Storm Surge (10 page)

The gun case
was right where he remembered it, a beautiful glass-fronted mahogany cabinet,
polished to a high sheen like the weapons inside. It had no lock; its purpose
was display, not security. But the shotguns were gone.

Mercer stood
in front of the case, dripping water onto the hardwood floor, and swore under
his breath. He should have known. Of course the guy wouldn’t leave such
expensive toys at risk. Maybe, though, he’d left another gun somewhere in the
house. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to do a long search. He bolted up the
stairs to the bedroom.

He found what
he was looking for, in a leather case leaning upright in a corner of the
walk-in closet. It was a Mossberg 12 gauge, not particularly fancy or ornately
decorated like its relatives in the downstairs case, but it would do the job.

He got another
disappointment when he began searching for ammunition downstairs. A drawer in
the bottom of the gun case was filled with neatly stacked boxes of shells. He
picked one up and grimaced. The shells were all light shot, deadly to the clay
pigeons Brian so loved slaughtering, but nearly useless against a human target.
He rummaged through the drawer and found more of the same. He was going to need
something more substantial. He began loading the shells in anyway as he walked
into the kitchen. He flipped the light on and whistled softly to himself. It
was an enormous space, dominated by a granite topped island in the center. One
half of the island could be used as a
table,
the other
was a built-in stove that looked as if it came from a five star restaurant. The
stove gleamed as if it had never been used. But it was the wooden rack next to
the stove that he was interested in. He slid one of the long knives out of its
slot in the rack. It too shone with a pristine gleam, as if it had never been
used. He stuck it in one side of his belt. In the other he stuck the handle of
a heavy cleaver from the same rack.

All I need now’s a parrot and an eye patch,
he thought.

At that
moment, the lights went out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Mr. Coyne,”
Bohler
said, “I’m going to make you a promise.” He was
watching the agonizingly slow progress of the construction ferry towards the
dock. The barge pitched sickeningly up and down in the chop.
Bohler
felt his own stomach lurch in sympathy. A waterfall
of rain ran off the brim of his “Smokey Bear” hat.

“Deputy
Bohler
…” Coyne began.

“Shut up,”
Bohler
snapped. “You loaded those poor people onto an open
barge in a goddamn hurricane because you wanted to keep your precious residents
from getting their undies in a bunch.”

“And you went
along with it,” Coyne said.

He was right,
of course. That just made
Bohler
angrier.
“Yes, sir.
But I promise you, if anything happens, it’s you
who I’m going to hold responsible.”

“That’s not….”

“Shut up.”
Bohler’s
cell phone buzzed. He pulled it off his belt and
flipped it open.
“
Bohler
.”
He listed for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He snapped the phone shut.
“Power’s off,” he said to Coyne.

“Fine,” Coyne
replied. “So if you’re finished barking at me, I’m going to go get dry.”

“Yeah,”
Bohler
said. “You do that.” He stood in the rain, watching
the ferry creep closer. “Come on, come on…”

“Deputy
Bohler
?” a voice said.

Bohler
didn’t turn.
“Yeah?”

There was a
pause. The speaker stepped in front of him. He was slender, his thinning hair
cut short. He was dressed in a black raincoat and holding an umbrella. He held
a
walleted
ID up in his other hand. “I’m Special
Agent
McMurphy
, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Nice to meet
you,”
Bohler
said. “I’m a little busy right now.”

“I can tell,”
McMurphy
said, “and I’m sorry to put another item on your
plate. But we need your assistance.”
Bohler
didn’t
answer.
McMurphy
put the ID away. “Can we talk
someplace dry?”

“No,”
Bohler
said. Then he sighed. He was being childish. He was
standing in the rain as penance for allowing this
screwup
,
but there was no reason to make
McMurphy
suffer, too.
“Yeah.
Okay. We can talk in my car.”

Inside the
patrol car, the rain that still clung to them turned the air inside thick and
damp. The windows fogged in seconds.
Bohler
turned
the car on and cranked the defroster as high as it would go.
McMurphy
had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar
of the blowers.

“We’re looking
for this man,” he said, producing a photograph from a coat pocket.

Bohler
took it. “Looks vaguely familiar,” he
said. “Who is he?”

“We’re not
sure what his given name is,”
McMurphy
said, “but his
last known alias was Kyle Mercer.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Okay,” Blake
said.
“Showtime.”

“What are you
talking about?” Worth said. He gestured at Sharon and Glory seated on the
floor.
Both had duct tape wrapped around their heads and over
their mouths.
Their hands were bound behind them with more duct tape.
“What about them?”

“Not a
problem,” Blake said.
“Just a slight change in plans.
Worth, you’ll be checking the cable junction alone, and while you’re down
there, confirm that the last boat’s gone. Barstow stays here with these two.
The rest of us proceed with the original plan.”

“The original
plan,” Phillips said, “called for no one knowing we were ever here.”

Blake nodded.
“And if these two are found with bullets in them, it’ll be a pretty good
indication we were here, don’t you think?” No one answered. “No,” Blake went
on. He looked at the two women on the floor. “We drown them.”

“Not right
away, though,” Barstow said. He grinned at them. “We may not need that deck of
cards to keep us amused after all.”

“For God’s
sake,” Phillips said, “Will you for once stop thinking with your testicles?”

“Work first,”
Blake said.
“Then R & R.”

“I can live
with that,” Barstow said.

