by John Ringo
“Durante, Kaplan,” Tom said as they cleared the gate. “Hold off our friends and get the gates shut. Guard,” he continued, pointing to the barge, “get that cover off.”
“Astroga, dockside,” Copley said. “You, Numbnuts…”
“They call him Lugnut,” Astroga said helpfully.
“Lugnut, fine, whatever,” replied Copley, pointing at one of the remaining Cosa Nova goons. “Cross over there and grab the tarp. I’ll take this end.”
There was a platform on the landward side of the barge Copley stood on as Lugnut crossed to the narrow bulwark on the water side to undo the ties of the tarp while Astroga worked on the ties on the pier side. When they had them off they helped Copley pull the tarp to the rear.
The “machinery” turned out to be the two ten-meter RHIBs with inboard-outboard motors, the same ones that the bank had been operating during the collapse. The barge had already been partially flooded with the boats floating in the cargo space moored to the aft platform.
“Fucking cool,” Lugnut said, balancing on the narrow bulwark. “But hows we get the boats outta da barge?”
“What’s this?” Astroga asked. Right by her feet was a red lever. So, naturally, she pulled it.
The barge began to rapidly sink. Unfortunately, the gangster was standing on the water-side about midships.
“What the shit, Army!” he shouted, waving his arms. “The fuck do I do now?”
“Swim for it?” Astroga asked, jumping onto the pier.
The barge stopped sinking as it hit the shallow bottom, leaving the goon standing knee-deep in the water. The aft platform was just above the waterline, making for easy entry to the boats.
“Or, you know, walk to the platform?” Astroga said.
“Carefully,” Copley pointed out. “Since, you know, you can’t see your footing.”
“Why’s the torch and the crown on the Statue still lit?” Astroga asked, looking east towards the monument.
“Talk about non sequiturs,” Copley said as Lugnut started to cautiously make his way to the rear of the barge. “Most of the lights are powered off the grid, Specialist. Those are the only lights on Liberty Island that have internal generators that still have fuel.”
He might have just learned that last night, but no sergeant ever misses an opportunity to prove their superior knowledge to an overpaid private, promotion be damned.
“Is it just me or does the head shed appear seriously pissed?” Astroga asked.
“God, you ask a lot of questions,” Copley said, looking over at the cluster of Smith and the Mafia dudes. “But, no, it’s not just you.”
Lugnut looked up too.
* * *
“Those little boats?” Tradittore blurted angrily. “How are we going to fit everyone into those things! How far are we gonna get?”
Matricardi waved him to silence, one hand palm down.
“I was expecting something a little more substantial,” Matricardi said, looking at Tom. “How far are we gonna go in those things, Smith?”
Distracted, Tom looked up at the dockhead, gauging the number of zombies beginning to accumulate outside the fence. He waved at Durante and vigorously pointed at the entrance. The tall operator looked, then gathered his remaining team as he trotted back towards the steel gate that barred entry. At the boats, Kaplan was trying to start the second RHIB. Copley had the black nonskid-coated engine covers off, following Kaplan’s directions. The rest of the party was passing gear towards the first boat, whose engines idled, spreading acrid gray exhaust across the harbor chop. Matricardi’s wounded were already aboard.
Tom’s mind was racing, weighing the variables. He tuned out the not so quiet asides between the two mobsters. He spoke as he watched Kaplan’s arm emerge from the engine compartment and wave urgently for a tool.
“Far enough,” Smith said. “And we run south.”
“South!” Tradittore didn’t quite squawk. “There ain’t nothing south. The closest Site is north, right up the fucking Hudson. The next closest site is even further north, in fucking Maine.”
Matricardi raised his hand, as if to slap his subordinate, but held it. Tradittore barely flinched, but his eyes blazed.
“Shut up, Joey. We know that. Let him speak. He has a plan. So maybe take the time to explain, because like my excited associate pointed out, south isn’t exactly what we were thinking.”
A shot sounded by the gate, but Durante’s calm voice followed right after.
“No problem, just giving them a little something to eat. But hurry, would you?”
