"Go!" Luke told Micki as he hoisted the fifty pound border collie into his arms.
Micki did as he asked and pushed away from the window. It was a good twelve foot drop, but luckily the area was strewn with palm fronds downed in the preceding night's storm, making the landing reasonably soft. She seemed unhurt, rolling away to make space for Luke as he leapt from the ledge.
He grunted as his feet hit the ground, the wet hard-packed sand beneath the greenery feeling like concrete. Luke released the dog and rolled with the momentum, but quickly grabbed Fizz's collar to drag him into the forest of support poles under the shanty. The area was clogged with branches, seaweed, and other detritus deposited by the storm. It seemed he had been right about it wreaking havoc on the tiny island.
A quick glance over his shoulder revealed his other hunch had also been right. As hoped, there was no guard left to keep an eye on the outside, so for the moment he and Micki were a lot safer under the shanty than out in the open running for cover.
Unfortunately, Micki hadn't realized that. With the aid of a pole, she clambered to her feet with his camera bag still on her shoulder, and took an anxious step toward the promising cover of the nearby palm trees.
Luke, knowing there was no way they would make those without being spotted and fired on, reacted instinctively. Letting go of the dog, he reached for his mistress instead. Grabbing her around the waist from behind, he lifted her off her feet and bodily hauled her back to him. An indignant comment tried to surface from Micki as he put her down, but died unspoken as he held her snugly against his chest. Under any other circumstances he would have been amazed by the way she stayed there without resistance, but right now there wasn't time to even acknowledge it.
Turning his full attention back to the goons pounding on the shanty door above, Luke listened. There was a loud smack of wood on wood as the door finally gave, and then the rush of booted feet on the floorboards overhead.
"They can't 'ave got far," said a gruff voice tempered with a distinct southern accent. It was loud and clear, as if its owner was looking out their escape window as he spoke. "Bulldog wants 'em found. You take the west side of the island, I'll take the east. We'll meet back 'ere in an hour. Got it?"
"Got it."
As at least two pairs of feet crossed the floorboards again, back toward the door, Luke released Micki from his embrace. He took his camera bag from her shoulder then, without a word, grasped her bandaged hand in his and led her out from under the fishing shanty at a run.
Micki ran for her life, following Luke and Fizz through the scrub, around and over the downed tree limbs and other debris from last night's storm. She knew where he was headed from instinct rather than recognition of the war torn area—to the jon boat. It was their only chance of escape, not that either of them was in any condition to row very far or very fast.
Even with two pairs of good hands, no humans could out row one of those speedboats, and Micki had a sinking feeling that their best option might be simply staying undercover and outfoxing the men chasing them. After all, whoever had dropped those goons off would eventually have to come back to collect them. Maybe then they could commandeer the speedboat? That was, of course, assuming they weren't both killed in the gun battle that would erupt first. Luke's Beretta was no match for two or three assault rifles.
She was hoping there was a less violent, less lethal, resolution when they broke cover onto the debris-ridden beach where they had left their boat tethered. Micki wasn't surprised at what they found, but Luke obviously was.
"Damn it!"
Micki leaned over and pulled hard for breath. Their one chance of escape had been washed away by the storm surge.
"Maybe," she said, forcing herself upright, "maybe there's another way off this island."
"I'm listening," he growled.
She looked at him and found his eyes had gone dark and unreadable. But before she could get a word out, there came the slow idling sound of another speedboat—or perhaps the same one that had dropped off the two men. A red-hulled bow was just nosing into their inlet, when Luke body-blocked her off her feet.
Grunting, Micki landed backwards in a patch of damp palm leaves with Luke directly on top of her. Nose to nose, they made eye contact an instant before Luke moved off her and called to Fizz. The dog came obediently, and Micki pulled him down in the bushes with them. From their hidden vantage, they watched a speedboat, with one person at the helm, idle into the inlet that yesterday had been their haven against this same predator.
Micki shot a sidelong look at Luke. "He didn't see us."
Eyes narrowed against the glare of the morning sun on the water, Luke cast a measured look at the boat pilot, and another one behind them, before he met her gaze. "Listen to me. There's only one way out of this and that's sheer
chutzpah
."
"What?"
Shrugging off his camera bag, he half-rose to a crouch and pulled the Beretta from the waistband of his jeans. "Stay here."
"Wait!" Micki frowned, her hand resting protectively on his bag. "Hunkering down in a bush until they find me doesn't sound like
chutzpah
to me."
Luke cast another quick glance over his shoulder. "Look, I don't have time to argue about it. I'll be back."
She was opening her mouth to object when Luke leaned forward and planted an impulsive kiss on her lips. He winked, and then was lost to the underbrush before she could comment.
Damn. He'd gone and left her again.
Absently touching her lips, Micki turned her attention back to the patrolling boat as the low, disconcerting rumble of the outboard motor roared once, then faded to silence. Great, now the guy was just going to sit out there in front of her. What luck.
Uncertain, she threw another glance in the direction Luke had gone, and recalled the gruff voice saying 'Bulldog wants 'em found.' There were two men looking for her on foot. Running away from the threat offshore may be running directly into another menace approaching from behind. Hugging Fizz to her, Micki tempered herself to deal with the danger she could see rather than the one she could not, and studied the drifting boat. What was the guy waiting for anyway?
She realized 'what' when he turned his back and began to urinate over the side. Despite her disgust, she waited patiently to see what would happen next.
Something big moved over her and blotted out the morning sun.
"So 'ere ya are, honey." The voice—the southern accent—was the same one she had heard from under the shanty.
Gasping in surprise, Micki spun to find an unshaven man, wearing a slouch hat and camouflage fatigues, standing over her and pointing his AK-47 right at her head.
