Page 64 of The List
“Beats the hell out of where we were.”
He looked back and saw a boat approaching.
J ON PATIENTLY WAITED UNTIL THE SKIFF COMMITTED TO A COURSE. Once done, he revved the 250 horsepower of the twin inboards and shot forward, its deep V knifing the water, the hull quickly planing. He left the running lights off until fully under way, then switched on the bow’s red sparkler.
More than enough indication to let them know the chase was nearly over.
J ACKS RACED THROUGH THE WOODS TO A SECOND DEEP- V BEACHED a short way from Leon Peacock’s lake house. He jumped in, cranked the two powerful engines, and roared off in pursuit of his boss.
“W E’VE GOT COMPANY,” B RENT SAID, AND HE INSTANTLY REALIZED the situation.
“Hank, I’m afraid we’ve been pretty stupid.
” He stared back at the puny thirty-five-horsepower outboard barely pushing them through the water.
“I wondered why we weren’t chased by anyone to the dock.
And those guys were pretty lousy shots for professional killers. ”
“We have a gun.”
“Not much good it will do. This is where De Florio wanted us.”
“And that’s him behind us?”
“You got it.”
He whirled his head around and tried to find a house with lights.
None was visible.
“He’ll be here in a few minutes,” Hank said.
“He’s toying with us. He can take us whenever. We don’t have the horsepower to outrun him and he knows it.”
He kept searching the shoreline. De Florio was now less than three hundred yards and closing.
“We could hit the water and swim,” Hank said. “Maybe he can’t find both of us in this storm.”
Behind De Florio, another red light was now shooting through the rain toward them.
“Looks like two of them,” he yelled over the howling wind.
He was still searching the shoreline, thinking hard, when it hit him. Frantically, he scanned the darkness, wishing for lightning, which seemed foolish given his unprotected location on open water. He was rewarded with a long bolt that gave him an instant to pinpoint the location.
There. Damned if it wasn’t. Just ahead to the left.
He studied the skiff and the tiny outboard. Hard to know for sure, but they just might fit.
“Get down,” he yelled.
Hank gave him a strange look.
“And don’t rise up.”
For once, Hank did as he was told but said, “What are you going to do?”
“Even the odds.”
He focused ahead on the shoreline, now less than a hundred yards away. At some point he was going to have to slow down. He’d set the bow on the last lightning strike. Another bright crackle and he refined his course.
There it was.
The opening for Brooks Creek.
Less than twenty yards away and closing.
He released his grip on the throttle and the outboard died.
Seconds later the skiff shot into the blackness and slowed.
He knew the gate of oak limbs was just ahead and couldn’t take the chance that the top of the outboard might strike the limbs, so he popped the retaining clamp and shoved the motor off the transom into the water.
He then lunged forward next to Hank, stretching himself out as low as possible.
Just as he hit the bottom of the boat the limbs raked across its top close enough for him to feel their graze.
Out the other side, he said, “Into the water.”
They both dove out and he kept the gun dry above. From the depth he knew they were in the pool. About shoulder-deep. He led the way toward the far bank and the tiny beach he remembered.
They emerged.
“Those limbs should slow ’em long enough for us to disappear in the woods.”
Hank was catching his breath. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Brent pushed through the thickets.
Rain pounded down.
He heard the drone of an engine.
Approaching.
He stopped and looked back.
J ON SAW THE SKIFF DISAPPEAR INTO THE DARK SHORELINE.
He slowed and cautiously approached the point where it was last seen, then followed, realizing he was in one of the creeks. He switched on the forward spotlight and saw limbs out over the water.
Approaching fast.
He rammed the throttle to neutral, then reverse.
He veered the helm hard to starboard and forced the boat’s port side against the water, using the hull to stop his forward momentum.
The wind helped too, sweeping out of the north directly into his bow.
He stopped just as the port-side hull gently kissed the oak branches spanning the creek.
That was close.
He reoriented the boat forward and searched the darkness ahead with the floodlight. He found the empty skiff, then rotated the light trying to locate its two occupants. No one was visible.
But he knew they were there.
And armed.
“Nice try, Walker,” he yelled. “Amazing, I think we’re in the same place where your father met his maker too. How fitting.”
He switched off the running lights and the spotlight.
No sense being an easy target.
He heard the roar of an approaching boat.
J ACKS SAW THE SKIFF AND D E F LORIO DISAPPEAR INTO THE SHORELINE.
He assumed both were in a creek. Barnard had earlier briefed him on the local geography.
He remembered De Florio’s stern instruction to stay close.
He also remembered the hole in Milo Richey’s head.
So he pressed the boat’s throttle forward, increased his speed, and followed.
J ON TURNED AND SAW THE DEEP V OF THE OUTBOARD SHOOTING straight for him. He realized screaming would be useless and cursed himself for not having more lights on. He reached for the spotlight and tried to twirl it around and warn Jacks of his presence.
No time.
B RENT WATCHED AS THE SECOND BOAT SLAMMED INTO THE STERN, apparently splintering the metal fuel tanks in De Florio’s boat.
The detonation was instant and horrific, gas from the other boat shortly following in another equally huge explosion that sent a blinding wave of intense heat across his face.
The two boats burst into red-orange flames, scorching fireballs mushrooming up into the pouring rain.
A second later the flames caught hold on the adjacent foliage and added to the inferno.
In the next second both boats disintegrated, along with their occupants, searing fire turning night into day.
He and Hank shielded their faces from the heat and the flaming shrapnel thrown out by the explosion. The repercussions continued for another minute. Then the rain slowly overtook the flames licking skyward.
“Holy crap,” Hank said.
Brent stared too.
And smiled.
Strange, considering he just witnessed the fiery death of two men.
But one of them had been directly responsible for his father’s murder.
Perhaps where he was standing right now had been the place De Florio stood that August morning nearly two years before.
The place where he’d waited for his Priority to arrive.
Like his father did every Friday morning, living his life as a file predicted.
Then he was “processed.”
Cold and impersonal.
Something to help the company’s bottom line, with not a single thought given to any of the people left behind. Now the man who’d spearheaded that murderous effort was dead.
And Brent felt nothing but delight.
Five words suddenly sprang to mind.
They formed clearly in his brain and he reveled in their justice. De Florio was right a few minutes ago when he’d uttered, How fitting .
“That was for you, Dad.”