Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  The strangest thing was that the wall of clouds actually curved. There was a distinct majestic arc to them, bending around the island. No clouds strayed into that great bow. It gave him a true sense of the scale of the thing that had them in its grasp, the immensity of the circle which they were now in the center of. Phillips had looked up at the stars from half a dozen wildernesses, and yet he had never felt as small and insignificant as he had at that moment.

  “Gorgeous”, he said aloud, and laughed to himself. It wouldn’t be so pretty, he knew, when the storm hit again, trapping them here until it had expended its fury. This mission was totally fucked, he knew, for all Blake’s optimism that they could get back on track and recover whatever the hell it was in that safe. The plan, he saw, had been fatally fragile from the beginning. All it took was some woman and her daughter to send the whole thing sideways. And, of course, the mystery man. Mercer.

  He raised the binoculars from where they hung from the strap around his neck and scanned the area around the lighthouse. The cleared area around the lighthouse was littered with limbs and debris. It no longer formed the perfect killing zone he’d counted on.

  For a second, he thought he saw something moving in the jumble, but when he tried to focus, it was gone, maybe just an errant breeze stirring a downed limb…

  No. There. Something was moving down there. He saw a flash of white in the darkness. A branch had definitely moved, more than could be explained by the few vagrant breezes that still stirred in the eye. He wondered briefly of it could be Moon, or Blake, or Montrose, finally giving up on the safe, or realizing that the house was no longer viable, and coming to take refuge. He realized that all he had with him on the balcony was his sidearm. He needed the machine gun; the huge Destroyer was too awkward a weapon to use as this range against a swiftly moving target. He cursed and bolted back inside. Once through the door, he stopped, listening. Whoever or whatever was out there might be trying to get in. Slowly, as quietly as he could, he inched toward where the machine gun was propped against the low inside wall, below the glass. He stopped as he heard what sounded like rustling below. There was definitely something moving down there. He moved more swiftly and snatched up the machine gun. He crept towards the darkened hole in the center of the room. The space above the old watch room was an impenetrable blackness. He remembered a scrap of poetry from his childhood: Black as the Pit from Pole to Pole… The rustling was louder now. Phillips braced the stock of the gun against his shoulder, aimed at where he heard the rustling, and opened fire.

  The sudden illumination from the barrel of the machine gun briefly lit up a few scurrying brown figures on the floor of the watch room. There was a squeal of agony as one of the bullets hit home. Phillips almost fired again, but realization stayed his hand.

  Rats.

  There were rats in the lighthouse, no doubt driven by the rising water to higher and higher points on the island, seeking the shelter of any structure they could find. Maybe some deep seated racial memory passed down through generations of island rats had hardwired into the rodents’ tiny brains an instinct that the tower at the end of the island was the only refuge when the high wind and water came.

