When it passed, the hype of the fight far surpassed the actual event. High up on a small ship rolling and bucking like a wounded bull, the balance and accuracy of both men was severely compromised. Peetey moved forward with powerful jabs, but the tilting deck made him miss so badly that Carson didn’t even bother to block most of the attempts. Carson tried a strike of his own, but Peetey disappeared as the lurching ship pitched him back and away.
Carson almost saw humor in the conflict. It was as if two premier heavyweights had entered the ring after drinking a bottle of whiskey each. Punches and kicks flew wildly in all directions but none made contact. He saw the fatigue on Peetey’s expression even as he felt it himself. As they grew exhausted throwing strikes that would not connect, Carson knew one good punch might end this whole thing.
Peetey got the luck of the moment. A quick jab, aimed at Carson’s nose, instead caught him squarely in the chin, rocking him back several steps. At that moment, the ship was plunging into a trough, aiding the impact of the strike. He fell heavily on his back, driving the air from his lungs in a rush.
Peetey charged in for the kill, and Carson reacted by sticking his leg out squarely into Peetey’s chest. The strike had little power, but it still had enough force to stop the assault and send Peetey several feet backwards. Carson used the opportunity to right himself and charge forward.
He captured Peetey in a bearhug and rammed him as hard as he could against a post supporting the wing of the bridge. Carson heard a shout of pain as the back of Peetey’s head contacted the wet metal, and he did all he could to drive his feet forward and keep him pinned in place. But when the boat heaved once more, the leverage shifted to Peetey’s advantage. He struck down with both hands, pounding Carson’s neck with the knife-edge of his palms. Carson felt the pain through his entire spine and fell back to the deck.
Peetey jumped right on top of him and rained blows upon Carson’s neck and head. Each impact left a stinging mark that soon faded to numbness as the next one fell. Carson struggled, blocking more than half of the blows, but even through the pain of the blitzkrieg, he realized something. Peetey was fast, faster than him, but he wasn’t nearly as strong as expected. Had Carson, or most anyone, landed five or six full throttle punches to the face of an opponent, that person would be done for.
Fight your battle, not his.
Carson dropped his arms slightly, and Peetey clearly thought he was getting the better of his opponent, because the strikes came faster even though they were not as well-aimed. Finally, Peetey threw a left hand that glanced off Carson’s cheek and threw him off balance. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Carson raised his powerful arm up and used it as a lever, rolling Peetey off of him and down the sloping deck. Carson got to his feet before his opponent and advanced, reaching him just as Peetey stood.
“My turn, motherfucker,” Carson snarled before unloading a mammoth right hand directly onto the bridge of Peetey’s nose. His head snapped back and he seemed dazed, but he remained standing, so Carson grabbed his shirt at the shoulder and released another broadside. Now able to hold Peetey in position, his punches were on target despite the berserk gyrations of the ship. All of his pent-up frustration and anger at this asshole came out in a burst, and he pounded away until Peetey collapsed to the deck.
As he checked on his victim, he saw someone leap down the stairs leading to bridge wheelhouse and grab the briefcase, which had remained pinned in place. The man – someone Carson did not know – turned when he reached the open hatchway and held up his captured prize. “Peetey!” he screamed above the wind, clearly unable to imagine a scenario in which his comrade would lose this fight. “I got it! Let’s go!”
Carson stood up and, with adrenalin tearing through his system, lifted Peetey’s limp body by the neck and held it up so the feet dangled several inches above the deck. “This is Peetey!” he screamed. “Tell Chops he’s fucking next! And it’s gonna be worse for him!” He would have liked to see the man’s face close up, but settled for seeing him turn tail and scamper through the hatch like a rabbit who just saw a fox.
Tossing Peetey to the deck, he made his way up the stairs and got to the wheelhouse. He pulled the door, but the handle would not turn. He applied every ounce of strength he had left, but remained unsuccessful. He stuck his head against the spray-soaked window to see what was obstructing it.
Even in the dim light of the bridge, Carson could clearly see the bars of C4 explosive on the floor and the control panel. Part of his SEAL training had involved explosives, and he knew there was enough firepower in there that people would find parts of this boat from Long Island to the Virginia Capes if it went off. He raced around to the starboard side of the bridge, but that lock was just as stubbornly secured. He started wondering how he would be able to open the door when something else caught his eye.
A large pleasure boat, about 40 feet in length, was cutting through the enormous waves as it closed in on the starboard quarter of the Cape Henlopen. It made good progress through the tempest, riding up and over the waves. Carson could only assume it was an escape vehicle, one to get them away before the explosives in the wheelhouse (and who know where else) blew the boat to
