Page 22 of Anchor (First to Fight)
“Mr. Jones,” I repeat, then glance toward the groaning captain. “Should I help him?” I jerk my head toward the man. He’s got his eyes open and is trying to blink away the blood dripping down his forehead.
Jones scoffs and turns from him. “Leave him. He’ll live.”
I purse my lips in an effort to keep my retort back and focus on readjusting our direction toward the Florida coastline. It shouldn’t take long, but I know the decisions we make in the next few minutes risk all our lives.
With a furtive glance at Mr. Jones, I say, “We should hear something from them in the next few minutes.”
He says nothing in return, but he does toy with a paperclip on the dash and switch his weight from his left foot to his right, and then back again. His gaze darts between the radio and the invisible line of the coast in the distance.
My breath comes out in little pants and I have to wipe my clammy hands on my clothes to keep them from slipping on the steering wheel. The necklace slips and slides on my throat, the weight listing with the movement of the heavy lock from side to side. I desperately want to clear my throat, but I don’t dare draw any more attention to myself.
Finally, when I fear I may vomit or faint, or a combination of the two, I spot the faint bluish-green line of land to our right. The knot inside my stomach loosens and I take a deep, though not calming, breath.
Then, the ferry gives a great shudder and jerks to a stop. I find myself sprawled over the dash in front of me, my nose and lip throbbing viciously from the impact. I straighten and touch a hand to the tender flesh. My fingers come away stained red with blood.
I blink my eyes rapidly to get my blurry vision to clear, then I realize the reason why it’s hard to see is because someone’s shining a bright spotlight on the front of the ferry.
“This is the Jacksonville’s Sheriff’s Office. We’d like to speak with the individual in charge.”
Mr. Jones turns and my knees wobble. The gun is pressed to my temple before I can offer an explanation. I don’t get the chance to faint like I want to before he’s grabbing me up with his free hand, his grip bruising the flesh on my wrist, and pulling me in front of him as a human shield. In mere seconds I have not only one, but three guns aimed at me.
Two officers flank the Coast Guard vessel in front of the now stationary ferry. Another two man a huge spotlight. Yet another has a megaphone.
“I want to speak to Gabriel Rossi,” Jones shouts before they have a chance to say another word. “Right now or I’ll start executing hostages.”
“We’re working on it,” the man with the megaphone says. “But as a show of faith, why don’t you offer to let some of those innocent people go? It’ll grease the wheels with the brass.”
The muzzle of the gun bites into my head. I swear I can almost feel it drilling into my skull. Sweat, or blood, drips down my cheek and salts my lips. I don’t dare move to wipe it away.
His responding laugh is bitter and hollow in my ear. “You’re not gettin’ shit until I get what I want.” Jones shuffles behind me as he checks his watch. “Running out of time, boss. Got five minutes before I execute the first hostage.”
Controlled chaos explodes on the other boat. Officers converse over the radios, others rush back and forth with materials, setting up God-only-knows what kinds of gadgets and weapons. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. I will not cry. I may not see tomorrow morning, but I won’t let this bastard see me cry.
Picturing Gabe’s competent and steady hands as he searched the cabin, his reassuring voice, his self-assurance, allows my breathing and my thoughts slow. As if he can sense my inner calm, Jones’ arms vice around me, squeezing what little air remains out of my lungs, his will trying to dominate my own.
“They won’t save you,” he says in my ear. “No one can save you.”
“You’re wrong,” I tell him. His arm tightens and I gasp helplessly for air against his grip.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“You don’t expect to get out of this alive, do you?” I wheeze. I can only draw in pants of air at this point and white spots fill my vision. “The entire police department is waiting for you. They’ve probably mobilized the Coast Guard, contacted the F.B.I. You’ve already killed one person. If you’re aiming for a police-assisted suicide you’re on the right track.”
“You have no idea what I expect to get out of this.” His eyes are on the officers on the other boat, but he trembles behind me and I know I’ve struck a chord.
“A lot of dead bodies?” I hazard.
“Next one will be yours if you don’t shut your trap,” he growls.
“If that were the case you would have killed me a long time ago. Waving a gun in my face is starting to get a little old.”
“Oh, I’ve got more planned for you, pretty bird. Just you wait.”
“Fuck you.”
Jones twists and shoves me to the ground with one powerful hand in between my shoulder blades. My knees and palms take the brunt of the damage, as the thin carpeting covering the floor doesn’t provide much cushion. It doesn’t crack, but my right wrist gives under the impact and I crumple with a shout of pain.
I rest my weight on my left arm as I get up to my knees. I don’t have time for theatrics, can’t allow myself the opportunity to give in to the pain radiating up my arm. Staying curled up in the fetal position on the ground isn’t an option. Cradling my injured arm close to my chest, I clamber to unsteady feet.