by Andrew Mayne
When he got the chance to make a phone call, he’d try to contact a lawyer. The bigger the loudmouth the better. He wanted some kind of OJ Simpson-level dream team.
If he got surrounded or stopped before then, that would be his one request. He wanted someone else to deal with the unctuous negotiators. He began to form a legal strategy in his mind. Of course he was sure the lawyers would have better ideas. It just made him feel better to have a plan.
If Mitchell were killed before he got to a lawyer, there was going to be no brilliant defense, no pardon and no cure.
49
A half-hour later, Mitchell was lost in thought thinking of his legal defense when the police scanner inexplicably flew off the console. At first he thought it was from the wave he just drove through. When he leaned over to pick it up he saw the bullet hole. An instant later he felt something graze his right shoulder.
“Fuck!” he screamed as he ducked down behind the console. He put his hand on his shoulder and felt where the bullet had almost gone through his arm. It burned like hell but there was no blood.
The second bullet sounded like it was coming from one of the islands to his left up ahead. He’d reached a part of the Intracoastal where it was mostly mangroves on either side. A perfect place for an ambush.
He desperately wanted to pop his head up and look, but he knew that’s what the sniper was waiting for.
Mitch reached a hand up and slowed down the boat so he wouldn’t overtake the sniper’s position and leave himself vulnerable in the open cockpit. He had to go past that point sooner or later. Otherwise the shooter could just work his way through the brush to a better position.
Why was he being shot at? Didn’t the FBI warn you before they did that kind of stuff? It didn’t make any sense to him.
Mitch looked around the boat for anything he could use to protect himself. He could hide in the cabin, but that would mean leaving the boat adrift. Sooner or later he would hit the shoreline and the shooter could hop aboard and finish him.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of a helicopter. He had the urge to wave them down but knew that outcome probably wasn’t going to be a good one, either. He looked at the console above his head. He could try to navigate the boat without looking. If he looked at the tree line in back of him, he could gauge where the middle of the waterway was. That would still leave him open when he passed by the sniper’s position.
Mitch decided to hell with it. He’d aim the boat down the middle as best as he could, throw the throttle forward and go duck down into the cabin. It was a cowardly way to confront the crisis. But he didn’t have any other options.
Mitchell opened up the cabin door and got an inspiration when he saw the mirror over the small sink. He climbed inside and ripped it off the wall. He climbed onto the bed that was directly under the bow hatch and carefully lifted it open using the edge of the mirror. He looked at the trees where he thought the shot came from. He saw something move and then the mirror shattered, followed by the sound of a loud bang. The hatch slammed shut as broken pieces of mirrored plastic fell on him.
“Asshole!” shouted Mitch.
The boat was still drifting forward. He needed to do something fast. Mitch searched the cabin for anything. He found an emergency transponder in a drawer and threw it aside. He opened another drawer and dumped it out onto the bed. There were two flare guns like the ones he’d boosted from the Super Center the night before.
Mitch grabbed them both and climbed back out to the cockpit. He pulled the safety off one and gripped it in his right hand. He only had a vague idea where the shooter was, so the most he could hope for was a distraction.
He pulled the cabin door wide open so it would act as a shield. Mad Mitch quickly reached his hand up and fired. The flare shot across the bow trailed by a plume of smoke.
Mitch pushed the throttle halfway forward and then ducked into the cabin. He could see part of the shoreline as the boat moved by where the sniper was hidden.
From inside the cabin he shot the other flare in the general direction of the shooter. He climbed out of the smoke-filled cabin and ducked under the console to try to steer the boat away from the sides of the waterway.
The boat became more difficult to control the faster it went. Mitch decided to push the throttle all the way forward and get back behind the wheel. He made an effort to keep the boat moving erratically until he was out of range.
Mitch rounded a bend and put the small peninsula between him and the shooter. He had no idea if there were other snipers lying in wait for him. He decided at this point it was better to keep the boat going full throttle.
