by Steve Richer
Barlow, the chief engineer, had to sidestep even though he was far enough not to be hit. It was more of a reflex of disgust.
“You okay, Captain?”
The older man didn’t reply. Instead, he produced a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. The two men were silent aboard the Jersey Devil. They were being rocked by the waves, not particularly worried that the anchors would give. It wasn’t their first storm.
What was more worrying was the radio communication they had just eavesdropped on. This troublemaker—Bricks—was still alive and he’d been able to get in touch with the authorities.
“We’re okay for now,” Barlow said.
“I know. At this speed, the hurricane won’t be out of the way for another six hours.”
“At least.”
“But the Coast Guard will be here eventually. Maybe the Bahamas Defence Force will be here sooner than that.”
“I actually doubt that, Captain.”
Nemec looked at the engineer. “You want to take that risk?”
“Nobody can prove that we were paid off, that we helped with this… this mess. We can stay right here and pretend we didn’t know anything.”
As if on cue, both men glanced at the ground where blood would forever stain the carpet. They had gotten rid of the stewards’ bodies, thrown them overboard, but there was ample evidence of what had happened if anyone looked close enough.
“We can’t take that risk, Barlow. Maybe we won’t get a chance to escape if the authorities get here first.”
“But…”
“I made a new life for myself after the fall of the Berlin Wall. I can start again and so can you. We have money from our down payments, we have this ship, we have to take our chances.”
“Captain, you really want to set sail in the middle of a hurricane?”
Nemec came closer, taking the engineer by the shoulders. “It’s the only way we can get away clean. Besides, this is just a little drizzle,” he added, pointing through the windows at the pouring rain. “With your engines and my experience, we’ll be out of the weather in two hours. Tomorrow night, we’ll be safe in Venezuela. What do you say?”
Barlow was quiet for several seconds before he nodded. “Okay, let’s do it!”
The engineer hurried down to his station and as soon as he was gone, Nemec threw up again.
~ ~ ~ ~
The rain was getting louder as the door opened behind Rogan. He sprang to his feet and drew the pistol. He noticed for the first time that it was a Fabrique Nationale FNP-9, a very reliable gun.
The first thought running through his head was that it was Gina. She was a stubborn woman and it would fit her character to dismiss his orders of remaining in hiding to join him. Hell, if the situation was reversed, he might have done the same.
Rogan had a little bit of control issues when the shit hit the fan and he liked to know that he was in the middle of things. Perhaps it was the same for her? She certainly fit the profile. Even though the hike had been gruesome—in this weather to boot—he was confident that she was the type of person who could tough it out.
He opened his mouth to speak, taking a step toward the door, when it dawned on him that the odds of this being as benign as he imagined were slim to none. Occam’s razor, right? Always assume that the simplest explanation is the correct one.
And right now, there was only one person chasing after him on this godforsaken island.
“Don’t you fucking move!” Rogan shouted over the torrential rain, raising his pistol.
At the exact same moment, the door was halfway in. The figure wasn’t slight in the least. It was a man, someone imposing. Someone holding an assault rifle. Blake.
He didn’t say anything at first, merely aiming his own weapon at Rogan. The two of them were in a standoff. Whoever shot first was likely to spell the end for both of them, and they knew it.
“It’s too late, Blake. The Coast Guard is on the way.”
“Not in a hurricane, they’re not.”
“They have a cutter in the vicinity. First chance they have, they’re sending a rescue chopper. You’re aware that the US Coast Guard is now a branch of the Armed Forces, right? Armed being the operative word.”
“Pansies with water pistols,” Blake replied, completely still.
“You ever see a man chewed up by an M240 machine gun?”
“Angus beef.”
Rogan nodded behind the sights of the pistol. “Let’s avoid that, shall we? Put down the rifle and let’s call it a night.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Come on, don’t tell me that you’re not tired of all this crap. I’m really looking forward to going back to the big house, have some free champagne, and ride this thing out. I tell you what, if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you go.”
“You’ll let me go?” This was the first sign of Blake being surprised.
“Absolutely,” Rogan said. “I will personally escort you to the beach and you can swim out into the night.”
Blake snorted. Two minutes in the ocean, in these conditions, it was enough to kill anyone. He almost smiled, respecting this unwavering threat.
“I’m going to have to respectfully decline.”
His finger was inside the trigger guard, applying pressure. Rogan did the same. Whoever shot first would win.
The other would be dead.
Chapter 46
“Put the gun down,” Rogan barked.
He was hoping that his tone of voice would be enough to defuse the situation. Through his years in the Marine Corps and later at the FBI, he had learned firsthand that a sharp order was often more effective than a weapon or a punch. Most people submitted easily under the faintest threat.
But, of course, Blake was a different animal. He was an experienced mercenary. For every maneuver Rogan could throw at him, Blake would know the countermove.
And so both men remained in a deadly standoff.
“You shoot me, I shoot you, Blake. Ever see the movie WarGames? There’s no way either of us can win and we can’t tic-tac-toe our way out of this.” The older man remained impassive. “You have no idea what movie I’m referring to, do you? Matthew Broderick, Ally Sheedy, that sweet NORAD mountain bunker? Pfft, you have no culture.”
