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Message
Some bits and pieces from my un-named project
Posted on 6/28/26 at 4:47 pm
Posted on 6/28/26 at 4:47 pm
I shared some things in a different post but I will occasionally add more here. I'll quote the writing for ease.
This is still the first draft so I have edits coming, but tell me what you think.
This scene is about 150 pages in.
This is still the first draft so I have edits coming, but tell me what you think.
This scene is about 150 pages in.
quote:
The warehouse groaned around them like a sinking ship. Rain continued pouring through shattered skylights and holes ripped into the roof by collapsing machinery. Dust floated through shafts of lightning while distant police sirens echoed closer through the streets of Cartagena.
Mercer stood motionless for one long second, breathing hard, blood dripping from his nose and shoulder wound onto the flooded concrete floor. The smoker was gone. But not far. Men like that never retreated blindly. He would already be repositioning assets. Watching exits. Coordinating containment.
Rourke seemed to reach the same conclusion at exactly the same moment. “We need to leave now.”
Mercer nodded once. “No main streets.”
“Obviously.”
Another siren wailed somewhere closer. Outside the warehouse, voices echoed faintly through the storm. Spanish. Police. More than one vehicle. Mercer moved immediately toward the rear of the warehouse while reloading his pistol from muscle memory. His shoulder screamed with every movement now. Blood had soaked part of his sleeve dark black beneath the rainwater.
Rourke noticed. “You hit bad?”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“That sounds medically concerning. Like your arm is off.”
Mercer snorted at the Monty Python joke and quickly ignored it, shoving open a warped side door near the rear loading area. Rain exploded inward instantly. The alley behind the warehouse was narrow and half-flooded, choked with overflowing dumpsters, hanging electrical wires, and rivers of muddy runoff cascading downhill toward the harbor. Thunder rolled overhead while lightning flashed white across old colonial rooftops.
Mercer stepped out first and scanned both directions carefully. No immediate movement. But that meant nothing.
The smoker’s people would already be spreading through the district, closing avenues toward the docks. Los Hijos del Tridente would likely do the same once their dead men stopped answering radios. And the police would lock down the neighborhood within minutes.
Three separate hunting groups. All hostile.
Rourke looked down the alley toward the distant glow of harbor lights. “Tell me Baptiste kept the engines warm.”
“He did.”
“You sound very confident.”
“He’s paranoid.”
“Fair.”
They moved quickly through the rain. The alley twisted between ancient stone buildings leaning inward overhead. Water streamed down cracked walls stained black by centuries of humidity and salt. Somewhere nearby, terrified voices echoed through open windows as news of gunfire spread block by block through the old city.
Mercer slowed abruptly at the alley mouth. A police SUV rolled slowly across the intersection ahead beneath flashing blue lights. Two officers stepped out into the rain with rifles.
“Back,” Mercer whispered.
Both men withdrew deeper into shadow just as a police radio crackled loudly through the storm. “…múltiples muertos… armas automáticas…”
Rourke quietly translated. “Multiple dead. Automatic weapons.”
The entire district would flood with responders now.
Mercer studied the map in his head. The old city sat like a maze between them and the commercial docks where the Black Reef waited. Colonial walls. Narrow corridors. Tourist plazas. Markets. Too many choke points. And somewhere out there the smoker would already be predicting their route.
“Not through the center,” Mercer said quietly.
“So, what’s the play?”
Mercer looked toward the dark line of the sea beyond the rooftops. “We move south along the outer wall. Stay ahead of police containment.”
“And the Germans?”
Mercer checked the shadows again. “They’ll assume we head straight for the harbor.”
Rourke frowned slightly. “Which we are.”
“Eventually.”
Lightning cracked overhead. They moved again. The rain intensified into a tropical downpour so heavy it blurred visibility beyond thirty yards. Streets became rivers beneath their boots while thunder shook the old stone city around them.
Twice Mercer spotted police vehicles crossing nearby intersections. Once he saw cartel lookouts. Young men standing beneath awnings pretending to smoke while scanning the streets too carefully. One wore the silver trident pendant openly around his neck. Los Hijos del Tridente had mobilized fast.
Mercer pulled Rourke sideways into a narrow doorway before the lookout could glance their direction. The cartel scout spoke quietly into a phone beneath the rain.
Rourke leaned close. “You think they’re working with the Germans?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Mercer watched the lookout disappear into the storm.
“Professionals like the smoker don’t share information with street gangs.”
“Then why are both groups after us?”
Mercer’s expression hardened slightly. “Because they think we found something they both want.”
Thunder rolled again. They continued moving through twisting backstreets where rainwater cascaded down ancient staircases and flooded courtyards hidden behind crumbling churches. Cartagena at night felt transformed now. Beautiful earlier. Deadly now. Every shadow looked occupied. Every parked vehicle suspicious.
Mercer slowed near a small plaza crowded with abandoned café tables whipping in the wind. The open space bothered him instantly. Too exposed.
“Wait.”
Rourke froze beside him. Mercer studied reflections in rainwater pooled across the stone. Movement. Opposite arcade. Two men beneath the colonnade pretending to shelter from the storm. Both watching the approaches. One touched his ear briefly. Comms. The Germans.
Mercer backed slowly into cover before they were spotted.
Rourke whispered, “Please tell me that’s not our welcoming committee.”
Mercer glanced around quickly. “They’re screening movement toward the waterfront.”
“So, we improvise?”
“We improvise.”
A church bell rang somewhere through the rain. Mercer’s eyes tracked upward toward interconnected colonial rooftops above the narrow street.
Rourke followed his gaze and sighed immediately. “No.”
“Fastest route.”
“You were definitely the kid who got other children arrested.”
Mercer holstered his pistol and climbed onto a rain barrel beside the wall. “Move.”
Rourke muttered profanity under his breath but followed. The climb became immediately miserable. The old city rooftops were slick with rain and covered in moss-coated tile dangerously unstable beneath their weight. Wind lashed across the elevated spaces while lightning illuminated church domes and bell towers across Cartagena in brief ghostly flashes.
