Reese glanced back to see if the Coast Guard would offer any assistance, but they were still engaged with the remnants of resistance aboard the partially sunk first attack boat. "Why aren’t they doing anything?" Reese growled in frustration.
"Why aren't we doing anything?" Jo demanded from the bow as she spun the machine gun around to take aim at the big yacht.
Reese pointed at the massive white boat as it powered parallel to them on an intercept course with the ferry full of screaming people. "Because we can't take the firepower they’re packing, even with that gun you have!”
A few people aboard the ferry returned fire at the quickly approaching luxury yacht but had little effect. The crackle of gunfire rolled back and forth between the two boats as Reese and Byron attempted to get their little flotilla out of the crossfire.
"Jo, we don't know anything about what's going on here," Reese pleaded. “Do we know the people on that yacht are the bad guys? How do we know they're not just a bunch of survivors trying to take back what's theirs?"
"You mean like the people on that ferry?” Jo said as she pointed at the ferry, which now sported a plume of black smoke.
"I don't know!" Reese hollered. “That’s the problem—maybe they kidnapped a bunch of people? The last time we got involved in local problems, you almost got killed and—“
"Open your eyes!” Jo snapped. “This isn’t Boston, and those people were fleeing for their lives! Why are you so afraid to do anything? We practically burned Long Island to the ground—“
A heavy rat-tat-tat-tat-tat from the twin pintle-mounted M2s aboard the cutter cut through their argument as the little vessel launched itself toward the luxury yacht and smashed through the floating debris in the water.
The attackers on the yacht finally took notice of the two sailboats, and some of them turned and targeted Intrepid and Tiberia. Jo ducked as a bullet ricocheted off the bow. "Well, if we’re not gonna fight, get us out of here," she shrieked. "We’re sittin’ ducks!"
“Hang on!” Reese spun the wheel hard over to port in an attempt to get them away from the yacht.
"What do you think I'm doing up here?" Jo yelled back.
A bullet sparked off the boom above Reese’s head and he ducked. “Dadgummit! Get off my back!" he hollered over his shoulder at the men on the yacht. As much damage as the heavy machine gun mounted on the deck of the cutter inflicted upon the luxury yacht, dozens of people poured fire from small arms toward the white patrol boat.
It only took a moment of the withering incoming fire for the cutter to turn and attempt to disengage.
Reese shook his head as the yacht gunned its engines and turned to give chase. All the fighters lining the railings cheered as they renewed their efforts to turn the Coast Guard boat into Swiss cheese.
Reese watched in horror as he realized the patrol boat was relatively defenseless from the stern. All the heavy weapons were mounted on the front of the boat. The undefended rear was savaged by the incoming motor yacht. The noise was deafening. Reese saw the incoming transmission light on the radio but couldn't hear whatever Byron was saying over the gunfire.
Reese’s mouth turned into a grim line. Jo was right—whatever the people aboard the yacht and the ferry had against one another was none of his business, but when the yacht turned to attack the Coast Guard, they crossed a line. Coasties routinely put their lives on the line for sailors like Reese in the best of times. He’d had to rely on them in a couple bad situations in his sailing career. Reese squared his shoulders—it was time to repay the debt he owed on behalf of all sailors.
The cutter turned in a desperate maneuver to bring the forward guns to bear on the yacht, and as some of the men aboard the yacht took cover, Reese pointed at the exposed pilot house. "Now's your chance Jo! Light that sucker up!"
A wicked grin spread across her weathered face. “It’s about time.” She lined up on the broadside of the yacht's superstructure and unleashed the dragon.
Chapter 2
Lavelle Homestead
Bee’s Landing Subdivision
Northwest of Charleston, South Carolina
Cami Lavelle sat at the kitchen table in her house and stared down at the sobering papers before her. She’d had Mia, Amber, and Mitch walk the neighborhood and check on folks before sunset after the fighting. Now she had a complete list of who was left in Bee’s Landing, what houses had been damaged during the battle, and who had been injured and killed.
