Dead of Night by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online

beneath the console, pressed the squawk button, declared that this was an emergency transmission, and did any law enforcement agency copy? Within a few seconds, a woman’s voice came back, saying, “This is Port Canaveral Coast Guard. What’s your emergency?”
    I told the woman I’d interrupted two people assaulting a man on Night’s Landing, Lake Toho, and that they were now escaping by boat. I gave her Jobe’s name, his address, and told her that he needed medical attention. I was careful not to use police jargon such as “perpetrators” and “victim.” It’s something solid citizens don’t do, so the usage makes law enforcement types suspicious.
    We were inside the ski area now. With my peripheral vision, I’d already seen a couple of plastic, pumpkin-sized buoys flash by. Hit one of the ropes or chains that were attached, and the Russians were in for one hell of a jolt. The same was true for me.
    Holding the radio to my ear, I listened to the lady Coasty say, “Our duty officer strongly recommends that you break off pursuit. I say again, end your pursuit. We are notifying the Bartram County Sheriff’s Department. Let them handle it. We can’t allow you to put yourself in personal danger.”
    I pushed the transmit button. “Recommendation noted. No danger, no plans to confront. I’m just following. And they don’t seem to be carrying any—”
    I was about to say “weapons” when I was interrupted by a loud th-WHACK, and the hull of my skiff jolted as if someone had just slammed it with a sledgehammer. For a confusing moment, I thought I’d hit one of the ski buoys. But then the hull shuddered again— th-WHACK— and I knew that I was taking fire. Someone in the bass boat was shooting.
    I told the lady, “Out for now,” and dropped the radio as I turned the boat sharply to the right, then back to the left, then to starboard again, making myself a more difficult target.
    I’m not a fool, nor am I particularly brave. When someone is shooting, and you can’t return fire, the wise course is to run. That’s exactly what I was trying to do. I was scrambling like hell on an arc that would turn me in the opposite direction. The Coast Guard was right: Let law enforcement handle it.
    So I was squatting low in my swivel seat, head ducked, eyes barely above the steering wheel, making my zigzag return to Night’s Landing, when I again heard the piercing sound of lead hitting fiberglass and felt the skiff jolt. Simultaneously, I felt a burning sensation on my right ear.
    I touched the side of my head. Felt something warm, slick. More blood. My nose was still swelling and leaking after my collision with the wall . . .
    Bastards.
    They had no reason to continue firing. I’d broken off pursuit, yet they were still plinking away. Their behavior wasn’t just violent; it was senseless. And vicious.
    It scared me. They scared me.
    Throwing the wheel to port, then starboard, I continued to run. A moment later, though, I felt a sudden percussion of air above my head; a shock wave vacuum that I associate with a bullet passing close to the auditory canal. They were still firing at me.
    That did it. The combination of fear and anger—the two are often associated—did something to me, caused an emotional overload felt as a physical chill; a sensation not unlike being dosed with a shot of liquid hydrogen. Cold fury—maybe the term comes from that.
    Furious. I certainly was. So mad I behaved irrationally. I turned my skiff toward the white hedge of wake created by the bass boat, then slammed the throttle forward.
    Or maybe it was a credible reaction. A military maxim came into my mind: When defeat is certain, the only practical course is to charge the bastards and attack with all assets.
    Reasonable or not, I took the offensive. If I was going to die by their hand, I wasn’t going to die running.
    I backed the throttle slightly when my skiff began to push sixty-five; then slowed again when I saw the first ski buoy