Below them, police lights painted the streets blue and red through the rain. Mercer crawled carefully across a slanted rooftop while blood continued dripping from his wounded shoulder onto the tiles.
Rourke noticed again. “You are leaking all over a UNESCO heritage site.”
“Helpful observation.”
“You need stitches.”
“I need a boat.”
They crossed above a narrow street just as vehicles screeched to a halt below. German voices. Mercer flattened instantly against the roofline. Two black SUVs stopped beneath them. Men emerged quickly into the rain carrying compact rifles beneath jackets. Not local police. Not cartel. The smoker’s people.
One of the Germans pointed toward the waterfront while speaking urgently into a radio. Rourke watched silently until the vehicles moved again through the storm.
Then he exhaled softly. “They’re locking the harbor down.”
Mercer nodded. “Which means the smoker thinks we already escaped the warehouse district.”
“You think he’s wrong?”
Mercer looked toward the distant docks. “No.”
This post was edited on 6/29/26 at 9:14 pm
Posted on 6/28/26 at 4:54 pm to LSUAlum2001
quote:
They continued rooftop-to-rooftop through the storm. At one point they crossed through a ruined convent courtyard where vines crawled across ancient stone walls and rain hammered through broken ceilings into waist-deep pools of water below.
At another they descended briefly into a crowded market corridor where frightened vendors hurriedly closed metal shutters while police sirens wailed nearby.
Mercer kept them moving constantly. Never stopping longer than seconds. Never retracing routes. Twice he altered direction abruptly after spotting surveillance too professional to belong to ordinary police. The smoker was herding them. Trying to compress movement toward predictable escape routes. Which meant the harbor itself was likely compromised already.
Rourke seemed to realize it too. “What if Baptiste already has company?”
Mercer didn’t answer immediately. Because he had been thinking exactly the same thing. The Black Reef sat isolated at the commercial docks beyond the old city. Easy to watch. Easy to trap.
Lightning flashed again overhead. Mercer suddenly stopped beneath the overhang of an abandoned storefront. Something felt wrong. Not instinct. Pattern. The streets ahead looked too empty. No police. No civilians. No cartel lookouts. Nothing.
Rourke saw Mercer’s expression change. “What?”
Mercer slowly backed away from the intersection. “Ambush zone.”
Almost instantly headlights appeared through the rain. A black SUV rolled silently into view from the far street and stopped across the intersection. Another blocked the opposite end. Doors opened. German operators emerged carrying suppressed weapons.
Rourke sighed tiredly. “These people are incredibly persistent.”
The smoker stepped from the rear vehicle beneath a black umbrella held by another man. Rain pounded the street around him while lightning flashed overhead. Even at a distance the man looked calm. Controlled. Untouched by the chaos surrounding him.
His pale eyes settled directly on Mercer. Then the smoker nodded slightly. Like greeting a respected opponent.
Rourke whispered, “I officially hate this guy.”
The Germans spread outward tactically. Containment.
Mercer scanned instantly. No clean exits. Too narrow. Too exposed.
Then he spotted the drainage channel beside the flooded street. Old colonial runoff tunnels. Probably connected to the harbor.
Mercer grabbed Rourke’s sleeve hard. “Down.”
Before Rourke could ask, Mercer fired three rapid shots toward the SUVs. The Germans reacted instantly. Suppressors cracked through the storm. Rounds shattered storefronts around them. Mercer and Rourke dove into the drainage channel just as automatic fire ripped across the intersection overhead.
The tunnel swallowed them into darkness and rushing water. Filthy floodwater slammed Mercer into stone hard enough to nearly tear open his wounded shoulder again. The current dragged both men through the narrow tunnel beneath Cartagena while gunfire echoed faintly above through storm drains.
Rourke surfaced beside him sputtering violently. “Oh, this is sewage! This is absolutely sewage!”
Mercer fought the current while gripping slick stone walls. “Keep moving!”
The tunnel angled downward beneath the city. Pitch black except for occasional flashes of lightning filtering through iron grates overhead. Water surged around them carrying trash, branches, oil, and debris toward the harbor. Behind them, voices echoed faintly.
The Germans had entered the drains. Of course they had. Mercer pushed forward through waist-deep rushing water while pain burned hotter through his shoulder with every movement.
The tunnel split ahead. Mercer chose left instinctively.
“Why left?” Rourke demanded.
“Sea smell.”
“That’s your system?!”
Another flashlight beam appeared behind them in the darkness. Gunfire erupted instantly. Suppressed rounds sparked off wet stone around them. Mercer fired backward blindly while both men rounded another corner deeper into the tunnels. The storm above intensified.
Water levels rose visibly around their legs. The tunnel finally opened into a larger storm chamber beneath the harbor district. Ancient brick arches towered overhead dripping with runoff. Massive pipes thundered with rushing water beneath the city. And directly ahead, moonlight. The sea.
Mercer moved faster. They emerged through a rusted drainage outlet beneath the colonial seawall into the harbor itself. Rain hammered the black Caribbean night.
Cargo ships loomed through the storm like steel mountains while lightning flashed across cranes and container stacks lining the docks.
The Black Reef sat nearly half a mile north along the commercial piers, its dark hull barely visible through curtains of rain and shifting harbor mist. Tower cranes loomed above the docks like mechanical giants while lightning flashed across stacked shipping containers and slick concrete wharves.
Police vehicles crowded the access roads leading toward the pier. Blue emergency lights strobed through the storm, reflecting off standing water and wet steel. Officers moved between barricades near the customs gate, rifles slung low while patrol boats drifted slowly near the harbor mouth.
But Mercer’s attention fixed on the two black German SUVs parked farther back beneath the floodlights near an abandoned cargo warehouse. Waiting. Watching. Not yet moving toward the ship.
Rourke followed Mercer’s gaze and exhaled quietly. “Well.”
