"Okay, time for plan B," Dodge muttered. "Whatever that is."
The taxi whipped hard to the left, making a sharp turn without slowing, and Dodge was thrown against the passenger side door. The vehicle fishtailed and nearly spun around, but the driver calmly regained control, and steered and accelerated out of the skid. When Dodge lifted his head, he saw that they cab was now charging onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
In desperation, he snatched up the discarded newspaper. He made a tight roll with the damp pulp—tight enough to simulate the barrel of a gun, he hoped—and jabbed it forcefully into the back of the driver's head. "Pull it over friend, or I'll blow your head off."
The driver seemed completely oblivious to the threat; he did not flinch or start, did not even glance in the mirror to see if the object pressed against his skull was indeed a weapon. Dodge pushed the rolled newspaper forward again, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction.
The driver abruptly stomped on the brake pedal and Dodge was hurled forward. His shoulder struck the back of the cabby's head, but the man was as rigid and unyielding as a tree trunk. Dodge's momentum pitched him over the seat and headlong into the windshield.
His next memory was one of pain; half his body slammed into the dashboard, delivering what felt like a head-to-toe bruise, while the rest smashed through the thin windshield, stabbing splinters of glass through his suit pants and jacket. He clutched ineffectively for a handhold as he bounced up and onto the hood of the cab. Before he could shoot forward onto the rain swept bridge deck however, a powerful hand closed around his biceps.
The cab lurched forward again and Dodge was hauled unceremoniously back inside to lie in a heap in the floor well beside the driver. After a few seconds of pure agony, Dodge managed to raise his head and gaze up at the other man. The driver's expression was as impassive as a dead man's, but there was something familiar about the face that stared unblinkingly forward as the vehicle accelerated into the driving rain.
"Hey! You're—"
Dodge didn't get a chance to put his revelation into words. The cab driver, almost without looking, drove a fist into Dodge's upturned face. Dodge twisted his head at the last instant, taking only a glancing strike on the cheek that nonetheless rang through his head like a bell. This time however, he was ready.
He didn't attempt to fight the driver; recognizing the man had been indication enough that such a course of action would be a waste of effort. His only priority was getting out of the car, and to do that, he had to slow it down. Even as he recoiled from the man's punch, Dodge jammed his right hand against the gearshift stick. There was a shriek of metal grinding at high speed, and then the engine revved loudly.
A perplexed look crossed the ersatz cabby's face as he tried to comprehend what had happened. In the two seconds it took for him to realize that the car was no longer in gear, Dodge scrambled away from any further retaliation and gripped the door handle. When the driver dropped his free hand to the stick shift, Dodge bought both feet up and stomped his heels into the man's face.
To his credit, the driver did not even flinch. One of Dodge's shoes gouged a bloody weal along his cheek but the assault was equivalent to scraping the bark off an oak tree. Nevertheless, it did have an effect; the driver's attention was distracted for one moment more, long enough for the speedometer needle to creep down to thirty-five miles an hour. Dodge knew he wouldn't get a better chance. He turned the lever.
The driver saw it and reacted immediately, but not as Dodge expected. Instead of trying to get the vehicle in gear and resume accelerating, the man suddenly cranked the steering wheel and the cab swerved to the right. Still coasting at more than thirty miles and hour, the Checker plowed through the river of water streaming down the gutter then jolted into the curb.
The door latch clicked but even as Dodge started to push it open, something slammed against the exterior of the vehicle, crushing the metal back into its frame. The car crashed through the guardrail, sacrificing the last of its momentum, then the front end dropped with a lurch as the cab bottomed out on the edge and ground to complete halt.
For just a moment, Dodge thought the peril was past. The impact had tossed him alternately into the dash then up against the headliner and back again, but he had fared better than the driver. The man groggily raised his head, blood streaming from his brow, but was unable to move his lower extremities; the steering wheel had snapped off in his hands and a piece of it had driven through his abdomen to pin him to the seat. Yet, despite what surely had to be a mortal injury, the man remained inhumanly focused on keeping his passenger from escaping. A beefy hand stabbed out for Dodge's throat.
