Deadly Shore, page 21
*****
Marcus was cursing himself for missing the shots. He had missed very few in his life, and those were early in his career. Since then, his record was perfect. This was not the one to break the streak.
"He's got to be by the side of the road," he yelled to Sara. "Probably a ditch."
She nodded her agreement and took off, gun in hand. Marcus followed behind, still holding the rifle. It would still be more accurate than a pistol unless they were right on top of him, and he could sight and shoot in a second.
Marcus and Sara were both bent over in the wind, and both had been blown over twice already. A branch came out of nowhere and slammed into Sara's shoulder. Marcus heard her cry out in pain. She was on the ground clutching her arm. Marcus caught up to her.
"Can you continue?" he yelled.
"Help me up," came the response. She held out her good arm and he pulled her up. "Hurts like hell," she said at the top of her voice, "but I'll live. Might have to shoot left-handed."
They continued on. Marcus couldn't see Mason, but he knew that he had to be crawling along inside the ditch. Then he saw his head pop up just for a second. Sara took a shot, but his head had already disappeared.
They had reached the road now, and Marcus pointed to a tree lying across it further down. Sara understood. Mason had to get to the pond, but to do so he had to cross the road. The tree was the perfect spot. Marcus waved Sara on. She diverted her path more toward the woods, hoping to catch Mason as he crossed the road. They were still about seventy-five feet away from the downed tree, but moving at a snail's pace. With the protection of the ditch, it was possible that Mason would beat them to the woods, and then to the pond. Marcus couldn't let that happen.
He had been trying to inch closer to the ditch to see if he could get a shot right down the middle of it, but he realized he wasn't going to make it. He knelt down in the road and took aim for the spot where the tree met the ditch. Mason was going to have to climb out. If Marcus could even see a part of him, it might be enough to get a bullet into him and slow him down.
He waited, rifle pointed at the spot. Mason must have anticipated it, because when he climbed out, he was fast, almost jumping out of the ditch. But not fast enough. Marcus took the shot.
*****
Mason screamed as he felt the impact and then the bullet burn its way into his leg. Nothing had ever hurt so much. He turned his head and saw the blood turning his pants leg dark. If he lost too much blood he was going to pass out. But he couldn't stop now. He had to make it. As he crawled along the downed tree, he berated himself once again for not waiting a day. What a difference it would have made.
He was almost across the road. A second longer and he might lose them in the woods. He was trying to calculate how far it was from the edge of the road to the water. Twenty-five feet maybe? He was getting very tired. He could stop here and open the canister. Some of it might be taken by the wind. Probably not though. The rain wouldn't let it fly. It would soak into the ground. No, he had to make the pond. He was across the road and in the woods now. He found himself scrambling faster, climbing over branches like a snake. He was losing steam. Now he could see the water. Only a few feet more. As he crawled, he reached into his backpack for the canister. He had taken it out of the case before he left the house to make the job easier. Almost…
"Stop right there!" A woman's voice yelling at him. Must be a cop. He almost didn't hear it. Things were beginning to get fuzzy. She couldn't stop him now. His .45 was in his belt. He reached for it. He heard her yell again, but he didn't understand what she was saying. He almost had it out of his belt. And then he felt the bullet hit his side. It was like he was hit by a truck. It turned him onto his back. He looked up at a wet, muddy woman pointing a gun at him, and he knew. His plan wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going to make it to the pond. He tried to lift his gun to point it at her, but it was suddenly heavy. He grabbed it with both hands. She was still screaming at him. He tried to point it, then felt something smash into his chest. His hands fell to his side, the gun lying in the mud. He heard a noise. It was coming from him. It was a whimper. He was crying. And then he wasn't.
*****
Marcus had heard the gunshots, so he knew he was close. He rounded a big tree and saw Sara standing there, gun at her side, looking down at a dead man. A canister was by his side, unopened.
Sara turned when she felt Marcus's presence, and then fell into his arms. They collapsed into the mud. After a few minutes, Marcus picked up the canister and half-carried Sara to the base of a large tree, where they stayed wrapped in each other's arms for the remainder of the storm. A few feet away at the edge of the pond lay Mason, eyes wide open in a stare of death.
JULY 9th
Chapter 45
Ann slept soundly in her cramped space under the boardwalk. When she finally woke up, she was disoriented, but seemed to know enough about her surroundings not to sit up and whack her head on the wood. She stayed still, coming to grips with her situation. She looked out at the man she'd killed. He was half covered with sand. And then she remembered Doyle. He was lying next to her, not moving. She shook him, but he didn't stir. Tears came to her eyes. Please God, don't let him be dead.
She felt his pulse. He was alive! Suddenly he groaned and opened his eyes. "Where the fuck am I?"
"Still alive."
"Good to know."
"We both fell asleep." And then she noticed the wind. There was none. Well, there was some, but nothing like what they had experienced. They had slept through Chad. "The hurricane is over."
Doyle looked at the dead man. "This guy doesn't care. One hell of a shot."
