It's a Disaster 3/4
The second boat arrives as scheduled. We file out onto the deck; Taylor's already there, having left the main room a few minutes ago to go "talk to his girl". At the sight of us he wishes her a hurried goodbye and taps the Bluetooth at his ear, then he and Dough Boy herd us into the yacht's lifeboat, with the other gang members bringing up the rear. From there it's a short-- but wet--trip to the speedboat bobbing only a few yards away. It's as rickety looking as the old man at its helm. He sizes us up with one swivel of a squinted eye, then turns his attention to Ameilio, who clambers into the boat last.
"Where to?" the captain asks.
"Pier 47," says Ameilio.
The captain eyes us again.
"Extra insurance. Don't worry about it. Drive, Cud."
The engine wheezes to life, and in seconds we're gunning through the water.
"What about them?" Kimber sniffs, looking towards the vanishing speck of the yacht. It's the first she's spoken in a few hours; I'd sort-of forgotten she was here.
"You've got your own problems to worry about," Ameilio says. "You'd better hope your pops comes up with our money."
Kimber hunches forward in her seat and buries her face in her hands.
I know the feeling, kid, I think. Then, with a frown, I turn to Ameilio and narrow my eyes in my best impression of authority.
"Interested though we are in Waterson, my agency won't be able to overlook the deaths of several dozen hostages. If you won't tell Ms. Waterson, then tell me your intentions for them."
Ameilio's brow furrows, but I stand my ground. Eventually, with a huff, he relents.
"The captain's tied up in the bridge. If those losers below ever stop sniveling, they can untie him and put in a distress call themselves."
"And if they don't, my team will see to it that they're retrieved after our release."
There. I thought that was pretty convincing. I catch Kimber's eye and smile; the way she looks back, I'm pretty sure she'd spit poison if she could.
"What the hell's your--" I start, then Brody's fingers pinch my knee. Easy, girl.
I cross my arms in my lap and scowl over the water.
We ride on.
It seems like twenty minutes or so before the pier looms into sight. We putter up to the shore; there are no other boats, and at a glance it's easy to see why. The pier is ancient, and the parts of the walkway that didn't fall into the harbor long ago have buckled into the waves under the strain of their own weight. The land above isn't in much better shape. The gang prods us at gunpoint up a makeshift stairwell of slick rocks and old planks, and once we're on concrete Ameilio whips out his phone and taps a few buttons. A few seconds later a contractor's van with tinted windows ambles out from the shadows of an old warehouse and pulls up along side us. Once we're all inside, it rumbles over the uneven ground of the side lot and out onto the main street.
Brody's elbow brushes mine, and when I glance over there's a silent question in his eyes. What's the plan?
I shrug slightly. Your guess is as good as mine. Frankly, I consider getting us off the yacht alive to be my achievement of the year. I just hope that whatever Chance and the rest have cooked up is good.
Our final destination is an abandoned factory in another rundown part of town. A corner of the building looks like it's been gutted by fire; the rest, by the elements. Large, faded "KEEP OUT" signs dangle at angles on what's left of the chain-link fence that we trudge past to reach a crooked hole in the wall of the factory.
"There's a lot of crap down there," says one of the gang members behind us. "Don't trip."
He really meant "down there." It's a foot drop from ground level to the factory floor, and it's not an easy distance to gap in heels. Brody ends up steadying me before my ankle goes one way and I go the other. He holds his arms out to do the same for Kimber, but she just glares at him and slowly makes her way to the floor.
"Keep walking," says Taylor. We do, picking our way through the debris of several darkened rooms until we come to a doorway that's partially open. Watery light spills from the crack; from within, I can just make out what might be whispers before Dough Boy pries the door out enough for the rest of to file through it.
This must be the main production room, is my first thought. Debris litters the floor around the rusted remains of old machinery, all of it lit by the sunlight filtering through the grimy windows lining the walls high above.
My second thought is my, how much money you have, because standing across the floor are several serious-looking men in suits. I peg Waterson as the only one who's not wearing sunglasses, though if the bulge on his hip is any indication he's as well armed as the rest of his pet thugs.
A slender gang member with a buzz cut yanks Kimber out of line and pins her against his chest. She cries out, and the guy without sunglasses stomps forward, rage coloring his features. Yup. Definitely Waterson.
