He leaned against the bulkhead, listening to the waves as they crashed against the breakwater. Even in the near-total darkness of the overcast night, he could make out the white foam of large breakers smashing onto the rocks a few hundred yards away. He was glad he wouldn’t be going anywhere near the maelstrom. His time in the Navy gave him a healthy respect for the power of water, and his instincts as well as his observations during the day’s back-and-forth trip told him the weather conditions tonight likely exceeded the capabilities of this ship. He turned back just in time to see a flash of movement under a streetlight in the parking lot.
They were early. Dammit.
Carson moved rapidly towards the back of the ship, getting into position as smoothly as possible while mentally castigating himself for being so lackadaisical about the situation. He was thankful he got there before they boarded, so he knelt to watch and wait.
And wait. Ten minutes after getting into position, the only noise that remained was the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves. He chanced to move from his secure position to get a better view of the surroundings, but anyone who had been approaching the ship was either well-hidden or long gone. Carson realized it was possible someone had been out walking or riding a bicycle, or that he had misinterpreted something blowing in the wind as the movement of a person, and settled back down to wait the remaining time until the scheduled meeting. Still, the incident tugged at him. He was sure he had seen someone, and there was nothing worse than being uncertain of exactly who was around in a dangerous situation.
After another half-hour of fretful worry, he finally saw the spectral but definitive outlines of three men moving towards the ferry with purpose. He saw the wink of a small flashlight from one of them. Stupid. People were so afraid of the dark they never bothered to find out just how well they could see in it if they only took a little time to get their night vision. Carson could nearly see the color of their clothes. They wouldn’t see him when they boarded despite passing within eight feet of him as long as he didn’t move. Just as he planned.
They clomped aboard like the Budweiser Clydesdales, making enough noise that Carson half-expected the Bay Police would be awakened and come streaming out of their barracks, 100 yards away. But there was no such response. Instead, the trio walked about 50 feet into the cavernous deck. They shined the light in every direction. Finding nothing, one of them whispered hoarsely. “Brendan?”
Carson rose silently from his hiding spot, pulling his weapon from his hip and holding it with the barrel pointed down at the deck. He moved as quietly as a wisp of fog, studying the men as he got closer. One carried a briefcase, which was to be expected, but what drew Carson’s attention were the three handguns stuffed into their belts. These were also expected but definitely not welcome. He adjusted his gait to match the gentle rock of the ship, and in seconds he was less than 10 feet behind them.
Still, they didn’t notice him. “Brendan, you here?” The voice sounded a little worried, marking at least that one as amateur, confirming to Carson that his next move was the right one. He raised his weapon so it pointed in their general direction.
“Brendan couldn’t make it. I’m standing in.”
Three bodies whirled around to face the firm but calm voice behind them, and three hands shot down towards black, checkered grips, but that was as far as they got.
“Please don’t do anything stupid, gentlemen,” Carson said with enough weight to interrupt their attempts. “I was able to get this close to you without you ever hearing me.” He shook the gun so no one could miss it. “I think I can use this long before you do anything.” Their hands moved up, away from their belts.
“A good choice. First, slowly remove your guns, put them on the deck, and back away, then put your hands behind your head until I tell you otherwise. You, with the briefcase, set it down on the deck, then do the same as your friends.” The first two complied, but briefcase-man didn’t move.
“No. Not until we see the package.”
“The package isn’t here. You will receive instructions on where to pick it up after I’ve secured the money. Now, do what I told you.”
“Fuck you. No girl, no cash. Period.”
“I see.” Carson extended his arm dramatically to point the gun at the man’s leg. “Do you have any idea how badly a silenced high-velocity .45-caliber bullet will hurt if it shatters your kneecap? You’ll lay here until morning, because no one will hear the shot, and your screams won’t carry very far in the wind. You probably won’t die, but you’ll wish you had.” Carson was bluffing, but felt confident doing so. Despite the name, a silencer would only reduce, not silence bullets, especially the larger caliber rounds he was using. He didn’t even have a silencer with him, so the shot would sound like a bomb exploding. Carson was pretty sure these men didn’t know that and, in the dim light, wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond a scary gun and the crazy man brandishing it.
He was right. In short order, Carson was tossing all three guns over the side and getting the four-digit code to the briefcase so he could release the lock and open it. He used his red pen light to view the contents of the satchel.
The red glow made the green ink look black, but it did nothing to distort the images of Benjamin Franklin, wrapped neatly in packs of 100. Each row had 25 such packs, and there were four rows. Carson had to do the math twice to realize the case contained $10 million. Picking