Mercer studied the dockside carefully through the rain. The Germans had positioned themselves with clear sightlines toward the Black Reef, but they hadn’t boarded her. Not yet. Which meant something important.
The smoker didn’t want a noisy seizure of the vessel in front of Colombian authorities. He was waiting for Mercer and Rourke to make the first move. Waiting for confirmation. Patience instead of force. Predator behavior.
“They’re watching the ship,” Mercer said quietly. “Not taking it.”
Rourke wiped filthy runoff water from his face and stared toward the harbor. “That somehow makes me feel worse.”
Because it meant the smoker understood them. The Black Reef was still operational. Still an escape route. Which meant Mercer and Rourke would eventually be forced toward it whether they liked it or not.
The smoker knew that. So, he waited.
Lightning split the sky again. For an instant the harbor became stark white and silver beneath the storm. Mercer caught sight of a lone figure standing motionless beneath the dock floodlights near the pier entrance. Tall. Hands in pockets. Dark coat rippling in the wind. The smoker.
Even at this distance, the man radiated stillness. No urgency. No fear they might escape. Just cold certainty.
Rourke saw him too. “Please tell me that’s not him standing out there like some kind of Bond villain.”
Mercer said nothing. The smoker remained near the pier entrance, watching the harbor through the rain like a man waiting beside a trap he already knew would close eventually. Then darkness swallowed him again as the lightning faded.
Behind Mercer and Rourke, deeper inside the drainage tunnels, flashlight beams suddenly appeared against the wet brick walls. Voices echoed faintly through the storm drains. The Germans were still tracking them.
Rourke glanced back once, then toward the Black Reef again. “I’m officially out of good ideas.”
Mercer looked south instead. Toward the fishing district. The crowded waterfront beyond the commercial port glowed beneath scattered sodium lights and battered neon signs. Hundreds of small fishing boats rocked violently in the storm beside fuel docks, seafood warehouses, and narrow floating piers crammed together in chaotic rows.
This post was edited on 6/28/26 at 5:33 pm
Posted on 6/28/26 at 5:03 pm to LSUAlum2001
quote:
Civilian traffic. Crowds. Noise. Confusion. A place surveillance became harder. A place they could disappear temporarily.
Mercer nodded once toward the southern harbor. “We don’t go to the Black Reef.”
Rourke blinked. “That sounds like a major issue considering it’s our boat.”
“Not yet, we use something smaller first.”
“You mean steal something smaller.”
Mercer looked at him. “Borrow aggressively.”
Rourke sighed heavily. “I miss treasure hunting.”
Another flashlight beam swept across the tunnel behind them. Closer now. Mercer turned toward the fishing district as thunder rolled across Cartagena Harbor.
“Time to move.”
Mercer and Rourke slipped away from the drainage outlet into the shadows beneath the colonial seawall while flashlight beams flickered behind them inside the tunnels. The Germans were close.
Mercer crouched beside a cluster of slime-covered rocks and scanned the waterfront south of the commercial piers. The fishing district spread along the harbor like a different world entirely from the container terminals and customs docks to the north. Rust-streaked trawlers rocked violently beside crowded wooden piers while neon bar signs glowed weakly through rain and diesel haze. Floodlights swung across stacks of crab traps, nets, fuel drums, and ice containers.
Noise. Movement. Chaos. Perfect.
Rourke wrung filthy storm water from his shirt and grimaced. “You realize we smell like an infected sewer line.”
Mercer checked the streets above them. “No one’s getting close enough to complain.”
Another flashlight beam flickered inside the drainage tunnel behind them. Voices echoed faintly through the rushing water. German.
Mercer moved immediately. They climbed the slick rocks beneath the seawall and crossed a narrow service road bordering the fishing docks. Trucks rattled past hauling crates of snapper and tuna through the storm while exhausted deckhands shouted in Spanish over the rain and diesel engines.
Nobody paid attention to two soaked men moving through darkness. Exactly what Mercer wanted. The fishing district felt alive despite the hour. Open-air seafood markets still operated beneath corrugated steel roofs while old men in rubber aprons gutted fish beneath hanging bulbs. Radios played salsa music somewhere through the storm. Diesel smoke mixed with salt air, sewage runoff, blood, and frying oil.
Mercer slowed near a bait warehouse. A small patrol of Colombian police rolled slowly along the waterfront road fifty yards away.
Rourke saw them too. “We really are popular tonight.”
Mercer’s eyes tracked farther beyond the police cruiser. Two men standing beneath a yellow awning. Watching. One held an umbrella. The other smoked calmly despite the rain. German surveillance again.
The smoker’s people were spreading outward through the harbor exactly as Mercer expected. Quiet observation points. Chokepoints. Harbor exits. Not looking for a firefight anymore. Looking for movement.
Mercer pulled him behind stacked crab cages before the watchers could spot them. “We need comms.”
“With who?”
“Baptiste.”
Rourke frowned immediately. “Phone?”
“Too risky.”
“The Germans could intercept it?”
Mercer nodded once. “Or trace it.”
The Black Reef almost certainly maintained marine-band radio watch while docked. Baptiste would be monitoring everything happening around the harbor already. Which meant they needed a secure way to signal him without exposing themselves or the ship.
Rourke leaned against the crab cages while rain dripped from his hair. “Please tell me you have some incredibly clever ex-intelligence trick ready.”
Mercer stared toward the fishing docks. “No.”
“That’s less comforting than I hoped.”
Then Mercer spotted it. A rusted harbor service shack near the fuel pier. Half abandoned. A faded antenna mounted above the roof. Marine radio. Maybe.
Mercer nodded toward it. “There.”
The shack sat isolated near the edge of the fishing district beside a row of tied-off shrimp boats rocking violently against their lines. Floodlights flickered overhead while waves slammed against the pier supports below. Too exposed. But necessary.
