Tonton

by Billy Kring

  He turned to the lose edge and grabbed the corner as tight as he could. Setting his body to use legs, back, shoulders, arms and his grip, John worked and pulled and pushed the metal sheet. Metal screws popped out with the sound of .22s. Some of the screws were so tight they wouldn’t budge. He reset his grip and twisted the metal until it tore away leaving the screw in the interior pipe. His arms quivered with the effort and despite the rain, sweat ran down his face.

  A hand touched his shoulder and he jerked. Ariel was there, watching. She bent to the side and looked at his work. “Let me see if I can fit through.”

  John held the loose side away from the opening as far as he could as Ariel got on her hands and knees and wormed her way into the interior. She turned on her side halfway in to let her hips fit, then inched inside the shed. She said, “There’s an old pickup in here.”

  John dropped to his hands and knees and looked through the hole. It was an early seventies Chevrolet, black with a little rust on the hood. He watched Ariel walk to it and open the driver’s door. She rose up and shook her head no, meaning no keys.

  John said, “Look around for them.” She nodded and moved through the building, starting nearest the pickup. John sat on the wet grass and rested. Trying to tear away the metal siding had exhausted him. He closed his eyes and let his head hang to his chest to keep the water out of his eyes.

  Ariel let her hand run over things: tools, folded rags, magazines, but felt nothing. She returned to the pickup and sat in the driver’s seat. Her hands ran over the steering wheel, then across the instruments to the knobs on the radio. That’s when she felt it.

  A vehicle started and someone revved the engine. John jerked his head up so fast the back of his head hit the shed with a metallic bonk. He rolled to his side and looked through the opening.

  Ariel sat in the driver’s seat, grinning and waving at him. She left the pickup running and almost skipped to John. She said, “Should I drive it through the doors? They’re locked with chains.”

  “Do you have enough room to back it around and use the rear bumper?”

  Ariel looked over the space and said, “If I move some things, I think so.”

  John smiled at her, “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  Ariel was not a great driver, but she was adequate. She moved several tires and boxes from the center of the room, then got in and began jockeying the pickup back and forth, turning the steering wheel this way and that. When she was ready, she honked the horn twice, then put it in reverse and hit the gas.

  John stood far to the side, and it was a good thing because the doors flew off the shed to crash and bounce fifty feet across the yard.

  Ariel stopped the pickup, but left it running, then moved to the passenger’s seat. She motioned for John to drive, and he slid behind the wheel.

  As they drove out of the park and turned left on 27, John checked the fuel gauge and saw the tank was half full. More than enough, he thought. He looked at Ariel and said, “Good work. Where did you find the keys?”

  “I saw the driver hang them on a nail in the bathroom.”

  John nodded, a little smile beginning. “I’m glad you’re with me Ariel.” He increased their speed but still drove cautiously in the wind and rain. The pickup shuddered and slid when the big gusts hit it, but John kept it on the pavement.

  No other traffic was around, and it was as if the area was deserted. They drove almost to the Fort Lauderdale Airport, then turned south on 95. Downed trees were more evident this close to the ocean, as were damaged homes and businesses. John saw an entire roof lift off a convenience store and sail a hundred yards before impacting the doors of another business and collapsing its front. John slowed further. He was going as fast as he could but it would still be a while before they reached Dania Pier.

  He hoped Randall and Hunter were safe, and he wondered where Marc Dessaline and his killer friend, Ringo Bazin were. The thought of them made John’s jaws clench.

  ~*~

  Dessaline parked the Escalade at Dania Pier, leaving it on the road rather than using the parking lot, which was vacant and had a foot of water sloshing across it. When he exited, the wind blew the door out of his hand and it bounced back and slammed into him. He slipped out of the way and closed it, then walked toward the pier without looking up to avoid the god-awful stinging sand hitting his face.

  On top, he and the others used the bulk of the Quarterdeck Restaurant building to shield themselves from the hurricane’s wrath. They scanned north of the pier and Ringo was the first to see their men. Four SUVs sat above the high water.

