Storm Surge (14 page)

“Six?”
Phillips sent.

“Six?” Worth
echoed.

After another
pause, Moon’s ruined voice came over the air. “Six.”

“One, Three,”
Worth said. “You mind telling us…”

“Six,” Blake
interrupted.
“Head for the beach, Leeward side of the island.
Below the lighthouse.
Terminate all targets.
With prejudice.”

“Six.
Out.”

“One,
three.”
Worth
insisted.

“One,” Blake
came back. “What’s your position, Three?”

“I’m moving
toward the marina. And I’m not happy.”

“Not
a mission requirement, Three.
Proceed to the marina. Neutralize all opposition.”

“Roger. But
One?”

There was no
answer.

“We,” Worth
said,” “Are going to have a serious conversation about this.”

“Three…” Blake
snapped.

“Actually,”
Phillips drawled, “I concur.”

***

The first
thing that
Bohler
was conscious of was the taste of
sand and salt water in his mouth. He gagged, spit out a mouthful,
then
began retching. The next thing he was aware of was an
arm locked tightly across his chest. He began clawing weakly at it.

“Hold still,
goddamnit
,” a voice grunted in his ear. “Or better yet,
stand up. We’re almost there.”

He was in
water. Someone was holding him up. He kicked his legs and felt sand slipping
beneath his feet. He struggled to find purchase, but a wave lifted him up and
away from the comforting solidity. He panicked and began struggling wildly. The
voice in his ear growled in frustration. “Will you for
Chrissake
…”
then the wave dropped away beneath him and he found himself standing in
waist-deep water. The hand across his chest released him. A hand shoved him in
the middle of his back.
“MOVE, damn it.”
He stumbled
in the direction of the shore. Another wave hit him from behind and knocked him
onto his hands and knees.
Bohler
scrambled, got to
his feet, stumbled out of the water onto the sand. He fell to his knees again.
A wave hit him, but this one only came up to his waist, not enough to knock him
over, but enough to shock him to his feet again. He leaped up and ran in panic
from the water he could sense behind
him,
ready to
drag him back into its fatal embrace. A few
steps,
and
he fell full length onto the sand. He felt rain pelting down onto his back, so
heavy that it seemed as if someone was pouring an endless bucket over him. A
hand grabbed
Bohler
and yanked him over onto his
back, then bunched in the shoulder of his flight suit and yanked him to a
sitting position.

“Deputy,”
Alvarez’ voice was a saltwater-damaged croak. “Look at me.”

Bohler
tried to focus. He saw Alvarez
kneeling next to him.

“I’m okay.”
Bohler’s
own voice was as constricted as Alvarez’. “I’m
okay,” he said, a little stronger.

Alvarez
nodded. He struggled to his feet and began a slow trudge towards the surf. He
had gotten his fins on and they slapped wetly on the sand.

“Where the
hell are you going?”
Bolher
called.

Alvarez
stopped and looked back at
Bohler
as if
Bohler
had asked the stupidest question in the world. He
gestured out into the heaving ocean.
Bohler
could barely
focus, but he made out the white shape of the helicopter. It was half
submerged, the waves lifting then dropping it back onto the sandy bottom.

“You can’t go
back out there!”
Bohler
yelled. “It’s suicide.”
Alvarez ignored him. When he was waist deep in the water, he put his hands over
his head and
dove
full length, disappeared below the
surface of the water for a moment, then reappeared, swimming strongly in the
direction of the wrecked chopper.
Bohler
got to his
feet. He knew he should follow, knew he should help. But he was nowhere near a
strong enough swimmer to plunge into that maelstrom. He watched Alvarez,
picking him out of the tumult by the bright orange of his wet suit. He had
almost made it to the helicopter when a particularly huge wave rose up out of
the ocean like an avenging god. The helicopter went tail high, the toppled over
onto its side. The wave passed, obscuring the helicopter from
Bohler’s
view. When it broke and leveled, it hissed onto
the beach, so far up and so quickly that
Bohler
had
to back-pedal frantically. When he looked again, the helicopter had been pulled
out another hundred feet.
Bohler
looked as hard as he
could,
shielding
his eyes from the rain with his hand.
There was no sign of Alvarez.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Mercer flicked
a switch and the radio came to life, the soft green glow of its digital display
the only steady light inside the marina office. Occasionally, the brightness of
lightning outside would leak in around the drawn blinds. They could hear the
steady drumming of rain on the roof and the high pitched whistle of the wind
outside. Somewhere, something had come loose and was rattling with a rapid-fire
metallic banging. Somewhere, almost lost in the mix, was the steady thrumming
of the generator. Mercer studied the panel for moment, rubbing his chin
thoughtfully.

