Tested by Fire

by Pat Patterson

  “Steele?”

  Jim tried to assimilate the scene. Tom Steele appeared drugged. His hands quivered. His eyes twitched.

  “Why are you…Tom, where’s Valerie?”

  Steele didn’t answer. Jim shifted his gaze back to J-Rock.

  “Don’t look so surprised, bro. You smart. You bound ta ‘spected something when you saw that new Harley he been riding round. Thomas here, he one of our mules now.”

  “Steele? What’s he talking about?”

  “J-J-Jim,” Steele stammered. “I-I’m…”

  Jim’s eyes shifted from Steele to J-Rock and back to Steele again.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  Steele’s eyes couldn’t have widened more. He looked terrified.

  “I saw the ambulance, Steele. Where is he?”

  “You mean she?” Michael Johnson stepped from the shadows, flashlight in hand. “The fat chick with the big mouth, she kinda tied up at the moment.”

  Michael shifted the beam to a brown canvas tarp in the middle of the deck. He stepped forward and kicked it. The canvas squealed and thrashed about.

  Jim’s fear reached new heights. His heart pounded. His fingers became cold with sweat. He reached down and grabbed the corner of the canvas. He threw it back.

  “Sharon!”

  Sharon Duncan was spread eagle on the wooden deck wiggling and straining and moaning, her arms and legs lashed by heavy hemp line. A blue tourniquet encircled her left bicep. Silver tape covered her mouth. Her plum-shaped eyes were red and wet with tears. Jim felt his heart break. Enraged he leapt at J-Rock, but it proved to be a reckless move. A crushing blow broke across the back of his head. He fell to the deck fighting unconsciousness, temporarily crippled by the mind-numbing blow.

  “Yeah, you bad,” J-Rock taunted. “You bad, bro…but so are we.”

  “No,” Jim said shaking the stars from his head. “You’re dead is what you are, J-Rock.”

  “Bad talk for a man with one arm and a broke back.”

  Jim struggled to rise to a kneeling position.

  “Let her go.”

  J-Rock grinned and turned to Steele. “Time to go to work.”

  Tom Steele hesitated and stepped forward, reeling and staggering like an alcoholic on a ten-day drunk. Jim watched with terror as J-Rock withdrew a syringe from his pocket. He pulled off the needle cap and slowly pushed the plunger. A tiny drop of amber chemical formed at the tip of the needle and slid down its side.

  “Here,” he said handing it to Steele. “Stick her.”

  “N-no,” Steele said shaking his head. He staggered backward and almost fell. “I, I, I won’t do it.”

  J-Rock grabbed Steele and placed the tip of the needle against his neck. Steele’s eyes rolled back in his head, then rolled forward again and seemed to focus. He glanced at Sharon, then at Jim, then back at J-Rock. Then he began to cry like a child. With shaky hands he took the syringe and knelt onto Sharon’s left thigh, pinning her to the deck.

  “Tom,” Jim cried. “Don’t!”

  J-Rock chuckled and gave Steele a sharp kick.

  “J-Rock,” Jim begged. “Take me. Stick me, not her.”

  “Hurts, don’t it?” J-Rock said. “Watching your friends suffer.”

  “Don’t do it, Steele! For God’s sake, Tom, it’s Sharon. Think about what you’re doing!”

  Steele didn’t move. J-Rock grabbed a handful of his curly black hair and jabbed the barrel of the pistol against his ear.

  “Do it or die.”

  Steele whimpered, shuddered, and then with shaky hands placed the tip of the needle against Sharon’s vein.

  “Sharon,” he said, his voice a quivering whimper. “I’m-m-m s-sorry.”

  Sharon struggled. Screamed with her eyes. Gargled animal sounds coughed from her throat. Jim couldn’t take it any longer. He charged with his cast held before him like a plaster battering ram, but before he could reach J-Rock a shot rang out. A sharp glancing blow slapped him in the upper arm, just tearing the surface of his skin and spinning him around. He fell to the deck, stunned. A shadow moved over him pointing a pistol at his head.

  “Try that again,” Michael spat, “and I’ll put the next one ‘tween your eyes.”