  Ringo said, “I’m going to them. I want firepower up here on the pier.”

  Jean Claude stepped closer and said, “Bring two.”

  Ringo said, “Carry your own. Come with me.”

  Jean Claude grumbled, but wasn’t about to confront the man everyone called the zombie. Not to Ringo’s face, for sure, but behind his back and out of earshot. The legend of Ringo’s burial in Haiti, and his subsequent resurrection, well, that sort of story couldn’t be kept secret.

  As soon as they descended and began walking, Jean Claude regretted opening his mouth because the constant stinging sand was relentless.

  When they reached the vehicles, which were all pointed toward the pier for a quick getaway, Ringo tapped on the front fender. The back door opened and he got in the rear seat. Jean Claude had to go around the vehicle and get in the opposite side. Ringo said to the driver, “I will take two M4s with the Beta double drum magazines, plus two extra Betas.”

  The driver motioned to the front seat passenger and the man exited the Escalade and disappeared into the storm. The driver said, “I received a transmission on my HF radio.” He touched the radio that resembled a CB on steroids, “It was from the boats. They are close, but the Malice has some leaking problems. It hit something out in the storm and is taking on water. The pumps are keeping up, and it isn’t taking on any more at the moment. He thinks it will make it to shore.”

  “All it has to do is land on the beach. Marc has something special on that one.”

  The man returned with a canvas bag containing the extra magazines and another, longer one that contained the two M4s. Ringo tossed the one holding the magazines to Jean Claude and took the other for himself. He said to the driver, “Signal us with your lights when they are approaching.”

  “I’ll give you two flashes of the headlights.”

  Ringo exited the vehicle, followed seconds later by Jean Claude. In less than a minute is was as if they had been swallowed by the storm and were gone from the earth.

  The passenger said, “Bazin scares me. There is something not right about him.”

  The driver said, “He scares everyone but Marc Dessaline.”

  “Mr. Dessaline seems a gentleman, nothing like Ringo Bazin.”

  “I’ve known both of them for ten years, and deep inside I don’t know that there is much difference between them. It is like choosing which angry leopard is going to be put in a pickup cab with you: the yellow one with golden eyes or the black leopard with dark eyes. If either one is in the cab with you…well, I am sure you can imagine.”

  The other man felt goosebumps spring up on his neck and arms, “That is a terrible image.”

  The driver touched his temple and said, “Remember this, they are worse than leopards. Do not speak of your thoughts about Ringo Bazin again.”

  The shaken man said, “Not a word.”

  Ringo wiped the rain from his face. He stood by the Quartermaster again, but Marc and several others were not there. Jean Claude put his bag on the floor and ran both hands across his face and head, trying to squeegee off the water.

  Ringo opened the large canvas bag and removed one of the M4s. The Beta double magazine protruded on both sides of the weapon with each part as round as a small soup bowl and fitted close to the receiver.

  The other man pointed at it and said, “The Mexican Cartels call it huevos de toro, bull balls. It holds a hundred rounds.” />
  Ringo wasn’t interested in small talk and said, “Have you handled one of these before?”

  “Yes.”

  Ringo handed him the weapon. “Shoot anyone who tries to stop us.”

  “Are we expecting trouble?” The man moved his hand around indicating the hurricane, “Especially in this?”

  “Are my instructions clear?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Ringo tossed him an extra magazine from Jean Claude’s bag. He asked, “Where is Dessaline?”

  “He and the others went to the end of the pier. They took a lot of rope and other things.”

  Ringo picked up the other M4 and tossed it to Jean Claude. “Come with me.”

  Jean Claude so did not want to go out in the storm again. “I will be more useful here, to protect you.”

  A Colt .45 materialized in Ringo’s hand and from three feet away was pointed at Jean Claude’s face. The hammer was cocked and everyone heard the safety click off. Jean Claude swallowed, “I’m coming.”