Fizz erupted from her arms, all growls and teeth. With a vicious sweep, the man turned his gun on the dog, but the move was never completed.
Luke appeared from behind and brought something down hard on the back of the man's skull. The guy went down without a sound, and Micki realized that Luke had pistol-whipped him with the Beretta. Staring wide-eyed at the unconscious man at her feet, she also realized it was remarkably effective.
Dropping to a crouch, Luke's eyes focused on the guy in the offshore speedboat. Still busy relieving himself, he was unaware of the skirmish that had just taken out his cohort. Fizz nosed the man on the ground while Luke claimed his walkie-talkie and gun, then worked to take off the camouflage t-shirt and trousers. Unzipping his own jeans and pushing them down his hips, Luke sat to don the stolen camo pants.
Catching a glimpse of bare flank, Micki abruptly realized where Luke's black swim shorts weren't. Crouching even lower and flushed with embarrassment, she hissed, "What are you doing now?"
Luke gave her a grin as he zipped up the camo pants and exchanged his white dress shirt for the green and brown splashed tee. "This is no time to be bashful."
"So I can see."
"It's time for that
chutzpah
." Dressed in the other man's clothes, Luke raised the confiscated radio and spoke into it. "Got the girl. Pull on around to the east inlet to take 'er."
In the speedboat, Captain Crude hurriedly zipped up his pants and rushed to the helm to answer Luke's radio call. His voice came loud and clear through the set in Luke's hand.
"Roger, I'm there now. Where are you?"
Tugging on the slouch hat and pulling it low over his eyes, Luke stood up so he could be seen. He held the AK-47 up at arm's length and waved at the guy in the boat.
"Right, I see you. Hang on."
The outboard motor roared into life, propelling the speedboat toward the beach.
"Take the bag," Luke told Micki, gesturing her up with the business end of his stolen weapon. "Now put your hands on your head and walk out into the open, real slow." He smiled as she shouldered on the camera bag strap. "And leave the rest to me."
***
I trust him. Of course I trust him.
Hands on her head, Micki repeated the mantra as she took the first step out from cover and onto the beach. Fizz trotted close at her side. Luke had a plan. He hadn't seen fit to share it with her, but he did have a plan.
She hoped.
Her nerve nearly failed her as she watched Captain Crude, having beached the speedboat on the sand, jump over the side and start toward them. He was a pudgy little man with blond hair and pale blue eyes, armed with one of those wretched assault rifles and a vulgar grin that made her skin crawl.
Micki wanted to turn around to reassure herself that Luke was still there, but resisted the impulse. He was walking behind her to avoid being seen directly, and it would not do The Plan any good to call attention to the fact that he was not who he was supposed to be. Obviously not liking the looks of the approaching man any more than her, Fizz began a rumbling growl. He pressed close to her legs, slightly ahead of her to forestall her approach to the stranger.
"Git ahold 'a the damn dog." The voice that came from behind her was so eerily like the one they had heard while under the shanty that Micki felt the hair on the back of her neck lift. She stopped, letting the camera bag slip from her shoulder to the sand, as Luke spoke again in that southern accent he had so recently acquired. "Nice an' easy now, doll."
Moving around her so his back was to Captain Crude, Luke met Micki's eyes as her hand closed around Fizz's collar. They held each other's gaze as the footsteps in the sand behind grew nearer. Fizz's snarling increased and he tugged to be free.
"Has she got him?"
Micki's eyes flicked to the approaching man. He was uncertain of Fizz, and his gun was half to the ready.
"She's got 'im." Luke gave Micki an encouraging wink that contradicted the roughness of his tone. "Don't worry about the damn mutt. And don't go shootin' up the place, we don't want the other one knowin' where we is."
Confident of the situation, Captain Crude stopped just three feet from Luke's back and eyed Micki with a lewd expression. "Well, well. So you're the skirt who's caused me all this trouble."
Luke mouthed a command at her.
'Let Fizz go.'
Struggling to keep acknowledgement from her expression, Micki released her dog. Fizz bounded forward to plant his feet in the sand and bark with his teeth showing. Startled, the fat little man fell back a step and brought his gun to bear, but Luke took advantage of the distraction and spun to knock it aside. With his quick movement went his hat, and his disguise.
The guy's AK-47 landed in the sand several yards away, but the same attack that had given Luke his opening now hampered him. He tripped over Fizz and the slight hesitation needed to regain his balance gave the other man time to recover from his surprise. Diving forward, Captain Crude took Luke to the ground where they wrestled for possession of the remaining gun. Snarling, Fizz joined in the fray, diving in and around the pair, worrying at their would-be captor. Micki hastily backed away.
Now what? If this was Luke's plan, then it didn't seem to be working very well. She needed to do something to help him.
Sprinting to the discarded weapon, she grabbed it up and turned to the melee in the sand, but it was impossible to get a clear shot with the two men rolling, punching, and cursing.
Micki faltered. What if she hit Luke? Or Fizz? That was never supposed to be part of the deal!
Luke took a ham-fisted punch to the jaw and was momentarily stunned.
She saw her chance. "Okay, hold it!"
Her shout had no effect. Calling Fizz was also useless. Captain Crude drove his boot into Luke's ribs with a viciousness that made her wince. Rocked by the blow, Luke recoiled with a groan but still managed to maintain possession of his gun. The chubby man took the opportunity to scramble to his feet and, much to Micki's surprise, warily backed away. Fizz retreated to defend her, barking furiously.
Luke groaned again and struggled to sit up as the little man turned toward his speedboat and fled. Micki stepped forward, knowing she couldn't just let the creep get away, not if it meant he'd leave them for his other, tougher cronies to collect at their leisure.