  Jim didn’t dare move. He felt blood begin to trickle down his arm from the superficial gunshot wound. He ignored it and stared at the two miserable creatures standing above him. He wanted nothing more than to stand up and beat them to death with his bare hands, but there was nothing he could do, his body was a wreck, and a large barreled gun was pointed at his face. He glanced at Steele. The skinny little man’s eyes fluttered. He gripped the syringe and leaned over Sharon. He moved the needle forward. Pricked her arm…

  “No!” Jim shouted. “Don’t, Steele... don’t!”don’t!”

  Boom!

  A cannon-like percussion rocked the deck, a powerful blast, enough to blow a man in two. Jim gazed toward the source of the sound, dumbfounded by the shock wave, by the ringing in his ears, by the stunned reaction of J-Rock and Michael, but most of all by what he saw emerge from the shadows at the front of the miniature ship. A short stocky Italian walked toward them wearing an orange life preserver and a wide confident grin. In one hand he held a smoking shotgun, in the other a Smith & Wesson .45.

  “I hate to interrupt this party,” Rico Rivetti said, his pistol on J-Rock, the barrel of his shotgun aimed at Michael’s chest, “but some of you people are under arrest.”

  Both gangsters hesitated and dropped their pistols.

  “Good idea,” Rico said. “Now, kick them aside.”

  Both men obeyed.

  “You two aren’t as dumb as I thought. Here,” Rico said handing Jim the 12-gauge. He nodded in Michael’s direction. “Keep an eye on old scar-face there. J-Rock and I need to have a little chat.”

  “Rico,” Jim said, taking the gun and aiming it at Michael’s mid-section, “he’s got Val, too.”

  “I know.”

  “How’d you get up here?” J-Rock sneered.

  “You forgot to raise the anchor, lug-head. Some sailor you are. You!” Rico motioned to Steele. “Stick that needle in her arm and I’ll put a bullet between your ears.”

  Steele dropped the syringe and backed away.

  “Take that tape off her face.”

  Steele knelt and peeled away the silver tape. Sharon gasped and heaved, drinking in the fresh air and sobbing uncontrollably. Steele stood and backed toward the boat’s railing.

  “Now beat it,” Rico said. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  Tom Steele gazed at J-Rock through drug-filled eyes, and then turned and stumbled clumsily for the ladder. A moment later he was over the side and running for the ambulance.

  “Sharon,” Rico said. “You all right?”

  Sharon grunted and cleared her throat. “I think so.”

  “Okay then,” Rico said. “Which one of you two heroes wants to tell me where I can find the good doctor?”

  Jim felt a river of warm blood course through his veins. Revenge. It tasted sweet. He aimed the barrel of the big shotgun at Michael and tickled the trigger, almost praying the gangster would move. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rico grab J-Rock and throw him to the deck.

  “Talk, tough guy.”

  J-Rock didn’t say a word. He lay there like a smiling corpse, an evil grin on his face. Jim held his breath and waited, fully expecting Rico to whip his pistol aside, fire a round into the deck, and then jam the muzzle between J-Rock’s ribs before the brass cartridge hit the deck. But he didn’t. He reached behind his back instead and withdrew a pair of handcuffs. Jim felt his hope slip away.

  “Rico?”

  “He’s going downtown. Both of them are.”

  “No more games, Rico.”

  “This is no game, Jim. You need to trust me. These punks will talk.”

  “No! No more talk!”

  Jim swung the barrel around and fired. The gun jumped. Nine pellets of 00-buckshot ripped into the deck by J-Rock’s sid
e. “Tell us where she is NOW, or, by God, it’ll be the last mistake you ever—”

  “Jim,” Sharon screamed. “Look out!”

  Jim felt the shotgun wrenched from his grip. Something hard smashed into his face. A strong arm clamped about his throat. He felt the hot barrel jab into his neck.

  “Let him go,” Michael shouted. “I’ll kill him! I swear it! I’ll blow his head off!”

  For the third time that day Jim felt like passing out. He saw stars, tasted blood, felt the sting of death poking him in the side. But instead of watching his entire life flash before eyes he refocused and saw Rico Rivetti stand up and walk over. With cold indifference, Rico locked his arm and placed the muzzle of his service weapon against Michael Johnson’s forehead.

  “Drop it.”

  “Back off, cop. If my finger flinches, his head explodes!”