"I had my eyes closed. You're lucky I didn't hit you." She realized that the dead man no longer bothered her. Maybe it was her age, she thought. Maybe she was just able to get over things faster. She also had enough experience in life to know that you made your own decisions and had to live—or die—with them.
"What do we do?" asked Doyle.
"How are you feeling?"
"A little sick, and my leg still hurts like hell. Otherwise, I'm peachy."
"Then it's time to go. I think we should head back to the house."
"They'll be waiting for us … for me."
"Maybe, maybe not. We don't know how many of them there were. Maybe they hid out in my house to get out of the storm, or maybe they got lost in the dunes and died. Or maybe they didn't like that one of their men didn't make it back and they took off when the storm ended. Whatever, we can't stay here."
"Where does this boardwalk lead?"
"To a public parking lot, but there won't be anyone there. Remember, people aren't driving because of the terrorists. The only people we might run into would be Flint's men. No one else is around here right now. All the other beach cottages near mine are falling down, owned by people who haven't used them in years. They're probably gone altogether by now. My cottage is our only option. It's also where my Jeep is, in case I have to take you to the hospital."
They crawled out the side opposite the dead man. Ann unwrapped Doyle's shirt from his wound. It was the first time she had been able to see it. There had been a lot of blood, dried now, but the wound itself didn't seem bad. There was an entrance and a clear exit, so the bullet wasn't in there. It wasn't a flesh wound, but at the same time, it wasn't deep either, and the bullet definitely hadn't hit a bone or an artery. He'd live. The shirt was a mess, so it wasn't worth putting it back on the wound. Since it had clotted and scabbed over pretty well, she suggested to Doyle that he not cover it for the walk back.
"The air might be good for it and we're only a quarter of a mile from the house. I can put a bandage on it there."
"Assuming they don't kill us first," said Doyle.
"Then a bandage won't matter." Ann was amazed at how cavalier she'd become about everything. It was daytime and she could now see. That relieved the fear of the unknown they had faced the day and night before. She could think and plan, and she was pretty sure she was smarter than any of the men Flint had sent.
She looked at the backpack Doyle was clutching and had an idea.
"Can you part with that for a while?"
Doyle looked down at it, as if it was his child. "Hell, no."
"Suppose they are waiting for us at the cottage? If you bring them the cross, they'll kill you … us … without a second thought. If you don't have it, you can use it as a bargaining chip. We can bury it right where we spent the night. Nobody will find it. Nobody's here to find it. We'll move the dead man farther away so we don't draw anyone here. Chances are, you can get it later today."
Doyle thought about it for a moment, then conceded that Ann was right. While she dug the hole under the boardwalk, Doyle dragged the man behind a mound of sand, then proceeded to cover him up. Then he brushed the sand so the drag marks would be invisible. They met back at the boardwalk.
They were in a hollow between dunes. Ann climbed one of the dunes and looked over the top. Nothing. No movement anywhere. She couldn't see her cottage because of another dune a bit higher that blocked it from view. The sun had come out for the first time in days and was a welcome sight. She climbed back down and suggested to Doyle that they get back on the boardwalk and head toward the water until they found a flatter spot to get off and head across the dunes to her house. She was thinking of Doyle's leg and what the climbing might do to the wound.
It was a good idea, but short-lived. Not fifty feet down, the boardwalk was gone. Sand heavily covered it, making the walking no better than traversing the dunes. A little further down from that Ann could see spots where the waves had come up and completely taken the boardwalk away. They turned left and started across the sand.
Dunes were fluid, always at the mercy of the wind, but this time, the wind had really done its job. Ann was wrong. She didn't have to worry about Doyle having to climb. The rest of the dunes were essentially gone—flattened by the wind, or for those nearer the water, the surf. She could see the cottage clearly, which of course, meant that anyone in the cottage could see them clearly if they were standing outside. The boards were still on the windows. She did her best to take a route that afforded them a little cover by some of the slightly higher remaining dunes. Doyle was limping badly, but not complaining.
As they approached the house, she could see that someone had closed the front door, which meant they were probably in the house. Her Jeep was still outside, half-covered in sand.
"Why don't you hide around the corner of the house and I'll go in. After all, it is my house. You can be the cavalry if I need it."
Doyle agreed and moved out of sight around the corner. Ann took a deep breath and opened the door and instantly heard scrambling. Then she heard two guns click as the triggers were pulled back.
"Who the hell are you?" came a voice from the gloom. With only two small uncovered windows for light, it was hard to see.
Ann tried to look appropriately frightened. "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"
She could now see. There were two of them, both behind the couch, both pointing guns at her.
"If you're here to rob me, take whatever you want and leave."
"We're looking for someone and we think he was with you."
"Look, I just spent the night on the beach. I got disoriented in the storm and couldn't find my way back to my cottage. I'm tired, dirty, hungry, and very much alone." She looked around. "And from all appearances, I'm going to have to do a lot of cleaning. So the storm is over. If you're not here to rob me, could you please leave?"
They glanced at each other, now confused. They were sure Doyle was here, but the one person who had seen the car and deduced his hiding place was missing.
