? How?” Doc said, disbelieving his eyes. Betts shot him twice in the chest and he fell on his ass. He lifted the gun to return fire and Betts shot him fatally in the eye, his body thumping backwards onto the deck.

  Mitch tackled Peter to the floor, clawing for cover as Betts took aim at Canella, who was unarmed. The look of despair on her face enhanced the feeling of satisfaction and pleasure that comes with retribution. Then the professional in him took over and he switched off all emotion.

  “Get on the floor,” Betts said, his voice hoarse. She hesitated and Betts gave her a second longer. She moved quickly towards Cakes and Betts fired a shot into her chest. She stood there, a hand on her wound.

  “Get down!”

  She stood still, eyes on Cakes, the gun in his hand. She knew she was dead and wasn’t going to go following orders from a cop.

  Betts fired again, but the five-shooter was out of bullets.

  Canella looked at Betts as he lowered the gun and she realized she still had a chance.

  “Get down!” Mitch yelled. He had Doc’s Beretta in his hands, pointed at her head.

  She staggered back down the steps into the cabin as Betts climbed over the gunnel wall. Canella slammed the fiberglass door shut, bolting the lock. Betts pried the .44 magnum from Cakes’ hand.

  “You keep it pointed at the door. If it opens you shoot. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Mitch said.

  Betts locked the .44 magnum’s safety switch and jammed it under his belt. Then he struggled up the ladder towards the control deck. Each time he lifted an arm to grab the next rung, he felt like his chest was going to fall apart. He stayed close to the ladder, trying to make his legs do all the lifting.

  Soon he was at the top, looking over the controls. He started the ignition, the engines roaring to life. Betts had never driven a boat before, but it looked simple enough. He pushed the throttle forward, then slowly turned the boat around, fighting the heavy swell until he finally had it pointed towards the lights onshore, the bow bouncing hard as they climbed the waves.

  ***

  Inside the cabin, Canella sat at the table, panting and palming pressure onto her chest wound, but she couldn’t stem the bleeding. Looking out the window she clenched her jaw in a quiet rage as she realized they were heading back to shore. She looked

  up at the ceiling to the spot below the upper control deck, where she knew Betts must have been sitting.

  ***

  On the rear deck, Mitch kept the Beretta pointed at the cabin door, one arm around Peter. The boat bounced over a wave Peter yelped as the bloody bodies of Doc and Cakes slid down the deck towards them. Mitch stuck his legs out in front of him, deflecting them to the side.

  “Don’t look at them, Pete. We’re going home now,” Mitch said.

  Then the engines stopped.

  On the flybridge, Betts tried the ignition again, but it wouldn’t turn over. He kept trying as the boat drifted, swaying with the swell.

  ***

  Inside, Canella locked the engine in the “OFF” position. She took the padding off a bench seat, reached into the space inside and pulled out an Uzi sub-machine gun and a magazine of ammunition. She loaded the weapon and looked up at the ceiling.

  ***

  Betts grabbed the radio and put it to his mouth. “This is Detective Betts, LAPD, onboard the vessel CarnivOrca about three miles out from the Port of Los Angeles. I have an armed felon onboard, detained in the cabin. Request immediate assistance from Water Police or Coast Guard.” He put the radio down and waited.

  There was a moment of static and then, “This is LA Port Police to Canivore, where are you and what is your course?”

  Betts braced as the boat climbed the swell, then dropped, smacking into the trough and flinging him to the one side of the flybridge. He turned to head back to the radio when

  roaring machinegun fire rattled below and the floor where Betts had been standing erupted in a storm of bullets, shrapnel and dust. He jumped off the flybridge and down onto the rear deck, knees buckling as the drum roll of gunfire finally stopped. Betts pulled the revolver from his belt and crawled over to the starboard side, opposite Mitch and Peter, who were now wearing life jackets.

  Peter looked at Betts. “Are we going to…”

  Betts put a finger to his lips and Mitch covered Peter’s mouth, silencing the boy. Betts pointed his gun at the door of the cabin and waited.

  ***

  The engines started again and the boat turned back around, gradually accelerating. Betts realized there must be a master control deck in the cabin. Wherever Canella was taking them couldn’t be good. He had to regain control. The boat continued to accelerate as Betts crawled over to Mitch and Peter.

  “Where’s she taking us?” Mitch asked. Betts didn’t answer, his mind racing over options. “We have to go in, the two of us. We can take her, right?” Mitch asked.

  “She’s got an Uzi and probably a ton of ammo,” Betts said.

  “Right now she’s got her hands on the wheel and her eyes on the water,” Mitch said.