  Rico’s eyes narrowed. The corners of his mouth turned down.

  “Well,” he said, his finger tightening around the trigger, “maybe...you won’t even...flinch.”

  Chapter 52

  Michael Johnson’s finger didn’t flinch, his head did. The bullet entered his skull right between his eyes, racking his head backwards and killing him instantly. His corpse fell to the deck.

  Jim stumbled to one side, stunned by the blast. Above the ringing in his ears he heard a loud, demonic scream as J-Rock jumped on the shotgun. Rico turned and fired. There was another deafening boom. Hot pellets flew. Rico jerked and fell to the deck. His body did not move.

  “Ricooo!”

  “Now—” J-Rock racked the shotgun’s action and turned the gun on Jim. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  Years of practiced instinct took over. It had to be instinct…Jim had no time to think. He dropped to the planks, spinning as he fell, swinging his right foot across the deck and catching the back of J-Rock’s foot. The move took everything he had, but it worked. J-Rock fell and landed beside him face up on the planks. Jim swung his fractured cast around and struck him across the jaw. A sickening crunch sounded. J-Rock rolled over, moaning. Blood covered his face. Jim pulled his injured arm in tightly against his torso, grimacing at the excruciating pain that shot through his elbow and arm. Tears came. He could hardly see. He saw the shotgun and grabbed it. The barrel felt warm. He tucked the wooden stock up under his arm, rolled, and aimed.

  “Where is she?” he shouted. “Where’s Valerie?”

  J-Rock stood up and ran for the ladder. Jim pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He gripped the shotgun’s pump with one hand and hammered the stock against the deck to chamber a fresh round. But he was too late. J-Rock leapt over the side of the boat and sprinted across the yard.

  “Jim,” Sharon cried. “I’m sorry.”

  “He won’t get far.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “it was a setup. Steele was in on the whole thing. I walked right into it, I never saw it coming.”

  “Forget it,” Jim said staggering over to untie her bindings. “You hurry and get help for Rico. I’m going after J-Rock.”

  “By yourself? Jim, you can’t. Look at you.”

  “Sharon, he’s got Valerie!”

  “Valerie? Why? What does he want?”

  “He wants me.”

  Jim heard an engine crank. He ran to the boat’s railing. He saw movement in the cove. A white houseboat pulled away from the dock and started toward the channel that led out to the sound.

  “Sharon, he’s getting away. I’ve got to go.”

  “But, Jim—” Sharon stopped him. “I can’t get Rico out of here by myself.”

  Jim spotted Rico’s Motorola radio and grabbed it. The entire faceplate fell away as he unclipped it from his belt.

  “Buckshot,” he said tossing the radio aside. “Got your cell phone?”

  Sharon shook her head.

  “Me neither, mine’s at the hospital.”

  “Wait,” Sharon said. “We’ll take Rico’s car.”

  “Not here,” Rico said, drawing a shallow breath. He gasped. “Came by—” Another gasp. “Boat.”

  “Wait a minute…” An image popped into Jim’s mind. Faded red paint. Flat ties. “I saw an old car down by the docks. We can use that, come on.” Jim’s arm ached worse than it had the day after surgery. The new bullet wound stung like the site of multiple wasp stings. The fractured bone felt as if he’d used it to pry the door off an old rusted freight car. He ignored the pain, tucked Rico’s .45 under his belt and helped him stand up. “Come on, pal, you can do it, one step at a time.”

  “No—” Rico grunted and pressed a hand over his wounded ribs. “Can’t. Too…out of breath.”

  “You have to, Rico. Move!”

  Jim wrapped his arm around his old friend and practically carried him to the ladder.

  Sharon stepped over the edge, descended a few feet, and waited. “All right,” she called. “I’m ready.”

  “Your turn, pal,” Jim said, trying his best to support Rico. “Over the side.”

  Rico groaned and lowered his foot over the side of the boat. Jim grabbed hold of the life vest and held tight. Every fiber of every muscle in his body seemed to tear at once. He felt his head go light. He saw stars. “Sharon, get him!”

  “I’ve got him,” she called from below. “Rico, you’re on the first rung, baby, keep moving.”