"Let her go."
"First, our money. You screwed us Waterson, you really think we gonna let you off that easy?" Ameilio says.
Waterson sneers. Then, he wiggles a finger and one of the thugs silently takes his side. There's a metal briefcase in one hand.
"You want the damn money? Here."
At that, Thing One hefts up the briefcase in his arms, pops it open, and tilts it forward enough for the us to glimpse the neat stacks of cash filling its interior. I can't tell the exact depth of it from here, but assuming the contents haven't been padded with funny money there's gotta be at least eight hundred thousand in that thing. I wonder if Brody and I can pinch a few wads before this whole thing is done...
"Nine hundred and seventy thousand dollars, everything I owe," then, through gritted teeth, "plus interest."
"Very good. You're a smart man, Waterson."
"Now, my daughter."
"Not so fast. Give us the money, and we'll let her go as soon as we clear out."
My eyes rove the room, trying to see if Guerrero is hiding in the rafters with his sniper rifle. Nothing up there I can see but pigeon shit and dust. There's a plan, I tell myself. I just wish I was in on it.
"Are you mad?" Waterson hisses. "I'm not giving you a damn cent without my daughter."
"Shoulda thought of that before you crossed us, pops. Now, the money."
For a moment Waterson looks like he's going to start spewing acid. One of his goons leans over slightly to whisper something in his ear. Slowly, the color in Waterson's face cools a hue, and something too thin and sharp to be a smile touches the corners of his mouth.
"A trade, then," he says smoothly.
Ameilio snorts. "What?"
"Give me one of your people. When I get my daughter back, your person will go free."
"Why the hell would I do that? You're the one who owes us. And you think I'm gonna leave one of my boys here so you can pop him as soon as we're gone?"
"So long as I get my daughter back, your 'boy' will be safe."
"You already screwed us once, you think I'm gonna fall for that shit again? I ain't a fool old man."
"Ameilio," Taylor says quietly, and waves him into a huddle.
"We should give him the feds."
"What? They're the only insurance we got man!"
"And they still will be. Look, we got their phones right? How they gonna call their people and let them know we ain't holding them hostage no more? Waterson's sure as hell not gonna let them. We can dump the girl ten miles from here, and if her daddy sticks to his word, the feds go free. If not, it ain't our problem. Either way, we get the cah."
Ameilio's mouth twists up as he considers. Say no, I think.
"I guess it makes sense," the guy holding Kimber mutters.
The others murmur their consent.
"All right," says Ameilio, with a nod. Then, he turns to me. "It's been fun, lady."
"Wha-- this wasn't what we agreed on!" I sputter. Annoying as they are, I think my chances are better with these clown than with the dour looking Waterson.
"Sorry." he winks as he says it, then he gestures grandly at Waterson.
"Fine, pops. Here's the deal: you get my boy Jeff and his girl here, and we keep your daughter. When we release her, we get them back."
Waterson runs his fingers through his goatee for a few moments. Then, he sighs.
"I suppose I don't have any choice. Bring them here."
"Go. And look happy about it." Dough Boy hisses in my ear, but the barrel at the small of my back speaks louder. Brody and I stiffly step away from the group and share a tense glance before marching over to Waterson's side of the line. When we're close enough, Waterson's goons swarm forward to pull us into their fold. It's like being trapped in an Armani-lined cage.
"Now," says Ameilio, "our money."
Thing One strides across the floor to hand Ameilio the briefcase. He's not even halfway back before the guy holding Kimber turns her to the door and the gang starts a brisk exit.
Really, Chance. The daring rescue can start any time now.
Ameilio and Taylor have already darted through the door when Kimber drives her heel into the instep of her captor like a dagger. He curses, staggers, and loosens his grip enough for Kimber to wrench free and stumble towards us. Dough Boy lurches forward to wrestle her back, but not before she cries out.
"Daddy, don't! Those two are cops!"
I can hear birds cooing in the silence that follows.
Waterson turns to look at Brody and I for the first time, with an expression as venomous as the one Kimber shot me a hour ago. Then, he whirls on the guard to his right, the one who'd whispered to him earlier. It occurs to me as I look at him that there's something intensely familiar about that short blonde hair and the curve of that skull.
