The lanky man reviews the signature and snaps the briefcase shut.
Kalin narrows his eyes as if studying them. “Your plan fell apart, and now you’re trying to clean up the mess for your incompetent, stupid bosses,” Kalin sneers. “They ran this ploy about as well as they ran the company.”
The stocky man turns his head to the side and spits, and returns his cold stare to Kalin.
Kalin returns his scowl, and realization washes over his expression. “You were probably the one who drove the truck.”
The stocky man fidgets and turns to his partner.
Kalin glares at him. “Dale wasn’t getting any stock. He was desperate and dying all right, but he wasn’t going to kill me. He didn’t go through with it. He just wanted the experimental drugs and a chance to live. He was probably even going to blow the whistle on your screwy plan, so you killed him before your bosses were implicated.”
The stocky man glances around and points the gun at Kalin. “We’re in the process of cleaning up the mess right now.” He looks around and then raises his eyes to the railing where I’m located. I duck and fall back onto the deck on my elbows.
I scramble off the deck and toward the stairs to the mid deck, but in my haste I bump into a chair, which clamors against the deck.
“Bring the stairs down. Now!” the stocky man barks.
I run toward the stairwell that descends to the interior of the ship, and search for the location that Kalin instructed me to hide. I hear the heavy steps of one of the men directly above me, and the sound of my heartbeat is thrashing in my ears. I run to the room that Kalin directed me to. My hands are shaking as I recall his instructions. The bow of the boat where the bar is. I hear the clacking of heels on the stairs that descend to the interior of the yacht, and scramble to hide behind the bar toward the front of the yacht. Trying to remain quiet, I hunt through the middle drawer behind the bar in a search of the gun.
The sounds of heavy steps echo on the stairwell and move to the level beneath me, and I momentarily breathe a sigh of relief. I rummage through the napkins and other supplies in the middle drawer in a frantic search for the gun. Suddenly, the sounds of the steps stop. I freeze in place in the silence, careful not to make any noise. I take quiet breaths, wanting to hear every sound. The clicking sound of heels starts up again and grows louder on the stairwell, until the sounds stops on the same floor as me. After a brief pause, the menacing click-clack sound of heels on hardwood draws closer to me. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I find the gun case and slowly open it.
I shot a gun a few times with my dad in Texas, but that was years ago on a farm, and not with someone wanting to kill me. I clasp the gun with both hands and scoot up against the wall at the end of the bar. The sound of steps is right behind the bar now, and my hands are shaking to the point where I don’t know if I can even fire straight. I aim the gun toward the end of the bar and try to compose myself, but the shaking worsens. I crouch back and wait, hoping I don’t have to kill anyone today, or that I won’t be killed.
“Annabelle. I know you’re here. Come out, please. I’m not here to hurt you.”
I take in a deep breath, and wrap both hands around the grip to steady my position. I realize that if I lock the hammer of the gun back, he’s going to hear the click of the gun and shoot me. But I’ll be ready to shoot him first when he steps around the bar.
I draw in a deep breath, hold it, and then lock the hammer of the gun back with a slow click. A shot comes ripping through the bar in front of me, and I shriek. Another shot fires through the bar, and shards of glass fly around me. I scream, and point the gun toward the direction of the shots, firing through the bar. The sound is deafening, muting the sound of another bullet shattering a stack of plates in front of me. I realize I am about to die here, so I grip the gun tight, cock the hammer, and fire again and again, aiming through the bullet holes in the bar and screaming over the muffled sounds of the ear-shattering booms. After the fifth shot, I hear the sound of a thud on the floor in front of me. My entire body is shaking, and I crawl toward the end of the bar and peek over the threshold to see the still body of the stocky man. Blood pools around his stomach onto the floor, and streams toward his limp legs.
I scramble up the stairs to the top deck, realizing I probably only have one bullet left if I’m lucky. I quiet my steps and peek over the rail to where I can see Kalin and his parents. The lanky man has the gun pointed at Peter, and he yells. “Eddie! What the hell’s going on up there? Goddammit.” He glances around while keeping the gun on Peter.
I point the gun through the railing and aim for his chest. I hold my breath, and fire and scream. Blood splatters over his right shoulder, and he drops the gun. Kalin and the lanky man both charge for the gun on the dock, and Kalin rams his shoulder into him, causing him to fall backward and hit his head hard on the dock. He squirms for the gun, and Kalin kicks the gun away from his hand, grabs a fistful of his shirt to turn him toward him, and rams his fist into his jaw hard. The lanky man is dazed and bleeding badly from his shoulder.