  Ringo flicked on the safety and put the pistol under his windbreaker. Jean Claude followed The Zombie into the gray, blowing, stinging wetness. The other man watched as the two figures faded from sight within twenty steps. He licked his lips, and was glad the scary one was gone.

  The further Jean Claude walked out on the pier, the more nervous he became. Large, heavy gray waves came in one after the other like railroad cars and crashed into the concrete pilings under the pier. He felt vibrations through his feet each time a really large one hit, and foam and froth splashed high into the air as the rolling water plowed forward underneath the pier, roaring like doomsday was upon them. Overhead, the relentless wind howled and shrieked as if banshees filled the low, roiling cloud just overhead.

  Bazin walked ahead of him as if it was a normal day. When they reached the larger area at the end of the pier, which was shaped like the business end of a flyswatter, Ringo turned toward the north side where Dessaline and the others stood at the rail.

  Marc glanced at the M4 in Jean Claude’s hands, then said to Ringo, “We’re going to bring the Malice to the pier.”

  Ringo looked at the number of ropes and pulleys on the deck, then back at Marc, “It will be dangerous.”

  Marc said, “I know, but what they have on board, we cannot lose it. It is most valuable to me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Help with the ropes. Strength and speed will be needed to secure it.”

  Jean Claude said, “What do I do?”

  Marc pointed sixty feet away and said “Stand where the pier narrows. Other than our men, kill anyone who comes this way.”

  Jean Claude walked to the spot and was immediately buffeted by a crosswind that staggered him six feet to the side. He looked over his shoulder and saw the others were discussing things and paying him no attention. Forty feet further down the pier was a roofed area, open on the sides and maybe twenty by twenty in size, with large square corner posts anchoring it to the pier deck.

  He glanced at Dessaline one more time, then trotted to the limited shelter and took what respite he could by staying under the roof and on the inside of the posts that blocked a little of the needle-sharp rain and the driving wind behind it.

  If they would only let him, he would walk away from this and move to a desert and never look back. One more look at Dessaline and Bazin, and thinking of what they would do if he deserted made his insides weak. He crouched against the post and prayed for it all to end soon.

  He glanced up the beach, not able to see much, and caught two winks of light. He focused on the area and there it was again. Jean Claude ran to Dessaline and the others, and as Marc turned toward him, Jean Claude said, “The boats are close!” He pointed up the beach and all of them watched as the vehicle lights blinked twice.

  Marc pointed at the ocean, where three dark, bobbing shapes were emerging from the storm. “Get ready,” Marc said. “We will all be rich men at the end of this day.”

  That’s when they heard a staccato burst of machine gun fire from the land part of the pier.

  ~*~

  Randall eased forward on North Beach Road, past the Dania Beach Bar and Grill and could see the vague image of the pier in the distance. He sped up, then a gust of wind moved the vehicle sideways like it was on ice.

  He regained control and continued forward.

  Hunter said, “Two cars in the road. Both stopped.”

  “I don’t see any others around. This may be all of them.”

  “Yeah,” Hunter said, “And there’s two of us.”

  “Do you see John or Ariel anywhere?”

  “I don’t see anybody.”

  They slowed as they approached, and Hunter said, “Hey, there’s somebody in front of the ramp that goes up the pier.”

  “Is it Andre?” Randall asked.

  Hunter said, “He’s got a rifle!”

  Automatic fire hit Randall’s pickup, sounding like hailstones, and a line of spider-webbed bullet holes shaped like oversized snowflakes dotted across the edge of the windshield, with the bullets barely missing Hunter and penetrating the outside edge of the seat.

  Randall cut the wheel to the left and gunned it, racing past the two parked vehicles as the man on foot moved to get them in his sights again. Hunter said, “He’s gonna shoot!”

  The man raised the M4 as Randall drove the pickup beyond the pier and into a small grove of coconut trees. He slalomed between the trunks as they heard the metallic clang of more rounds hitting the tailgate. Randall said, “How many rounds does he have in that thing?”