Rogan found that the longer he talked, the more time he bought. He needed that time more than anything else. He was in a small room, covered by an assault rifle that had a rate of fire of eight hundred rounds per minute. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. And Rogan was the fish.
It was really a game of chicken. Whoever blinked first would get killed and the odds weren’t in Rogan’s favor. Blake was outside the shack, able to dive away any second to avoid retaliation in case he wasn’t successful. So what Rogan had to do was wait for an opening.
“Even if you kill me, you’re not getting away with this. You know that, right? I told the Coast Guard who you were.”
“I doubt it,” Blake replied, calling his bluff.
“I’m with the FBI. They know I’m here investigating Sabatini. They’re gonna ransack this island looking for clues, pulling out the goddamn palm trees root by root until they have the evidence they need. They’ll figure it out about Raymond.”
“Bullshit.”
“They’ll figure out that this boy is no Nobel Prize material. There’s going to be a paper trail a mile long linking him to you. They’ll find the money, they’ll find you. It’s only a question of time before they nab you.”
For the first time, Rogan knew he’d hit a nerve. It was in the way Blake squinted. It was faint, like he was doing his damnedest to appear nonchalant, but it was there. He was doubting himself.
This had to be the opening Rogan had been waiting for. He took off the slack in the trigger and prepared to shoot first. However, something changed everything.
Blake’s right ankle swiveled inward, digging into the dirt. He was bracing for the M4’s recoil. He was about to kill Rogan.
Terror and adrenaline surging through
him, Rogan threw himself to the side and pulled the trigger. This happened at the precise moment as Blake did the same.
A volley of three shots destroyed the radio, sending shards of glass and cheap metal flying through the shack. Rogan fired twice, but Blake was already jumping out of the way.
The mercenary peeked in and fired another three-round burst before popping out, but again Rogan was shuffling sideways to avoid getting shot.
Jesus Christ…
He fought his urge to run backwards because there was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to hide. So instead he ran ahead, toward danger. He went to the door and slammed it shut.
But before he could lock it, Blake started pushing back against it. It was a reverse tug-of-war, two men of even strength fighting for their lives.
Rogan was wrong though. They weren’t of even strength. Blake was stronger. Even though his feet had to be siding against the mud, he managed to push the door in a few inches. It shouldn’t have mattered except that it was enough for him to thrust in the muzzle of his rifle.
He squeezed the trigger twice and six rounds exploded through the shack, ricocheting against the walls and floor. Rogan was so startled that he let go of the door, tumbling back.
The door opened some more and as Rogan hit the ground, he aimed forward and up, shooting half a dozen rounds at Blake who was coming to finish him off.
Rogan was thinking about his options faster than he ever had. The problem was that there weren’t any options. The radio was out of commission. The HK rifle had been hit by a ricochet. It was on the ground and would still probably work. The problem was that the time it would take to scamper to it would be long enough for the mercenary to finish him off.
There was only one option available. The boarded up window.
Unwilling to waste time, Rogan aimed at the window and fired three times straight in the middle. It was to break the glass as much as to destroy any latching mechanism on the shutters. Wood splintered.
Just as he climbed to his feet, the door opened again, Blake appearing with the carbine propped against his shoulder.
He ignored him and gathered all the strength he could muster to jump through the window. Then shots echoed through the shack, the thunderous carnage of the hurricane unable to muffle the sounds. Bullets were whizzing by, yet miraculously missed him by millimeters.
His head and shoulders ramming into the shutters wasn’t unlike falling directly on the pavement from three stories high. The wind didn’t help, pushing the shutters against him, making the endeavor that much more difficult. But his forward momentum was more powerful and he passed through the opening.
He had a bastard of a headache, feeling woozy, disoriented. This was accentuated as he leapt through the air, into the rain and wind, and twisted like a pinwheel before he hit the drenched, muddy grass. The broken glass left a dozen scratches and cuts on his neck and arms. But he was alive.
He was fucking alive!
And yet he wouldn’t be for long if he didn’t move fast, he knew that. Life was a game of seconds, of split moments decisions. Your future was rarely established because of a drawn out decision-making process. Nine times out of ten, it was how you reacted to a bad situation in the blink of an eye that spelled out your destiny.
Rogan shook the cobwebs away and stood up. He was on one side of the shack while Blake was on the other. A simple corner separated them. This time he had a chance to run away. It was tempting.
Hazarding a glance back, Rogan saw the thick jungle which concealed the downward slope. He had an escape route for once. Everything in his body was screaming for him to run away. It was so easy, maybe even fate.
On the other hand, after everything that had happened tonight, Rogan wanted to finish this once and for all. He didn’t want to hide. He didn’t want to be forced to live with the fear of being ambushed again. He was done being trapped. It was time to cowboy the hell up.
He was astounded that he was still holding on tightly to the pistol. But how many shots had been fired? He had lost count. The FNP-9 had a sixteen-round capacity magazine. He figured he was down at least half of that. More?