Mercer checked the street again. The German watchers remained beneath the awning farther north, scanning traffic toward the commercial piers. They hadn’t seen them yet.
“Fast,” Mercer said.
They crossed the open dock at a crouch through driving rain. Wooden planks groaned beneath their boots while harbor water surged below. Fishing nets snapped violently in the wind overhead.
Mercer reached the shack first and tested the door. Locked. Rourke produced the combat knife taken from the warehouse and jammed it into the rusted latch.
“One day,” he muttered while prying it open, “I’d like to visit a city without committing multiple felonies.”
The latch snapped. They slipped inside. The shack smelled of mildew, cigarettes, and old coffee. Dim emergency lights glowed weakly over cluttered shelves filled with harbor manifests, rusted tools, and tangled electrical cables. Rain hammered the tin roof overhead.
Mercer moved directly toward the radio console against the far wall. Old marine-band setup. Still powered.
Rourke shut the door carefully behind them and peeked through the rain-streaked window. “We’ve maybe got five minutes before somebody notices.”
Mercer adjusted frequencies quickly. Static filled the room. Fishing chatter. Spanish profanity.
Weather alerts. Then a familiar voice crackled faintly through the noise.
“…Black Reef harbor watch standing by…”
Baptiste.
Mercer grabbed the microphone instinctively. Then stopped. Too dangerous.
Voice confirmation would expose them immediately if anyone monitored local frequencies. Instead, Mercer slowly set the microphone back down.
Rourke saw the realization immediately. “Right. No talking.”
Mercer nodded. He switched the set to low-power transmission and adjusted gain manually. Then he tapped the microphone button rapidly. Click. Click-click. Pause. Click-click-click.
Rourke stared blankly. “Are we seriously doing morse code right now?”
Mercer ignored him and continued the sequence. Short bursts. Precise spacing. Military emergency signaling patterns. On the other end, static continued for several seconds.
Then the Black Reef answered. Two short clicks. Pause. One long. Baptiste.
Rourke blinked slowly. “I hate that this actually worked.”
Mercer allowed himself the faintest smile.
Baptiste had spent decades at sea. Old sailors trusted methods harder to intercept electronically.
Mercer keyed the mic again carefully. Dock compromised. Germans watching. Need pickup away from pier. Pause.
Posted on 6/28/26 at 5:11 pm to LSUAlum2001
quote:
Static hissed through the speaker while rain battered the shack.
Then Baptiste responded in clicks. Understood. Delay. South channel. Thirty minutes.
Rourke leaned close. “South channel?”
“Fuel inlet beyond the fishing fleet.”
“Can he get the Black Reef in there?”
“Barely.”
Another transmission clicked through the radio. Not alone.
Mercer’s expression hardened immediately. “What?”
Mercer listened carefully as Baptiste sent another burst. Possible surveillance aboard nearby tug. Watching docks. The smoker again. Always ahead.
Mercer grabbed the mic. Avoid lights. No radio after this.
A final double-click answered. Then silence.
Mercer shut off the radio instantly.
Rourke exhaled slowly. “Okay. So now we steal a boat?”
Mercer nodded. “Small enough to disappear.”
“And preferably one that doesn’t sink.”
Outside, thunder rolled heavily across the harbor. Mercer cracked the shack door slightly and scanned the docks again. The German observers farther north had moved. One now walked slowly along the waterfront toward the fishing district. Searching.
Mercer stepped back inside. “We’re out of time.”
They moved deeper into the fishing piers. The docks became narrower and more crowded the farther south they traveled. Hundreds of small boats packed together in floating rows beneath swaying floodlights and snapping tarps. Men shouted over diesel engines while forklifts moved ice crates through standing water.
Mercer searched quickly for the right vessel. Not too large. Not too slow.
Fast enough to maneuver through the harbor without attracting attention. Then he spotted it.
A small Colombian lobster boat tied beside a fuel dock. Fiberglass hull. Twin outboards. No crew visible.
Rourke followed his gaze. “That one?”
Mercer nodded. The boat rocked violently against its lines while rain hammered the deck. Fishing gear cluttered the stern beneath tangled nets and fuel cans. Perfect.
They moved toward it, then both froze simultaneously.
A black SUV rolled slowly along the adjacent pier road. German. The vehicle stopped near the seafood warehouse overlooking the docks. Doors opened. Two operators stepped into the rain carrying compact submachine guns beneath rain jackets. Searching methodically. The smoker was tightening the net.
Rourke crouched behind stacked fuel drums. “Tell me they didn’t track us from the shack.”
Mercer watched the Germans carefully through the rain. “They’re sweeping the whole district.”
One operator stood near the seafood warehouse speaking quietly into a radio while scanning the fishing docks through binoculars. The man swept slowly across the maze of piers, trawlers, and fuel sheds without urgency. Methodical. Professional. Then the binoculars paused briefly toward the lobster boat.
Rourke saw it too. “That seems unhealthy.”
Mercer stayed motionless another second, studying the operator’s body language carefully. No reaction. No sudden movement. The German lowered the binoculars and continued scanning farther down the waterfront. Not spotted. Not yet.
The smoker’s people were conducting broad harbor surveillance, not targeting the lobster boat specifically. They were still hunting patterns, routes, possible escape vectors. Good.
That meant Mercer and Rourke remained part of the noise for another few minutes.
Mercer moved instantly. “Now.”
They sprinted through the rain across the floating pier while wind whipped loose tarps and fishing nets violently overhead. Wooden planks shifted beneath their boots as harbor swells slammed against the pilings below.
Somewhere nearby a fisherman shouted angrily in Spanish as they rushed past. Mercer ignored him completely.
The lobster boat rocked hard against its lines beside the fuel dock. Thirty feet long maybe. Fiberglass hull stained with rust and fish blood. Twin Yamaha outboards mounted on the stern beneath tangled nets and plastic buoys.
Perfectly forgettable. Mercer jumped aboard first. The ancient German knife flashed once through the rain as he slashed the mooring line.
