Ted Bell - Tsar

There was some kind of lettering visible on the lid of the topmost boxes.

Neither man had brought a flashlight, but none was necessary. Congreve snapped open his gunmetal pipe lighter and held the flickering flame over the black type stenciled on the lid of the topmost case.

“Aha,” Congreve said, and C knew from the sound of that single word that their trip to Nonsuch Island had not been in vain.

“You read Russian, Ambrose,” C said excitedly. “What do we have here?”

“Weapons, I imagine, Sir David. These letters here, KBP, represent a Russian arms manufacturer of some renown. And here on the next line, you see the words ‘Bizon PP-19.’ A Russian-made submachine gun, if I’m not mistaken. Shall I open a box up and confirm? I’ve got a penknife that should do the trick.”

“Yes, yes, by all means,” C said, clearly excited by their discovery. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Ambrose slid the blade of his knife under the lid to pry it open just enough to get his fingers under it. The small nails came away easily from the plywood case. He removed the lid and put it aside.

“Submachine guns, all right,” C said, peering into the open box. “Now, what in the world do you suppose a ragtag bunch of dope fiends would need these nasty brutes for?”

At that moment, shots rang out in the interior. Distant and muffled but unmistakably gunfire. And the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush. Headed their way.

“Someone’s coming. We’ve got to get off this dock,” C said. “Quick, into the water with you.”

“Into the water? Do you think I’m insane?”

Ambrose, who abhorred sea bathing, didn’t relish the idea of slipping fully clothed into the blue-black water, but he didn’t think they had time to make it back to shore using the dock. Another shot rang out, then a scream of agony, much closer now, and Congreve jumped in, feet first, fearing the worst.

It was surprisingly shallow, perhaps five feet of water, and he easily found the sandy bottom. He felt slithery things nipping about his ankles, but he preferred not to dwell on what they might be. He simply imagined himself to be somewhere else. In his Hampstead garden, with his dahlias, to be honest.

C remained on the dock, looking back at the overgrown village, his hand on the butt of his pistol. Ambrose could easily imagine what he was thinking. Admiral Sir David Trulove, ex-Royal Navy, was not one known for slipping away from a fight. The idea of a shoot-out with these druggy bastards was not without a certain appeal. Still, he knew himself to be seriously outmanned and undergunned.

“Come on, Sir David, get below!” Ambrose whispered loudly. “And for God’s sake, don’t dive. It’s quite shallow!”

Trulove well knew they’d learn more from waiting and watching than from blasting away, so he sat down on the edge of the dock and withdrew his pistol from his waistband. Then, hoisting himself over the edge, he slipped easily into the water. Holding his gun aloft, he joined Ambrose under the dock.

“Shh!” he whispered. “They appear to be coming this way.”

The two men crouched under the sagging wooden trestles, the water lapping at their chins. Even at high tide, there was about a foot of air remaining under the dock, enough for them to stand on the bottom with their heads barely above water, breathing easily.

“Quiet,” C whispered. “Definitely coming this way.”

Ambrose was glad Sir David had his trusty Colt. He’d just glimpsed a man covered in blood emerge from the brush, staggering right toward the dock. The poor fellow had one hand clutched at his midsection, as if he were trying to hold his guts in place.

The man stumbled once, then lurched out onto the dock. The boards sagged and creaked under his weight. He was close enough now that the two men hiding beneath the dock could hear his low groans of pain.

Then, when he was directly overhead, he moaned loudly and collapsed to the dock, facedown.

Ambrose, looking up through the cracks at the dark form above, felt a warm spatter in his eye. He wiped it and saw his fingers come away dark and sticky in the dim light.

Blood. The man was hemorrhaging badly from the head and groaning with the pain of his wounds. The blood, a lot of it, was darkening the water around Congreve. Blood in the water was not a good thing.

Was that a fin? Yes! It was definitely a fin he saw slicing through the water near shore. Yes, not one but two! Three!

“What’s your name, old fellow?” C said, speaking as loudly as he dared. Between the cracks, they could see something of him. He had snow-white hair, matted with dark, gluey blood.

He murmured something unintelligible.

“Who shot you, old fellow?” C whispered.

“De guns, dat’s de ting,” the man croaked. “I tole dem de truth, but dey…”

Ambrose put a hand on Trulove’s shoulder. “No time for this, Sir David. We’ve got to get out of here now!” Ambrose whispered, the fear in his voice palpable.

“We can’t,” C hissed. “The bastards who shot this one are coming through the trees. Hear them? They’re likely armed to the teeth.”

“But the blood! You know what blood in the water does to sharks! We have to get away from-”

Congreve froze. Something had just bumped into his thigh, hard. He looked down and saw one long, dark, hideous shape gliding way. And many more circling in the shallows just beyond the sagging dock beneath which he and Trulove crouched.

“Sharks,” C said. “Good God, look at them all.”

“Sir David,” Ambrose said, his trembling voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t tell many people this. You need to know, under the present circumstances, that I am ablutophobic. Severe case. I’m afraid this won’t do at all.”

“Abluto what?”

“From the Latin ablutio , ‘washing,’ and the Greek phobos , ‘fear.’

Pathologically afraid of bathing. In the sea, of course. Swimming. I do bathe at home. Frequently.”

Trulove smiled and pried Congreve’s fingers off his forearm.

“As long as we remain still, they shouldn’t bother us,” he reassured the inspector.

“Of course, they shouldn’t ! Will they, is the bloody question.”

The deadly creatures had arrived en masse, just as Congreve had feared they would do. He stared at the menacing black shapes moving silently and swiftly just below the surface, tips of their dorsal fins slicing the water. They weren’t ten feet away. The two men stared at each other; the dying man’s blood was spattering the tops of their heads and splattering the water all around them. Ambrose eyed the Colt Python that C was holding just above the water. Better to die by his own hand than be torn to bits by frenzied sharks? Perhaps, yes.

There were excited shouts of Jamaican patois from ashore now, as gunmen emerged from the deserted village and raced toward the dock and their victim.

Ambrose looked at C, both of them realizing that there really was nothing for it. Thoroughly trapped beneath the dock, they watched in horror as at least a half-dozen sharks began closing in, swiftly moving in ever-narrowing circles.

“Bugger all. I’d rather get shot by those bastards up there than eaten alive,” Ambrose hissed. He’d been absolutely terrified of sharks all his life. And now he was bloody swimming with them. He started to paddle away, but Trulove grabbed him and whispered fiercely in his ear.

“You know the bullets will kill you. With the sharks, we may have some ghost of a chance. Now, just remain perfectly still. I’ve got an idea.”

“What? Bang them on the nose? That’s a comfort.”

“Hush up, will you, the crazy buggers are coming out onto the dock!”