Final Target

by John Gilstrap

  “God damn this is a beautiful boat,” Davey said. He grinned like a kid with a new toy. “Okay, kiddo, you’re the thief in the family. Have you ever hot-wired a boat?”

  Oh, shit, Jesse thought. He felt like the dog who finally caught the car he was chasing. The truth was that he’d never even thought of stealing a boat. He had no idea how a boat even worked. “Well, let me see,” he said, trying his best to keep any concern off of his face. He wandered up to the cockpit, where Davey was standing. “How would you start the engines if you weren’t stealing it?”

  Davey pointed to a familiar-looking slot next to the steering wheel. “I’d put a key in the slot and turn it,” he said.

  Jesse beamed. “I’ve never done it, but yes, I can hot-wire a boat. Is it just a turn-the-key thing, or do you have to play with throttles and rudders and shit first?”

  Davey laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll take care of the throttles and rudders and shit, so long as you can get me a roaring motor when we’re done.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The engines roared to life with a giant gout of choking blue smoke, and Jesse let out a quiet whoop. Victory.

  “Well done, kid,” Davey said. “Do you by chance have a credit card on you?”

  “Come again?”

  Davey tapped a finger on the control panel. “We’re low on gas.”

  Jesse’s shoulders sagged. “How low?”

  “Three hundred gallons, give or take,” Davey said. “Half a tank. There should be a fuel pump at the end of the dock.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  Davey bladed away from the dials. “See for yourself.”

  Jesse laughed against the absurdity of it all. “Where the hell am I supposed to get nine hundred dollars?”

  “It’s not due till after you get paid by Uncle Sam,” Davey said, as if it were the most sensible thing in the world. “You’ve got to have at least that much of a limit on your card.”

  “The whole world is going to know that I’m the one who stole the boat.”

  “You could always pay by cash,” Davey said. Again, he acted as if this were a conversation they would have on a sane night.

  Jesse gaped. He didn’t know what to say. “There’s no chance we can make it on the fuel we have?”

  “Um, no,” Davey said. “As it is, we’re going to be squeezing six hundred miles out of a five-hundred-fifty-mile tank.”

  Jesse stared. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have that kind of money. His credit card didn’t have that kind of a limit, either. “Can you cover it?” he asked. “I mean, I guess I can pay you after—”

  Davey laughed as he put the throttle into reverse and backed them out of the slip. “Oh, I’m just shitting you.”

  Tension drained from Jesse’s shoulders. “You shithead. You mean we already have the gas?”

  “No,” Davey said. “We really are short on gas. But I know how to bypass the pump.” He inched the SeaVee along the row of parked boats and then eased up to a short perpendicular dock that was dominated by the kind of gas pump that Jesse recognized from movies set in 1960s Georgia. Davey piloted the big boat with an expert’s touch, sliding the boat sideways into the fueling dock.

  “Get out and tie us off,” he said to his son.

  Jesse grabbed the edge of the wooden slats of the dock and hauled himself out, bringing a mooring line with him.

  “You don’t have to tie it off tight,” Davey said. “Just don’t let us float away.”

  When Davey was happy with the positioning of the boat, he cut the throttles back to idle and joined Jesse on the dock. “Watch and learn,” Davey said. He pulled a four-inch folding knife out of his pocket, opened it, and slipped the blade into the slot where the face of the gas pump joined the body. He twisted the blade enough to open up a half-inch gap, and then he moved his fingers in to replace his knife blade. With a mighty pull, the entire face of the pump peeled away and fell into the water, through the space that existed between the SeaVee and the dock.

  Jesse cringed against the bedlam. “Jesus, Davey,” he whisper-shouted. “Why don’t you make some noise?”

  Davey ignored him. He reached into the guts of the pump, moved something, and then the pump hummed to life. “Fill ’er up,” he said. “I need to take a piss.”

  “Where’s the gas tank?”

