by Lyle Howard
Mackey Senior let his head fall back against the bulkhead. What in God’s name was going on in this place? What had he stuck his foot into this time? If only he could remember how he got here!
In his clouded memory, there were foggy images of himself waking up at the bar and stumbling outside to take a leak. That was business as usual. Cal didn’t like him using the restroom because Ernie tended to miss the porcelain a lot whenever he tipped back a few too many. Cal always scolded him for doing that. Kids. He remembered being awed by the sight of the ship; who wouldn’t be? He had never seen a yacht that large before, except maybe in a magazine or something. Then, after that, everything just went blank! Did he go over to check out the ship? Why couldn’t he remember?
“Ernie!” Geiger’s voice snapped the old man out of his hazy trip down memory lane.
“You find Bushkin?”
The deputy’s voice was coming from two doors down and across the corridor. “I need a hand!”
Running a marathon would have been easier for Cal’s father than trying to pull himself off the floor. His cracking bones sounded like the fireworks as he painstakingly rose to his feet. He couldn’t believe he was actually getting up to help! It had been countless years since the last time someone said they actually needed him. How had he let himself fall so far into this pit of self-loathing?
It was a tragic, but simple story. The morning after had long since turned into the day of for Ernie. It had all started with months of planning his retirement from the force. He and Helen had spent weeks picking out the camper they would never end up buying ... beige with a brown stripe running down the side. How wonderful it would be, all the traveling they would finally get around to doing. Their son was grown up and fighting off in who knows what corner of the world. Life was their oyster. How fair was it that she was taken away from him so quickly and so indiscriminately? The doctors said cancer, making the disease sound so docile. And another gaggle of doctors smiled at them, promising help and hope. But cancer was just a word, and the doctors had other patients to deal with as well. There had been no time for hope. It was over in weeks. What she had gone through was hell. And the doctors collected their fees...
“Move your ass, Ernie,” Geiger urged. “We’ve got another live one!”
Six minutes...
Cal could hear footsteps above his head. As he ran the length of yet another corridor, the sound followed him. More than one pair, he quickly surmised... could be trouble.
The staccato bursts of automatic gun fire...
Who were they firing at?
The concert of mayhem grew louder as he neared the stairwell. The last thing he wanted to do was to climb these steps and poke his head into a running gun battle!
More shouting in foreign language! Why didn’t these people have the common courtesy to scream in English!
Cal cautiously took one step at a time, like the rungs were electrified. Then the shocking notion struck him. What if it was Artie they were after? It had to be! They must have found the mess he had left below!
Urgency replaced the fatigue in his legs and he scrambled up the ladder with his knife placed firmly between his teeth...
Like Punxsutawney Phil, Cal popped his head through the stairwell opening...
Six minutes...
“What did they do to poor Bushkin?” Ernie asked nervously.
Geiger had already checked the lawyer and confirmed that he was dead. A casual observation of the blanched body would have told him the same thing, but he felt for a pulse anyway.
“They drained all of his blood!” the girl cried. “I saw them. Get me out of here!” She squirmed beneath the straps. “Hurry before he comes back ... please!”
The sheer terror in the girl’s voice was enough to frighten a statue, and it took all of the fortitude Ernie could muster not to bolt for the nearest exit.
Geiger wasn’t much for bedside manner, but he did whatever possible to calm the girl down. “So you’ve met our host?”
Her eyes were wide with fear. “Please get me out of here!”
Ernie stood in the doorway, his knees shaking like an old washing machine.
The deputy unfastened her ankle straps and nearly got a kick in the face for his trouble. “Whoa steady, little darlin,” he cautioned, as he grabbed her legs. “Running in place ain’t gonna get you nowhere!”
“We’ve gotta get out of here! He’s coming back for me! He said he was!”
Artie held up his hands as a peace offering. “Now, I’m gonna undo your wrists,” he smiled, trying to reassure her. “You’re not gonna take a swing at me if I do, are you?”
“Who are you?”
“We’re the good guys!” Mackey Senior burped.
Geiger grinned. “That’s right sweetheart! We’re the good guys!”
Her fists relaxed. “We’re leaving this place?”
Artie freed her. “We’re gonna give it our best shot!”
She rubbed her wrists as she did a quick set of knee bends to renew her blood flow. “You got a name, handsome?”
The deputy blushed watching her bounce up and down. She had a body that wouldn’t quit. “Arthur ... Arthur Geiger, but everyone calls me Artie.”
“Rebecca Abrams,” she said, offering her hand, “but you can call me, Becky.”
Cal’s father waved his arms to get their attention. “Hello... The name’s Ernie over here and you can both call me the same fucking thing! Now, are we gonna get the hell out of here, or what?”
Six minutes...
Cal’s face was peppered with blood as he peeked through the opening. Someone was crawling toward him, trying to speak, but only blood spewed from his mouth. He was young ... not broad-chested like the others. His complexion was dark, like he spent most of his time out in the sun. Words tried to form, but nothing came out except gibberish.