  No. That was absurd. Phillips set his back against the wall and laughed, the tension dissipating slightly with the sound. He needed to get a grip on himself. They were just stupid animals, driven mad by fear and impelled to get higher and higher, even if it meant climbing the staircase. Phillips looked over at the hole in the floor from which he’d come up into the lantern room and thanked God for the ladder. He didn’t think they could climb ladders. At least he hoped not. If they could, he was going to have a lot of unwelcome company. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, pondering what to do. The little bastards could give him trouble if they were frightened enough. Or hungry enough. He grimaced. Think. Then he remembered the flares in his backpack, to be used to signal the boat that was going to be sent to pick them up. Every member of the team had them, in tacit but unspoken recognition that any single member might be the only one left to signal for pickup. There were gun-fired flares as well as handheld, each one designed to blast a sun-bright ball of light that could be seen for miles. He knew rats feared open flame, and he didn’t think they’d much enjoy a flare in their furry little vermin faces. The only problem was, the backpack was down in the watch room. Phillips sighed. Okay. He’d just have to go down there and hope their natural fear of man trumped their fear of water and their hunger. At least he still had the electric torch. He went and fetched it. At the top of the ladder, he hesitated. There was still that movement he’d seen outside. There was still the possibility that someone was trying to get in. Or, he realized, that someone was already in. Whoever he saw moving outside could have entered the lighthouse while he was distracted by the rats. Phillips cursed under his breath. He was going to have to go down that ladder, not sure what was at the bottom. Other than the rats, of course. He remembered stories of American soldiers in Vietnam who had had to clear Vietnamese tunnel complexes, of how some men, going down the ladders into the tunnels, had been stabbed in the legs by ambushers waiting below who then held the struggling mens’ legs so they couldn’t climb out of the holes until they bled out. And now it was him, going down into the unknown darkness, with an unknown enemy below. He considered taking the torch and doing a circuit of the rim, looking down, but the light would make him an easy target. Another thought made him pause. It was, he considered, about fourteen to fifteen feet to the floor below. A bit of a drop, but no worse an impact than he’d had back in parachute training, in his other life in Her Majesty’s much lower-paying service. As quietly as he could, he slung the machine gun on his back. He took the torch in one hand, his pistol in the other. He crouched at the rim of the hole near the ladder, took a deep breath, and jumped into the darkness.

  When he felt his feet hit, he let his knees buckle and rolled, just as if he were landing on a drop zone. He made one quick roll, then sprang to his feet, snapping the torch on and aiming it in the direction of the ladder.

  There was no one there.

  Phillips let out a long shuddering breath that was threatening to turn into a giggle of relief when he felt rather than heard a presence beside him. Instinctively, he dropped again, so that the pistol barrel that had been about to connect with the back of his skull caromed off the top instead. It still hurt like blazes, but had the blow connected as planned, it would have knocked him cold. Phillips tried to bring his own weapon to bear on the center mass of the shadow he could see closing on him, but his assailant was already inside the arc of his swing, so he tried to shove his shoulder into the attacker’s midsection instead. The man was moving too, fast, however, and Phillips couldn’t get his legs into the motion. Then the man was on him, wrapping him up from behind and yanking him to his feet, with his throat in the crook of an elbow. He felt the unbearable pressure of bicep and forearm against the sides of his neck, choking off the blood flow through the carotid arteries. Sleeper hold, he thought dimly. He tried to hammer his elbows backwards into the person who held him, but his vision was growing dim and his arms weaker. Then there was darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  “Glory,” Sharon said, “Maybe if you get him something to eat, he’ll be quiet.”

  Mercer and Bohler had left. Sharon and Glory were in the back bedroom. Captain Jack, the marina cat, was with them. The animal had fled from any attempt to pick him up or comfort him, but continued to pace back and forth, yowling inconsolably. Sharon was trying to take pity on the poor beast, but the noise was working her frayed nerves without mercy.

  “Poor thing,” Glory said. “He’s scared to death.”

  “I know how he feels,” Sharon said, “but he’s making me nuts.”

  Glory bent down and held out her hand. “Here, kitty. Here, kitty. Pretty kitty.”

  The cat was having none of it. He sat down on his haunches just out of reach and eyed her balefully. At least he was quiet.

  “Okay,” Glory said,
“Let’s see if we can get you some nice tuna fish. Would you like that?” The cat continued to glare. Glory turned to her mother. “I’m going to check the kitchen.”

  “Okay,” Sharon said. Glory walked out the door. The cat watched her go. It looked back at Sharon, meowed, then bounded out the door after her.

  Sharon lay back on the bed. She had had some long hard days at work—double shifts, short staffing, difficult customers—but she was more tired than she’d ever been in her life. She felt like if she could just close her eyes, she could sleep for a thousand years. But the fear and confusion kept her raggedly, exhaustedly awake, wired like a speed freak.

  She realized that Glory had been gone a long time. She sat up. “Glory?’ she called out.

  No answer.

  “GLORY?” louder this time.

  No answer.