  “On the aft end,” Davey said, pointing. “That means the back of the boat.”

  Yeah, this was going to be a fun trip. Jesse lifted the fuel nozzle and wrestled it down the length of the fueling dock. The fuel cap had a flap much like one you’d find on a car. He pressed it to release the catch, found the cap to the tank itself, and pulled it off with a twist. He inserted the nozzle, pulled the lever, and then stepped back up to the dock to wait. He had no idea how long it would take to pump three hundred gallons.

  He felt horribly exposed standing there under the glare of the suspended light. He might as well have been onstage, in a spotlight. He took a step out of the halo of light, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and admired the night. Lightning flashed in the distance, but overhead, the stars were so thick that they looked like a cloud.

  “Sure is pretty,” he said to his father.

  When he got silence as a reply, he turned to where Davey should have been urinating off of the dock and into the water and saw nothing but masts. “Davey?”

  Movement to his left prompted Jesse to spin around to face the other end of the dock—the land end—where a figure was running at him with what looked to be a sword. The guy waved it over his head and shouted a stream of gibberish that Jesse could only assume was Spanish. He didn’t need to understand the words to understand the message. There was a universal meaning to a brandished weapon, and it translated to “I’m going to kill you!”

  The guns were all in the boat. No way could he get to them in time.

  Jesse waved his hands in front of him and backed up toward the water. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Dude! Put the sword down!”

  His attacker wore shorts and a Miller Lite T-shirt. His hair was a mess, and that anger on his face looked very, very real. He shouted some more.

  “I—I don’t speak Spanish!” Jesse said. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  But the guy kept coming, spouting a stream of unintelligible words. Among them, Jesse thought he heard him say policía. That word meant pretty much the same thing no matter where you were in the world.

  The guy stopped his attack about ten feet shy of a collision with Jesse. At this distance, the sword was clearly recognizable as a machete, but that didn’t make it any less intimidating. Wild Man continued to wave the machete in threatening circles, and he continued to shout.

  “Look, mister, put the machete down, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “No, I know,” the man said. “I hurt you!”

  “So, you speak English?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.” Where the hell was Davey? If he was here, maybe they could jump into the boat and get away.

  “You thief!” the man yelled. “I kill you.” He lunged at Jesse, causing him to hop backward. He swung his blade in a hard and fast horizontal arc, close enough to Jesse’s face that he could feel the breeze.

  “Goddammit! Stop!” Jesse yelled. He’d been driven back to an edge of the dock where another two steps would plunge him into a tangle of ropes, traps, and fishing gear. Diving off to save his life was not an option.

  Wild Man swung again. There would be no negotiation.

  Davey stood from a boat, where he’d been hiding. The attacker couldn’t see him, but Jesse saw him clearly in the glow of the light.

  “L-let’s talk about this,” Jesse said. He kept his arms and hands wrapped close to his body. If this asshole connected with anything, it would mean amputation.

  Davey moved silently as he stepped up on the back of the boat that had been concealing him and then up onto the deck. His eyes showed a kind of focus that Jesse had never seen before
.

  “No talking,” the man said as he took a step closer. “I kill you now.”

  “You’re not killing anyone,” Davey said.

  The attacker jumped at the sound of the voice from behind, and he spun around to confront the threat. Then he seemed to realize that he’d turned his back on Jesse, so he cheated his stance so that he could address both of them.

  “No steal!” the man yelled. He sliced at the air to keep Davey at bay.

  “This shit stops now,” Davey said. He pulled a knife from his pants pocket and opened it with a flourish. With the handle clutched in his fist, the locked blade protruding as an extension of his thumb, he took a fighter’s stance. “You really don’t want to do this,” he said. His voice was calm; his eyes showed homicide.

  “No steal,” the man repeated.

  “Yes steal,” Davey said.

  Wild Man looked at Jesse, and Jesse had no idea what to say or do.