"You lied to me," Waterson says, close enough that I imagine his breath is steaming the guy's glasses. The man opens his mouth, but before he can speak Waterson snaps, "Kill them!"
And things go very bad, very quickly.
"Where to?" the captain asks.
"Pier 47," says Ameilio.
The captain eyes us again.
"Extra insurance. Don't worry about it. Drive, Cud."
The engine wheezes to life, and in seconds we're gunning through the water.
"What about them?" Kimber sniffs, looking towards the vanishing speck of the yacht. It's the first she's spoken in a few hours; I'd sort-of forgotten she was here.
"You've got your own problems to worry about," Ameilio says. "You'd better hope your pops comes up with our money."
Kimber hunches forward in her seat and buries her face in her hands.
I know the feeling, kid, I think. Then, with a frown, I turn to Ameilio and narrow my eyes in my best impression of authority.
"Interested though we are in Waterson, my agency won't be able to overlook the deaths of several dozen hostages. If you won't tell Ms. Waterson, then tell me your intentions for them."
Ameilio's brow furrows, but I stand my ground. Eventually, with a huff, he relents.
"The captain's tied up in the bridge. If those losers below ever stop sniveling, they can untie him and put in a distress call themselves."
"And if they don't, my team will see to it that they're retrieved after our release."
There. I thought that was pretty convincing. I catch Kimber's eye and smile; the way she looks back, I'm pretty sure she'd spit poison if she could.
"What the hell's your--" I start, then Brody's fingers pinch my knee. Easy, girl.
I cross my arms in my lap and scowl over the water.
We ride on.
It seems like twenty minutes or so before the pier looms into sight. We putter up to the shore; there are no other boats, and at a glance it's easy to see why. The pier is ancient, and the parts of the walkway that didn't fall into the harbor long ago have buckled into the waves under the strain of their own weight. The land above isn't in much better shape. The gang prods us at gunpoint up a makeshift stairwell of slick rocks and old planks, and once we're on concrete Ameilio whips out his phone and taps a few buttons. A few seconds later a contractor's van with tinted windows ambles out from the shadows of an old warehouse and pulls up along side us. Once we're all inside, it rumbles over the uneven ground of the side lot and out onto the main street.
Brody's elbow brushes mine, and when I glance over there's a silent question in his eyes. What's the plan?
I shrug slightly. Your guess is as good as mine. Frankly, I consider getting us off the yacht alive to be my achievement of the year. I just hope that whatever Chance and the rest have cooked up is good.
Our final destination is an abandoned factory in another rundown part of town. A corner of the building looks like it's been gutted by fire; the rest, by the elements. Large, faded "KEEP OUT" signs dangle at angles on what's left of the chain-link fence that we trudge past to reach a crooked hole in the wall of the factory.
"There's a lot of crap down there," says one of the gang members behind us. "Don't trip."
He really meant "down there." It's a foot drop from ground level to the factory floor, and it's not an easy distance to gap in heels. Brody ends up steadying me before my ankle goes one way and I go the other. He holds his arms out to do the same for Kimber, but she just glares at him and slowly makes her way to the floor.
"Keep walking," says Taylor. We do, picking our way through the debris of several darkened rooms until we come to a doorway that's partially open. Watery light spills from the crack; from within, I can just make out what might be whispers before Dough Boy pries the door out enough for the rest of to file through it.
This must be the main production room, is my first thought. Debris litters the floor around the rusted remains of old machinery, all of it lit by the sunlight filtering through the grimy windows lining the walls high above.
My second thought is my, how much money you have, because standing across the floor are several serious-looking men in suits. I peg Waterson as the only one who's not wearing sunglasses, though if the bulge on his hip is any indication he's as well armed as the rest of his pet thugs.
A slender gang member with a buzz cut yanks Kimber out of line and pins her against his chest. She cries out, and the guy without sunglasses stomps forward, rage coloring his features. Yup. Definitely Waterson.
"Let her go."
"First, our money. You screwed us Waterson, you really think we gonna let you off that easy?" Ameilio says.
Waterson sneers. Then, he wiggles a finger and one of the thugs silently takes his side. There's a metal briefcase in one hand.