Slowly and inexorably, the young man crept closer on his elbows, a wide smear of red tracing his agony on the carpeting. Cal reached out to grasp a blood soaked hand that was just out of his range. “Take my hand!” Cal implored.
“Yo no puedo, señor ... yo no puedo!” the youngster gurgled back.
“Yes, you can God dammit! Now grab my hand!” Cal barked.
Blood poured from the center of the smuggler’s chest. “Yo no puedo…”
Just a few more inches and Cal would have him...
At the far end of the hall, two more of Von Robles’ men came tearing around the corner, their pistols raised and ready.
Just a few more inches...
Cal lunged for him...
Guns fired...
One bullet pierced the soft flesh of the young man’s neck and passed clean through, striking the metal ladder above Cal’s head, showering him in sparks.
Just before his eyes rolled back into his head, the young Columbian fell onto his side, revealing a Beretta Model Twelve submachine gun clutched in one of his bloody hands. Using the smuggler’s prone body as a shield, Cal lunged out again, but this time he came away with a little surprise package for the two hatchet men. The Beretta’s grip was tacky with coagulated blood, but the lethal weapon still felt uncomfortably natural in Cal’s hands.
Firing at a rate of five hundred to six hundred rounds per minute, the Beretta could hurl projectiles at a muzzle velocity of twelve-hundred fifty feet per second. Still a favorite weapon of Latin American terrorists, the submachine gun shredded Von Robles’ men like hamburger meat. Cal sprayed the entire width of the corridor, back and forth, over and over until no square inch was left uncovered. Never having a chance to react, the gunmen were hurled against the far bulkhead, their mutilated bodies gracelessly writhing in syncopation to Mackey’s Beretta Concerto Number One...
Five minutes...
Ernie had his arms draped around both Artie and Rebecca’s shoulders as they helped him along toward the elevator. “And you know how to fly one of these things?” the old man asked, skeptically.
Geiger wasn’t sure the elevator would be the safest ro
ute to the top deck, but time was running short and he knew Cal’s father would never make it up the stairs. “Supposedly Cal can,” he said, jabbing his thumb repeatedly on the up button.
Ernie’s mouth felt as arid as desert trench. What he wouldn’t give right now for three fingers of rum and a twist of lime! “My son was taught to do anything the military would ever need.”
“Who’s Cal?” Rebecca asked.
The deputy tapped his foot impatiently as the elevator whirred to life somewhere below them. I’m not sure who he is anymore. I’ve got a feeling there’s a lot we don’t know about our buddy the bartender!”
“Who’s Cal?” Rebecca repeated, more strenuously this time.
Geiger jabbed at the button again, as though pressing it over and over would somehow speed its ascent. “From what I’ve learned about him in the past twenty-four hours, Cal Mackey is Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, and Peter Parker all rolled up into one.”
A puff of air rushed at them through the crack between the brass elevator doors signaling its arrival. As a precaution, the deputy pulled his arm free from Ernie’s shoulder and moved his charge off to one side. “Just in case,” he warned them, “be ready to run!”
“Just where the hell do you expect us to run to?” Ernie whispered.
Geiger shrugged. “I don’t know ... just be ready!”
The old man turned to the young woman who was still propping him up. Now that his vision was beginning to clear, he was able to take notice of her ample proportions and the revealing bathing suit she was almost wearing. Through parched lips, his remaining gnarled teeth made a jubilant appearance. It was a crooked, sad smile, but one that made Becky glad to see that he was regaining some of his strength. She tried to return the gesture, but knew that her face was betraying her anxiety. “Scared?” he asked her, wide-eyed.
Her tongue could form no words ... she could only shake her head as his irreparable grin spread even larger. “Nah, me neither!” he tried to reassure her. “Stick by me and you’ll be fine!”
Meanwhile, it seemed like the elevator doors were taking forever to open ... but Artie was gonna be ready when they did. His chest glistened with sweat, as he stood braced for whoever or whatever, was unfortunate enough to be standing behind the breach...
Five minutes...
Cal scoured the dead gunmen for whatever he thought might prove useful. Two Walther P38s were all he came up with, and each pistol only had half a clip left. Slim pickings, but he would have to make due.
A quick glance at his watch told him that unless fate decided to throw a monkey wrench into the scheme of things, there would be no final confrontation with Wolfgar Von Robles. Although Cal would have taken immense satisfaction in gutting the ghoul three ways from Sunday, he would have to settle instead for letting the fourteen barrels of marine grade gasoline do the honors for him.
Up yet another ladder to the last level before the top deck; this was feeling more like a video game than a route to freedom. He had to move faster. The helicopter (whatever model it turned out to be) would need time to warm up ... it wasn’t like turning an ignition key in the old folk’s Oldsmobile.
He was halfway down the corridor when he heard more footsteps coming his way. Lots of them this time. This had to be Von Robles’ last ditch effort to stop him. It sounded like an entire army charging in his direction, shouting commands to each other in that grating Eastern European gargle.
To his right, he could hear the elevator moving up the shaft and the counterweight moving downward. More of them coming up from below? He hoped to God not!