Her coffee sat untouched on the table next to the papers. Three people—two men and a woman had been killed. She hadn’t known them personally, but their deaths weighed heavy on her soul. Everyone had turned to her for leadership, and that meant the deaths were on her shoulders. She had decided to take a stand and fight, she had decided to risk the lives of the volunteers…and so she bore the guilt.
Amber walked into the kitchen and Cami looked up, grateful for the distraction. "Good morning, honey," she said softly.
Her daughter frowned. “What's wrong, mom?”
Cami tapped the paper on the table with one finger. "This. These three people would be alive—and seven more wouldn't be injured—if it hadn't been for me saying we should fight…”
Amber came over and hugged Cami. "Stop right there, mom. Don't put this on you. It's not your fault—those guys that rolled in here with those army trucks and tried to steal stuff from us—it's their fault. Never forget that. Everybody knows it’s not your fault."
Gary and Elizabeth entered the kitchen, hand in hand. "Good…morning?"
Elizabeth let go and rushed to Cami’s side. "Cami, what is it?"
"Mom’s on a guilt trip,” Amber reported. “She thinks the people died in the battle because of her.”
"Amber," Cami said sharply.
"What? It's true. You’ve got some kind of hero complex going on," Amber said matter-of-factly. "But it's not your fault. Those…jerks came here looking for a fight—“
“And we gave ‘em one!” Gary said with a clenched fist. "Cami, if you hadn't convinced everybody to stand up and fight, the same thing that happened in Rolling Hills would've happened here: they would've destroyed this place, killed everyone, and taken whatever they wanted." Gary sat down at the table and pointed it at Cami. "You stopped that."
"But—“ Cami began.
"Cami,” Elizabeth said quickly, “every one of those people that joined up to fight volunteered. They knew what was coming, and they knew what was at stake."
Gary leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I suppose this is what military commanders go through when they get into a firefight and lose someone, huh?”
Cami shook her head and fought back the tears that blurred the edges of her vision. "I'm not…this isn’t…”
Amber slapped her hands together and stood. "You know what we need? We need a victory party. We need to lighten the mood around here—yeah, we've had a few people die, but the rest of us are alive, and we should honor the sacrifices they made to protect us!"
"Somebody say party?" asked Mitch as he stumbled into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. "Or was that coffee?"
Amber laughed and moved to the counter. She pulled out coffee mugs from the cabinet and poured some for everyone.
"A party?" Cami gasped. "How can you think of a party at a time like this?"
Amber frowned as she put several mugs of steaming coffee on the table. “How can you not think of partying at a time like this? We’re all alive!"
"Yes, but these people—“ Cami said as she gestured at the papers.
"Not only knew what they were getting into," Elizabeth repeated, "but would be happy to know that their sacrifice allowed us to stay alive another day. How would you feel if you had been one of the ones who'd fallen? If you could know that Amber survived, how would that make you feel?"
Cami put a hand to her mouth and choked back her first shudder of a sob. "I'd be happy…of course," she replied, looking askance at Elizabeth. "But that doesn't change the fact—“
“The
people in this neighborhood need to celebrate—finally something good has happened! For two weeks, we’ve lived under the shadow of fear—fear of the unknown, fear of death, fear of people breaking into our homes in the middle of the night and taking what little we have left." Amber shook her head. "And then the biggest threat of all came into town with a freaking tank…or whatever it was," she said as she waved a hand. "And instead of rolling over and taking it, we stood up and fought back. Hard. We lost three people. Did you look at the count of how many we killed?"
Cami wiped her face and shifted papers. She picked them up and read. "No, I didn't look…oh, my…”
"Yeah—there's 19 people out there from the other side that died trying to take this place,” Amber said as she let the words sink in. "I don't know how many those jokers had to start with, but there's 19 fewer scumbags out there that won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Elizabeth reached out and put a hand on Cami's. "That's 19 animals that won't be threatening parents or won't be taking food from the mouths of starving children. They won't cause death or destruction or terrorize anyone else. Ever. Don't dwell on how many lives were lost on our side, think about how many lives have potentially been saved because of what you did.”