Rourke vaulted over the rail behind him and dropped into the helm station. “Please tell me you know how to drive one of these.”
Mercer wiped rain from his eyes while flipping ignition switches. “It’s a boat with steering wheels. How hard can it be in Colombia?”
The engines coughed once. Twice. Then roared alive. Mercer shoved them away from the dock with one boot just as voices erupted behind them farther up the pier. Not German this time. Local fishermen.
One older man wearing yellow rain gear emerged from between stacked crab traps carrying a flashlight. He stopped dead staring at the drifting lobster boat.
Then his face transformed from confusion to fury. “¡Oye!”
The old fisherman sprinted toward the dock edge waving his arms wildly. “That’s probably our guy,” Rourke muttered.
Mercer looked back once. The fisherman was already screaming toward nearby workers while pointing at the departing vessel. A younger dockhand grabbed a phone immediately. Within seconds three more men joined the shouting.
The Germans turned toward the commotion. One operator raised the binoculars again.
Mercer crouched lower instinctively as Rourke eased the throttles forward, guiding the lobster boat slowly between neighboring trawlers instead of accelerating away.
“Easy,” Mercer said quietly.
Rourke glanced at him incredulously. “Easy?”
“If we run now, they notice.”
The Germans were watching the disturbance near the dock, but not the boat itself. Not yet. To them it was still part of the harbor confusion. Angry fishermen. Storm chaos. Theft maybe. Not priority.
The smoker’s men were still searching for two armed Americans fleeing a massacre in the old city. Not a stolen fishing boat slipping quietly through the fleet.
Rourke kept the speed low while rain hammered the windshield. The lobster boat drifted between larger shrimp trawlers rocking violently against their moorings. Diesel smoke hung low over the water while sodium dock lights shimmered across black waves and oil slicks.
Posted on 6/28/26 at 5:16 pm to LSUAlum2001
quote:
Behind them, the shouting intensified. The old fisherman had reached a harbor security kiosk now. Mercer saw frantic gestures through the rain while someone inside grabbed a radio handset. Police next. Exactly as expected.
Rourke threaded the lobster boat through another narrow gap between anchored vessels. “You know what I love?”
Mercer scanned the harbor behind them. “What?”
“How everyone in this city immediately reports crimes. Very civic-minded people.”
The Germans finally started moving toward the fuel dock. Still not running. Still calm.
One operator spoke into his radio while pointing toward the fishing fleet. Another climbed onto the pier railing for a better view across the crowded harbor. Then Mercer saw the smoker emerge from the black SUV.
The old German stepped into the storm without umbrella or haste. Rain streamed down his dark coat while harbor floodlights reflected faintly across silver at his temples.
Even at this distance Mercer recognized the stillness immediately.
The smoker surveyed the chaotic waterfront while fishermen shouted around him and harbor workers pointed toward the stolen boat. No panic. No visible anger. Just observation. Calculating.
Mercer felt a chill unrelated to the storm. The smoker wasn’t reacting like a man chasing fugitives. He was reacting like a chess player watching pieces move exactly where expected.
Rourke followed Mercer’s gaze. “Please tell me he doesn’t know it’s us.”
Mercer didn’t answer. Because he honestly wasn’t sure. Lightning split the harbor sky. For one frozen instant the smoker’s face became stark white beneath the rain. Pale eyes fixed toward the fishing fleet. Toward them.
Then darkness swallowed the docks again. Rourke eased the lobster boat farther from shore. Still no pursuit. Still no spotlight. The Germans had bigger problems now. Harbor security alarms. Police calls. Witnesses. Angry fishermen demanding stolen property reports. Noise. And noise created cover.
Mercer finally allowed himself a slow breath. “They’re prioritizing the harbor perimeter.”
Rourke glanced sideways. “Meaning?”
“They think we’re trying to reach the Black Reef immediately.”
“Which we aren’t.”
“Not directly.”
The lobster boat rose and slammed through rough harbor chop as they moved deeper between anchored trawlers and cargo barges. Rain lashed sideways now beneath strengthening wind while thunder rolled continuously overhead.
Behind them, police lights began flashing near the fishing docks. Fast response. The old fisherman apparently knew exactly who to call. A harbor patrol truck screeched onto the waterfront road while officers spilled out into the storm. Mercer saw pointing fingers, radios, confusion.
Then another set of lights appeared. Not police. German SUVs.
The smoker’s people were staying close to the investigation without involving themselves directly. Watching. Learning.
Rourke leaned over the wheel. “I officially miss the sharks.”
Mercer scanned north toward the commercial port. The Black Reef remained barely visible through rain and harbor haze near the distant piers. Floodlights illuminated the surrounding customs yards while police vehicles blocked most access roads nearby.
But the Germans still hadn’t approached the ship. Interesting. They were maintaining distance intentionally. The smoker didn’t want a confrontation aboard the Black Reef, yet. Too public. Too complicated with Colombian authorities present.
Instead, he was waiting for Mercer to lead him there.
Which meant Mercer needed to do the opposite. “Kill the running lights,”
Rourke flipped the switches immediately. Darkness swallowed the lobster boat. Only distant harbor lights remained now as they slipped between anchored vessels like a shadow.
The fishing fleet helped hide them further. Hundreds of boats drifted through the storm: shrimp trawlers, longliners, rusted crab boats, coastal freighters. Masts and antennas formed a maze against the rain-black sky.
Mercer checked his watch. Nineteen minutes until Baptiste reached the south channel. If he could break away from surveillance near the commercial docks.
If the Germans hadn’t already compromised him. If the police didn’t stop him first. Too many variables.
Rourke lowered the throttle further while they passed behind a massive tuna boat unloading crates beneath floodlights. Dockworkers shouted over forklifts and diesel engines nearby. Nobody looked twice at another fishing vessel slipping through the storm.
For the moment, they had disappeared. Then police sirens echoed across the harbor again. Closer.