  “Not necessarily. Maybe that’s what she wants us to think.”

  “Okay, so what the hell do we do?”

  “First we stop the boat.

  “Why? What’s the difference?”

  “She could be taking us to a boat loaded with some of her friends, that’s why. Stop asking questions and let me think,” Betts said. He looked around the deck. “You see that hatch?” Betts pointed to the large hatch in the middle of the deck. “I need you to hold it open while I look inside. I’m going to disconnect the fuel line.”

  “Okay. Hang on tight, Pete,” Mitch said, and the boy grabbed the railing.

  “Alright Mitch, keep low,” Betts said. “Let’s go.”

  They crawled across the deck and Betts opened the hatch. He peered inside, immediately hit by the heat and the smell of engine oil. The engine was about the size of a six cylinder car engine, and there was room to stand on either side of it. As the boat bounced hard on the water, Betts climbed into the cavity and squinted, searching and finally finding what he thought was the fuel line.

  As he reached for it, the boat suddenly hooked sharply to port, almost flipping over.

  Peter and Mitch were flung overboard. Betts crouched inside the compartment, clinging to a handhold. Then the boat thumped back into the upright position and the hatch slammed down on Betts, locking him in darkness.

  ***

  Mitch surfaced from the water searching for his nephew. He spotted Peter’s life jacket floating several yards away, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Peter!”

  ***

  Canella opened the cabin door and stepped onto the deck, gripping the Uzi with one hand, a rail with the other. The boat creaked and rocked, the breeze whistling over it. She flicked half a dozen switches, illuminating the deck and the water around the boat with powerful LED lights.

  The bright LED lights in the engine cavity came on and Betts squinted. He tried to push the hatch open but it wouldn’t budge. The hatch was locked. It was a simple lock mechanism, just a thin metal latch that was now turned behind the frame of the hatch. If he could turn the metal strip enough, the hatch would open. He started working on it, but it was fixed tight.

  Canella walked towards the center of the rear deck, right onto the hatch.

  Betts watched as the fiberglass hatch bent under her weight. He could hear her breathing, scratchy and rough like she had emphysema, and he knew he had shot her in the lung. One more bullet from the .44 would kill her, even through the hatch, if he could place it right. She stepped right into the center of the hatch and he pulled the revolver from his belt. He placed the barrel against the hatch, directly below her, and put his finger on the trigger. Then she stepped off. He took his finger off the trigger and lowered the gun.

  Canella stood on the port side, scanning the surrounding water.

  With the powerful floodlights
illuminating the water around the boat, Mitch spotted Peter several yards away, flailing and struggling to keep his mouth above the swell. Mitch sucked in a breath and powered through the water.

  Canella spotted Mitch riding the swell a couple of boat lengths away. She aimed the Uzi at him but he disappeared over the swell. She waited, watching, but the rolling swell made it impossible for her to get a clean shot.

  Mitch was swimming furiously and was only a few feet from Peter when the boy went under. Mitch unclipped his life jacket, slid out of it, and dived into the water. He swam blindly in the dark water, arms stretching out, hoping he might lay an extended fingertip on the child.

  ***

  Betts was still trying to force open the lock mechanism when he heard the creaking on the deck as Canella walked back towards the cabin. Then the engine roared, startling him.

  Canella stood on the rear deck, operating the boat from a joystick on a small control box. She turned the boat to port, heading after Mitch and Peter.

  ***

  Mitch was struck on the back by a desperate little hand. He turned, grabbed the wrist, then kicked with everything he had. He emerged from the water with Peter in his arms, the boy coughing up water. Mitch reached for the lifejacket, bobbing just out of reach. He kicked the water and stretched, catching it with his fingertips, then gathered it and pulled it over to Peter, who was still coughing and wheezing. He slid the child’s arms in and fastened the clips. The jacket kept Peter afloat, allowing Mitch to catch his breath. As he did, Peter coughed up some more water, moaning and crying, sounds Mitch welcomed: the sounds of clear lungs. Mitch turned and saw the CarnivOrca humming towards them.

  Canella could see Mitch and Peter bobbing on the surface, just a couple of boat lengths away. She guided the vessel closer, easing off the throttle.

  Betts used the gun handle to thump the latch. He hammered it hard and it moved slightly. Another thump and it slid unlocked. He placed a hand against the hatch, listening, trying to work out where Canella was, or at least get a rough idea. Knowing she was armed with an automatic weapon, he knew he would have to be fast, accurate, and more than a little lucky. He heard a few footsteps above to one side.