  “Too many!”

  “Oh shit,” Randall said. Three black SUVs were coming from far ahead toward them. “I don’t think this is good.”

  Hunter said, “I saw a rifle barrel come out one of the side windows. Get us out of the line of fire.”

  Randall cut the pickup hard left and they crashed through heavy brush and over berms of sand and crushed limestone before sliding down a short slope into Whiskey Creek, which was normally shallow, but now was brim full.

  They left the pickup and pulled their weapons. Randall said, “Let’s go north, stay by the creek, and try to get past those three cars coming this way.”

  “What’s up there?”

  Way up there is a Coast Guard station. We might make it.”

  Hunter said, “Let me take a look first.” She slithered on her stomach.

  Randall hissed, “Hunter!”

  She ignored him and wormed her way further so she could see. The blowing sand was horrible. She closed her eyes to slits and edged through some stiff grass. She was on a slight elevation under the brush, and could see the two cars they initially sped past. The man holding the M4 was in plain sight, with the stock of the rifle resting on his hip.

  Near his feet a body lay sprawled on the ground. Hunter had a terrible feeling. She concentrated to see clearer, to make out who it was. Then she knew and her heart sank.

  Andre Benton was dead. Her friend Andre, who had come alone to meet them here.

  The three SUVs crept slower, then stopped. The driver in the first car, the Escalade, stuck his arm out and waved at the man with the M4. The doors opened and several armed men emerged. Two walked back down the way they had come in an effort to cut Randall and Hunter off if they went north, and the third man walked toward the spot where Randall’s pickup went off the road. Something out on the water drew Hunter’s attention, and she saw three boats several hundred yards off shore, and one of them listed slightly. It was closest to the pier. All were attempting to come in, despite the large waves and wind. She took one look at Andre, bit her lip to keep from crying, and then moved.

  She scrooched backward until she could kneel.

  “Andre’s dead. The guy with the M4 shot him, I think.”

  Randall shook his head and said, “Aw, man.” The weight of it on him was evident.

  “Looks like three of the men in the black cars are coming to hunt us. Two are going north, I’m sure
to ambush us or come this way to trap us, and the other one walked to where we left the road. The guy with the M4 is posing near the bottom of the pier ramp.”

  “They all have rifles?”

  “Oh yeah. Looks like they all have M4s with the double drum magazines.”

  “No wonder that guy kept firing.”

  Hunter continued, “They aren’t hunting us, at least not yet. They’re waiting for us to make a move, and for those boats to land. They’re kind of caught about what to do first, I think.”

  Randall said, “So we’ve got a little time.”

  “Yeah. What are you thinking we should do?”

  “We could tell them they’re all under arrest and to throw down their weapons.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I think we have to get at least one of those M4s, or we are in deep shit.”

  “What I was thinking.”

  They heard a shout, then heard the three vehicles moving to new positions.

  Hunter scooted under the brush again, this time with Randall beside her. Two of the three boats were coming closer, and the SUVs were moving to be in position when the boats came on the beach. The two men on foot rejoined the vehicles, but the single man that had gotten out was nowhere in sight. The other one, Andre’s killer, was still in the parking lot in front of the ramp.

  Hunter tapped Randall’s sleeve, “I’ve got a plan. Follow me.”

  ~*~

  John idled the old pickup on the road, both to keep control and to not advertise they were coming. He saw the pier, and as they drove closer, saw the man with the rifle on his shoulder looking the other way. Beyond the man John could see several dark vehicles, and under the pier, he noticed the boats, all on the north side, rolling in the waves like corks, with the waves so high that the boats disappeared from sight when in the troughs. Another boat was at the far end of the pier, and looked to be in trouble.

  He told Ariel, “Stay in the truck. I’m going to ease up there.”

  Ariel’s eyes were luminous with fear. “You have no weapon.”

  “You stay in the truck. Promise me.”

  Ariel said, “I promise.”