Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

Nearly purple with rage, Kane kicked the television off the stand. Goddamn, I hate that fucker Karp! he shouted. Every time I turn around, that son of a bitch and his frickin’ wife are messing up my life.

I’d suggest you surrender now, Lucy said with a smile on her face. You know he’s coming for me…and for you.

Kane turned to her with his eyes looking like they might bug out of this head. He aimed his gun at her head and kept it there shaking in his hand for a full minute before he lowered it and laughed. You know, he said calmly. This is even better. He gets to go home and find his precious little boys have been turned into worm food. And I still have his daughter…so I guess he will be thrilled to receive the baby pictures after all.

I’ll kill myself before I have your baby, Kane, Lucy said.

Kane tsked. What-a good Catholic like you committing a mortal sin that would send you straight to hell?

It would be worth it, she replied.

We’ll see, he said just as the call came in that the boats were on their way.

The group had left the building and crossed the street where the fence into the boatyard was open. “My dad once told me a story about Spuyten Duyvil,” Lucy said as she peered out into the dark night.

“Oh, really? I like stories. Why don’t you tell me while we wait for our cruise ship,” Kane said.

Lucy paused. She thought she’d heard Andy’s childlike voice when Kane replied about liking stories.

“Well, the story goes that long before the Revolutionary War, a brave trumpeter-his name was Anthony Van Corlaer-used to blow his trumpet when the leader of the colony of New Amsterdam, Peter Stuyvesant, wanted to warn the people or call them together.

“One night, Stuyvesant heard that the English were going to attack New Amsterdam so he sent Anthony to warn the Dutch settlers along the Hudson. But a storm was brewing, sort of like tonight, so that when Anthony reached the tip of Manhattan, the ferry that should have been there to take him across was nowhere to be found. But he’d been given a mission, so he decided he would swim across at the spot where the Harlem River and the Hudson met. Even without the storm, the waters in that area were known to be especially turbulent with bad currents. But he vowed to swim across ‘en spijt den duyvil.’ In spite of the devil.”

Kane frowned. He did not particularly like the way this story was going. “Are you going to get to the point or bore me to death?”

Lucy smiled. “If it would bore you to death, I’d talk all night…. Anyway, Anthony dove into the water and began to swim across. However, the devil had heard his boast and reached up and grabbed Anthony’s leg. The brave lad pulled out his trumpet and blew such a blast that it drowned out the storm and startled the devil so much that he let go of Anthony. The sound of his trumpet warned the settlers far up the Hudson that danger was approaching, so they were prepared when the English arrived. But poor Anthony was so exhausted by his efforts that he drowned.”

“So the moral of the story,” Kane said, “is: don’t fuck with the devil.”

“Or use his name lightly, Mr. Kane.” Lucy smiled back. “You never know when he might reach up and grab you by the leg and pull you back to hell.”

Kane scowled but any comeback was interrupted by the sound of gunfire from across the road where he’d left a rear guard to watch for any cops. He could see flashes from the area of the park and more popping noises.

An Arab man came running up, obviously frightened. “We are being pursued by jinn, ” he said. “We must leave.”

“ Jinn with guns?” Kane asked. “Why am I surrounded by such fools?”

“They move like shadows, and when you shoot at them, they aren’t there anymore. They are jinn, ” the man repeated confidently, which started several of the other men murmuring.

Kane raised his gun and shot the man in the stomach. “Now,” he told the others as they watched their comrade suffering on the ground. “Let’s have no more talk about jinn and get to the boats.”

There was more gunfire. Closer. Kane looked down toward where the street rounded the corner into the park. It was hard to see in darkness through the rain, but he thought he spotted several shadowy figures run across the street.

“Move!” he shouted, suddenly afraid himself. “Get to the boats!”

“What about him?” one of the men said pointing at Fulton.

Kane considered shooting the detective. “Two hostages are better than one,” he said. “Bring him. Two of you stay here and hold them off, then join us in the second boat.”

With that they ran down the boat ramp for the floating dock. At Kane’s direction, Lucy climbed in the front boat, followed by Kane. Two terrorists brought Fulton, who they dumped on the floor; then one moved quickly to the helm while the other untied the boat. The second man was about to get in when a bullet caught him in the back and he fell into the water.

“Go! Go!” Kane shouted.

“What about the others?” the man at the wheel shouted.

“Leave them,” Kane said. “Just go.”

The speedboat pulled away from the dock with a roar. Lucy looked back and saw several men running for the second boat, firing over their shoulders at the shadow people who chased them.

One of the terrorists fell and lay still. Another was struck in the leg. He went down but got back up and was trying to hobble to the boat. But a tall shadow figure caught him. There was a piercing scream loud enough to be heard over the roar of the boat engine.

Grale, Lucy thought. And John is with him! Come on, guys. Here I am!

The last of the terrorists got to the floating dock and, throwing off the line, jumped in the boat. It looked like he was going to get away, but then another pursuer ran down the dock and leaped just as the boat was starting to pull away.

Jojola landed hard and rolled across the deck. The man at the wheel saw him land and left his post to meet him. Pulling a long, curved knife, he slashed at Jojola, who threw himself backward to avoid the blow. The man leaped for Jojola, intending to finish him, but instead impaled himself on the Indian’s upraised hunting knife.

Jojola pushed the body off and stood, just as the wet figure of David Grale, who’d dived in after the boat, pulled himself over the side. Grale rushed forward and took the wheel and gunned the engine so suddenly that Jojola was thrown back and nearly overboard.

It was difficult to see with the rain pelting their faces, and the water was getting increasingly choppy as they sped into the Spuyten Duyvil area. On the subway, Grale had told him that although the waters could look calm, they were deceptive. The Harlem River is affected by the ocean tide, he’d said. Especially at high tide, which it will be at tonight, the waters in the river actually push up against the waters from the Hudson that flow down from the north. Strong swimmers have been sucked beneath the surface and never seen again.

Now, over the roar of the boat engine, Grale pointed ahead at a dark object in the middle of the river. “That’s the Amtrak rail bridge,” he said. “It’s only about eight feet above the water at high tide. You can’t go under it, but it swivels in the middle to let boats pass and then back again for the train to pass over. I’m not sure, but it looks like it’s open for boats now. If they get through it and Kane’s men close it before we can get there, we’ll lose them.”

Up ahead, Kane saw that the Amtrak bridge was open and smiled. His men had obviously reached the control office and forced the operator, who was undoubtedly now dead, to swing it open.