He had no idea who was shooting at him, but he’d prefer a chase from Marine Patrol than getting shot at by hidden snipers. He was half-tempted to get on an open channel and ask why people were shooting at him. He decided to wait until he knew his position was completely compromised. For all he knew, it was the government trying to take him out. The sooner he got to a more populated area, the safer he would feel. Safe as long as people kept their distance.
Mitch had the throttle fully open and was flying down the waterway. The boat would hit small waves and glide through the air. He passed several fishing boats, sending them into the trees. People shouted curses back at him.
In ten minutes he would pass from the undeveloped section of the waterway into more residential areas. If he slowed down there, he might be able to make it by at a more reasonable speed. His hope now was to be able to slip up close to a marina or a housing complex and steal some Wi-Fi to make a Skype call on the iPod he’d stolen.
Mitchell heard the sound of a boat getting closer behind him. He turned around and froze for a moment when he realized it wasn’t a boat. It was a black helicopter flying just a few feet above the water, gaining on his stern.
Fucking black helicopters?
A man leaned out the side with a large rifle. Mitch ducked down and jerked the wheel to the left, sending the boat in a tight circle and bringing it to the opposite side of the helicopter as the shooter.
The helicopter made a tight turn, too. Mitch tried to bring the boat underneath the helicopter to stay out of the shooter’s range. The pilot pulled the helicopter off to the side in a movement Mitch couldn’t replicate with the boat and brought the shooter in direct line of sight with Mitchell.
Mitch turned the wheel to the right, bringing the left side several feet higher as the boat turned into another circle. He was running out of options. The helicopter could outmaneuver him and go twice as fast.
He looked ahead and saw a narrow channel between an island and the ocean side of the Intracoastal. Mitch aimed the boat for there while swerving back and forth. The top of the seat next to him erupted in padding as another shot rang out.
The boat slid under a small canopy of trees. Mitch pulled the throttle back. He could see the helicopter fly overhead and come to a hover.
Mitchell could jump from the boat and try to make it through the thick vegetation and find a place to hide. But for how long? He had little doubt a sniper would be able to find him there.
He needed some way of minimizing the helicopter’s advantage. Mitch opened up the lockers in the stern to look for something he could use. All he had were wetsuits and dive tanks.
He opened up another locker and saw the dive belts. He could try throwing them at the windshield. Maybe if he cracked it.
Mad Mitch had a better idea. He ran to the console and pushed the throttle forward a hair, sending the boat out from under the canopy.
Mr. Lewis and Mr. Travis watched as the boat drifted from under the cover of the trees. The cockpit was empty. That meant either Mitchell had jumped off onto the island or was trying to wait things out inside the cabin.
Mr. Travis looked at Mr. Lewis for instructions. Mr. Lewis set the rifle between the seats. He pulled on an oxygen mask and slung the tank over his shoulder. He gave the valve a turn and then pulled a 9 mm pistol from a holster at his side.
“Bring it down,�
� he said through the mask.
Mr. Travis brought the helicopter a few feet above the stern and matched speed with the boat as it glided along. Mr. Lewis hopped down from the passenger side door and landed in a crouch on the back of the boat.
He kept his body away from the line of sight of the cabin. One of Mitchell’s flares had already come close to burning the hair off the left side of his head. He wouldn’t let him try that again. He hopped from the top of the stern engines into the main cockpit. His finger prepared to squeeze as he shot anything that moved inside the cabin.
He took a step closer and was beginning to make out the interior when everything went dark for a moment. Hands grabbed him and shoved him into the water before he could understand what had just happened. He looked up from the water as Mad Mitch hurled a dive tank from the locker at his head. It hit the gun and knocked it from his grasp. He turned to dive for it when Mitchell hurled another dive belt at his head. It hit so hard he felt the urge to vomit.
Mr. Travis had watched as Mitchell emerged from the locker in the stern and swung the weight belt at Mr. Lewis’ head. To the man’s credit, it seemed to only faze him and not knock him out. Mitchell used the distraction to throw him overboard.