Mercer turned. A harbor patrol launch emerged from behind the fuel depot near the fishing docks, blue lights flashing wildly through the rain. The patrol boat accelerated into the harbor while its spotlight swept across nearby vessels. Searching already.
Rourke grimaced. “Well, that was quick.”
“They’re looking for the stolen boat.”
“Which is awkward because we’re currently inside the stolen boat.”
Mercer studied the patrol launch carefully. Small. Fast. Two officers visible. One spotlight operator. The Germans remained farther back near the fishing docks. Mercer could still see the smoker standing motionless beneath the storm while police swarmed around him. Watching the harbor. Waiting.
Then the smoker turned slightly and looked toward the water again. Toward the fishing fleet. Mercer felt that same cold certainty settle in his stomach. The old man knew they were out there somewhere. He just didn’t know exactly where yet.
Rourke followed the patrol boat with his eyes. “You think they’ll search every vessel?”
“Eventually.”
“And before then?”
Mercer looked south into darkness beyond the harbor lights. The open water near the south channel waited there beneath the storm. And somewhere beyond it, if everything went perfectly, Baptiste would bring the Black Reef through the rain to meet them.
Mercer checked the fuel gauge. Half tank. Enough.
He looked at Rourke. “Time to disappear properly.”
Mercer pushed the throttles forward again.
The lobster boat surged deeper into the storm-dark maze of anchored fishing vessels while the harbor patrol spotlight swept slowly across the water behind them like a searching eye.
Posted on 6/29/26 at 7:13 am to LSUAlum2001
Excellent
Posted on 6/29/26 at 7:19 pm to LSUAlum2001
Posted on 6/29/26 at 8:44 pm to LSUAlum2001
Continuation of the scene
quote:
Captain Isaiah Baptiste stood alone at the helm with one hand resting lightly on the wheel while Cartagena glowed through the storm beyond the commercial docks. Thunder rolled continuously over the Caribbean now, turning the night into alternating worlds of darkness and white lightning.
The Black Reef idled quietly against the pier. Waiting. Baptiste hated waiting.
He scanned the waterfront again through binoculars. Colombian police vehicles crowded the customs access roads while harbor security lights flashed through curtains of rain. Cargo cranes loomed overhead like giant skeletal towers disappearing into low clouds.
And farther down the dock road sat two black SUVs. Motionless. The Germans.
Baptiste lowered the binoculars slowly. The men had not approached the ship. Had not questioned the crew. Had not attempted boarding. They simply watched the pier entrances through the rain with patient stillness. Obvious professionals. Which made them dangerous.
Behind Baptiste, the bridge door opened. Luis stepped inside dripping rainwater onto the steel deck.
The young deckhand looked nervous. “Still no sign of them?”
Baptiste shook his head once. “Nothing.”
Luis glanced toward the harbor. “You think they made it out?”
Baptiste lit another cigarette slowly before answering. “Mercer has shown the ability to survive things that should kill him.” Smoke curled through the dim bridge lights. “That man has offended death repeatedly.”
A faint smile crossed Luis’s face despite the tension. Then the bridge radio crackled briefly with harbor traffic. Spanish voices. Police coordination. Descriptions of two foreign suspects connected to multiple homicides in the old city.
Luis looked toward Baptiste carefully. “If the police board us…”
“They won’t.”
“You sound certain.”
Baptiste exhaled smoke toward the rain-streaked windows. “Because the Germans are keeping them focused elsewhere.”
That worried him more than police. The smoker’s people were controlling the shape of the search without appearing visible inside it. Quiet manipulation. Pressure without exposure. Intelligence tradecraft.
Baptiste had seen it before in other ports, other wars. Which meant Mercer and Rourke had stumbled into something far larger than treasure hunting. Again.
The radio hissed softly beside him. No more clicks. No further signals. Only silence since Mercer’s last transmission. Dock compromised. Need pickup away from pier.
Baptiste checked his watch. Past rendezvous time already. He stared toward the harbor entrance through the storm.
“Prepare engines,” he said quietly.
Luis frowned. “Now?”
“We wait five more minutes.” Baptiste crushed out the cigarette. “Then we leave the pier.”
“And the Germans?”
Baptiste looked again toward the black SUVs parked beneath the floodlights.
One of the Germans stood outside now beneath the rain, hands in his coat pockets while watching the harbor. Even at this distance Baptiste could feel the man’s stillness. Cold. Patient. Deadly.
“The Germans already know we’ll move eventually,” Baptiste said. “No point pretending otherwise.”
Lightning flashed across the harbor. For one brief instant Baptiste saw the pale face of the man clearly through the storm. Watching the Black Reef. Watching the sea. Waiting. Then darkness swallowed the docks again.
Far south beyond the commercial harbor, the stolen lobster boat slammed through rough black water between anchored fishing trawlers while police sirens echoed faintly behind it.
Mercer crouched low beside the cabin windshield while rain lashed across the deck.
The harbor patrol launch had nearly found them. Blue lights flashed through the storm barely three hundred yards astern now while the searchlight swept methodically across the fishing fleet.
Rourke glanced back once and grimaced. “They are gaining quickly.”
Mercer studied the patrol craft carefully through the rain. Fast aluminum hull. Twin engines. Two officers visible. No mounted weapons. The spotlight operator swept across nearby trawlers again before pausing briefly toward the lobster boat. Too long.
Rourke saw it too. “I think we’ve officially been selected.”
The spotlight locked onto them fully. Bright white flooded the lobster boat. A loudspeaker crackled across the water in Spanish. Mercer didn’t need translation. Stop engines immediately.
Rourke looked sideways. “Suggestions?”
Mercer scanned the dark water around them. Fishing vessels surrounded the channel in every direction, rocking violently in the storm. Visibility remained terrible beyond a few hundred yards.
Perfect conditions for disappearing. Or drowning. The patrol launch accelerated harder.
Mercer made the decision instantly. “We abandon the boat.”