“Don’t you
know how to work it?” Sharon demanded.

“Not sure what
the frequency we need is,” Mercer said. “The
dockmaster
was the one who….”

Suddenly the
light on the console died. Mercer only hesitated for a split second. He leaped
to his feet, snatching up the machine gun he’d laid on the counter. He took a
quick step to one side, putting himself in the doorway to the back room, and
fired a quick three round burst at the back door, then another. The sound
inside the cramped office was deafening. Sharon and Glory screamed. Mercer
fired again. They could hear the wood of the back door splintering.

“What the hell
are you doing?” Sharon yelled.

“Someone
killed the generator,” he answered, his voice taut with strain. “Listen.”

They listened,
straining their ears. He was right. The sound of the generator was gone.

“Maybe it just
choked down,” Sharon said.
“Got water in it.”

“Maybe,”
Mercer said.
“If so, I’ve wasted bullets.
But I don’t
think so. I think someone’s out there.”

“Who?”
Glory quavered.

“No idea,”
Mercer said. “We’ll have to find out after.”

“After
what?”
Sharon
asked.

“After
I kill them all.”

“You’re
crazy,” Sharon whispered.

“Not really.
Sharon. Get the shotgun.”

“It’s all full
of mud,” she protested.

“No,” Glory
said. “I think I got all of it out.” She held the shotgun out to her mother.

Mercer looked
at Glory. A smile started and died on his face. “Okay,” he said to Sharon. “You
see that door start to open, give him both barrels. To do that, you pull both
triggers. That light shot won’t do any real damage, but maybe it’ll keep the
fucker’s head down.” Sharon looked at the gun in her daughter’s hand. “You want
me to do it, Mom?” Glory asked gently.

“No,” Sharon
snapped, snatching the weapon away. “I don’t want you touching this again.”

“Don’t make
any commitments you can’t keep,” Mercer said. “Now cover the back door. I want
to see if there’s anyone out front.” He moved to the door they’d entered
through. She went to one knee in the doorway, facing the back of the tiny
building, trying to control her shaking. She heard the latch on the front door
open behind her. There was a sudden loud bang as the wind slammed the door
open. Sharon jumped and the shotgun went off, another loud bang in the enclosed
space. The shot spattered against the door. “Shit,” she muttered. “Shit. Shit”.
How did you re-load? She tried to remember her granddaddy’s shotgun, back at
his house near Asheboro. He had broken the shotgun open…ah. There. She located
the lever on top of the barrel with her thumb and cracked the gun open.

“Mom,” Glory
whispered frantically.
“MOM!”

She looked up.
The back door was opening slowly. There was someone in the doorway, off to one
side, a darker irregular shape against the darkness outside. A flash of
lightning illuminated the half-figure of a man in an olive drab coverall. The
part of his face she could see was tight with strain. The lightning vanished,
leaving her without her night vision. She groped blindly, felt Glory press
something round into her hands. Her daughter was sobbing in fear. She fumbled
one shell into the chamber, but the other slipped out of her nerveless fingers
and clattered to the floor. She saw a bright ruby-red beam appear from the
doorway. It was like something from a science fiction movie as it swept quickly
across the room, coming to rest unerringly and painting a tiny red dot on the
center of her chest. She snapped the breech shut and fired in the same motion.
The pellets rattled uselessly against the wall to the right of the door. There
was a blast of sound and light directly over her head. She threw herself to the
floor and the red light vanished. She looked up. Max was standing over her, his
machine gun held to his shoulder. “Good job,” he whispered.

