The Shop

by J. Carson Black

  Then Jolie felt something zing past, split a leaf in two, and explosions of dirt all around her.

  Someone was shooting at her.

  Landry had half expected fire on Jolie’s position. He’d given her the second-best sniper position, hoped that whoever was left on the island would concentrate his fire on the obvious choice. But the man was thorough.

  Thorough, but vulnerable.

  The fire came from the hedge at the side of the main house, closest to the cabanas. Landry made his way around until he was behind the shooter.

  He hoped Jolie had not panicked. If she lay flat on the ground and remained concealed, odds were good she would not be hit.

  He’d planned to take the guy out quietly. Instead, he shot the man from a distance to keep him from killing Jolie. He understood this was an emotional thing—he wanted the cop to stay alive. Not the smartest thing he ever did.

  Now he’d drawn attention to his location and had open space to cross.

  He made it across and grabbed up the AR-15. The magazine was empty. The helo began to rise. The pilot had created the distraction and now was done.

  Landry fired his own rifle at the helo but missed. He headed toward the causeway, staying hidden wherever he could.

  Jolie clung to the ground like a limpet. Head down, eyes closed, like the ostrich with its head in the sand. Fire only raked the ground near her once, before she realized the majority of the fire rippled off to the left, twenty yards away.

  No matter how terrifying an experience, no matter how great the fear that quicksilvered through your system and shattered everything in its path, it could not last for long. Abject terror could not sustain itself at that level forever. At first, when the fire raked her position, Jolie had flattened out and put her head down and prayed. She felt as if Edward Scissorhands was chopping his way around her. Finally she realized the danger was past, and the bullets were hitting elsewhere.

  They didn’t know she was here.

  They were guessing.

  They’d fired on her position because it was a logical place to set up as a sniper. Now the shooting had stopped. The helicopter flew away.

  But what did it mean? Had they given up?

  It could be a trap. She decided to stay where she was, meld even more into the earth. The rain spattered the bushes and flowers and ferns and her windbreaker, her dark windbreaker that fit in with whatever shadows there were in this gray expanse of nothing.

  If the helicopter came back, she would aim for the rotors and blow it out of the sky.

  The SUV was parked on the road just beyond the gatehouse, already turned around for a quick escape.

  Landry saw no movement. He guessed they were already on the island. He figured the driver of the SUV had rendezvoused with the helo farther up the coast, and Cardamone had come with the driver. For the second time, they’d used the helo as a distraction, tried to drive him into the open. It didn’t work, but the helo had slowed him down.

  Now he had to figure where they would go.

  Plenty of options, but he thought Cardamone and the SUV driver would try the tunnels. That was what he himself would do.

  The entrance closest to the causeway was the octagon house.

  He retraced his steps to the cabana pool house.

  Landry still didn’t know how many there were. Three down. Best-case scenario, there was only Cardamone, the driver of the SUV, and the pilot. The pilot would be busy flying the helo.

  In the little cupboard that led into the pool house, he radioed Jolie.

  “They shot at me,” she said.

  “You’re all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Time to get them out of the tunnel,” he said.

  “Now? I don’t want to get shot at again.”

  “The man who shot at you won’t be shooting anymore.”

  A pause. “You want me to go get them now?”

  “Five minutes ago. There’s a Carolina skiff at the dock the bad guys came in—you can take that.”

  “We don’t have a key.”

  “I brought it around to the dock—the engine’s running. Just go.”

  “You mean we could have gotten them out earlier? We could have gotten away?”

  Her response annoyed him. He didn’t expect her to understand the mission, but he wished she wouldn’t waste time assigning guilt.

  “Roger,” he said, and clicked off.

  Then he waited at the mouth of the tunnel.

  If luck was with him, they would pass by.

  And he would be behind them.

  Turned out, it was one man and he came from above and behind.

  Landry did not hear him.

  Lifted off his feet in what felt like a massive explosion, Landry hit the ground on his right shoulder with an awful crunching sound.

  He’d been hit—the sound of the gunshot came less than a second after impact.

  He lay still and hoped the man would come to him.

