Randy White - Shark River

I looked at my left arm, blood dropping. Nope, it was all too real. And if I didn’t find a way to put some distance between myself and them very, very soon, it was going to get much worse.

One thing I knew was that the men pursuing me wanted to get away as badly as I did. If not, they weren’t very smart. Like fleeing an assassination, escape from a kidnapping must be effected quickly and without interruption to be successful. Screw up for a minute, and the entire operation is compromised. Screw up for several minutes, and the operation not only fails, there are jail cells waiting. I was cutting deeply into their hopes of escape, and they had to realize that.

They didn’t get the girls. Now they had nothing to lose and everything to gain by eliminating me quickly.

Time was the only weapon I had.

My left arm was getting some feeling back. There was a black smear of meat and blood in the fleshy area beneath my tricep. It was bleeding freely, but not spurting, and my left hand had enough strength in it to control the steering wheel. All very reassuring.

I glanced over my shoulder again. Saw that Goatee was up on his hands and feet, scrambling across the deck like a bear toward the Uzi. I cut the wheel hard to the right, and back to the left, then I accelerated to full throttle as I spun the wheel to port, once again, sling-shooting us back and forth through the water. The g-forces were terrible, like being in a centrifuge.

At the peak of the last turn, I heard a shriek and looked back to see that Goatee had managed to stay aboard, but just barely. His head was over the side, but his fingers were locked into the starboard coaming. I watched him gain his balance before I had a chance to make another turn. Anticipating the turn, he collapsed flat on his belly, and began to crawl toward me.

I wanted to shake him, needed to shake him. I wanted to make the guys on the other boat stop and have to waste time fishing their accomplice out of the water. I needed to give them a good reason to abandon their pursuit of me.

I made three more sharp, accelerated turns in quick succession but couldn’t lift him off the deck. It was like he had suction cups on his fingers. He was up on his feet now, a very wide stance, seemed determined to get his hands on me.

The other Scarab was still bearing down on us. I had to make a decision whether to fight or run. Would they risk firing randomly into our boat?

The Plexiglas windshield shattered before me, then shards of fiberglass began to explode in a firecracker series, from the transom to the cockpit. I ducked, then ducked again.

They were shooting already. Full automatic.

Suddenly, the decision was very easy. I’d have to fight. The question was: How? Maybe stop the boat, wrestle Goatee for the Uzi, then shoot it out with the other Scarab?

I didn’t like the odds. I wasn’t at full strength, plus the guy with the submachine gun didn’t seem very fussy about who he hit. If Goatee put up any kind of struggle, we’d both be exposed and easy targets.

I’d have to try something else. I remembered an old instructor of mine, years ago on an island far away, forcing us to repeat by rote what turned out to be a pretty fair dictum for the way to live a successful life: When surrounded by overwhelming opposition and defeat is inevitable, there remains only one practical option- attack.

Because I had no other options, that’s exactly what I did.

With the approaching Scarab less than a hundred meters away, I brought our boat to a stop so sudden that Goatee came tripping toward me. I timed it right and, with my good elbow, caught him once just under the chin. It knocked his feet from under him and he landed hard on the deck. He was groggy but still conscious.

Ahead of me, the Scarab immediately slowed, apparently interpreting my decision to stop as a gesture of surrender.

I waited, watching them idle toward me: at least two men aboard, both showing automatic weapons. The man at the steering wheel had a huge pumpkin-sized head with hair dyed punkish blue-the Latin rapster look.

I ducked low, not wanting to tempt them into shooting again, got down on my knees briefly, dripping blood all across the deck, reached and retrieved the Uzi. It had the standard thirty-round magazine and a collapsible stock. I looked to see that the bolt was closed, ready to fire, the selector switch on full auto. When Goatee tried to grab me, I swung the barrel toward his chest and said in Spanish, “Jump.”

He shook his head, pretending not to understand.

I shifted the selector switch from auto to select as if in preparation to fire. I said, “So I’ll try it in English. Jump. ” Then I motioned toward the back of the boat, which was out of sight of the approaching Scarab.

Goatee didn’t hesitate. Keeping his eyes on me, he rolled off the transom, into the water.

I ducked back to the helm, where I checked the boat’s trim tab controls. They were on the steering wheel. Lower the tabs, and the stern of the boat would ride higher, forcing the front of the boat down. It’s a handy option, a good way to compensate for an unbalanced load.

I checked the buttons to make certain the tabs were raised completely. Then I found the outdrive toggles, and raised the propeller arms about halfway. I wanted the front of my boat to, once again, rear high at full throttle, and that combination of raised trim tabs and outdrives would, hopefully, cause it to do just that. Then I held the Uzi in the air, waving it until I was sure the two men saw me. When I was certain I had their attention, I threw the little sub gun high over the bow into the water.

A final gesture of complete submission.

Which is just what I wanted them to think.

I watched the men lower their weapons. Saw Blue Hair speak into what was a walkie-talkie or cell phone. Waited until he finished talking and began the slow turn to come alongside my Scarab, where and when there was a good chance they’d shoot me, no questions asked.

I cupped my hand over the twin throttles, thumb tapping at the gearshift, breathing easily, hunched down and standing motionless until their boat was directly in front of me. I watched them continue to turn and waited… waited until the smaller Scarab was exactly broadside to me only about forty meters away. I waited another beat or two until the nose of my boat was pointed a few feet aft of their cockpit.

That’s when I attacked. I jammed both throttles forward, steering directly at them on a collision course they couldn’t avoid. Engines screamed and my boat lunged crazily forward, the sudden acceleration driving me back, pinning my head against the helm seat so that all I could see was the control panel and the orange sunset sky.

I saw both tachometers redline with cavitation and watched the speedometer jump from zero to fifty. I was still gaining speed when I felt the jarring impact of fiberglass on fiberglass. Something else they’d taught us at the combat driving course in the hills of West Virginia: When two objects collide, the object that maintains its velocity receives far less shock than the object not in motion. So I held the throttles forward as my boat careened wildly skyward, airborne, riding up and over the smaller boat, using it like a ski ramp.

I felt a second jarring impact as my boat’s outdrives banged free. Then I seemed to hang suspended in air for an incredibly long time before smashing down back into the water, shipping a wave over the bow, soaking the entire boat and myself.

But my engines were still running. Amazing.

Behind me, the smaller Scarab was still moving, too. But not fast. Its windshield was gone and a chunk of some kind of wreckage lay on its stern cowling. At first, it didn’t look as if anyone was still aboard. But then I saw movement. Saw Blue Hair reappear, then the second man. Watched Blue Hair move to the helm again and stand at the controls.