Cami sighed and sat back in her chair. Amber was at her side in a heartbeat and enveloped her mother in a bear hug. "Nobody's perfect, mom, and everybody’s sad that we lost those people…and I'm sure their families are grieving…but if we didn't do anything yesterday, if we didn't stand up and fight, if we let those guys just come in here and take whatever they wanted…”
Gary cleared his throat. "They’d be back. They’d come back the next day, or the day after, or maybe next week. They’d demand more. They’d take more and more until there was nothing left to give, and then they’d burn the place down and kill anybody who fought back. And when they were done with this place, they’d move on like locusts and find the next neighborhood.” He took a deep breath. “No one fought back in Rolling Hills. But we stopped them here." He said as he jabbed his finger on the table for emphasis. "At the very least, like Amber said, there's 19 of those scumbags that'll never get the chance to hurt people again."
Amber stood and adjusted the bandage on her arm where she'd been grazed by a bullet during the battle. "In my opinion, that calls for a celebration. I think it's just what this place needs to lift the somber spirits. We survived!" she said as she worked her way around the table. "We won. We fought—and we’re not a bunch of soldiers, but we still fought, and we won!"
"It might not be such a bad idea after all. Think about it…” Mitch added. “John Douglass brought back a deer from his hunting trip yesterday…”
“There you go!" Amber said as she pointed at Mitch. "We don't have any way of keeping that meat fresh, there's no fridges or freezers—other than ours. It’s gotta be cooked, smoked, or dried…or something."
Mitch nodded. "And John lives by himself, so he's not going to be able to eat all that meat even if he did find a way to somehow preserve it.” Before Amber could jump in again, Mitch raised his hand. "We could have kind of like a block party. Everybody brings something to share—whatever they have, doesn't have to be much—and we all get together and have a big feast to celebrate." He looked at Cami. "We can have a ceremony to remember the dead, like a funeral or wake or something," then he looked at his father. "And then we can celebrate the victory."
"Yes!" Gary said as he took his coffee. "It can be like a potluck…or something…right? We can honor those who fell—”
“Celebrate those who survived…” Mitch added.
“And recognize everything we’ve all sacrificed so far,” Amber finished.
"You might be right," Cami said with a small smile. "Maybe we do kinda need something good to happen after…everything…”
Gary nodded. "It might bring the community closer, you know? We could really get organized."
Cami nodded. "Might be able to set up an election or something to put people in charge other than me…”
"Or we could get other people to help you," Amber said with a smile. "It's our neighborhood, we all should be a part of it. It's not fair that everyone has dumped all the responsibility on you."
Cami shrugged. "To be honest, I was more worried about us—everybody here—than I was about the rest of the neighborhood." She wiped her face again and took a sip of coffee. "Okay then, I guess I'm on board."
"Yes!" Amber and Mitch said as they high-fived each other over the table.
"On one condition," Cami said seriously. All eyes in the room turned to her. "First, we have breakfast, and everybody helps clean up…” She pointed at Mitch. “Everybody."
Mitch laughed. "You got it, Cami-san.”
"And?" asked Amber.
"And…” Cami said as she got up from the table. "I get a chance to go talk this over with Marty."
Amber crossed her arms. "Have you heard from him? I didn't see him much yesterday…and after the fight he kinda…disappeared."
Cami nodded. "He said all the excitement of the battle made him tired, and he just wanted to rest. I checked him out, he wasn’t injured or anything…but I’m a little concerned. He wasn't his normal crotchety self." She thought for a second. "You know what? I'm gonna skip breakfast—you guys enjoy. I’ll go check on Marty—be back in a bit."
"Okay, so we need to figure out how we’re going to do this," Amber said as Cami opened the back door. "We need to split up and spread the word about the party. Me and Mitch can head to the other side of the neighborhood, and I'll go find Mia and her boys and see if they want to take this side," Amber was saying as the door shut behind Cami.
Cami stepped out into the bright sunshine of a new day and sighed. Maybe Amber was right. Maybe they did need a community effort in this, and maybe she didn't have to shoulder all the responsibility herself. But she'd never stop feeling responsible for her daughter, and the people that relied on her—and lived in her house. She'd never give up hope that they would survive. Cami glanced at the blue sky again.