Tom jerked his head back from the gate and focused on the Sicilian pair.
“Ask me for anything but time,” Tom muttered, then turned to face the mobster. “Nationwide failures of the power grid are cascading as we speak. The last and biggest movement of refugees has started. The Hudson narrows past West Point. Every Tom, Dick and Harry is going to be tear assing out to sea in the opposite direction and those that haven’t will do anything to take a boat. Do you really think we can motor upriver, just like that?” Tom snapped his fingers. “We go south, a couple miles offshore. We get clear of the worst of the Boston to D.C. gridlock. Then we head for Site Blue.”
Tom watched Frank Matricardi’s calculating eyes as Tradittore began to argue.
“We have enough guns to blow right upriver!” Tradittore shook his fist. “We just speed up and use the belt-feds and the grenade launcher!”
“No,” Tom said, shaking his head and holding Matricardi’s gaze. “You’re ignoring logistics. Ours is limited—both shooters and ammo.” Over Matricardi’s shoulder, he saw Oldryskya approaching. Even torn, even under a plate carrier, that dress was still distracting as hell.
“The Boston–Washington corridor is fifty million people—more than ten times the population density in most of this country.” He lowered his voice a little, making his point to Matricardi. “This is about logistics. Anywhere we go upriver, we hit people. Lots of people. First from here, then Albany, then Schenectady, then the crossovers from Boston. We would never find a place to get off the river safely before we were overwhelmed with the refugee traffic from the densest population belt in the country. We head south, out to sea, all we hit is waves and yachts punching out to sea. We’ll be better armed, faster than what we encounter and risk fewer incidents. Upriver…we’re fucked.”
Matricardi put his hand on the shoulder of the still-expostulating younger man, but he nodded at the little group of civilians that they had narrowly dodged on the last dash across the park, and then pulled inside the fence to safety. Tom followed his gaze to a forlorn tangle of middle school kids in some kind of maroon parochial school uniform and a couple of adult females, probably the minders.
“And them?” Matricardi asked.
“Everyone gets out,” Tom said levelly. “No discussion.”
Matricardi looked at Tom, back at the refugees and then glanced up at the gate where more zombies were intermittently visible through the gaps in the fence. Durante and two others were pushing against the gate, keeping it closed. He shook his head, first side to side, then paused and looked upwards.
Tom waited a long count, but didn’t break the silence. Matricardi shifted his gaze to Tom’s face and then out at the water. Shaking his head in the affirmative, he spoke.
“Va bene. Everyone goes south.” He shrugged and turned to look at his second. “Joey, what we are gonna do i—”
Joey Tradittore calmly and smoothly produced a pistol and shot Matricardi in the face. As Smith began to react, Tradittore shot at someone past him, then sidestepped behind Oldryskya and socketed the pistol in her neck. Several shots sounded, including a short burst of automatic fire. Tom froze, his hand on the pistol still in the holster high on his hip. A loud splash made him look over his shoulder.
One of Matricardi’s hale goons was competently holding the RPK, aiming at a little group of bank staff. Astroga was floating facedown in the dirty green harbor water. Kaplan wasn’t in view, but blood was v
isible on the RHIB sponson. The kids were screaming hysterically.
“Nothing personal, Smith,” Tradittore said, his tight grin showing clenched teeth. “Just changing the business plan. We’ll take one boat, and Frank Matricardi’s wayward little lamb, and just evacuate ourselves.”
Other than moving his head, Tom had frozen, his hand still on the holstered SIG. Despite his watchful stillness, the gangster could see the imminent threat.
“Nuh-uh-uh, Smith. Not even a quiver. I know you are a badass, but are you good enough to drop me and all of them before either I put one into your girlfriend or my boy shoots every mother’s son?”
Backing away, Tradittore continued to drag Risky towards the boats. She placed her hands on the arm around her neck, but otherwise shuffled backwards too. Her violet eyes were locked on Tom’s.
Durante was still shoving against the gate, yelling, his voice full of strain.
“Boss?”
Tom spoke for the first time since Matricardi fell.