***

Mercer
crouched in the bushes next to the house. He could hear movement inside, and
voices, but he couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. The front door opened,
and he froze, trying to make himself invisible. He saw a group of coming down
the stairs: a man dressed in an olive-drab hooded poncho, carrying a submachine
gun. The person who followed was pulling a hood up. Mercer couldn’t make out
their faces, but they were carrying what looked like an oversized briefcase.
They were followed in turn by another pair of men, also armed. One of the men
had a pair of bags over his shoulder. From the way he walked, Mercer could tell
they were heavy. The man with the bags headed off towards the north end of the
island, the other three walked the other way. Mercer waited. He didn’t see
Sharon or Glory anywhere. He looked up at the house. He didn’t think he was
going to like what he found in there. He slipped out of the bushes.

***

“See, here’s
the thing,” Barstow said. “I understand the whole ‘work now play later’ thing.”
He looked down at Sharon and Glory. “But it seems to me we have a little time
to play right now.” He began to pace slowly back and forth in front of them,
savoring the way their eyes followed him. “So tell me, ladies,” he said with
elaborate courtesy. “Which one of you is going to be the first to give me a
blowjob?”

Neither one
answered.

Barstow
pretended offense. “Come on, now.” He looked pointedly at Sharon. “I know
you’ve sucked a few dicks in your time. And I know you don’t want me to be the
first to teach your little girl the finer points of giving head. So what do you
say, Mama?
You or her?”

The
MILF
closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her face. She
opened them again, looked up at Barstow,
nodded
.
“Excellent,” he said. He unzipped his pants, savoring the despair in the
woman’s eyes. It was always sweeter for him when the woman had no hope. He
fished inside his pants, trying to pull himself out. He reached down, ready to
pull the tape away from her mouth. “This is
gonna
be
sweet,” he said. “You’re
gonna
make it extra sweet
for me, aren’t you honey? You don’t want me getting bored. Go ahead and cry if
you want. I like it when they cry.” He noticed her eyes then. They were wide,
looking behind him.

He let go of
the tape and turned.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mercer brought
the cleaver down as hard as he could. It was a fine blade, meant for sundering
meat from bone, and it performed as advertised. It chopped through the bearded
man’s skull with a crunch Mercer could feel all the way up to his shoulder,
splitting the man’s head straight through, almost to the jawbone. The silver
blade seemed to hang up for a moment before Mercer jerked it up and back. The
blade took a moment to come free, and when it did, it was stained red and gray
with blood and brain matter. Barstow fell, his body twitching and convulsing at
the outrage done to the nerve centers. Mercer held the cleaver off to one side,
flicked the larger chunks off. He was totally calm as he looked at Sharon.

“No women,” he
said, in a reasonable tone. “No children. No civilians. Those are the rules.”

She was
screaming behind the tape. He looked over at Glory. She was silent, but her
eyes were fixed and staring at the man behind Mercer on the floor. The man was
still shuddering and flopping, the spasms slowing as the brain gave up and shut
down. He reached down and tried to pull the tape off the girl’s mouth first. It
was wrapped all the way around her head. He growled in frustration and pulled
the knife from his belt. A sharp pain in his leg made him grunt with surprise.
He looked down. Sharon was kicking him as hard as she could, rolling her body
over awkwardly to get at him.

“Cut it out,”
he snapped. “I’m trying to get the tape off.” She wasn’t paying attention. She
was screaming something at him behind the tape. He dodged out of the way of
another kick.

“Look,
I’ll…Jesus, stop it!” he said as she lashed out at him again. “I’ll cut her
hands free,
then
I’ll give her the knife. Okay?” He
didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped over Glory’s outstretched legs, putting
her body between himself and the enraged woman on the floor. He sliced through
the tape binding Glory’s wrists together behind her, then carefully laid the
knife on the floor and stepped back. The girl massaged one red and swollen
wrist, then the other, never taking her eyes off him. She picked up the knife,
looked at the dead man on the floor. Then, she reached behind her and fumbled
for the tape.

“If you let me
cut it,” he said, “It’ll be easier.”

She hesitated,
then
looked at her mother. Sharon was laid out full
length on the floor, wet with sweat, her breath coming in gasps through her
nose. Glory held the knife out to Mercer. He cut the tape away from her face
with a few swift strokes. “
Ow
! Fuck!” she said as she
pulled it away from her hair, the gummy tape taking more than a few strands
with it. She knelt by her mother, who was shuddering and sobbing, tears rolling
down her face. “Mom,” she said urgently.
“Mom!
I’m
okay!”

Mercer tapped
her on the shoulder. She flinched at the contact,
then
looked up to find him holding the knife out to her, handle first. “Careful,” he
said. “It’s a very good knife.” Glory cut the tape away quickly, and Sharon sat
up, throwing her arms around her daughter. Mercer stepped back and looked around
the room. He spotted the machine gun propped up against the wall. He picked it
up and slung it on his shoulder, still holding the cleaver in one hand. He
turned to find Sharon on her feet, holding the knife out in front of her.

“Didn’t you
ever hear the one about not bringing a knife to a gunfight?” he said.

“You stay away
from us,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Mom,” Glory
said, “he saved our lives.”

She gestured
shakily with the knife to the dead man on the floor. “Look at what he did,” she
said, her voice rising, almost cracking. “Look at what he
did
.”

“He was going
to rape you,” Mercer said, “both of you. And then he was going to kill you. He
was going to do both of those things in as painful a way as he could manage.
And he was going to enjoy it. I know his kind. He was probably going to make
one of you watch while he did the other one.”