"We lost one member of our search party. Did you see him, by any chance?"
"All I saw was sand, and I think I swallowed most of it."
Ann was thinking she had them ready to leave, when Doyle's body filled the doorway and he walked into the cottage. Ann inwardly groaned that he could be so stupid as to walk in, when she realized he wasn't alone. There was a man behind him and he was holding a gun to Doyle's head.
"Look who I found outside."
One of the men who had been talking to Ann shot her a mean look. "You were lying to us, you old bitch."
Ann had taken off her raincoat before arriving at the cottage and had it draped over one arm, covering the revolver she held. If she had to use it, she knew she could.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. I've never seen him before."
"Forget about her," said the man behind Doyle. He pushed him to the floor and Doyle cried out in pain. "Where's the stuff you stole from Flint?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
The man kicked Doyle in the leg near his wound and Doyle screamed.
"You still have no idea what we're talking about?"
"No idea," said Doyle, crying now.
The man grabbed Ann by the arm—the arm without the raincoat—and pulled her to him. He put a gun to her head.
"Do you care about her?"
Ann looked at Doyle and gave him a look to say, don't do it, and thought he would deny knowing her, but then he caved.
"Don't hurt her. I'll take you to the stuff."
The man still held on, but Ann could feel him lighten his grip just slightly. She dropped her other arm and pointed the gun in the general direction of his leg. She gripped the gun hard, remembering that the trigger was stiff and that she'd had to use both hands the night before. She pulled with all her might and the gun went off. And then all hell broke loose.
Her captor screamed and fell to the floor clutching his leg. Between the sudden noise of the explosion and the total shock of Ann's actions, the other two were momentarily paralyzed. Doyle took that opportunity to pull out the semi-auto he had taken from the dead guy and he shot at one of the two men. It was a wild shot, but it hit it's mark, shattering the man's kneecap. Ann lifted her gun and pointed it at the remaining man, still standing as he started to lift his gun, and she said, "Go ahead, make my day!"
He dropped his gun in a panic and knelt down with his hands in the air.
Doyle looked at her, grimacing in pain. "Did you really say that?"
*****
"What do we do now?" asked Doyle. He had just finished using Ann's duct tape to secure their prisoners' hands behind their backs. Ann was busy cleaning and bandaging the two of Flint's men, having already done Doyle's wound.
Ann couldn't help but to notice the change in him. He had already come to respect Ann for her age and knowledge, but now it was different. He was now looking at her as some sort of superstar. As long as he kept that up, she was going to remain in charge of the situation.
"We've got to get them to the police station. The police can see about getting these two to a doctor. You've got to see one too."
"Are you going to turn me in?"
"For what? For seeking refuge in the storm? You need to get that cross turned in to the police. I think they'll believe that you took it from Flint as evidence. After all, he sent his men after you."
"What about the money?"
Ann thought about it for a moment, then said, "What money?"
There was a hint of a smile on Doyle's lips.
Chapter 46
It was still dark out when Marcus opened his eyes. But now it was the dark of night, not blackness caused by the hurricane. He looked at his watch. It was after midnight. Next to him sat Sara. She was talking into the walkie-talkie.
"We got him," she was saying. "We tried to reach you a few times earlier, but the storm cut off the reception." That was not exactly true, thought Marcus. They'd tried once before falling asleep.
"Did he have the stuff?" came the question.
"He did. It's safe. You can find us by the pond over near the pumping station. We're not moving. I think my arm might be broken."
"We have some news too. Will tell you when we get there."
"Let me see your arm," said Marcus.
"I'd be happy to, but I can't move it. You'll have to do the work."
He got the flashlight and shone it on her shoulder. She had on a short sleeve shirt, which should have made examining her easy, but when he tried to lift the sleeve, she cried out in pain. He pulled out his knife and cut the sleeve away. The shoulder was black and blue. He touched it gently and she stiffened.
"Don't know if something is broken or just chipped," he told her. "But it looks like it might hurt."
"You think?" she said with a grimace.
A few minutes later they saw the bobbing of flashlights coming down the road. Marcus flashed his on and off until he got a similar response.
There were five of them, one limping badly. They plopped down next to Marcus and Sara, their eyes going over to Mason, still staring sightlessly at the dark sky—now filled with stars instead of clouds of debris.
"You got him. Unbelievable. You know, Chandler wanted to leave you here. He said that no terrorist would come out in this."
Sara looked around. "Where is he?"
"Dead. A tree fell on him. Crushed his chest. We left him over there. We can get him on the way back to the cars. A little bit of good news though. As he was dying, he admitted that he set you up, that he placed the drugs in your car. We were all witnesses to it. I'm sure the captain will let you back on the force if you still want it."
"To be able to work again with you guys?" she responded. "Of course I do."
Marcus, meanwhile, was watching the eyes of the others. He knew that Sara would have seen the lie in their eyes had she looked. Maybe she purposely didn't want to look. But he knew. He knew that she had just been given an amazing show of respect from her fellow officers. And she deserved every bit of it.
