Page 10 of Anchor
The mother’s eyes dart in my direction, harden. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this position,” she hisses.
I jerk back and suck in an involuntary gasp. “Lady, he was gonna take you with or without my help.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just glowers in return.
The ferry is a monstrous two-story structure with an underfloor compartment where the engines are housed. On the main level are the benches for passengers and two rows along the outside full of cars, their drivers peer through with wide-eyes. They don’t get out and they don’t unlock their doors. I wouldn’t either. A pane of glass and a door panel might not be much, but it at least provides them a shred of protection from the destructive path of a bullet.
The top level features an observation deck and the small squat room where the captain maneuvers the boat. Because there’s nowhere else for us to go, the man with the gun paces up there with his eyes on the horizon.
I don’t know what he’s waiting for and I’m not sure if I want to find out.
The sun is sinking in the distance, and more than anything, I don’t want to be stranded on this boat with a madman as we drift on the ocean through the dark nothingness.
As soon as the coast of Jacksonville is but a sliver in the distance and the refuge of the island still far away, the gunman appears at the top of the stairs. His dark, beady eyes sift through the hostages until they land on me and recognition flairs. Ice solidifies in my stomach.
“You there,” he says and points the handgun at me. “C’mere.”
I could look around to see if he is talking to someone else, but I don’t have the bravado in me anymore to play stupid. Once the little girl was safe and the promise of refuge and rescue diminished, all the nerve propelling me to leap at an armed man leached away.
Now I’m just cold all over. Even though it’s a humid Florida evening, the slight chill coming off the water wracks me from the inside out. The shivers get worse as I get to my feet and cross the lower level to the gray stairs leading to the top. The man waits for me with the gun pointed right at my head the whole time.
He twitches the gun to the side where the captain is steering the ferry with hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “Take the wheel,” he says.
The captain glances over and opens his mouth to object, then closes it when he realizes this is not the time. Without a word, I do as he says.
The wheel is still warm from the captain’s hands. My own grip the heated plastic and I struggle to keep hold with limp fingers. I don’t want to touch the things he’s touched. Bile rises in my throat and my toes curl in my shoes to drive the thoughts from my brain. I’ve never driven a boat before, especially not one even half this size, but when there’s a gun in your face, you’ll do pretty much whatever the person holding it asks you to.
There’s a strangled cry behind me and when I glance back, the gunman has the captain on his knees.
“Hey,” I shout, when he twists the captain’s arms behind his back.
The gunman looks up at me, his eyes narrow slits. “You’re gonna wanna keep those hands on the wheel, little lady. Wouldn’t want you to run aground and have all these lives on your conscience.”
Reminding myself it’s best to keep my mouth shut, I press my lips together and focus on the empty sea in front of me. The pained gasps and grunts from behind me are so hard to listen to, I try to block them out. I can’t cover my ears because I need my hands to drive and I’m too afraid to hum, so I try to picture something, anything, to take me out of this moment. As much as I try to draw the image of my family to mind, it doesn’t work.
I have to knot my fingers around the wheel to keep from interfering. To think I was the type of person who couldn’t confront an ex-boyfriend just a few short hours ago and now I’m jumping at each opportunity to throw myself in front of danger.
The next time I look back, I find the gunman has restrained the captain with his arms behind his back and then affixed a necklace of sorts around his neck. Then I realize, it’s not a necklace at all.
It’s a collar filled with explosives.
The captain is physically fit for an older guy of around sixty. His full head of white hair reminds me of Santa Claus along with his red cheeks.
He shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here.
“Hand me the radio, darlin’,” the gunman gestures to the handheld microphone dangling from a hook up and to my right. When he’s not shouting orders, he sounds like such a normal guy. Not someone I should be terrified of and yet I’m terrified all the same.
I give over the radio, and he flicks the channel to the announcement system so his next words are broadcast to everyone onboard.
“Everyone needs to line up by the benches on the lower deck on their knees with their hands behind their backs. If you’re in a vehicle, please exit the vehicle at this time. I repeat, line up on the lower deck on your knees with your hands behind your back.”
Almost immediately, I hear the people below rushing about to do as he instructs.
Then, I sense his presence draw near. His fingers lift the long length of my hair and drape it over my shoulder. Detached from the situation, I observe the distinct scent of mint chewing gum as he wraps a length of cord around my neck.
When he’s done, he closes a lock around the ends at the back, and I know this day just went from bad—to worse.
Gabriel