Rourke blinked. “You say that like it’s normal.”
“Cut speed. Keep us drifting.”
“And then?”
Mercer checked the approaching spotlight again. “Then we steal a better boat.”
Rourke stared at him for one long second. “I hate how often that has become your solution.”
The patrol launch closed within one hundred yards. The loudspeaker barked another command.
Mercer pulled off his blood and rain soaked jacket and checked his pistol quickly before sealing it inside a waterproof pouch from the lobster boat’s emergency locker. Mercer holstered the sealed weapon against his chest and moved toward the stern.
“On my mark.”
The patrol launch surged closer through crashing waves. The officers aboard focused completely on the lobster boat now. One controlled the spotlight while the other moved toward the bow preparing docking lines. Routine interception. They still believed the suspects remained aboard.
Mercer counted silently. Distance. Speed. Angles. “Now.”
Both men slipped silently into the black Caribbean as the spotlight shifted off the lobster boat.
Cold water swallowed Mercer instantly. The lobster boat continued slowly drifting ahead through the storm with engines idling low while the patrol craft closed rapidly behind it.
Mercer surfaced carefully beneath the waves beside Rourke.
The patrol spotlight swept overhead without noticing them. Both men floated silently in darkness while the harbor chop rolled over them. Ahead, the patrol launch pulled alongside the lobster boat.
One officer leapt aboard first, pistol drawn. The second remained at the helm while shouting commands toward the empty cabin.
This post was edited on 6/29/26 at 8:56 pm
Posted on 6/29/26 at 8:49 pm to LSUAlum2001
quote:
Mercer treaded water quietly fifteen yards behind them. Rourke floated beside him barely visible in the storm.
“This is either brilliant,” Rourke whispered, “or deeply stupid.”
Mercer watched the patrol officers carefully. “Probably both.”
The first officer cleared the lobster boat quickly. Confusion replaced aggression immediately. He shouted toward his partner. Empty.
Mercer moved. Both men swam silently toward the patrol craft beneath the cover of rain and engine noise. The officer at the helm never looked behind him. Why would he? The suspects were supposed to be on the fishing boat.
Mercer reached the patrol craft first and grabbed the rear boarding ladder carefully. Rourke climbed beside him.
Inside the patrol launch, the officer aboard the lobster boat continued shouting angrily in Spanish while searching beneath tarps and fishing gear. The helmsman turned partially toward him.
Mercer struck instantly. He vaulted over the stern rail silently and wrapped one arm around the officer’s throat while driving the other hand hard against the base of the man’s skull. The officer collapsed without even managing a shout.
At the same moment Rourke boarded the lobster boat away from the second officer and saw him too late. Rourke slammed into the man chest-first, driving both of them backward across the lobster boat deck. The officer reached for his sidearm, but Rourke headbutted him square across the nose. Bone cracked audibly.
The pistol skidded away into the rain. The officer tried to yell. Rourke drove an elbow into his throat hard enough to silence him instantly.
Mercer crossed onto the lobster boat in two strides. The wounded officer looked up dazed and terrified through streaming blood. Mercer hit him once behind the ear. The man collapsed unconscious beside the fishing nets.
Thunder rolled overhead as rain swept across both boats while they drifted side-by-side through the dark harbor.
Rourke dragged the second officer across the gap between vessels. “You know,” he muttered while hauling the unconscious policeman onto the lobster boat deck, “technically this is now our third stolen boat tonight.”
Mercer secured the patrol officer’s wrists quickly using dock line. “Temporary borrowing.”
“You keep saying that.”
Together they transferred both unconscious officers onto the lobster boat and tied them beneath the rear canopy out of immediate sight.
Mercer checked pulses carefully. Alive.
Rourke noticed. “You’re getting soft.”
“We’re not killing Colombian police just doing their job.”
“Fair enough.”
Mercer stepped back onto the patrol launch and moved to the helm. The engines purred smoothly beneath him. Fast. Much faster than the lobster boat. He shut off the patrol lights immediately. Darkness reclaimed them.
The abandoned lobster boat drifted slowly away behind them carrying two unconscious officers and enough confusion to delay pursuit once discovered.
Rourke climbed aboard beside Mercer dripping seawater across the deck. “Well,” he said, breathing hard, “this escalated professionally.”
Mercer pushed the throttles forward. The patrol craft surged through the storm. They cut south immediately between anchored freighters while lightning flashed across the harbor entrance ahead. Behind them, the drifting lobster boat disappeared into darkness.
For several long minutes neither man spoke. Only rain. Only engines. Only black Caribbean water slamming beneath the hull.
Then Rourke leaned against the cabin frame and looked at Mercer carefully. “You think Baptiste made it?”
Mercer stared ahead into the storm. “He’ll make it.”
“You sound very sure.”
“He likes impossible situations.”
Rourke nodded thoughtfully. “True.”
The patrol launch sliced through rough water now beyond the main fishing fleet. Harbor lights faded gradually behind them while the open Caribbean stretched ahead beneath low storm clouds.
Mercer checked the radar display. One vessel approaching south channel slowly. Large profile. The Black Reef. Relief touched him briefly for the first time all night.
Then another radar contact appeared farther north. Moving fast. Another boat.
Rourke saw Mercer’s expression change. “What?”
Mercer pointed toward the radar. “Possible pursuit.”
Rourke looked back toward the dark harbor. “You think the Germans figured it out already?”
“Maybe.” Or maybe the smoker had anticipated this too.
Mercer no longer trusted coincidence where the old German was concerned. The fast-moving contact continued closing from the north. Too fast for a fishing trawler.
Rourke muttered, “Fantastic.”
Mercer pushed the patrol boat harder. The engines roared louder beneath the storm while waves crashed across the bow in white explosions of spray. Ahead through the rain, a dark shape slowly emerged from the Caribbean night. The Black Reef. Running dark except for dim navigation lights. Beautiful. The salvage vessel drifted just beyond the south channel marker buoys while storm waves rolled against her black hull.