He came to a dead stop in the middle of the corridor, his breath pounding in his lungs like sledgehammers. He hadn’t felt this exhilarated since... (He had to stay focused! This wasn’t the time to be dredging up that stuff!)
From a tactical vantage point, he knew not to pin himself down at either end of the corridor. Experience had taught him to stay equidistant between both ends of the hallway and the elevator, just in case more reinforcements showed up any direction. As an added precaution, and knowing a smaller target is harder to hit (unless you had one of these trusty Beretta submachine guns, which he didn’t think the U.S. Government would furnish them with), he squatted down with his back to the bulkhead and pointed a Walther in each direction. He knew his chances were slim to none against a horde of gun toting assassins, but, what the hell—he had lead a clean life, an honorable life... (Eh, well ... a clean life anyway...)
Five of them came running around the corner from his left. One of them was wearing a cook’s cap and stained apron, and he was waving a butcher’s cleaver over his head. This confirmed to Cal that indeed Von Robles was scraping the bottom of his employee barrel. Thankfully, no one ever emerged from the other end of the hall to his right. What he had heard must have been the echoes of these guys screaming at each other. Even with the plush carpeting covering the steel decking, the sound in these metal hallways could still play havoc with your hearing.
A Mexican standoff? Unfortunately not. Each goon had two guns drawn that were of the same make and model as Cal’s. A quick count (eight pistols and one cleaver) told him that even if he managed to take out two or three of them (which he could do in his sleep), it would have been futile.
As he cautiously rose to his feet to face his adversaries, he continued to point both guns in their direction. Not even a fair game of chicken—all five attackers froze, like a herd of deer in the headlights of an oncoming car, none of them sure which of them Cal had his sights trained on...
Life is a mystery and each of us acts and reacts differently to our particular circumstances. And, unlike everyday life, there’s a very special assortment of contemplations and prayers that go through a person’s mind when they’re faced with their own eminent demise. For Cal Mackey, as he stared down barrels of the makeshift firing squad, there was no inner retrospection. His only thoughts and wishes were for the jerk that was sick enough to be wielding the meat cleaver. He hoped that guy would be the first to be blown to bits...
Four minutes...
The deputy was ready...
The elevator doors slid open with a resounding hiss...
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing...
Nothing ... emptiness.
“Come on,” Geiger shepherded the other two. “Inside ... inside, quickly!”
The doors hissed shut behind them and Becky pushed the uppermost button. The mirror-lined compartment was no smaller than a typical elevator, but somehow it seemed much more confining to all of them. After a protracted moment of inactivity, which sent a collective shudder through the already-petrified escape party, the room lurched into motion.
As they crept to what they hoped would be their salvation, no one in the compartment ever made direct eye contact. Sure, there were the superfluous grins and the obligatory nods of assurance, but each of them was absorbed in their own thoughts and prayers.
Gunshots!
It made them all shrink to the rear of the compartment.
So clear behind the doors they could almost feel the hot lead!
As the control panel “pinged” for the second level, it sounded like they were passing through the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.
Becky covered her ears to stop the noise. It wasn’t working.
A fortissimo of bullets! An allegro of death!
The old man’s knuckles turned white as they tightened around the chrome handrail.
No one could survive such an onslaught!
Geiger instinctively stepped in front of both of them, his arms spread out like a buffer.
Go get em, Cal... you son-of-a-bitch!
The elevator continued its climb, the sound of the gunfire reverberating down the hollow shaft. No one moved. No one breathed. Like an echo across a canyon, the unholy sound slowly faded into ... nothingness. The light for the second level blinked out. Silence filled the elevator like a fourth presence. No one took their eyes off the panel of lights...
The harsh light that
poured through the doors was nearly blinding! In unison, pupils contracted as cupped hands shielded eyes. Daylight at last!
Ernie drew in a chest full of fresh air. The pungent aroma of the sea smelled sweeter than a bottle of three hundred dollar per ounce French Perfume!
The deputy pulled the red stop button to prevent the doors from closing again. “Wait here a second.”
Becky grabbed him by the wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I just wanna make sure the coast is clear,” he said, looking back at her gruffly. “You wanna do it?”
She let go.
Stepping out onto the teakwood deck, Geiger immediately felt a sensation of movement. They weren’t going anywhere fast, but the ship was definitely making headway. There was a constant whoosh as a never ending barrage of whitecaps rolled beneath the hull. Above his head, a pair of yellow-beaked seagulls glided by on a current of warm air, oblivious to all the confusion taking place below them.
A hasty look around told the deputy they were alone. He motioned for his companions to follow him quickly and to keep their backs to the wall. At every corner, they waited for him to signal the all clear. Within seconds they were surrounding the black tarpaulin.
“We’ve got to get this thing untied,” Geiger instructed.
There were twelve straps holding the tarp in place. Four apiece. It was more than just ironic that by now they were all experts at unfastening straps...
Down on their knees, they all worked, moving from their left to their right ... all struggling with focused intent on their assigned chore. None of them noticed the enormous pair of size fifteen shoes that were closing in on them...