“Hold what you got, Gravy.”
“That’s right, Gravy,” Tradittore said, his confidence growing. “Do what the big man says, and you all can leave, after we are clear. All you assholes at the gate should keep that thing closed. Sure hate for this to turn into a gunfight, what with my man already aiming at those zombies behind you with his AK.”
Oldryskya snorted in derision, then choked as Tradittore squeezed her neck between his bicep and forearm.
“Shut it, bitch.” His eyes flickered in constant motion. The gate, Smith, the girl, the Army guy, back to the gate. “When I want your fucking opinion I’ll give it to you!”
His eyes jerked left and right. He kicked a dropped AR off the dock. It plopped into the water satisfactorily. Behind him, the remaining two upright Cosa Nova men joined their wounded in the idling boat.
Tom kept watching, weighing the odds and measuring the angles. No combination of friendly shooters and timing would keep Risky and other members of his dwindling group from getting shot, perhaps multiple times.
“Take her,” Tradittore called over his shoulder once he reached the boat. The Cosa Nova gangster at the coxswain’s console grabbed her hand and spun her into the rear of boat, where she landed roughly, scraping on the nonskid. She cried out, but quickly subsided, leaning against the sponson and clutching her knees. She looked at Tom a last time and then turned her head away, shoulders shaking.
Tradittore unwound the painter from the dock cleat and hopped aboard, then called to his man holding the heavier automatic weapon. That man stepped aboard and took a position just behind the coxswain, maintaining a clear field of fire landwards.
“Now, I’m gonna go my way, Smith.” Tradittore explained. “Don’t follow me. Next time I see you, you’re all dead. And just to keep you honest…”
The new mob boss emptied his pistol into the sponson and console of the remaining RHIB.
“That’s fixable, but you’ll be a little delayed.” Tradittore clumsily reloaded his pistol, fumbling the empty magazine onto one of the wounded covering the foredeck. He rapped the center console to signal the driver. The goon with the machine gun kept the dock covered from the rear deck as the boat smoothly accelerated away.
Tom watched the boat for a few moments, then yelled to Durante.
“Find something to wedge the gate and come help me, Gravy!” Without waiting for an answer, he dove into the water to grab Astroga.
* * *
Risky listened to Joey’s little soliloquy. She twitched as he shot his pistol. She kept her face turned away as her carefully metered shaking continued, but ignored the lacerations on her knee and shin, courtesy of the ungentle push onto the nonskid decking of the RHB. Joey was talking to his two upright thugs. She couldn’t make out all the words over the increasing roar of the dual Volvo-Penta engines, but the triumphant tone was unmistakable. Someone nudged her exposed thigh with a scuffed combat boot and laughed. She heard the conversation more clearly now.
“Hey Mikey, you can ignore the silly bitch,” Tradittore said. “Help Lugnut with the wounded. I’ll drive us out to mid channel so we can get situated.”
The speed created a strong breeze, pulling her hair over her face. She shook a little more, folding her arms on the sponson and surreptitiously ducked her head enough to get a view of the gangsters’ feet.
Lying flat, the bipod folded, the RPK was not even a long reach away. Beyond it she could see Tradittore’s heels where he balanced against the motion of the boat. Glancing back up she could see the Staten Island ferry terminal recede as the RHIB continued to smoothly curve towards the middle of the river. If she was going to act, it would have to be soon, before the odds against her increased. She had an ugly feeling about her ultimate value for Matricardi’s former lieutenant. She’d been down that path before. She’d do it again as an absolute last resort. Maybe. But not if she had any chance at all to avoid it.
Oldryskya carefully turned back to face the interior of the boat. Unnoticed, she gathered her legs under her, measuring the distance to the machine gun. Back on the dock, she had snorted because the weapon wasn’t an AK, as Tradittore had said; it was an updated RPK, the modern version of the venerable Russian fire-support weapon with a slightly higher rate of fire and a much larger magazine. Neither a talent for organization nor a wide streak of sadism was quite the same thing as proficiency with weapons.