  She leaped to her feet. Ran to the top of the stairs. “Honey?” she called down. Nothing. “ANSWER ME!”

  Nothing.

  They had left her the shotgun and a couple of shells, She snatched the ineffectual weapon up and raced down the stairs. “GLORY!” she screamed.

  The front door was standing open. The cat was in the entryway, finishing off the last scraps of a can of tuna from a china soup bowl.

  Glory wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Phillips awoke suddenly, snapping into consciousness with perfect clarity as to where he was and the very very deep shit he was in. He realized immediately that his wrists were bound behind him with what he surmised was duct tape. He saw his own electric torch set upright, pointing up into the ceiling to provide a dim illumination for the watch room. He saw a man squatting a few feet away, a knife held upraised in his hand, displayed significantly for Phillips’ benefit. Another man stood behind and off to the side, holding a machine gun pointed more or less at Phillips’ head. He noted with professional detachment that the man with the machine gun did not appear comfortable with the weapon. Not that it would do any good. With that distance, even a rank beginner could cut him down if he tried to stagger to his feet and charge. He also noted that the man was wearing one of their headsets. Maybe even Phillips’ own. He sighed.

  “The rats are gone,” the man with the knife said. “For now. But if I use this to open a few deep cuts on your legs, they’ll smell the blood. They’ll come out. And…”

  “For God’s sake,” Phillips said. “Spare me the bloody theatrics. I’ll tell you all I know, which, I feel I should warn you, is fuck-all. Then you can kill me and be done with it.” He squinted at the man with the machine gun. “You look familiar.” Then, to the man with the knife: “I assume you’re this Mercer everyone’s been in such an uproar about.”

  The man with the knife nodded. “Pretty brave words.”

  Phillips laughed sharply. “Bravery’s got nothing to do with it. This mission’s fucked. And I owe Blake nothing. In fact, I think our fearless leader was planning to cut my throat himself at some point. Or have his attack dog do it.”

  “Yep,” Mercer flipped the knife over and buried it in the wood of the watch room floor. “So you don’t have any problem talking to me.”

  “No,” Phillips said, “As long as you do one thing for me.”

  “You’re not in much of a bargaining position.”

  “A favor, then. Professional courtesy, if you will.”

  Mercer nodded. “I understand. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make it quick.”

  “I probably can’t tell you what you want to know,” Phillips said. “Blake kept things strictly compartmented. You can understand, but I can agree to tell you everything I know. That’s all I can do.”

  Mercer thought for a moment. “Okay,” he said.

  “We have a deal, then,” Phillips said.

  “Yeah, we have a deal. Tell me what you know. You prefer it in the back of the head or the front?”

  “Heart, actually,” Phillips said. “Silly, I know, but if by some miracle my body makes it back home, my Mum would prefer an open casket. You know how it is.”

  “Agreed.”

  Phillips leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out. He opened his eyes again and looked at Mercer, his grip on calm restored. “It’s good to deal with professionals.”

  “Wait a minute,” the man with the machine gun said. “No one’s going to be shooting anybody here. In the head, heart, or anywhere else.”

  Phillips turned and looked at the man curiously. “And you are…?” Suddenly, his face brightened. “Ah! The policeman. The one whose job it was to get everyone off this idiotic sand spit.” He smiled sardonically. “Good work.”

  “Deputy Len Bohler,” the man with the machine gun said. “And I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of…”

  Phillips looked at Mercer. “He can’t possibly be serious.”

  Mercer looked sour. “I’m afraid he is.”

  Bohler went on doggedly. “For the murder of FBI agent…an FBI agent named McMurphy and the crew of a Coast Guard helicopter.”

  Phillips laughed, a deep belly laugh that reverberated off the old wooden beams and rough floor of the watch room.

  “You think this is funny, sir?” Bohler said, his voice icy.

  Phillips recovered himself for a moment. “I think it’s bloody priceless. Tell me Deputy, assuming for the sake of argument that any of us make it out of here alive, how do you intend to prove my guilt of this crime? Did you see me pull the trigger?”