Wincing, Dodge pulled back and the fingers closed only on the fabric of his jacket, still much too close for comfort. Dodge tried to wrestle free of the grip but there was nowhere to go; the door was jammed shut. Unable to get out of the front of the car, he shifted his weight planting a foot against the floor and tried to propel himself over the back of the seat.
In the instant that he thrust down with his legs, Dodge got a glimpse of what lay beyond the front of the taxi—or rather, the nothingness beyond the shattered windshield. The Checker protruded from the breach in the guardrail of the Brooklyn Bridge more than a hundred feet above the turbulent storm tossed surface of the East River. Then, with a noise that sounded more like a rusty hinge than a harbinger of doom, the cab began to tilt forward.
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—SAMPLE—
THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop
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DESCRIPTION:
In the frigid waters off the Arctic Ocean, north of Greenland, the anti-whaling ship, The Sentinel, and her crew face off against a harpoon ship in search of Humpback whales. When the two ships collide and a suspicious explosion sends both ships to the bottom, the crews take refuge on what they think is a peninsula attached to the mainland, but is actually an island, recently freed from a glacial ice bridge.
Seeking shelter, the two opposing crews scour the island for resources. Instead, they find Viking artifacts, the preserved remains of an ancient structure and a stone totem warning of horrible creatures buried in the island's caves. Facing violent, frigid storms, a hungry polar bear and the very real possibility that they are stranded without hope of rescue, Jane Harper leads the two crews, who must work together to defend themselves against an ancient evil upon which the modern stories of both zombies and vampires are based upon.
The original undead are awake and hungry. Beware the Draugar.
SAMPLE:
1
Whales. What can I say about them? As an anti-whaling activist, I'm supposed to have this shtick memorized, supercharged, cocked, locked and ready to fire across the bow of anyone who looks at a whale the wrong way. But here's the simple truth: while I share the same mild affection for the world's largest creatures that most people do, I sort of just fell into this job. I needed work out of college and answered an ad in the paper. Turns out what I lacked in passion, I made up for by having an analytical mind and a knack for pretending to be someone I'm not—a lifetime of moving around the world and trying to fit in can do that to a girl.
So when I take the glass jar filled with red paint and lob it toward the Bliksem, one of Greenland's few whaling ships, I'm fairly indifferent to whether or not it hits the mark. But I'm currently incognito, so I need the effort to at least look genuine.
Red gore explodes across the Bliksem's gray hull. I let out a genuine whoop. Some suppressed side of me finds this fun, and for a moment, I understand the appeal that has thirty, mostly college dropouts, heading out to sea to combat whaling for months at a time. It feels like when I egged Jimmy Sweedler's house after he left the prom with Susan Something. A part of me hopes he got her pregnant, was forced to marry her and now lives in a trailer infested by rabid chipmunks. But the thirty-three year old, responsible part of me just feels bad for his parents who had to clean up those two dozen eggs.
Yeah,
two dozen.
I had anger issues.
Still do, actually, but I can keep it in check when I'm undercover, or use it to fulfill the act.
"That's right, you whale killing sons-a-bitches!" I shout, shaking my fist at the Bliksem, which is just a hundred feet away.
Cheers rise up from the deck crew—aka: my fellow paint bombardiers—standing by my side. There are three men and two women on the deck with me—all at least ten years younger than me. In fact, other than Captain McAfee and his one-man "security" team, an Australian known only as Mr. Jackson, I am the oldest crewmember on board. Much of the young volunteer crew sport dreadlocks, not simply as a fashion statement, but also because fresh water showers are rationed while at sea. As a result, the Sentinel—the anti-whaling ship that's been my home for the past month—smells like it must have when it was an active duty Norwegian whaling ship.