  “Your fight’s over here,” Davey said. He hadn’t moved. “See to the gas, son. Stay out of whatever’s coming.”

  “W-what are you going to do?” Jesse stammered.

  “We’re gonna finish the mission,” Davey said. “Not so sure about what happens in the next minute or two. That’s not my decision.” As he spoke, his eyes never left those of Wild Man.

  “Last man I fight now dead,” Wild Man said.

  Davey shrugged. And smiled. The overall effect was terrifying.

  Wild Man turned his back to Jesse and advanced a step toward Davey.

  “Don’t,” Davey said.

  The guy hesitated. He cast a quick glance back toward Jesse. Then he lunged at Davey.

  It went impossibly fast after that. Davey stepped in and to the side. He seemed to block the powerful overhead machete strike with a slash of his blade across Wild Man’s wrist, and the weapon went flying. Without hesitating or slowing his motion, Davey did a kind of graceful pirouette, and then a spray of blood erupted from his attacker’s throat.

  The man fell to his knees. He seemed perplexed about what happened, and then he collapsed forward onto his face.

  “Oh, holy shit!” The words escaped Jesse’s mouth without him knowing they were there. “What did you just do? Jesus!”

  “The gas,” Davey said. “See to the gas. I’ve got this.” He wiped the blade on the back of the dead man’s T-shirt, then folded his blade and returned it to his pocket.

  “You just killed that man!” Jesse shouted.

  “The gas, son,” Davey said as he moved to the dead man’s feet and lifted his ankles off the deck. “There’s no telling how long it will take them to find the body.”

  * * *

  Tomás heard footsteps approaching from behind. He tightened his grip on his rifle, but he did not turn around to face the threat. He feared that it would make him look weak. Angela was still out of his view when he smelled her perfume. He wasn’t even sure that she wore perfume, but somehow, among a crowd that smelled mostly of piss and fear, she smelled of flowers. “Hello, Angela,” he said without looking.

  She giggled. “How did you know it was me?”

  He deepened his voice and said very seriously, “I know everything.” He had heard the English version of Star Wars once, and he’d have given anything to have a voice like Darth Vader.

  “How far do we have to go?” she asked.

  “We’re almost there,” he said.

  They walked in silence for fifteen seconds. “Is that the truth, or did you just make it up?”

  He turned to look at her. He saw a silhouette with eyes that flashed in the dim light of the moon. “Are people getting nervous?” he asked. “Are they doubting me?”

  “At this point, it’s not about you, Tomás,” she said. “It’s really about us. We all made a decision to trust you, and we need—”

  “I know we’re on the right path, and I know we’re more than halfway there,” Tomás said. “I’m walking a compass point. In the dark, all I can do is count my steps and go from landmark to landmark. When the jungle turns to road, we’ll know we’re there. Then we find the water tower. How are the others holding up?”

  “They’re afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid, too. And if you would allow yourself a moment of honesty, I think you’d admit that you are also afraid.”

  “Why do girls always want boys to be afraid?” he asked. “Why do they want us to cry?”

  Angela laughed. “Why do boys ask stupid questions all the time?”

  “I’m serious,” Tomás insisted.

  “We don’t want you to be afraid,” Angela said. “And crying is not important. All we want is for you to be . . . human. Boys are more interested in pretending that they are men.”

  “Do you think I am pretending?” Tomás asked.

  Angela took a long time answering. “I think it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I think that you are angry, and I think that you want to kill Alejandro Azul. I worry that you will pick a fight that you cannot finish, and I pray that you are smart enough to know the difference between the possible and the impossible.”

  Tomás checked his compass again, daring a brief burst from the flashlight so that he could see the needle. He saw a landmark up ahead, fixed his eyes on it, and said, “I think I’m going to live to be an old man. I think I will live in Colorado and have many children and very many grandchildren.”

  Angela laughed again. “So, you have it all planned out?”