  Luck was with him. When the man reached down to check Landry’s neck, he snared the hand, whipped around, and braced it against his chest, bending back two fingers till they broke. The man screamed. Holding his quarry’s head steady with his bad arm, Landry shoved the palm of his good hand into the man’s nose, dissolving the small bones inside and ramming the shards into his brain.

  The shooter crumpled to the floor, an empty vessel.

  At that moment, everything went out of him. Adrenaline deserted him, leaving him lightheaded. He felt as if he’d been stomped—it was so debilitating he could barely move. As if he’d been kicked in the balls, only his balls extended all the way up to his neck. His back was burned. He could picture it, glowing embers threaded into the Kevlar of his vest, branding the skin. If anyone else came down here now, he would be easy to kill.

  He pulled the .45 out of its holster with his left hand and rested it on his knee.

  Heard a noise behind him.

  Swiveled, shot into the dark above.

  Someone yelled, toppled. Landry stared into the darkness, but could see nothing. He thought this was because he was in shock. Darkness encroached on his vision. He felt dizzy. He heard slithering above, and the sound of someone rising ponderously to his feet. Cursing.

  He was incapable of doing anything—just waited for the coup de grâce.

  But whoever it was blundered away, out through the cupboard. Scared, maybe, of what he might find down here?

  The darkness pulsed at the edges of Landry’s vision, and pain radiated from his collarbone—the crunch he’d heard. His right arm was useless. His left hand had dropped the .45 and lay against his thigh, trembling. He stood up and leaned against the wall. It took him three tries to pick up his rifle and his duffle.

  Then he dropped them and sank down against the wall of the tunnel.

  Rest a while.

  There was no one waiting for them at the skiff. The idling engine seemed loud even in the falling rain, obvious. Jolie herded everyone into the cover of the boathouse, told them to stay still.

  Get the old man on first? He would be the most recalcitrant. She touched his arm. “We’ve got to go,” she said gently.

  He stared at her, bewildered. “I have to go to the potty.”

  Zoe said, “Grand, we have to go. It’ll be fun. Like when you used to take us sailing.”

  He smiled at Zoe. “You keeping an eye on Riley? Don’t you let her get knocked up.”

  Zoe put her hand under his elbow. “We’ve got to go, Grand.”

  He let himself to be led toward the boat.

  Jolie heard a noise behind them.

  Something dark in the rain, slithering like a lizard along the wall of the boathouse—a man, breaking abruptly from the overhang and running for the boat. Shoving Franklin, Franklin turning to grab him, pulling at the black pullover the man wore. The man was bloody, and Jolie couldn’t see a gun.

  But she saw the knife.

  The man seized Zoe around the arms and catapulted her along the dock, pulling
her against him with such force her head hit his chest, and the knife carved a shadow into her throat.

  Zoe’s eyes were wild, terrified. “Mom—”

  “Shut up!”

  Franklin yelled, “Mike! Don’t do this, she’s just a kid!”

  The man pulled Zoe closer to his body, her hair tangling around his arm as he propped her chin up. Jolie saw the neat red line on her throat.

  “Stay back!” he yelled, breathing hard, his hand moving with each exhale, the knife sawing a little against Zoe’s neck.

  Franklin approached him, slowly, hands out, as if trying to quiet a cornered animal. “Mike, let’s talk about this. We’ve been friends for—”

  “Shut up!” He shuffled backward, wrenching Zoe’s arm behind her back, almost jerking her off her feet.

  There was a sound, an almost inaudible crunch, and Zoe screamed.

  Her arm was broken.

  Jolie felt darkness coming down over her eyes—anger—and for a moment she lost track of what she was doing. Already in the stance, the H & K solidly in her hand, the other hand cupped around it, her finger near the trigger but not yet on it. “Drop the knife!” she yelled. “Do it now!”

  A perverse part of her wanted him to defy her so she could shoot him between the eyes. She’d never in her life wanted to shoot anyone so much as she wanted to shoot the coward who had broken Zoe’s arm.

  And he was laughing. “This isn’t a cop show,” he said. “You stay right where you are. Just…stay. Right there.”

