Free Storm Surge by J.D. Rhoades Page B

mechanical
whine as the ramp slowly began to rise off the dock. “Hey!” Sonny yelled up at
the pilothouse.
“HEY!” People looked at him in dull curiosity. Before the ramp was even fully
up and locked, the tug began to drag the barge backwards away from the landing.
“HEY!” Sonny yelled again. “I don’t think everyone’s here!” His words were
whipped away in a gust of wind. As the barge began to turn, it went crosswise
to the waves headed for the dock. The deck lurched beneath them. People
screamed and clutched the rails or each other. A few overbalanced and would
have fallen but for the crush.
    “STOP!” Sonny yelled. He waved his arms at
the pilothouse. Consuela joined him, yelling for the captain to stop, go back.
Their words were lost in the din. No one answered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
     
    The glass pane
shattered at the first blow of Mercer’s fist, shards falling musically to the
tile floor inside. He pulled his arm back through the hole and unwrapped his jacket from around his hand and forearm before
reaching carefully through the broken pane in the door and undoing the deadbolt
on the other side.
    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