Rourke grinned despite exhaustion. “I’ve never been happier to see an ugly ship.”
Lightning flashed overhead. The Black Reef answered immediately with two brief signal flashes from the bridge. Recognition code. Mercer responded by flashing the patrol boat spotlight twice against the water.
The salvage ship began turning slowly toward them. Then gunfire erupted behind them. Suppressed flashes blinked across the dark water north of the channel. Mercer turned instantly.
A second patrol-style craft burst through the rain behind them running completely dark except for muzzle flashes. Not police. The Germans. Rounds cracked across the water around them. One shattered the patrol launch windshield beside Mercer’s head in a spray of safety glass.
Rourke grabbed the mounted radio mic instinctively. “They brought their own damn boat!”
The pursuing craft accelerated aggressively through the storm while suppressed weapons continued firing from the bow. Professional pursuit team. The smoker again.
Mercer swung the patrol launch hard sideways between two channel buoys while bullets punched across the waves behind them. Ahead, the Black Reef suddenly ignited powerful deck floodlights. White light exploded across the storm-dark channel. The Germans lost night advantage instantly. Then the deep thunder of a heavy engine rolled across the water.
Rourke blinked. “Is that—”
Posted on 6/29/26 at 8:52 pm to LSUAlum2001
quote:
The Black Reef’s mounted salvage water cannon erupted. A massive stream of seawater blasted across the channel and smashed directly into the pursuing German craft with astonishing force. The smaller boat vanished briefly beneath exploding spray. Men shouted. The vessel slewed violently sideways across the waves.
“Holy hell,” Rourke breathed.
On the Black Reef’s bridge, Baptiste stood calmly behind the wheel smoking a cigarette while aiming the industrial water cannon controls.
“Welcome back,” he muttered.
The German pursuit boat recovered fast. It surged forward again through the spray while operators continued firing toward Mercer’s patrol launch. Then Mercer saw a familiar silhouette standing near the helm of the pursuing craft. Tall. Still. Silver at the temples. The smoker himself. Even under fire the man looked calm.
Mercer accelerated straight toward the Black Reef. Deckhands already waited at the stern rail throwing lines through the storm.
“Bring us alongside!” Luis shouted over the wind.
Rounds slammed into the patrol launch hull behind Mercer. One engine sputtered briefly. Rourke returned fire through the shattered windshield with the recovered police pistol. The Black Reef loomed beside them now like a moving fortress of black steel and floodlights.
Mercer brought the patrol launch hard against the salvage ship’s stern quarter. Deckhands seized lines instantly. Rourke jumped first, grabbing the cargo rail and hauling himself aboard while waves crashed between vessels. Mercer followed a heartbeat later. Behind them the patrol launch drifted loose across the storm. The German pursuit craft accelerated directly toward the Black Reef. Very aggressive. Very close.
Baptiste watched calmly from the bridge. Then smiled faintly. “Your turn,” he said softly.
The Black Reef’s engines roared alive. The salvage vessel pivoted heavily across the channel directly into the German boat’s path. The pursuing craft veered hard at the last second to avoid collision. Too late.
Its hull slammed violently against the Black Reef’s steel side with a deafening crash of fiberglass and twisting metal. The smaller craft spun sideways across the waves. Mercer looked through sheets of rain toward the damaged boat. For one instant he saw the smoker standing motionless amid the chaos while his operators struggled to regain control. Then darkness and spray swallowed them.
Baptiste leaned from the bridge wing above. “You boys certainly know how to ruin a peaceful evening.”
Rourke collapsed against the rail breathing hard. “We temporarily borrowed multiple boats.”
“I assumed.”
Mercer looked back toward the storm-dark channel where the damaged German craft drifted farther away. The smoker was still out there somewhere. Still alive. Still hunting.
Below deck, the Black Reef rolled heavily through the storm while diesel engines vibrated through the steel hull. Mercer sat shirtless on a folding bench inside the cramped infirmary compartment as one of Baptiste’s deckhands cleaned the bullet wound in his shoulder beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
The crewman, a heavily tattooed Dominican named Alvarez, had worked as a medic aboard anti-piracy security ships off Somalia years earlier. His hands moved with calm efficiency while he flushed blood and seawater from the wound using saline drawn into a large syringe.
Mercer clenched his jaw as fresh pain burned through the torn muscle.
“Round passed clean through,” Alvarez said in accented English while inspecting the exit wound near Mercer’s shoulder blade. “Lucky.”
“People keep telling me that tonight.”
Alvarez gave a faint grin and began stitching the worst of the torn skin while the Black Reef pitched through another wave outside. Somewhere above them boots pounded across the deck and crewmen shouted over the storm as Baptiste pushed the ship farther out into the Caribbean.
Rourke leaned against the infirmary doorway watching the procedure with folded arms.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “for a while there I honestly thought you might die in a Colombian sewer.”
Mercer winced as Alvarez tightened another stitch. “Appreciate the concern.”
“I’m serious. It would’ve been an incredibly embarrassing obituary.”
Alvarez finished the final stitch, then reached into a metal cabinet and pulled out a loaded syringe.
Mercer eyed it immediately. “What’s that?”
“Penicillin.” Alvarez flicked the syringe once. “Between rainwater, harbor water, sewer water, and whatever else was inside Cartagena tonight, infection is now your greatest enemy.”
Rourke nodded toward the needle. “Honestly, the sewer part alone should probably earn him two shots.”
Mercer sighed. “Just get it over with.”
“Stand up.”
Mercer pushed himself painfully upright. Alvarez swabbed his hip with alcohol, then drove the needle into the muscle with brutal efficiency. Alvarez finished wrapping the fresh bandage tightly around Mercer’s shoulder and secured it with tape.
“No heavy lifting for few days,” he said.
Rourke immediately laughed. “That advice is going to age terribly in about six hours.”
This post was edited on 6/29/26 at 9:03 pm
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