Taking measured steps and aiming the weapon forward, Rogan pressed his back against the wall of the shack and advanced. He didn’t have as much firepower as the mercenary, but at least now they operated in similar conditions.
He took a deep breath, flexed his knees, and rounded the corner.
Blake was taken aback, but he was prepared. He squeezed off a three-round burst just as Rogan fired twice. Both attacks were ineffective and both men retreated.
Only for a second.
Rogan threw himself forward around the corner, rolling on himself, and coming to a stop on his knees. In ideal conditions, it distracted your enemy and gave you the opportunity to kill him.
The problem was that Blake had also been coming on the offensive. What happened was that they found themselves face to face, their muzzles only inches away from each other’s heads.
Rogan was the first to pull the trigger, but the mercenary had been expecting it.
Chapter 47
Blake parried the gun away, sending it off to the side. Not to be outdone, Rogan did the same with the carbine. He grabbed the barrel and pushed it off as far as he could.
“You son of a bitch…”
Blake head-butted Rogan. When performed well, you could break your opponent’s nose and win the fight. Right now the movement was simply too rushed.
It cranked up Rogan’s headache to eleven, but didn’t do any permanent damage. If anything, it gave him a chance to retaliate. He wrung the rifle out of Blake’s hand and went to grab him by the windpipe, just as he had done with Omega.
Only Blake was a seasoned veteran. He blocked his hand and lunged at Rogan. Both men fell onto the ground with a thud and the impact made Rogan lose his pistol.
Shit.
Blake punched Rogan on the side and at the first opportunity punched him again, this time in the face.
The pain was excruciating. This said, pain was just a feeling, Rogan told himself. You could dismiss it if you tried hard enough. If your goals were clear. And right now his goal was to end this.
He struggled to get out from under Blake, but the man had him pinned down. He kicked, hoping his knees would connect with the mercenary’s groin. It didn’t. There was no room to maneuver. He was just flailing helplessly.
Waiting to die.
But no, this couldn’t be allowed. Rogan decided he wouldn’t die in a place called Murder Island. He gazed up at Blake who was as stoic as ever, his jaw square as he tried to choke his enemy. What could Rogan do against this?
You had to be smarter, more resourceful. That’s how you stayed alive. He’d been Force Recon, for chrissakes. He’d been selected not because he’d been a strong thug. No, the training cadre had drilled into everyone’s skull that the reason they’d been chosen was that they were smart.
That’s when Rogan caught the glint of a blade. There was a combat knife strapped to Blake’s chest.
In one fell swoop, Rogan went for it. He unsnapped it from the vest and drew it out. The motion alarmed Blake and he eased the pressure off his quarry.
“Fuck!”
Rogan slashed against Blake’s throat, but the older man threw himself backwards to avoid certain death. The moment of relief was the sweetest three seconds Rogan had tasted in months.
Changing tactics, Blake scurried to his rifle, slowly sinking into the sludge. There was no time to waste. Rogan got up and ran to him, kicking the weapon away.
However, this time Blake was ready. He punched Rogan in the face and once more on the wrist, making him lose the knife. Now it was time to make a decision. They each felt the gravity of their predicament. They could either dive for their weapons or fight to the death.
They both made different choices.
Blake headed toward the M4 while Rogan figured his pistol was too far away to risk. So this time he jumped on the mercenary.
They
weren’t at the same spot as they’d been though. By now, they were on the far left of the shack and the landscape sloped down abruptly. In addition, the ground was gorged with water. It was unstable and difficult to maneuver on even though Rogan was willing to risk it.
It was the wrong move.
As he crashed into Blake, they both landed sideways into the mud. The impact made them slide down three feet and just as Rogan wound up to deliver a hopefully life-ending blow to his adversary, the mud fell away underneath them.
“Ugh!” Rogan yelped as he felt the situation slip out of his control.
He was sliding down the hill. Digging his heels did nothing to stop him. It didn’t even slow him down. He reached sideways, doing his best to grab onto something, anything. Grass slithered through his fingers. Branches and palm fronds zoomed right past.
He found himself twisting and turning, going down the hill faster and faster. Weeds and branches flogged his skin, adding another layer of pain. Coming into his field of vision was Blake. He was similarly afflicted. He was sliding down the hill and unable to stop.
Fifty feet…
Hundred feet…
A hundred yards!
Suddenly, everything came to a stop. The ground swelled up, creating a gutter with a three-foot high wall of dirt. The area was filled with water and stopped Rogan cold.
Exhausted, he sat up so he wouldn’t drown and climbed to his feet. There was water up to his knees. Just as he was getting his bearings, Blake skidded into him, sending both of them underwater.
Adrenaline spiked and, as much as Rogan wanted to leap on the mercenary and push him down until he drowned, the instinct of survival took over. Besides, they were both out of breath and needed time to recuperate before they went at it again.
Rogan stared at him as he panted. They wanted each other dead, but could barely summon the energy to stay upright. Still, it was now or never. It had to end.
The moment Rogan took a step toward the mercenary, Blake did the same. They met in the middle of the makeshift pond. They didn’t have time to grapple, though. The moment they came within inches of one another, the ground disappeared from underneath them.
