Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Revenge

The cabin cruiser had reached top speed and the boat skipped over the water like a dolphin. He found the spotlights and was able to see thirty yards ahead of him. The police boat was close to the assassin’s yacht. Renton felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and said, “Renton.”

“What the fuck’s going on?” It was Lynn Harding, the assistant special agent in charge of the Baltimore field office. The ASAC was taking over while Walt Jackson was in L.A. She’d been at the Bureau for nearly twenty years, most of those as a field agent, so she wasn’t your typical administrator. She was well respected.

“The Russian,” Renton said, his hearing just coming back. “He fired an RPG at Sylvio’s.” Renton glanced over his shoulder, the pier now a dim shadow in the glow of the flames.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“I’m in pursuit in the Chesapeake. We need the Coast Guard out here immediately. I don’t see this guy going down easy. He’s got an RPG. Who knows how much ammo he has.”

“Don’t get too close,” Harding said. “Let’s keep him in sight. I don’t want you becoming another victim.”

Renton heard the warning but had no intention of listening.

“Mark?”

“Yeah,” Renton said.

“What about the rest of the crew?”

Renton was forced to think about his teammates. Not something he could afford to do right now. Not while he was gaining on the yacht.

“They’re gone,” Renton said.

The line was silent for a moment. The roar of the inboard engines was all Renton could hear.

“Mark,” Harding said. “The Coast Guard is on the way. Tell me what else you need.”

“I need eyes in the sky. If he’s a pro, he’ll have an escape plan.”

“Got it,” Harding said.

“Also get some shoes working the shoreline. I don’t trust this guy.”

“Done.”

Renton finished the call, then slipped the phone into his pocket as the yacht came into view less than a hundred yards away. The police boat was alongside the yacht now; spotlights illuminated the vessel like a night baseball game. Three officers lined the deck with rifles to their shoulders. Renton was close enough to see the shadow inside the cabin. The Russian was standing behind the wheel swiveling his head around between the police boat and the water ahead of him. He waved his free hand in the air frantically, trying to show he didn’t have a weapon. No, it was something else. He was shouting and waving and attempting communication, but he didn’t slow the boat down.

One of the policemen used a megaphone to command him to stop. This caused The Russian to wave even more fervently, shaking his head and motioning to something inside the cabin. Something told Renton to get away from the yacht, but he pressed on, moving to the starboard side until he was exactly even with the vessel. The yacht had slowed slightly, but not much. It was probably still forging ahead at thirty knots. The police boat kept veering into the yacht forcing it to turn into Renton’s path. He was bumping hulls with the yacht which was a bit higher and had more mass. His cruiser was becoming unstable. He opened the door to his cabin and steered with his right hand while gauging the distance to the yacht. He needed to time it just right if he was going to jump.

It was a bad choice. Not something a rational human being would ever consider attempting at night. Not at thirty knots, with an assassin waiting for you in the next vessel. But Renton had just lost some close friends and the only thought running through his head was revenge.

The port side of his boat dipped low enough to take on bay water, then raised high enough to be two feet above the yacht’s deck. He waited three dips before making his move. On the way up, he ran out and jumped. It was only four feet away, but it was clearly the scariest thing he’d ever done. Halfway over, the wind caught him and held him back, keeping him suspended in midair. His momentum got him as far as the railing and he slammed into the brass rails so hard he could feel his ribs cave in. He hung onto the railing, and tried to breathe. His eyes watered from the wind and lack of oxygen. The Russian didn’t move, however. He remained behind the wheel yelling something to the police about a tong. A tong? Renton felt like he was losing consciousness. A tong? He was able to get his knee onto the deck and remove the pressure from his ribcage. He finally took a long breath and gained a better grasp of the railing. The Russian was still yelling at the same time the police ordered him to stop.

A tong? Then it occurred to Renton what The Russian was saying. A bomb.

Renton needed to act. He swung his foot over the rail and pulled himself onto the deck. The Russian paid no attention to him. He was beginning to wonder why the assassin stayed behind the wheel, oblivious to Renton’s presence. He acted as if he was still going to outrun the police. Renton could see a helicopter approaching, nose down, spotlight lighting up the choppy bay water.

Renton scrambled to his feet and pulled out his gun. The Russian had his back to him yelling at the police, one hand on the wheel. Renton entered the cabin with his gun out. The police spotlights illuminated the cabin and he could see the man was handcuffed to the wheel. He seemed to sense Renton and turned to face him. The man was older than he’d suspected. Maybe sixty-five. He wore a Hawaiian tee shirt, jeans and sandals.

“Stay still,” Renton ordered.

A policeman hopped onto the port deck and entered the cabin with his rifle out front and looked Renton over.

“FBI,” Renton exclaimed, pulling out his shield for the man to examine.

The officer nodded.

Once Renton put away his shield, he reached for the throttle. That’s when the man handcuffed to the wheel screamed, “No!”

Renton froze. “What’s the matter?”

“You don’t understand,” the man said exasperated. “There’s a bomb on board. It will explode if this boat goes under twenty knots. We have to keep up our speed.”

“Why do you say that?” Renton said.

“That’s what the man told me.”

“What man?”

“The man who blew up Sylvio’s.”

Renton looked around the cabin. “Where is he?”

“He’s long gone,” the man’s voice now urgent, lifting his handcuffed hand. “Can you please release me? We need to get out of here.”

Renton looked the man over. He had a southern accent. He wasn’t The Russian, that was for sure.

“Is this your yacht?” Renton asked.

“Yes.”

“How long was he on the boat?”

“Maybe an hour before he blew up the place.”

Renton put his gun away. “Where’s this bomb?”

The man pointed to a plastic container below the front windshield, just out of his reach. There were no wires coming from the container.

He looked at the man. “How long did he work on attaching the bomb?”

“A couple of minutes,” the man said, his eyes darting from Renton then to the bomb.

The police officer said, “Let’s get out of here and call the bomb squad.”

Renton looked at the man’s face, scarred from fear. Renton knew a little about boats; however, he knew a lot more about bombs. He pulled the plastic container from the wall. It was attached with double adhesive tape.

The man yelled, “No, don’t!”

Renton yanked open the small container. As he suspected, it was empty. He showed it to the old man.

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” Renton said.

“But …” the man seemed incredulous. It was no act. The assassin had him completely convinced. Especially after firing an RPG at Sylvio’s. The man was simply a decoy to give him time to escape.

Renton looked back toward the shore. The flames from the restaurant were down to embers. He could see four or five Coast Guard vessels speeding toward them, while a helicopter hovered overhead. Suddenly it dawned on him. The pieces fit together perfectly. The Russian saw Renton watching the yacht. He used a remote to detonate the car bomb in the parking lot to draw attention away from him. He must’ve leapt off the boat immediately after the restaurant explosion.