"You want the damn money? Here."
At that, Thing One hefts up the briefcase in his arms, pops it open, and tilts it forward enough for the us to glimpse the neat stacks of cash filling its interior. I can't tell the exact depth of it from here, but assuming the contents haven't been padded with funny money there's gotta be at least eight hundred thousand in that thing. I wonder if Brody and I can pinch a few wads before this whole thing is done...
"Nine hundred and seventy thousand dollars, everything I owe," then, through gritted teeth, "plus interest."
"Very good. You're a smart man, Waterson."
"Now, my daughter."
"Not so fast. Give us the money, and we'll let her go as soon as we clear out."
My eyes rove the room, trying to see if Guerrero is hiding in the rafters with his sniper rifle. Nothing up there I can see but pigeon shit and dust. There's a plan, I tell myself. I just wish I was in on it.
"Are you mad?" Waterson hisses. "I'm not giving you a damn cent without my daughter."
"Shoulda thought of that before you crossed us, pops. Now, the money."
For a moment Waterson looks like he's going to start spewing acid. One of his goons leans over slightly to whisper something in his ear. Slowly, the color in Waterson's face cools a hue, and something too thin and sharp to be a smile touches the corners of his mouth.
"A trade, then," he says smoothly.
Ameilio snorts. "What?"
"Give me one of your people. When I get my daughter back, your person will go free."
"Why the hell would I do that? You're the one who owes us. And you think I'm gonna leave one of my boys here so you can pop him as soon as we're gone?"
"So long as I get my daughter back, your 'boy' will be safe."
"You already screwed us once, you think I'm gonna fall for that shit again? I ain't a fool old man."
"Ameilio," Taylor says quietly, and waves him into a huddle.
"We should give him the feds."
"What? They're the only insurance we got man!"
"And they still will be. Look, we got their phones right? How they gonna call their people and let them know we ain't holding them hostage no more? Waterson's sure as hell not gonna let them. We can dump the girl ten miles from here, and if her daddy sticks to his word, the feds go free. If not, it ain't our problem. Either way, we get the cah."
Ameilio's mouth twists up as he considers. Say no, I think.
"I guess it makes sense," the guy holding Kimber mutters.
The others murmur their consent.
"All right," says Ameilio, with a nod. Then, he turns to me. "It's been fun, lady."
"Wha-- this wasn't what we agreed on!" I sputter. Annoying as they are, I think my chances are better with these clown than with the dour looking Waterson.
"Sorry." he winks as he says it, then he gestures grandly at Waterson.
"Fine, pops. Here's the deal: you get my boy Jeff and his girl here, and we keep your daughter. When we release her, we get them back."
Waterson runs his fingers through his goatee for a few moments. Then, he sighs.
"I suppose I don't have any choice. Bring them here."
"Go. And look happy about it." Dough Boy hisses in my ear, but the barrel at the small of my back speaks louder. Brody and I stiffly step away from the group and share a tense glance before marching over to Waterson's side of the line. When we're close enough, Waterson's goons swarm forward to pull us into their fold. It's like being trapped in an Armani-lined cage.
"Now," says Ameilio, "our money."
Thing One strides across the floor to hand Ameilio the briefcase. He's not even halfway back before the guy holding Kimber turns her to the door and the gang starts a brisk exit.
Really, Chance. The daring rescue can start any time now.
Ameilio and Taylor have already darted through the door when Kimber drives her heel into the instep of her captor like a dagger. He curses, staggers, and loosens his grip enough for Kimber to wrench free and stumble towards us. Dough Boy lurches forward to wrestle her back, but not before she cries out.
"Daddy, don't! Those two are cops!"
I can hear birds cooing in the silence that follows.
Waterson turns to look at Brody and I for the first time, with an expression as venomous as the one Kimber shot me a hour ago. Then, he whirls on the guard to his right, the one who'd whispered to him earlier. It occurs to me as I look at him that there's something intensely familiar about that short blonde hair and the curve of that skull.
"You lied to me," Waterson says, close enough that I imagine his breath is steaming the guy's glasses. The man opens his mouth, but before he can speak Waterson snaps, "Kill them!"
And things go very bad, very quickly.