Kirk Russell - Shell Games

Marquez was within fifteen feet before the man said, “Not another step, fucker.”

His grip on the shotgun was tight and Marquez knew he was thinking about emptying a barrel into Roberts and swinging the gun his way.

“You might kill her, but I’ll empty a clip into you before you can get to me. Drop the gun,” he yelled over the engines.

“There’s a man coming up behind you, Lieutenant,” Roberts called, and Marquez registered him without taking his aim from the man with the shotgun. “He’s got a gun.”

“Fucking right, I’ve got a gun,” the man yelled, and Marquez couldn’t risk turning to look at him. “In the water if you want to live.” Marquez figured he must have jammed something in the wheel to keep the boat going straight. “Hey, pig, you listening to me?” He fired a burst and Marquez heard the bullets whang off metal above his head. “Go, now-now, or you’re gone. You’re both dead fuckers if you don’t jump.”

“We’re going to jump,” Marquez called to the man in front of him. “Tell your friend to hold steady and no one will get killed.” He still held his gun on the man and kept moving toward Roberts, said quickly to her, “We’re out of here. Jump now and I’m behind you.”

“Not before you, Lieutenant.”

He pushed her backwards, shielding her body as he did. Roberts disappeared over the rail. He heard a splash and took a long look at the man with the shotgun, kept his gun on him as he climbed over the rail, started to turn to look at the other man and heard, “You look at me and I’m blowing your head off.”

He looked anyway before falling away from the boat. Their eyes met and he had the face forever, then was backwards into the darkness.

Marquez kicked his shoes off and surfaced, treading water while still holding his gun. What he didn’t want to do was lose anything more, and what he felt was humiliation and anger. Fear of getting shot had left him as he hit the water. Now, he was cold and the heavy ballistic and tech vests dragged at him. The boat was moving away and they’d have to fight the current and swim to shore. He managed to holster the gun and started swim-ming toward Roberts. Chest-tightening cold was already working on him. He yelled to her. She yelled back and he couldn’t make out the words. He saved his badge, managed to get it in a pocket and then let the tech vest slide and peeled his shirt, wrapped his shoulder holster around a forearm and got the ballistics vest off.

Then he swam steadily toward her. They had to get to the Coast Guard and the Marlin. They had to reach shore. The Emily Jane was running fast without lights and when he checked again he had to find the moon’s reflection on the wake and followed that to the dark shape of the boat sweeping toward the Golden Gate. Roberts waited for him. She said the cold was no problem and they angled for shore, Roberts leading.

The dock lights drifted away and the current tugged them toward the Gate. They landed well south of the docks, coming ashore near the main part of town, Marquez’s big frame rising out of the bay like some sort of Godzilla, algae slicking off him as he climbed the seawall rocks and then up onto the sidewalk alongside Bridgeway. They walked down to a hotel that seemed to be the only place open and as Marquez walked in shirtless the night clerk started dialing 911. He showed his badge and they borrowed a couple of sweatshirts carrying the hotel logo.

Marquez called the Coast Guard first, then the Marlin. He heard Hansen talking over the roar of the Marlin engines and knew he was up on the flydeck and the Marlin was running full out.

“We’ve got them on radar,” Hansen said, “but they’re flying, and I mean flying. What have they got on that boat? It’s doing better than fifty knots. The Guard is going to have to run these guys down, but they’ll get them. Hey, what happened out there? We heard you went swimming, again.”

“We were outgunned and they said jump.”

When he hung up with Hansen, he called Brad Alvarez, who was at the Army Corps of Engineers dock, talking with the Sausalito police. They were still looking for Bailey.

“We need a ride. We’re at a hotel,” Marquez said.

“What’s the name of the hotel?”

Marquez had to look at his sweatshirt before he could tell him. They waited outside, both of them still shaking from the cold and thanking the night manager several times when he walked back out and handed them coffee, insisting the sweatshirts were on him. Marquez held the coffee, stood there waiting, embarrassment and disappointment coloring his thoughts. They had the bust they’d needed right there and they looked like Keystone Kops. Jump on a boat and then jump in the water. Bailey was going to say he ran because he got scared, he thought. He’ll still want to get paid. Bailey will say he panicked, thought there was going to be a firefight. Roberts, who’d been quiet, finally said something about what had happened.

“It was my fault and I’ll resign tomorrow.”

“No, you’re not, and we’re going to find that boat.”

“I just didn’t want him to get away. I’m really sorry, Lieutenant. I could have got us killed, but I thought we could stop the boat.”

“You keep underrating these people, Melinda.”

“I know and I blew it. I’ll ask for a transfer.”

“Don’t do that, you belong here.” Alvarez’s white Cherokee came toward them. Marquez touched her arm and said, “We’ll sort it out.”

“I messed up, Lieutenant. I don’t want to pretend it was any-thing else.”

She’d be pulled from the team tomorrow if Keeler got word of how it went down and Marquez decided he’d send her to Fort Bragg this afternoon because Keeler would be here in Marin this morning visiting an old friend having surgery at Marin General. The chief would want to meet, and knowing Keeler he might want to question Roberts.

With Alvarez they found the only place open to get hot coffee and food. Alvarez turned with a wry look, “Of course, you guys probably prefer surf ‘n’ turf.”

Marquez stripped the wet pants and put on dry clothes and shoes when he got to his truck. He left on the hotel sweatshirt. He’d just finished changing clothes when Chief Keeler called. It was 6:00, which probably meant someone had called Keeler about what had happened, though he didn’t know who that could have been.

“Have you got any more equipment left to lose?” Keeler asked.

“Not a lot.”

“What is left, your vehicles? Something is wrong here. I’ll be down there by 8:00. I want you to meet me at Marin General in the surgery waiting room. I’d like it if you wrote your report first and brought a printed copy.” Keeler didn’t wait for him to say he couldn’t get it done in time. “You may hear from Chief Baird before I get there.”

“About this?”

As SOU patrol lieutenant, Marquez had direct access to Fish and Game’s top law enforcement officer, the chief of patrol, Gor-don Baird. Each new state governor typically appointed a director of Fish and Game and a handful of deputy-chiefs, but the chief of patrol earned the rank and carried the real responsibility for law enforcement. The director’s was a political office. Marquez didn’t talk with Baird often, though every day he copied Baird his e-mailed reports. He heard Keeler’s long sigh, as though he was too old for these types of problems.

“The FBI called off the Coast Guard pursuit of the boat you’re after.”

“When did that happen?”

“Over an hour ago.”

“Why?”

“That’s all I know, right now.”

“Backed the Guard off the Emily Jane?”

“Did you get water inside your head? Yes, they asked the Coast Guard to cease pursuit.”