She was too
shaken to answer. “Come on,” he said. “There’s nobody out front.
Yet.
But if we stay here, they’ll remedy that if they can.
They’ll pin us down and pick us off.” He fired off another burst at the
doorway. “We have to move.” She stumbled to her feet. “Get behind me,” he said.
“Back out, slowly, then when you get outside, run like hell.”

“Run where?”
Glory said.

“The
clubhouse,” he said. “We can hole up there.”

“What if
they’re in there?” Sharon asked.

“I don’t think
they are. If they are…well, we’ll deal with that if we have to. Now move.” They
hesitated. “MOVE!” he barked. They moved. They heard him fire one last time as
they reached the door. The rain and wind battered them as they reached the
doorway, then they turned and ran.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Worth pressed
himself back against the wall of the building, next to the open, splintered
door, waiting. The rain was running off the edge of the shed roof like a
miniature Niagara, and he watched it as he strained his ears to try to
determine what was happening inside. Walking through this downpour was like
drowning standing up. He reached up with his free hand and switched off the
laser sight hanging beneath the barrel of the machine gun, silently cursing
himself for not thinking of it sooner. At this range, practically point blank,
there was no need, and all the ruby beam was good for was pointing out
precisely where he was. He listened and as he listened, he wondered. Who the
fuck was this guy, anyway? Where had he come from? And what was he doing with
the woman and her daughter? The questions multiplied. What the hell was Moon
still doing here, on the island? And why hadn’t the rest of the team been
informed? What was Blake up to, and what might he still be hiding? Worth had a
bad feeling about what the answers to those questions might mean. He shook it
off. There was a target inside who meant to kill him. That was the immediate
problem. He heard a voice
raised
, giving orders. They
were making a move. Worth turned to his left, dropped to a knee in one smooth
motion, and scanned for targets. From his doorway, he could see straight
through to the open front door. A flash of lightning outlined a darkened figure
in that door, a man turning, trying to run. Worth fired. The figure went down.

***

Mercer was on
his way out the door, after Sharon and Glory, when he felt the hammer blow in
his left shoulder. He stumbled and went face down onto the concrete walk in
front of the office, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs and leave him
gasping. Then the pain came, feeling like someone had shoved a hot poker
through his shoulder. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.
Never let them
know you’re hurt
, a voice out of the past spoke to him. He rolled to his
back, groping for the machine gun that had fallen from his hand. He saw
movement from inside the office, knew someone was coming for him, coming to
kill him. He tried to sit up. Suddenly, Sharon was beside him, the shotgun at
her hip.
Don’t fire from the hip, you idiot, you can’t hit squat that way,
he thought, but the gun roared, he heard a cry of pain from inside, then Glory
was at his side, her arm around his wounded shoulder. He bit his lip so hard,
trying so hard to keep from screaming with the agony, that the sudden copper
taste of blood burst in his mouth. He got to his feet more to keep from being
hurt any more than from Glory’s attempt to help him up. He looked around for
his weapon. He could vaguely see a figure down and thrashing inside the office,
his hands over his face. He remembered the knife stuck in his belt at the exact
time he drew it, advancing to finish off his wounded adversary. There was
another incredible pain in his shoulder, and this time a tiny grunt of agony
did escape from between his clenched teeth. He felt Glory at his side, pulling
on his elbow. “Come on,” she begged, almost sobbing. “Come ON!” Sharon was next
to her, fumbling with the shotgun. He felt suddenly weak, fuzzy.
I’m losing
blood,
he thought.
I need to get out of here. We need to get out of here
.
Another tug, another bolt of
pain
though his arm.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay, goddamn it!” The three of them bolted off in the
direction of the clubhouse.