Devil Sharks

by Chris Jameson

  Alex had been inside the station only scant hours before, but it felt different now. Part of it must surely have been the slant of light, the gray sky, the higher tide and crash of waves. But when he’d first entered this building it had been a moment of peaceful camaraderie. The sunshine and the sea and the drinks had created the illusion of rapprochement between himself and Harry, as if all the old resentments could be washed away so easily.

  Had it been an illusion, though? It had felt so simple. Maybe the past nastiness couldn’t be erased, but as Alex breathed the close, dusty air inside the Coast Guard station and remembered the hope and nostalgia Harry’d pursued to arrive at this place he knew stepping over this threshold had been a fresh start for the two of them. Without hiding from the past, they’d both been willing to build a new friendship on the wreckage of the old.

  Then Isko had attacked Gabe, and the eruption of violence had shattered the détente. In his grief and worry, Harry had reverted to behaviors he’d tried to bury, and Alex hadn’t acquitted himself any better. Now all three of them were dead—Harry, Gabe, Isko.

  “Smells like piss in here,” Blue Eyes said.

  Machii ignored him. Blue Eyes flinched, staring at his boss’s back as Machii hurried down the corridor ahead of them. Blue Eyes hadn’t liked being ignored. He ran his mouth a lot. Alex could feel the hunger in the man, his yearning to be the one calling the shots. Didn’t Machii feel it, too? Didn’t he know that Blue Eyes bristled every time he took an order or was ignored?

  Not my problem, Alex thought. But he knew it could become his problem.

  Joriz—Alex had managed to tell the difference between him and Benjie now—called to them from up ahead. The words weren’t in English, but it had to be an all clear, for Machii quickened his pace. Blue Eyes gave Alex a shove with the stock of his assault rifle.

  Benjie popped out of a side room with a small rucksack. Alex realized they’d missed it earlier. Maybe it had been rolled into one of the stained mattresses or stuffed into a narrow closet they’d failed to search. Not that it mattered. These men had left very little behind. They just wanted to make sure.

  As he stood in the mess hall with Blue Eyes cradling that assault rifle beside him, Alex watched Machii step into the kitchen and then emerge again. Benjie and Joriz came into the mess hall as well.

  “Nothing but dust,” Joriz said. “Can’t wipe the whole place down if we’re in a hurry.”

  “And we don’t know how much of a hurry we’re in,” Machii said, eyes narrowing as he looked at Alex. “Depends how much we believe our new friend.”

  His head bobbed in a slow, thoughtful nod; then he pointed to the bullet casings lined up on the windowsill. “I’m not sure which of you dumb asses put those up there, but grab them. Stuff them in your pockets for now.”

  Machii turned to Alex. “Your job is to take the maps off the wall and fold them up neatly.”

  Alex thought about telling him to fuck off, even had the appropriate sneer on his lips, but he thought of what Sami would say. He swallowed his words and his pride, thinking only of her and Tasha—of surviving this with her, and getting home to his daughter. Nothing else mattered. Not the tragic life and death of Harry Curtis or the senseless death of their first mate. Sure as hell not Isko. If he’d been a smuggler, working for Machii, then he’d been far from innocent.

  Alex crossed to the wall where the maps had been hung and started to pull thumbtacks out, wanting to keep the maps neat and intact so Machii wouldn’t get angry.

  “The rest of you,” Machii said, “find the gas can for the generator. We’re going to burn this fucking place to the ground.”

  Alex tried not to think about the fire and what it represented. In military history, they called it the scorched-earth policy. It meant leaving nothing behind that might benefit your enemy. With the rain spattering the windows and creating a static rasp against the roof, he told himself Machii would have killed them all out on the Kid Galahad if that was what he’d intended to do. But maybe he’d been telling the truth when he’d said he was keeping his options open, that he hadn’t decided yet.

  A thumbtack gave him trouble. Alex forced his thumbnail under its edge but couldn’t pry it out. He tugged the map, tearing off half an inch of paper at the corner. He wanted to move fast now, get out of there before Machii grew impatient—before the fire started.

  When he heard the splash of liquid behind him and smelled gasoline, he started just ripping the maps off the wall.