"And I’ll never give up on you, either, Reese. Come home…please…”
Cami took a deep breath and exhaled, then set off to find Marty.
Chapter 3
Lower New York Bay
Off Coney Island, New York
Reese angled Intrepid so that the sailboat crossed the stern of the luxury yacht. Just like the cutter, most of the armed people on the yacht were concentrated at the front of the vessel. Only a few men remained at the back end of the boat, and as a consequence, she decimated the yacht. Each round from the M2 Browning punched a fist-sized hole in the fiberglass hull and siding of the yacht's upper decks. Large tinted windows shattered and the men at the railings dove for cover amid shouts of alarm.
The noise was deafening. It was all Reese could do to hold on to the wheel between the near constant gunfire from the cutter tearing into the front of the yacht, the return fire from the men on the yacht, and Jo spreading destruction across the aft end of the yacht. Shell casings flew from the M2 and bounced off Intrepid's deck to splash into the water. For a split second, Reese worried that some hot shell casings might fall below decks and start a fire, but it was too late—he’d piloted them straight into the mouth of the beast and there was no turning back. The only way they'd survive the fight would be if they won.
Someone in the yacht caught on to Reese's strategy, and despite the threat from the cutter, the yacht began a tight turn. Its engines kicked up a spray of sea foam as the massive yacht started its maneuver.
Reese threw Intrepid's throttle wide open. The dinky little outboard motor couldn't hope to generate the amount of horsepower each half of the pair of engines on the yacht put out, but it was barely enough for Reese to stay—if not directly behind the yacht—then at least off its rear quarter. The longer he could keep the largest concentration of shooters on the yacht pointed toward the Coast Guard vessel, the longer Intrepid might survive the fight.
It was more than a struggle to pilot
the sailboat through the choppy water and debris, all churned up by the yacht’s engines and the patrol boat’s even more powerful engines. Several new holes appeared in the side of Intrepid's hull after a series of sickening thump-thump-thump sounds. Reese wiped prop spray out of his eyes and crouched low to make himself as small a target as possible.
“I’m out!” Jo called. She paused in her unrelenting fire and dropped down into the turret to grab another box of ammo.
"Well, hurry up, because I think you made ‘em mad!" Reese said as he struggled with the wheel when Intrepid slammed into the much bigger boat’s wake. On the other side of the yacht, the Coast Guard patrol boat circled back and let fly with another barrage from the M2s mounted to the foredeck. Whole chunks of the pilot house on the yacht splintered and flew off into the air as the incoming fire ripped the luxury vessel to shreds.
Jo clambered around in the turret as she attempted to reload the glowing machine gun, then cried out sharply and fell to the deck. “I’m hit!”
Time slowed for Reese as he narrowed his eyes and focused on his friend. He didn't see Jo at first, only the spray of red on the white decking around her. Worry spun up in Reese's mind—over Jo’s safety, over the ability of Intrepid to remain in the fight, over the chances of either one of them getting out alive now that the machine gun had been taken out of commission.
Movement off the port bow caught his eye, and Reese turned in time to see Tiberia in slow motion cut between the aft end of the yacht and Intrepid. Byron fired a pistol at the big yacht, while Tony stood in the gaping hole in the foredeck where the National Guardsmen from Camp Echo had chopped up the decking to create bench seating. He fired a blast from the shotgun at point-blank range which did little damage but encouraged the few men on the back end of the yacht to clear the decks.
It was just enough of a respite for Jo to pull herself to her feet, her face ashen. Her mouth formed a wide grimace and her hands shook. Her right hand dripped bright crimson blood, and she swore a blue streak as she reloaded the M2—time-consuming process—and yanked back the charging handle. Jo stepped back into the turret—though to Reese it looked more like she fell into the turret—and screamed something incoherent as she depressed the trigger. The glowing barrel spewed lead, noise, and smoke once more.
Broken Tide | Book 4 | Backflow Page 2
