"Does this mean you're going to take our toys away from us?"
Marshal didn't smile. "I'm afraid you've overlooked one very important element."
I hadn't, of course. I just didn't want to think about it.
"You realize, of course, that you and your friends will have to be disposed of."
My fingers had been wrapped around the handle of the Mauser throughout the exchange, and the trigger finger had already inched its way into position. Under the loose-fitting slicker I was able to work the barrel around until it was pointed right at my old nemesis. It only seemed sporting to inform him of my slight advantage. If he was going to get a bullet in his flabby little belly, I wanted him to have a moment or two to savor the fact that "old Elliott," as he kept referring to me, was going to be one up on him.
"Marshal," I whispered, "I see what your boys over there are packing and I know they can raise all kinds of hell with those things, but I think you ought to know that there's a Mauser not twelve inches from your chubby little tummy. The trigger's cocked, and believe me, it'll go off at the slightest provocation. Now that's something I want you to think about. Even if they do start shooting up the place, at this range I can't miss. What good does it to do you if your boys gun us down, but I take you with us?"
Schuster's eyes widened, but other than that, he didn't flinch. He had been playing in the big leagues for a while.
The rest of the folks assembled on the deck of the Sloe Gin seemed to have a grasp on the situation as well. It was a stand-off and a case of who was going to blink first.
When it happened, it happened so fast that there was barely time to record the sequence of events.
I was still looking at Marshal, and Hannah was taking a step to the right.
A bolt of orange erupted from under Maggie's slicker. The slug tore into the fleshy part of my upper arm.
My hand recoiled.
The Mauser clattered to the deck, slid sideways and slipped off the deck into the swirling waters.
Hannah screamed.
I staggered backward and slumped to the deck.
I could see a jet of crimson pumping out of the hole in my ravaged slicker.
Marshal Schuster was smiling.
So was Maggie.
After that it all happened pretty fast. Three of Marshal's goons boarded the Sloe Gin and went about the business of setting the stage. The cylinders were removed. Huntington protested and caught the barrel of an automatic across his mouth for his trouble. Maggie helped Marshal tie up Hannah, Sargent and Huntington, while I was left on the deck with a shattered arm and a profusion of blood to contend with.
They made short work of the Sloe Gin the diesels, the radio and anything else that might have offered a ray of hope. All of this was followed with what sounded like a small, controlled explosion. I felt the Sloe Gin rock back and forth, then settle again in the water.
Schuster, convinced that he had been quite thorough about his effort, walked over and stared down at me.
"You'll be glad to know that my man, Lawrence, is quite ingenious at this sort of thing. Frankly, Elliott, I've been in somewhat of a quandary trying to figure out how to get you out of my hair once and for all. Obviously the matter is befitting a certain amount of flair, what with your limited reputation as an author and all. I also feel a certain obligation to be able to assure my associates that your untimely demise wouldn't end up actually stimulating still more traffic to our little corporate paradise. To that end we have blown a little hole in the hull of what you laughingly call a serviceable craft. When the water gets to a certain level, it will trigger a second device which will, in turn, blow you all to kingdom come. That's rather a nice touch, don't you think, Elliott?"
He paused long enough to light a cigarette, cupped his elbow in his other hand and smiled. He was enjoying himself immensely. "You are really in over your head, Elliott. Perhaps you should try some other line of work." The smile exploded into a full-blown ugly laugh, and he looked around to see if Maggie or any of his goons were enjoying it at much as he was. They weren't. All but one of them had already abandoned the Sloe Gin and were headed back to their own boat.
Schuster followed.
Any kid who grew up spending his Saturday afternoons watching Nyoka, Queen of the Jungle, or Captain America get out of one harrowing predicament after another isn't going to be intimidated by a small thing like a bullet-shattered arm and a sinking ship in shark-infested waters.
The truth of the matter was that I was terrified, but I knew we were lost for sure if I didn't keep my cool. I waited until I heard Marshal's machine cough to life and crawled over to the railing. He wasn't waiting around to see if the Sloe Gin did her swan song. Within a matter of minutes, he and his motley crew weren't much more than a speck in the distance. From that vantage point I crawled into the wheelhouse and with my one good hand worked the ropes loose on Hannah. She took it from there. While she untied Sargent and Huntington, I was barking out orders.
The whole process ended up taking a hell of a lot longer than I anticipated, and when the Sloe Gin let out a moan and rolled ten degrees to her rapidly flooding and wounded port, I intensified the effort. The second blast could come at any second.
Sargent's priority was the PC-13A. "Get back there and cut her loose. I don't want this old tub to drag it down with her."
Despite his impressive bulk, Sargent was equal to the task, moving like a gazelle.
By now, Hannah was on her feet, sputtering.
"Do what you can to help him. That's the only thing that stands between us and a bathtub full of sharks.''
The lady didn't hesitate. She could move every bit as fast as Sargent.
Only Huntington was slow to react. He was still floundering around on his knees when I jerked him the rest of the way to his feet. "Start grabbing anything that might prove useful. The way this old tub is taking on water, we haven't got long before she goes down."
By the time I got to the stern, Hannah had shimmied over the side and crawled aboard the submersible. The hatch was already open and she had started the auxiliary engine. Sarge was holding on to the 14-footer with brute force, one leg braced against the gunnel, the other locked around the steel support for the hoist.
"Huntington," I shouted, "get your skinny ass back here."
The little man came running, stumbling every other step. He was loaded down with an assortment of odds and ends that I wasn't about to take time to inventory.
Hannah's arm emerged from the bowels of the PC-13A and then her head. "We've only got room for two!" she screamed.
The Sloe Gin was creaking and moaning. I could hear things breaking; she was starting to come apart. The rain was pelting me in the face, but I could still see the distant outline of the big island. I was barking orders in both directions. "Huntington, damn it, get in. Hannah, take him to shore. Then get back here and get Sargent."
The little man from the cryonics academy hesitated just long enough to make my fantasy come true. Bad arm and all, I grabbed him by the seat of the pants and heaved. He hit the water not more than six feet from the submersible, and his collection went flying. Hannah was up to it. She hauled him aboard even before he got his second mouthful of water. Within a matter of seconds, the craft had spun in the water and was barreling for Big Doobacque.
I turned around just in time to hear the sickening sound of the Sloe Gin ripping herself apart. The winch snapped. The bolts ripped out of the decking, and the boom thundered to the deck, pinning Sargent under it. The scream was abated almost before it started, his mouth frozen by the kind of terrible blow that stops life in mid-breath. He was staring back at me, but I knew he wasn't seeing me.