While Mad Mitch looked for more heavy objects to throw at Mr. Lewis as he tread water, Mr. Travis pulled his sidearm from his ankle holster.
Mad Mitch turned around as Mr. Travis was sliding a window open on the pilot side door. Mad Mitch looked down at his feet and opened another hatch. He reached in and pulled out a metal anchor.
Mad Mitch began swinging it by the anchor line in huge circles. When it was at the top of its arc aimed at the rotor, he let go. Mr. Travis shouted and then pulled back on the stick to avoid losing the helicopter. He heard the sound of metal hitting the hull.
From the stern of the boat, Mitchell looked up in shock. He thought he’d only hoped to hit the anchor against the window and crack the glass. When the pilot pulled back, he’d tilted it so the skid acted as a catch for the anchor.
The anchor went through the gap between the skid and the hull and fell to the water. Mitchell watched as the rope at his feet unspooled. The pilot pulled the helicopter into a hover when he thought he was at a safe distance from the anchor, oblivious to fact that he had just been hooked.
Mr. Travis spotted Mr. Lewis floating in the water. He was waving furiously at him and pointing at the helicopter. Mr. Travis brought the helicopter down to pick him up.
Mad Mitch didn’t want to lose his chance and have the man in the water ruin his catch. He ran to the console and slammed the throttle forward. The boat raced away from the helicopter.
Mr. Travis watched it try to get away out of the corner of his eye. He’d have plenty of time to catch up with him when he picked up Mr. Lewis. He turned to look at the water below and then noticed the line running from the boat to just under his chopper. He felt something yank on the skids.
“Oh, fuck!” he said as he realized the anchor had just grabbed his chopper like a grappling hook. He jerked the stick forward to avoid being pulled from the sky.
Mad Mitch had the throttle wide open and was starting to catch air as he hit the crests of waves. The helicopter had to either match speed or run the risk of Mitchell pulling it into the water. It could come down on top of him for all he cared at that point.
After two days of constant abuse, it felt good to be able to strike out in anger and not feel bad about it. He kept the boat headed south. He could see the north end of the next city coming into view.
There was no way he was not going to attract attention with a helicopter tied to his stern. The advantage of that happening was that it would lead to a lot of questions that would be embarrassing for whomever was out to kill him. He was sure the guy that had jumped onto his boat and the pilot weren’t just a couple of assholes with a helicopter and rifle.
Mr. Travis was in an awkward situation. He tried to get over the boat and then gain altitude to try to snap the anchor cable. Physics wasn’t on his side. The helicopter had a lifting capacity of 900 pounds. The anchor rope had a tensile strength of 4,000 pounds.
Gaining altitude only raised the backend of the powerboat a few inches and increased his chances of crashing into the water. He opened up the sliding window on his door and aimed his pistol out the window.
Mad Mitch looked at the suicidal man and then turned the boat sharply to the right. The pilot had seconds to match course or get pulled down. Mr. Travis opted to match course. He also realized that shooting Mitchell wouldn’t help him get his helicopter loose from the boat. If anything, it might make matters worse if the boat ran aground.
He decided to try to wrap the rope around the boat. With any luck, it would get cut by the propellers. He brought the helicopter in a tight arc, bringing it alongside Mitchell in the driver’s seat. Mad Mitch looked over and flipped him off. The pilot pushed the throttle forward and brought the helicopter just inches off the water.
Mad Mitch looked back and saw the slack the helicopter pilot was building up. Mitchell had been water skiing enough times to know what the pilot was doing. Mad Mitch ran back and grabbed the end of the line near where it was tied off. He pulled the slack rope into the boat cockpit until it ran taut from the skid to Mad Mitch’s hand.
Mr. Travis brought the helicopter across the bow while hovering less than a foot over the water. He looked back to see if the rope went under the bow. Instead he saw Mad Mitch holding on to the slack and flipping him off again. He was grinning at him.
