Mark Young - Off the grid

The man next to him did not even resemble the lab rat Gerrit had rolled as an informant. He studied Gregori’s lifestyle, his appetites, and found the man’s Achilles heel: money and a promise of a new life. The man standing before him seemed to have lost his nerve after stealing from Nico. Gerrit had not heard from him in weeks. Now he knew where Gregori must have been hiding. In a bottle somewhere deep in a skid-row sewer.

“I th-think someone’s on to m-me. I run,” the informant stuttered, his lips cracked and dry. “I think dis whole thing mistake.” His Russian accent and wine-influenced English dropped and smashed words together like a giant blender.

“Gregori, stay cool. You’re the one who called me. Said you made copies of what Nico stole.” Sometimes he needed to speak to the informant as if he were communicating with a child. “If you’re not blowing smoke, then we’re almost to the finish line. And you’re off to Witness Protection and a new life. Don’t blow it now.”

Birdman straightened. “You… You drop me in danger. They like sharks. They smell my blood. They…oh, man, I wish we never met. They know! I feel it.”

“How can they, unless you let it slip?” Gerrit glanced beyond him, eyeing the throng once more. Something really spooked this guy. He looked for a face that might raise a warning flag. Normal crowd. Normal commuters. Bainbridge only ten minutes away. “Tell me why this was worth my time.”

The man reached into his grimy jacket and withdrew a thumb drive. “Download all dis stuff. All right here.”

Gerrit started to reach for it, but the man jerked back, clenching it in his fist. “First, you, how you say, immunize me. And protection. I dead man if this gets out.” He waved the clenched fist holding the computer drive.

A clicking noise chirped in Gerrit’s earpiece alerting him that Taylor was about to transmit. “We got a boat tailing us forty yards off starboard. They’ve been following us for several minutes.”

A sport-fishing vessel with jet engines ran parallel to the ferry. Two men on board. Their engine throttled down to keep abreast of the bigger, lumbering vessel. “I see ’em.” Gerrit leaned away from the informant to speak. “Keep your eyes on them until I finish up here.”

Gregori’s eyes flickered, fear widening his pupils. “What happening?”

“Nothing.” He flicked his hand as if it was nothing. “And, my friend, it’s called immunity unless you’ve caught some disease I don’t know about. Let’s get down to business.”

“The boat’s dropping back. Looks like they might be trailing us to the dock, matching our speed. Maybe picking up a friend?”

Glancing up at Taylor, Gerrit nodded. He did not want to spook the informant.

Gregori followed his gaze. “That one of you guys?”

Gerrit deadpanned, “Like I said, don’t worry about it. We’ve got this covered.”

“No way, man. Something wrong-” Birdman glanced over Gerrit’s shoulder in horror.

Gerrit reached for his weapon. He whipped around, seeing a man a few yards away armed with a gun. He shoved Gregori to the deck with one hand just as the gunman fired off two compressed shots. The first shot splintered the deck, and the second seemed to go wild when a bystander fell into him.

A silencer. The shots sounded like compressed air hissing angry spit wads.

The gunman seemed to be trying to follow Gregori’s path to the ground with his weapon. A few bystanders bolted when they saw the guns. A woman screamed, starting more of a panic. The attacker seemed to realize his chance to kill Gregori just vanished as each shot caused more chaos.

Gerrit positioned himself to protect Gregori, but he could not take a shot due to the number of innocent people. Grimacing, the shooter-a lithe man in blue denim trousers and a dark, bulky sweatshirt-turned and roughly shoved his way through the crowd, forcing at least one woman to lose her balance. The gunman dashed toward the stern.

“Hey,” Gerrit yelled, trying to draw the shooter’s attention. The informant hovered on the ground, chest still heaving. Gerrit activated his radio. “Taylor. We’re Code 4 on this end. Shooter heading aft through the crowd. See him?”

“Gotcha. On my way.”

Quickly, Gerrit knelt. “You okay?”

Gregori nodded.

Gerrit grabbed the thumb drive from the man’s grasp and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll take this for safekeeping. Stay down and don’t move.”

Gregori mutely nodded again.

People crowded around, eyeing the man on the ground like this was some television show. One woman edged closer and saw Gerrit holding a gun. He yanked out his badge just as the woman screamed. He flashed it at the crowd.

“Police! Everyone take cover. Man with a gun.” He jabbed a finger toward the stern. A young girl stared at his right hand, still holding the S amp;W. “Another man with a gun,” he said, looking away, searching for the gunman.

People began clearing a path as he pushed through the lingering crowd. Some still crouched in place. Others ran for the enclosed bar and lunchroom inside.

Taylor’s voice blared across the radio. “The shooter’s on the railing. He…he jumped overboard.” Frustration was evident in his voice. “I can’t get to him, Gerrit. Caught in this crowd topside.”

Gerrit neared the railing and spotted the attacker bobbing between waves. The fishing boat Taylor spotted earlier drew alongside. One of the crew members hurled a life preserver, attached to a nylon rope, into the water, waiting until the gunman grasped it. Once set, the crewman yanked on the rope like he was hauling in a large fish. Fist over fist until the man in the water reached the edge of the craft. The shooter clambered up a metal ladder as the vessel pulled away.

The bow rose as the boat picked up speed, heading toward the Seattle shoreline. The fishing vessel would soon be lost on the far shore. Air support was too far out, and ground units could never respond in time.

He reholstered the weapon and pounded the railing with a clenched fist.

Bainbridge Island, Washington

“Here it comes,” Gerrit muttered to his partner. “The inquisition has begun.”

Their one-sided gun battle aboard the ferry sparked a police investigation even though they never fired a shot. And internal affairs would be panting in the wings, waiting their turn to roast Gerrit and Taylor, if any procedural irregularities turned up. A paunchy investigator from the Washington State Patrol motioned Gerrit toward a makeshift office inside the terminal.

Gerrit started toward the officer until the man held up a hand, cell phone planted in one ear. The man straightened and glanced toward Gerrit while shaking his head, jaw tightening as he ended the call.

“My boss told me to stand down.” The officer glared at Gerrit. “Said some feds are on their way to talk to you guys.”

Gerrit nodded. “I’m going to step outside for some fresh air.” He gestured at his partner heading toward an exit door and followed Taylor outside.

Earlier, officers from the Washington state police tried to keep the two of them apart until investigators arrived, but in the confusion over supervision and the number of eyewitnesses milling around, Gerrit and Taylor met up and stayed together. Now, the state troopers probably thought they had already worked out their stories, so what’s the point in keeping them sequestered.

He found Taylor standing in the dark a few feet from the doorway. Light from his cigarette illuminated his face as he took a deep drag.

Gerrit stood upwind from the smoke. “Task force heading our way. Probably want to do damage control before WSP gets too far into this investigation. I figure Marilynn just threw around her federal weight at the locals.” Marilynn Summers spearheaded the investigation for the federal prosecutor’s office.