  He moved backward in an awkward dance, and Jolie saw blood seeping through his fingers. Zoe’s face was pale under the veil of rain that seemed to get stronger, washing the blood into rivulets down her shirt.

  Her eyes boring into Jolie’s: Help me.

  The girl was terrified and in incredible pain from the broken arm, but she managed to hold it together. Putting her trust in Jolie. Believing there would be a good outcome, that she would come out of this alive.

  Jolie wasn’t so sure.

  Cardamone was at the edge of the dock now, his legs touching the gunwale of the skiff.

  “Let her go,” Frank said. “Just let her go and—”

  “Frank, you are such an asshole. You think I’m going to give up my only ace in the hole?” Cardamone smiled, but it was more of a grimace. “Tell you what, buddy. How about a trade—you for her. Get in the boat now, and when we’re away, I’ll push her in the water.”

  Franklin went pale. “Mike, can’t we just—”

  “Get in the boat, Frank. Show some guts for once in your life. Do the right thing. Isn’t that the legacy you want to leave your family? Grace is dead, Franklin, you fucking pansy. Don’t you think it’s time for you to make a decision about what kind of man you are?”

  Frank stepped forward. Riley grabbed him. “Daddy, don’t! He’s just trying to get you to go with him.”

  Franklin seemed dazed. He looked at his daughter. “But what about Zoe?”

  “She’ll be all right. Won’t you, Zoe?”

  Jolie listened to this drama with half an ear. She adjusted her grip, felt the delicate trigger mechanism with her fingertip. Less than two pounds of pressure, all she needed. Cardamone staring at her. Nothing between them. He adjusted his grip on Zoe so that the tip of her head touched his nose.

  Take all the anger out of it. All the emotion. Just make the shot.

  She could make the shot. But suddenly, the dock swayed. Franklin walked forward, tramping on the wood.

  Wait.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something moving in the hard-lapping waves by the boat’s stern—washed-up debris, probably. The boat tossed, banging hard against the dock. It would be hard for Cardamone to step into the boat, but he was trying to do just that.

  He lifted one leg and rested it on the gunwale. The boat tipping. The stern whacking repeatedly against the dock. He leaned forward awkwardly, almost losing his balance.

  Jolie saw her moment slipping away. She couldn’t shoot him now, not with the boat rocking, not with Zoe’s head clamped under the man’s chin.

  “Mike,” Frank said. “Be reasonable.”

  “Get in the boat, Frank.”

  Franklin stepped onto the dock. Riley screamed at him. “Don’t! Daddy, don’t do it! Please, don’t do it! Daddy, please!”

  Franklin was at the edge of the boat now. He reached a hand out to steady Zoe, who was in danger of falling between the boat and the dock, the knife now pinching deep into her skin. Another seep of blood.

  Franklin lifted his leg to step into the boat. “Let me get her on the dock—”

  Suddenly, automatic gunfire rattled from the direction of the boathouse. Everyone stopped—a tableau. Jolie swung around, gun trained on the flash of gunfire coming from the dark, her calculation split into tenths of a second—

  And fired. Three times. Something fell hard in the darkness, and she heard the clatter of the rifle as it hit the deck and let out one more burst of gunfire before falling silent.

  A moment of shocked silence, and then she heard Frank say, “Mike, can’t you see it’s over?”

  She swung her H & K back in their direction, saw Frank standing in the boat.

  In an instant, Cardamone plunged his knife into Franklin’s side. Franklin staggered backward and sat down, fell over the gunwale and into the water. Surfaced, his face a mask of shock.

  At the same moment, Cyril erupted from the water on the opposite side, pulling Cardamone’s legs out from under him—just as Jolie shot again.

  She’d hit Cardamone, but not in the head as she’d expected. Cardamone grabbed at his chest—Kevlar—and he kicked backwards at the same time, catching Cyril in the jaw. Kicked again, connecting hard, Cyril slipping back, sinking into the water, clawing for the boat with the bad arm still wrapped in duct tape. Zoe tried to clamber back to the safety of the dock, but the skiff surged backwards as Cardamone hit reverse. The dock line grew taut, and the boat heeled around in an unexpected shallow turn, the engine revving to a loud mosquito whine.