God damn punk! Furious, he pulled up on the stick, yanking the rope from Mad Mitch’s hands. Both he and Mad Mitch were so engaged in their back and forth that they failed to notice the Marine Patrol boat heading toward them or the Channel 11 news helicopter that was following.
Dozens of people had called 911 about the helicopter and the powerboat that were fighting on the Intracoastal.
The Channel 11 helicopter was heading south to get footage of the Park Square Mall when they saw the battle taking place. Emergency news coverage about Mitchell was interrupted by a special news bulletin about the helicopter and the speedboat. It took ten minutes before news anchors watching the feed realized that the man driving the boat was the same person the FBI was dredging the bottom of the South Bay for.
Police helicopters from two different jurisdictions and an FBI chopper were now in pursuit of Mad Mitch and his catch. A county sheriff’s boat had also started on an intercept course. Coast Guard cutters were moving into positions along all the ocean access points.
Mr. Travis looked down at Mad Mitch and the growing armada surrounding them both. He knew that the tail numbers were already being run and coming up as bogus. Voices in his headset demanded that he identify himself.
Part of him just wanted to ram the chopper right into the boat and kill them both. He was sure Mr. Lewis would be happy with that outcome. Unfortunately for Mr. Lewis and his employers, Mr. Travis didn’t have a death wish. He would wait for the right moment and jump into the water. With the right commotion, he might be able to slip away.
Mad Mitch looked at all the heat on him and decided there was no point in not making plans for when they finally forced him to stop. Mitchell took the handset for the VHF radio and shouted over the sound of the helicopter overhead.
50
Baylor was watching the unfolding drama of the helicopter hooked to Mitchell’s boat with a sense of dread. Reporters were trying to track down the helicopter’s owners. A quick search on the FAA website revealed the numbers on the tail were fake.
His phone rang with an unfamiliar number. “Hello?”
“It’s Lewis. We have a problem.”
“Please tell me you have nothing to do with that helicopter. Where are you?” said Baylor.
“I got picked up out of the water by a fisherman. I’m going to fix the problem. I need to know if the package is expendable.”
Baylor looked at the news chopper footage of the helicopter hovering over the boat as it raced down
the Intracoastal. If the pilot made it away somehow, it wasn’t likely he would get very far. Although Baylor’s hire wouldn’t point directly back to him, the man was going to be in a position where he was likely to tell them everything he knew, which included Mr. Lewis and the package that was left on the helicopter.
“The package is expendable. After that, we need to salt the earth. I mean, you need to.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Lewis.
Mr. Travis was thinking about getting on his VHF radio and asking Marine Patrol why they hadn’t stopped Mitchell’s boat and cut him free. Maybe if he acted petulant enough, he could get away and find a place to bail out near a crowded area.
He could hear his phone ring through the connection to his headset. He answered.
“Mr. Travis, this is Mr. Lewis. It seems we have a problem.”
“God damn we have a problem! I was just supposed to be a taxi.” He looked out the window as almost the entire South Florida nautical and aviation law enforcement fleet gathered around his helicopter and the boat below.
“I left something on board in my bag that can probably help you. It’s an incendiary device. I’ll tell you how to activate it. When you drop it onto Roberts’ boat, it should cause a large enough fire to burn the rope. Once you do that and bail out in a safe place, I’ll call you to help you relocate.”
Mitchell was in the middle of explaining the new conditions for his surrender when the sound of the helicopter behind him changed pitch. He looked over his shoulder and saw the helicopter heading straight at him. The spinning blades were at eye level and starting to pass over the back of the stern.
Mitch jerked the wheel to the right and threw himself to the floor. He felt a jet of air push down on him as the rotors came inches away from the top of the deck. The helicopter skids scraped the left side of the boat before the helicopter nosedived into the water. Mitchell cowered as far down as he could when the tail rotor passed overhead and ripped apart the seat he’d been sitting on just moments before.