As she was about to demonstrate to the new head of the Cosa Nova.
The basic controls probably hadn’t changed in fifty years. They certainly hadn’t changed in the fifteen years since she first learned on a Kalashnikov.
Still seated, she made a long arm, drew the gun to her, and shouldered the heavy weapon.
Tradittore might have caught the motion or maybe his sixth sense warned him. He turned just in time to see Risky click the safety upwards. Violet eyes slitted against the wind met his wide brown gaze for a long second.
Then she fired a continuous burst, striking him in the groin and riding the recoil as the point of aim climbed above his suddenly ruined face. Big Mikey turned and gaped, then dove for her. She fired into his center of mass, and his lunge became a clumsy fall. Bleeding, his corpse dropped onto the black nonskid.
She looked up and met the eyes of the original coxswain who unhesitatingly dove over the side.
Good instincts, that one.
The boat continued to motor on, so she shrugged the RPK’s sling around her neck and used a handrail to haul herself up. The weapon rewarded her by rapping both shins. Wincing, she retarded the boat’s throttles. In the front of the craft, the two wounded Cosa Nova men lay on their back, all eyes.
Risky’s hands were steady as she swiftly pulled a fresh magazine from a pouch on the deck and rocked it into the RPK. She stood, swaying slightly, and covered the unmoving men. She looked shoreward, and then back at the bloody tangle that she had created.
Right. First things first.
* * *
The two short bursts of fire were clearly audible several hundred yards away.
Tom yanked his head up from the rescue breathing he and Copley were using on Astroga. The little specialist’s plate carrier had been good enough to stop the nine mil rounds, as advertised, but she had been stunned and dropped face-first into the water. Durante was judiciously using his remaining ammunition to discourage the zombies, despite the noise that surely attracted even more.
Kaplan, his bandage missing and his headwound seeping blood, grimaced as he twisted the crane on his tourniquet, tightening it even further on his thigh.
“If it doesn’t hurt…” he strained through gritted teeth, “then…you aren’t…doing it…right.”
Previously ignored in the urgency-filled moments following its departure, the stolen BotA boat was still in plain view less than a half mile away.
The shots drew all the survivors’ attention. In the receding boat, motion was visible. A body went over the side. After a longish pause the RHIB slowed. More motion was visible as anothe
r body was dumped over the side. Another long pause and another plunked into the mild chop.
What the hell?
“Copley, Kap, arm up,” Tom rapped out. “Durante, leave the gate, get ready in case they come back.” Tom leaned back to continue rescue breathing, just in time to catch a mouthful of ejecta from Astroga, who convulsed weakly as she coughed.
Using her gear, he rolled her onto her side, then puked himself. Rising to hands and knees, he looked up and mentally shook himself. The boat was getting underway again.
A single figure stood upright. Long dark brown hair streamed backwards from the coxswain and then disappeared as the bow turned back to the dock, foreshortening the perspective.
Less than a minute later, Tom watched as Risky pulled the throttles all the way back. Coasting the final yards, the RHIB stopped as the rubber bow sponson absorbed the slight impact of docking. The tall brunette was poised like a big-game hunter, the RPK perched on her hip. Forward, the last two Cosa Nova gangsters in the world lay one on top of the other, carefully not moving.
“Despite Joey’s objection, I gave him my opinion anyway,” Risky said with a grin, keeping one eye slanted towards her prisoners. “I decided that he didn’t deserve a ride in my boat. These two are spare parts.”
* * *
As the flotilla cleared Sandy Point, Tom Smith spared but a single look over his shoulder for the burning city they left behind. New York was mostly invisible, but several large buildings were silhouetted against the wreath of smoke, illuminated from underneath by the dancing orange and yellow flames consuming the city. The wind-ruffled water was bisected by the arrow-straight wakes of the RHIBs.
In the forward well of his boat and under his watchful eye lay the two wounded Cosa Nova gun men, securely bound. After Tom insisted on bringing them out, Kaplan had methodically used a half roll of duct tape to immobilize them for the journey, helpfully arranging them head to foot.