  Cyril climbed up again, hoisting himself over the gunwale, and Cardamone hit him hard across the face with the paddle. Cyril fell backward into the water, and Jolie saw with horror he was too near the boat’s propellers. She couldn’t see, couldn’t tell what was happening in the churning water. But she could hear his yell. Like the teeth of an electric saw, it tore through her and kept her bolted to the ground. Jolie had a clear shot now, but when she squeezed the trigger the magazine was empty.

  Cardamone grabbed the dock line and started sawing through it with his knife, one hand on the wheel, pulling the boat in a circle that Jolie didn’t think was entirely planned. She rushed the boat just as it pulled away, the water churning up silt and bark and foam, the engine screaming now. “Zoe!” she yelled. “Jump.”

  Zoe struggled in Cardamone’s grip, her face a mask of pain. Blood leaked from her wound. Using her good hand, she pulled herself to a standing position just as the boat pulled the line free and catapulted forward, as if by slingshot. Zoe fell across the gunwale, her broken arm flopping like a ragdoll’s. Jolie could see the protruding bone.

  The boat shot out into the bay.

  Jolie heard Franklin yelling, turned to look at him.

  He was still holding his side, blood blotting through, his face pale. But he sat at the stern of the family’s old skiff, hand on the tiller, ready to pull away from the dock. Jolie got into the boat. “Head them off at an angle,” she shouted, and they took off.

  Spray hit Jolie in the face as she tried to see through the rain and her wind-driven tears. They hit the Carolina skiff’s wake, a thumping, punishing washboard, but Franklin’s steering was steady despite his obvious pain.

  Wounded himself, Cardamone was having trouble keeping the boat steady, running a zigzag course taking him back in the direction of the island—only fifty yards out.

  Then he seemed to straighten out. It looked like he would get past them, but abruptly he veered back in their direction
. Jolie saw why—Zoe was fighting him at the console, her good arm fighting for the wheel, and now the boat was right in their path.

  Cardamone tried to turn again, but Franklin held steady until the last moment, when he turned slightly—clipping the Carolina skiff a glancing blow. Little more than a kiss, but Cardamone overcorrected, and the boat leaped in midair, coming down hard.

  Everything happened in slow motion, as accidents do. Cardamone seemed to fly up like a jack-in-the-box, smashing against the console with a smack before cartwheeling into the water. Zoe was gone.

  Franklin heeled the boat in a tight circle.

  Jolie scanned the water, straining for any sign of Zoe.

  “Anything?” Franklin’s voice carried the thin edge of panic.

  Twenty yards away, Zoe resurfaced, clinging to the flotation cushion. “There she is!”

  They needed to get as close to her as possible to see if they could pull her into the boat. Jolie needed to be ready to go in.

  As their skiff made another tight circle, Jolie pulled off her shoes and stripped down to her underwear. “You okay, Frank?”

  “I’m okay,” he said, although he spoke through gritted teeth. “But where’d she go?”

  The cushion was there, but Zoe was gone.

  Then she heard thrashing. It was Cardamone, holding on to a life preserver at ten o’clock. His face was a bloody mess.

  As she watched, he dropped from view.

  Pulled under?

  She thought she’d seen—later she would come to believe it was just her imagination—something distinctly un-shark-like in the instant before Cardamone disappeared.

  Jolie thought she saw an arm, a dull silver arm, wrapped around Cardamone’s neck.

  Cardamone’s head bobbed up once more, his mouth wide open as he screamed. He was yanked under the whitecaps in a bloody froth. He did not resurface.

  But Cyril was dead; she’d seen him go under the propellers.

  Joe scanned the water again. “Frank, I think she’s over there.” She pointed in the direction they’d drifted from.

  Then she spotted her—just a glimpse before the waves closed over her head, not twenty yards away.

  Frank maneuvered the boat closer. Jolie stepped on the gunwale and launched herself off the boat.