  “I’ve always had it planned out,” Tomás said. “It all starts with getting out of here and getting to America.” He dared a glance. “With you.”

  “Suppose they don’t want you?”

  He fired off a grin, which he hoped she could see. “They’ll want me,” he said. “They just don’t know me yet.”

  “What about the rest of us?”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Of course I’m worried.”

  “Are you excited?”

  Another long silence as Angela considered her answer. “That’s what this is about for you, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s about the excitement.”

  “No,” Tomás said. “That makes it sound cheap. I’m willing to die just so I don’t have to live another day here. The cartels, the poverty, the fear. I’ll give up everything for that.”

  “Will you sacrifice us for that?”

  The question startled him. Did the others think he was a monster, no better than the rest? Did they—did Angela—think that he placed his own life above theirs? That had never been his intent. “I won’t sacrifice you for anything,” he said. “I’ll die for you. I guess I assumed you’d die for me, too.”

  Another long silence. “I would,” she said. “Maybe that’s enough?”

  “Are the others as committed?”

  Angela lowered her voice. “Santiago, maybe,” she said. “And Sophia, I think. They’ll fight. The others? I guess we’ll find out.”

  They walked together in silence for two, maybe three minutes.

  “Maybe you should drop back and see if we’re still all together,” Tomás said.

  “Nobody’s yelled out for help,” Angela noted. “If anyone is missing, I think we need to assume that they want to be missing.”

  “Maybe you should check, anyway,” Tomás said. He wanted desperately to be a good leader—to be a man Scorpion would be proud of—but he didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what it looked like. If his followers were worried about—

  “You know I love you, right, Tomás?”

  He couldn’t speak. It was as if someone had removed all the oxygen from the jungle and stuffed cotton in his ears. The very ears that had turned so hot that he wondered if they might catch fire.

  “Okay,” Angela said. “I’ll go check.”

  * * *

  “It’s oh-two-hundred,” Boxers announced. “If we’re true to your word, we’re out of here in twelve minutes.”

  Jonathan was sitting at the top of the stairwell that led to the bus’s folding door. He keyed the mike for
his radio. “Mother Hen, Scorpion.”

  “Haven’t heard a word,” Venice said.

  “Copy,” Jonathan said. On the one hand, twelve minutes was twelve minutes. That could be all the time in the world, way more than was necessary. Or it could be unreasonable as hell. He and Boxers had killed a lot of people, torn up a lot of Mexican real estate, and pissed off a shit-ton of people, all of which would spell a death sentence for the staff and residents of the House of Saint Agnes. If he—

  “You’re loading this shit onto your shoulders, Boss,” Boxers said, reading his mind, as he so often did. “Don’t do that. We’re here on one mission, not two. And our mission is sleeping in the back of the bus.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Jonathan said, “and you know it. There are consequences to our actions.”

  “Yes, there are,” Boxers agreed. “And there are also consequences to our hesitations.”

  Jonathan looked up at his longtime friend. “Say what’s on your mind, Big Guy.”

  “I think you should stick to the plan,” Boxers said. “They’ve got a whole twelve minutes—make that eleven—to get here and let you off the hook.”

  “And on the thirteenth—make that the twelfth—minute? What do we do then?”

  “The job we came here to do in the first place,” Boxers said. Duh.

  Jonathan stood and stepped down onto the ground.

  “Where are you going?” Boxers asked.

  “I’ve got to walk. Gonna go to the road and check to see what is or isn’t out there.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Big Guy said, lifting himself out of the driver’s seat.

  “Why?”

  Boxers shrugged. “Why not?” There was a guard dog quality to Big Guy, which Jonathan found equal parts annoying and gratifying.

  With NVGs in place, Jonathan led the way out to the road. Overhead, the moon glowed brightly, showing the barely paved surface as a light gray stripe against the black jungle.

  “Even if the kids got the word somehow—” Boxers began.

  “We’ve still got time,” Jonathan snapped.