Carson started heading towards the light as fast as he could. Grabbing railings and other solid points for all he was worth, he moved quickly. He passed one of the two power launches which were normally used if someone went overboard and briefly considered making use of it for his own escape, but someone else had already thought of that. There was a large, jagged hole in the hull of the launch.
No matter. He let go of the deck rail, crawling to the middle of the ship and dropping to his knees in front of what looked like a bench. He flipped open the two latches and pulled the lid up, finding a bevy of emergency supplies. It took him only one second to find the item he wanted, which he grabbed before staggering to the rail directly above where the hand flare was now beginning to dim. He stuck his head over the side, being sure he had a firm grip on the railing.
The smaller boat was only a few yards away from the ferry. It looked like a Viking, one of the better rough-weather boats out there, and there were three men on the open stern deck, which was lit up by several floodlights. One man held the briefcase while the other two clung to the end of a rope ladder, the rest of which was in a pile on the deck. The angle of the ladder as it ran over the port rail to the ferry varied from nearly-horizontal to a nearly-vertical as the smaller boat climbed up and down the incoming waves much faster than the ferry. The man currently climbing down the ladder moved very deliberately, confirming he had good hand- and footholds each time despite the shouts from both boats encouraging him to move his ass. When he neared the bottom, Carson timed the waves and leaned out to see that only Chops remained on the ferry. Perfect.
“Hey, Chops!” he screamed to be heard over the wind and the surf.
His face was soaked with salt spray when he looked up in the direction of the voice. “What the – Navy?”
“How ya doin’, Chops?”
“I’ll be better in a few minutes when I’m counting my money below decks and you’re at the bottom of the bay, you dumb son of a bitch!” He swung a leg over the railing and worked to get it firmly in place on the ladder.
“Well, that might not be as easy as you think,” he yelled. He cupped his hands so the man on the boat could hear him. “The briefcase! Two! Seven! Six! Three! Open it!” The man looked up, first at Carson, then at Chops, who yelled back, “Do it!”
He set the briefcase down at the lowest part of the deck and started working the numeric lock. It took him several tries, during which Chops got about halfway down the ladder. Finally, using his body to block the wind, he opened the top, pausing for a second before plunging his hands into the case and digging wildly.
“There’s no money, Chops! Just a lot of fucking paper!” He held up two handfuls of the white coupons that had fallen on Carson’s foot in the snack bar, letting them flutter away in the wind. “See?!”
Chops, his feet a couple of rungs above the railing of the Viking, looked up at Carson with a rage threatening to surpass the power of the violent storm and sea. “You bastard!” He let go of the rope with his right hand and slid it towards his waist, ostensibly for his gun. The way the ladder twisted to one side made him think better of that move. He immediately grabbed hold once again.
“Hang on, Chops,” Carson yelled patronizingly as he held up his backpack and smiled. “Wouldn’t want you to fall!” Putting the straps over his arms once again, he reached into his own pocket for the Very flare pistol he’d retrieved from the emergency box a few short minutes ago. He rose to a crouch so he could maintain his balance while pointing the flare gun right at Chops, who glared at him.
The one with the briefcase dug through the useless coupons, while the other two on the deck struggled to hold the ladder. Their loyalty to their boss was commendable, but each wave threatened to rip it free from their grasp, so they were forced to hold it with both hands. If they had guns, they weren’t able to use them.
Carson’s voice was loud, but it didn’t sound to him like he was yelling. “I told you I was coming after you, Chops! You didn’t listen, so now you’re fucked! Goodbye, you son of a bitch!” He pulled the trigger.
The projectile, glowing with a violent pink flame, impacted the deck of the escape boat at the very stern, spraying flammable material in all directions. It hit the back of both men holding the ladder, pitching them forward, clearly in agony as flames spread over their rain gear. They released their hold on the ladder as the ships surged down into a wave trough, allowing it to smash into the hull of the ferry with a force Carson felt two decks up. As it swung back away, Chops lost his hold and fell backwards into the tempestuous bay.
A second later one of the bits of burning ejecta reached either the fuel lines or the tanks themselves, resulting in a powerful explosion that engulfed the entire stern of the Viking. Carson rolled back and away, feeling the heat from the fireball, but the wind blew most of it away from him and he suffered no harm. By the time he got back to the rail, only the bow of the boat was visible as