"Nice shot!" shouts Greg Chase, the scrawny first mate. He's got a big awkward smile on his face, which is covered in patches of facial hair struggling to proclaim him a man. Complimenting his shaggy face is a pair of glasses that sit askew on his nose. The kid—he's twenty three, but I can't help thinking of him as a kid—looks like he should be in his parent's basement playing Dungeons & Dragons, not attacking whaling ships in the Arctic Ocean off the northern coast of Greenland. That said, his brown eyes absolutely gleam with excitement, and he's by far the smartest person on this ship, which makes him a threat. Because if anyone is going to figure out I'm not who I claim to be, it's him.
So when Chase hands me a second glass jar, I take it with a double flick of my eyebrows that says I'm getting my rocks off, too. Before my first attempt, the other deckhands had loosed a barrage of nearly fifteen paint jars, all of which fell short of the mark. So much so, that the crew of the Bliksem had begun to laugh and mock us with an assortment of hand gestures that universally translates to "cocksuckers."
They're all frowns now. Dressed in thick sweaters and winter caps, some of the Bliksem's crew leans over the rail to see my handiwork. The crimson stain, which looks eerily like blood, covers the ship's name stenciled on the side and runs in red rivulets toward the sea. It's a gruesome sight, which I suppose is the point. A dead and bled whale pulled into port doesn't do much to turn the stomach, but a ship covered in blood from the hunt might not be so kindly received. And the images being captured by the Sentinel's crew will make great PR. Bold? Yes. But effective? I'm not convinced.
But judging the effectiveness of the Sentinel's tactics isn't why I'm here. My job—my true job as an undercover investigator for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA)—is to observe and record the less noble actions, if any, of the Sentinel and her crew. The allegations leveled against the Sentinel and her captain are sullying the whaling debate and making the anti-whaling community look like zealots. So I'm here to either vindicate them, or expose them as pirates, turn my evidence and testimony over to the international and Greenland authorities and clear the good name of other anti-whaling organizations. On top of that, I'm tasked with the job of recording the effectiveness of the whaler's hunting techniques. Greenland only recently started hunting humpbacks again and their whalers are out of practice. Many whales take a half hour to die—some as long as six hours (experienced whalers can put a whale out of its misery inside of one minute). Given the dual nature of this mission, the WSPA needed someone with both undercover experience and a level head.
Translation: my lack of passion keeps me from freaking out at the sight of whale blood. Call me a cocksucker in sign language and I'll throw red paint at you—or worse if I can get my hands on you. Kill a whale and I'll take notes. I believe in the cause—in a world full of cows, why hunt endangered or even threatened creatures? But I've lived all around the world, have eaten most meats imaginable, including—gasp—whale, and I've seen more than a few animals slaughtered.
It's the circle of life.
Hakuna matata.
Pass the A1.
I haven't had a bite of meat since stepping foot on the Sentinel, which runs a vegetarian galley. I've lost five pounds and have more energy, but damn, I could go for a cheeseburger. I force the thought of cooked meat from my mind and focus on the task at hand.
With all eyes on me, I raise the jar over my head, take aim and see a tall man with long blonde hair on the deck of the Bliksem. He's pointing a video camera in my direction. I flinch away from the lens. "Shit!"
If my face is caught on camera while taking part in this act of high seas vandalism, it could destroy the validity of my testimony. I can see it now; The violence needs to stop says the fist-shaking, paint-throwing, crazy lazy. But they called me a cocksucker by thrusting their hands toward their open mouths and pushing their cheeks out with their tongues! Like this! Sorry, that was rude. We were implying you needed to brush your teeth, say the whalers. Fresh breath is important to a seafood eating culture.
"What is it?" Chase asks. "You all right?"
His concern is nice, but fades quickly when I say, "They're recording us."
"They always record us," he says. "This is what you signed up for, Harper. You're here to take a stand. To go on record against these murderers. If you go to jail, so be it. That's what we do. I've been in jail four times already."
How Chase could survive in jail is beyond me. I can think of ten raunchy inmate nicknames for the kid off the top of my head. He doesn't give me time to test them out in my mind.