  Bohler set his jaw. ‘No sir,” he said. “But I imagine you have the weapon somewhere…”

  “And how to you anticipate getting a ballistics match?” Phillips taunted. “Have you got this alleged helicopter about to make tests?” At Bohler’s confused look, Phillips laughed again. “Deputy Bohler, this is a damned battlefield. Furthermore, it’s a battlefield in a hurricane. Good luck collecting evidence.”

  “So, since this is a battlefield,” Mercer broke in, “I should just kill you, instead of letting Deputy Bohler at least try to take you in for further investigation.”

  Phillips considered this. “Hmmm.” He said at last. “Perhaps I have not thought this all the way through.”

  “Perhaps,” Mercer said. “Perhaps you’d better start talking. Why are you here?”

  “We’re here for whatever artifact or paper or, for all I know, jewel encrusted falcon’s in the safe in Senator Buchan’s house.”

  “And you have no idea what it is,” Mercer said.

  “No. Blake was very clear. We were never to know. However, it’s something our employer wants very much.”

  “And you don’t know who the employer is?” Bohler asked.

  “Okay. How many people are there on the island?”

  “Who the hell knows?” Phillips said. “I’ve been living in a state of constant amazement this past day or so. New people are popping up here like dandelions.”

  “Let’s put in another way,” Bohler said. “How many people did you bring with you?”

  “First,” Phillips said, "you have to understand that these are most likely not real names.”

  This time it was Mercer’s turn to laugh. “Imagine that.”

  Phillips ignored the outburst. “The leader’s name is Blake. The safecracker is Montrose. They managed to spring her out of Federal prison somehow.”

  “Wait,” Bohler said, “how did they…”

  “I believe the American term is ‘juice,” Phillips said. “Someone has it. Someone used it to spring Ms. Montrose from jail.”

  “Who the hell has that kind of pull?” Bohler said.

  Phillips shrugged. “To put together something like this? And to dare to try to rob the house of a United States Senator? I have to believe it’s someone else at that level. Or maybe higher.”

  “Go on,” Mercer said grimly. “Who else was with you?”

  “Well,” Phillips said, “There was Barstow, who I believe,” he looked at Mercer, “you killed. With a large, bladed weapon
from the looks of it.”

  “I’m not apologizing,” Mercer said.

  “Nor should you,” Phillips said. “The man was an idiot. If he hadn’t been playing silly games, he might be alive today.”

  “Pretty nasty thing to say about a comrade,” Bohler observed.

  Phillips gave Mercer a can-you-believe-this-guy raising of the eyebrows.

  “Deputy,” Mercer said, “people like us do not have comrades. They have fellow employees.”

  “Just so,” Phillips said. “Then there was Worth. Not a bad sort. Steady in a crisis. But tended to worry too much.”

  Bohler looked at Mercer. “I think he’s dead, too.”

  “Pity,” Phillips said. “I rather liked him. That would make the last one you have to worry about a fellow named Moon. Nasty piece of work, that one. Pure killer.”

  Mercer didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I imagine you fancy yourself one, too,” Phillips went on. “And I’ve seen some examples of your handiwork, so I won’t say your confidence is completely unjustified. But your work shows a certain…emotionalism. A certain degree of anger. I don’t think Moon’s capable of it.”

  “Doesn’t mean he can’t bleed.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “How were you supposed to get off the island? Once you got whatever it was you were after?”

  “Cigarette boat,” Phillips said. “Fast racing boat. Smugglers use them a lot. It was supposed to swoop in during the brief period of calm during the eye and take us off.”

  Mercer looked at Bohler. “No boats on the island.”

  “No boats on the island,” Phillips agreed. “But I’m beginning to think the idea of us being taken off on a fast boat was just a bit of window dressing.” Phillips grimaced. “Blake didn’t tell us that Moon was on the island. There’s only one explanation I can think of for that.”