  Jim felt the load lighten as Rico began his descent. He watched Sharon guide his feet to the second rung…then the third. He held onto the life preserver as long as he could and then let go. Rico moved slowly, huffing and puffing, each breath more labored than the last, but he finally made it far enough down the ladder for Sharon to wrap both of her arms around him for support. Jim breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You’re doing good,” Sharon said. “Just a few more steps.” Rico suddenly stopped and held tight. “Keep moving,” Sharon demanded. “I can’t support you for long.”

  “I know, but I, I ca…ca…n’t…b..b..breathe.”

  “Rico, you have to keep moving.”

  “I...ca…can’t...”

  “Jim, he’s falling. Help me!”

  Rico went limp. His legs buckled. His hands slipped free. Sharon grunted as his full weight fell dead against her chest.

  “Jim,” she screamed. “I’m slipping!”

  Jim dropped to the deck and leaned over the side. He strained to reach for the life vest. He grabbed it just as Sharon’s hands slipped free. He held tight, but he might as well have been holding onto a truck. Their combined weight was just too much. His insides began to rip from their seams. Unimaginable pain shot through his belly and chest. He strained to hang on but couldn’t. “Sharon,” he yelled. “I can’t—”

  Jim’s fingers strained until they could take no more. He lost his grip on the life vest, and Rico and Sharon fell backwards and dropped the last six feet to the ground. They hit the gravel with a thud. Jim heard a grunt. Rico lay still. Sharon lay beneath him, gasping.

  “Oh, Gaaawd. Jiiim,” she said straining. “Get him oooff.”

  Jim swallowed the intense pain and tucked his cast against his side. He climbed down the ladder, a rung at a time, gasping, almost falling once himself before finally touching down. He grabbed Rico’s arm and pulled. Sharon grunted and pushed. Rico’s inert body rolled off and lay still on the ground beside her.

  Jim dropped to his knees panting. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” she said inhaling deeply. “Just…let me breathe…for a minute.”

  “Aw,come on!” Jim exclaimed. “Isn’t anything easy?”

  Sharon just grunted. Jim spotted his knife lying on the ground. He fought the stars competing for his vision and crawled over to pick it up. Then he crawled to Rico’s side and hacked away the life preserver straps and then the front of his shirt. He ripped away the cloth. The wound from the blast looked even worse than he had imagined. Three of the pellets had found their mark, puncturing his chest wall and breaking a rib. He knew he had to move fast. “Keep an eye on him, Sharon.” He stood
on shaky legs and glanced around the yard. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find a hose.”

  “A hose?” Sharon coughed. “Are you thinking what I think you are?”

  “Yep.”

  Jim leaned against the hull of the old boat for a moment and then took off limping for the rusty tin shack he spotted in the back of the lot next to the fence. It looked completely surrounded by junk. Sheet metal. Paint cans. Wood scraps. A torn plastic tarp. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. He would have given everything he owned just to lie down and take a break, but Rico was dying, Val was still missing, and with J-Rock on the loose there was no telling what might happen. He hurried toward the junk pile, praying, limping, pushing ahead like a weak old man. He began sifting through the debris, cautiously at first, and then with reckless abandon, tossing aside pieces of junk to get into the pile.

  “A hose,” he murmured. “All I need is a hose.”

  Two coils of tattered rope. Scraps of plywood. More paint cans. Jim lifted a ragged brown tarp and found what he was looking for, a green garden hose coiled up like a snake.

  “Gotcha.”

  He grabbed the hose and ran back over. Sharon had the remainder of Rico’s tee shirt ripped away. Jim knelt and examined the injured area just beneath the armpit. The rib cage clicked and scraped with each attempted breath.

  “Here,” Jim said, handing Sharon one end of the hose. “Hold this.” He placed the serrated edge of J-Rock’s knife against the hose and cut off about a one-foot section, then he placed the tip of the blade against Rico’s side. “Sorry, pal.”

  Jim thrust the knife into Rico’s side, beneath the armpit between the fourth and fifth ribs. Rico grunted slightly but otherwise gave no response. A small trickle of blood flowed from the wound as Jim withdrew the knife.

  “Push it in, Sharon.”

  Sharon fed the one-foot section of hose about three inches into the opening. There was a deep gushing sound. A small river of rich red blood flowed from the end of the hose.

  “Hey,” Sharon said. “It worked.”