"Look," he says. "I know this is your first time out. And it can be intimidating. You're not used to this kind of action. I get it. You can cover your face if you want, but eventually you'll have to make a stand and reveal yourself."
I contemplate making a joke about revealing myself, but that would either turn him on or piss him off—neither of which is something I want happening, so I hold my tongue.
He reaches past my head, pulls up the hood of my bright red jacket and ties it tight so only my eyes can be seen. "These guys are amateurs. They've never had to face us before. This isn't like the Japanese. They have no LRAD, no flash-bangs, no water cannons. They don't even have a loudspeaker to shout at us! But you've got the best arm on board and I want you to fuck their shit up!"
He's got a bigger smile now. Couple his grin with the goofy face and passion stolen from a Braveheart speech and I can't help but laugh. He takes my chuckle for excitement and I play the part. With my face concealed, I turn and send another jar sailing across the hundred-foot divide between the Sentinel and the Bliksem.
But I've put a little too much pepper on this pitch, and instead of striking the hull of the whaling ship, it soars toward the wheelhouse. The tall blond man, who looks like some kind of modern Viking, ducks, and for a moment I think I've been saved. Then the distinctive sound of a breaking window fills the air. I cringe, thankful that the cinched hood hides my face from their crew and ours.
A battle cry rings out from all around me. Not just from the crew on deck, but also from the Sentinel's wheelhouse. The whole crew has seen what I just did.
Great.
Chase gives my shoulder a hearty shake like he's Captain Blackbeard and shouts, "They're not going to want to pilot that ship for weeks!"
"From paint?" I ask. I imagine that some of the instruments got splattered in red, but I can't see how a single bottle of red paint thrown through the wheelhouse window could disable a two hundred foot ship.
Chase's smile turns fiendish, and I know I've been duped.
I curse myself for not looking at the bottle before I threw it and ask, "What was it? What did I throw?"
"Butyric acid," he says.
"Acid!"
He's laughing now, and I suddenly wonder if he's sane. The FBI might have been a better choice for this undercover mission. Of course, we're in Greenland's waters and the Sentinel is registered in the Netherlands so I think this would actually be the CIA's jurisdiction. But the CIA is too busy keeping people from blowing up buildings. They probably don't think twice about whales, unless they ca
n beweaponized, which I'm sure someone somewhere is working on. So that leaves me, Nancy Drew of the seven seas.
"Don't worry," he says. "It's no more acidic than orange juice. It's essentially rotten butter. Slippery as hell and smells worse than a point blank blast from a skunk's ass. Worst thing you could ever smell."
Chase's nose must not work, because the people on board this ship are the worst thing I've ever smelled. I look to the Bliksem and see the wheelhouse crew stumbling and slipping out of the cabin. The tall Viking man with the camera catches an older, chubbier version of himself wearing a captain's cap, and helps the man down the stairs leading toward the main deck. I'm thankful that the man is no longer recording, but my relief is short-lived. The old man I suspect is the captain of the Bliksem collapses at the bottom of the stairs.
The cheers around me grow louder still and I feel sick to my stomach. Opposing the killing of whales does not justify harming people. It's just not the same. That's an opinion that could get me thrown off this ship, but the man could be having a heart-attack. And it could be my fault! What if the jar hit him? What if he got a dose of the vile smelling acid in his face? As panic grips me, I fear that Chase will ask me to throw more bottles. I feel so weak with worry I doubt I could do it. Thankfully, the captain's voice booms from the wheelhouse window before more bottles can be thrown.
"Time to send the message home!" Captain McAfee shouts. The man is tall and skinny, but has the voice of a baritone. He's all contradictions. Sixty-five, but full of energy. A full head of hair that's stark white. Went through knee surgery after an accident, but walks like a middle-aged mom trying to regain her figure. Preaches love for the Earth's creatures, unless you include humans. "Get away from the rail and hold on tight!"
The crew around me jump away from the rail like it's been electrified. But I stand dumbly in place.
Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella) Page 16