  CHAPTER 17

  Alliyah moved quietly. With the tide coming in, there was a point on the curve of the atoll, a hundred yards from the Coast Guard station, where the tree line came within twenty feet of the water. Her heart thumped hard against her chest and a little voice in her head screamed at her to stop, to turn around, to go and hide with Dev. In any ordinary life, the fortunate people never found themselves in situations of real peril. They had to wonder what sort of person they would be if the worst happened, if they found themselves in a crisis where pain and horror were looming. Where murder seemed tangible and real and it became difficult to breathe.

  The moment had come. Alliyah had never imagined it would, but she’d wondered just the same. What kind of person would she be?

  She moved from the tree line and into the water as quietly as she could. As she slipped into the waves, submerging herself and gliding along, head above water and belly scuffing the bottom, she forced herself not to think about the sharks. They were out there in their feeding ground, not here by the shore, where the tide rolled in. Yet with the sky gone dark and the rain plinking on the surface, every jagged wave appeared to be a fin.

  The pontoon boat sat on the sand. The guy who’d piloted it stood beside it, assault rifle held across his chest. He looked bored, not quite at attention. Twice he glanced back across the lagoon, focused on the two boats out there—the yacht and the fishing boat. In those moments, Alliyah slid beneath the water, counting on the gray sea and the rain.

  As she glided toward him, the smuggler faced the Coast Guard station and lifted his weapon over his head. “Come on, you fuckers!” he shouted. “It’s not bloody moving day!”

  Irish, she thought. But she left it at that. Now wasn’t the time to try to sort out the whys and wherefores of who these men were and how they’d come to be smugglers.

  Twenty feet away, she slid beneath the waves and swam parallel to the shore, rising again when she was behind the pontoon boat. Hidden from view by the bobbing rear of the boat, she swam silently up behind the motor. As her hands reached down and began searching the sand, her imagination plagued her. The sharks must be there, surely. Just out of the corner of her eye, there would be a fin. Only the gun in the hands of the man on the beach forced her to go quietly and slowly. The sharks might be there. The bullets were.

  Her left hand found a rock the size of a grapefruit. Her fingers closed around it and she shifted it to her right hand.

  Crouched behind the pontoon boat, she watched the impatient man shifting and sighing on the beach. He swore to himself and turned to look out to sea again. Bobbing in the water, she kept her head down, waiting for him to bark at her, for the gun to fire, or for him to order her out of the lagoon.

  Nothing happened. Alliyah crouched in the water. A wave crashed over her and lifted the rear of the pontoon boat. The motor rose and fell beside her. She used her free hand to wipe salt water from her eyes, then peeked around the boat.

  “I thought you bastards were in a hurry!” the smuggler shouted.

  His back was to her.

  Alliyah came out of the water before she even realized she was in motion. She’d wanted to be quiet but could not disguise her rush from the surf. The man muttered some bit of profane surprise as he turned to glance over his shoulder. It was that motion that saved her. Had he simply turned around instead of taking that moment to glance back, the gun would have been aimed at her. But when he saw her—when his eyes narrowed in disbelief and he began to sputter and to turn—it was
too late.

  Alliyah struck him in the temple. The smuggler staggered. The gun swung loose on the strap he wore around his neck. He tried to catch himself but stumbled and went onto one knee.

  Blood trickled down his face. His eyelids fluttered, but his hands pawed at the dangling gun, then took hold. Alliyah felt her heart turn to ice. Jaw clenched, brows knitted, she swung the rock again, aiming for that trickle of blood.

  That wooden clack of stone on skull felt satisfying as hell. As the smuggler went face-first into the sand, she knew she ought to be horrified. Instead, she dropped the rock and wrestled the strap of the assault rifle off him before he had a chance to recover. If he recovered at all.

  Alliyah picked up the gun. For a moment she just held it, standing on the beach in the rain. The wind gusted, the storm just beginning to strengthen. She’d never held a gun in her life, but she had seen the way the smuggler held it and with a weapon like this she figured it was as simple as not pulling the trigger until she meant to, and making sure the barrel was pointed in the right direction.

  Taking a breath, she slid the strap over her head, letting it cross her chest, and she started up toward the Coast Guard station. If anyone inside had seen her attack the man by the boat, she figured she would die. But so far there’d been no raised voices, no gunshots.

  At the corner of the building, in view of the door with its shattered frame, she stood in the rain and she waited. Alliyah didn’t know how this would all end, but she knew she would finish it on her feet, not lying on her belly and hiding, praying the bad men wouldn’t find her.

  Better to be dead than to hide while people she loved were being murdered.

  If she survived this, she knew she would never be able to look at Dev the way she once had. She hoped she lived long enough to leave him.

  * * *

  The first thing Alex noticed as he stepped out of the Coast Guard station was the way that Machii and Joriz had frozen in place, maybe a dozen paces from the door. He paused, trying to figure it out, and Blue Eyes gave him a shove in the back. Alex stumbled, nearly dropped the maps he’d carefully folded, and went careening out the door. He skidded in the sand but managed not to fall, and as he clutched the maps to his chest he realized Blue Eyes had also gone still as a statue.

  “Don’t even blink,” a voice said.

  Alex glanced up. He’d known Alliyah all his adult life. They’d laughed together. He’d gone to her mother’s funeral and held her in a claustrophobic little corridor while she cried the tears she hadn’t wanted her father to see. In college they’d slept together, and it had been more like making love than just screwing. Not that they were in love, but they’d cared for each other. It had been sweet and healing and awkward and stupid, but beautiful for all of that.

  Now she aimed an assault rifle at a bunch of smugglers—Alex still didn’t know what the hell they smuggled, but it didn’t matter anymore. Alliyah’s hands were steady. She swung the barrel slowly, varying her aim to make sure Machii and the others knew she meant business.

  “I don’t want to kill Alex,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t want to kill any of you fuckers, either. I’d like you to die. I guess I should be clear about that. I’d just rather not be the one to kill you. But I will. After the things I’ve seen you do, I’ll have no problem forgiving myself.”

  “Hard bitch,” Blue Eyes sneered. His body began to shift, almost imperceptibly. “You don’t have the—”

  “Cabot,” Machii said quietly, and it was the first time Alex realized Blue Eyes had a name. “Put your weapon on the ground.”

  Alliyah gave a single nod. “That’s a good idea, Cabot. All of you, put your weapons down.”

  They did it. Slowly and carefully, like they’d done it before or made others do it, and learned by watching. Or maybe they were just scared to die, like anyone. Cabot spat on the ground, raised his hands, and backed away from his weapon.

  “You know they have others,” Alex said, his own hands raised. Not that he expected her to shoot him, but just so he didn’t do anything that made her twitch. “Guns or knives or whatever.”

  “I do,” Alliyah said. Then she raised her voice, shouting but with every word clear, “I also know there’s still one asshole inside. If I see your face—if I see your shadow—I’ll kill all these guys!”

  Alex had practically forgotten Benjie remained inside. He’d been splashing gasoline around inside the building, getting ready to burn it all, and hadn’t yet emerged. Now Alex quietly hoped he didn’t try anything stupid.

  “Just go,” Machii said. Not in fear. The man seemed not at all afraid. Just practical. A businessman. “Take Alex; go back to your boat. If my people don’t kill you on your way out there, you’re home free. They’ll be busy rescuing us from shore. Of course, that’s if you can get your sailboat under way fast enough.”

  Alliyah frowned. “What are you—”

  “I mean, if you get out of here before my people can get me back on my boat, we’ll probably never catch you. You should hurry, though.”

  Alex glanced at him. “She could just shoot you all, right now.”

  Machii glanced at Cabot and shrugged. “Then she should do that. The gunfire will draw attention and you’ll never get back to your boat alive. Seems like your best bet is to go quietly and as fast as you can. It’ll be fun. Like a little race. If we catch you before you can get away, you’re all dead.”

  Alex saw the grim light in Alliyah’s eyes as she did the mental calculations.

  “Let’s go, Alex,” she said.

  He shot one more glance at Machii, Joriz, and Cabot, then crossed the dirt toward Alliyah, keeping well to one side so he didn’t block her line of fire. The wind gusted and the rain came down harder, each drop plinking the dusty ground.

  Alliyah lifted the assault rifle to her shoulder, taking aim. “Don’t try it. Killing me’s not worth your own life, is it?”

  Alex glanced over his shoulder. Cabot had started to move toward his weapon, where it lay on the ground. Of course it was Cabot. If they all died here, it would be him who triggered the bloodbath. Machii rolled his eyes but said nothing. Cabot only grinned and gave a little shrug, as if it were all some kind of game.

  Only when Alex turned toward Alliyah again—just a few feet from her, ready to race for the pontoon boat—did he see motion over her shoulder, and the furious, blood-streaked face looming up behind her.

  Hannigan.

  Alex started to shout, to reach out. Alliyah gave him a curious look. In a flicker, he saw the recognition in her eyes as she understood what was about to happen. Then she cried out in harmony with Hannigan’s own grunt. Her mouth opened slowly, her eyes narrowing in sadness and disappointment, and then widening with the pain as Hannigan yanked the knife out of her back, grabbed her by the hair, and plunged it into her again. This time Alex heard the sound of it going in, the wet splitting of flesh and the crack of bone.

  Alliyah sank to her knees. Hannigan touched the blood on his own forehead, a wound Alliyah had to have given him, and then he crouched to retrieve his knife. He yanked it out, wiped it on her hair, and returned it to a sheath at his belt.

  “This isn’t like me,” he said, scowling as he retrieved the assault rifle she’d stolen from him. Hannigan glanced up at Alex, as if he owed some kind of explanation. As if he had a conscience, or a soul. “If I’m gonna kill someone, I do it face-to-face. But she snuck up on me. Could’ve killed me. I figured it was only fair to return the favor.”

  Machii had already retrieved his own gun. Joriz and Cabot were doing the same.

  “Don’t worry about it, Hannigan,” Machii said. “Courtesy has to go both ways.”

  Alex stared at him, the madness of their conversation hurting his brain. Alliyah lay on the ground with a fan of blood spreading out beneath her and these men were talking about good manners and murder.

  “Benjie!” Machii shouted into the Coast Guard station. “Light it up. We need to go!”

  Numb and hollow, A
lex could barely think. Cabot shoved him from behind, moving him toward the pontoon boat as if nothing at all had happened.

  “Alli,” he whispered.

  As he passed her, he fell to his knees and reached out to touch her arm. Her lips moved and her eyes shifted. Alliyah exhaled. Her hands dug into the ground.

  “Come on, dickless,” Cabot said.

  He kicked Alex in the side, knocked him over. Alex scrabbled from harder earth to sand and leaped to his feet, turning with his fists clenched. Cabot smirked and lifted his weapon, fired a burst into the beach. Bullets kicked up sand and Alex backed away, moving toward the pontoon boat.

  “Stop messing around,” Machii said.

  At the door of the Coast Guard station, Benjie appeared. He splashed the last few drops of gasoline onto the threshold and then tossed the bucket inside. Then he dug into his pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes and a small folding pack of matches. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag that made the tip burn orange, and flicked the match in through the doorway.

  The fire ignited with a rush of air and a gust of black smoke.

  Benjie took another drag of the cigarette and shot a questioning look at his boss. His captain.

  Machii glanced at the sky. “It’ll burn. Might not burn down, depending how heavy the rain gets. But it’ll burn all the fingerprints out of the place, that’s for sure.”

  Then they were moving down toward the pontoon boat, onto the sand, to the crashing waves. As Hannigan passed Alliyah, he hocked a wad of bloody spittle onto her bare back.

  The smugglers shoved the pontoon boat off the sand and climbed in. Alex did the same, prodded by Cabot’s gun. Rage and shame burned in his chest as he glanced back toward the shore, where smoke had begun pouring out the windows of the Coast Guard station. Alliyah lay there dying, gasping, but his fear for his own life had kept him moving.

  She’d want you to live, he told himself. She risked her life for you, but it’s too late to save her. All that blood—those are killing wounds. There’s nothing you can do.