Flag 9, Book 2: Shark's Tale

By A.G. Rives

The trouble continues on Amelia Island…So where did Shark go? We find out as the story follows him in the pursuit of Carlos. The companion book to Flag 9, Shark’s Tale picks up where he decides to head off on his own. Fueled by an amalgam of emotions and a steady flow of alcohol, Shark quickly finds his past catching up to him and must confront what actually does drive him. Sometimes proceeding with reckless abandon pays off, sometimes not… And throw love into the mix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781631928864

Book preview

Chapter 1

The maelstrom of events that had taken place within the last couple of minutes was to Shark like the night, as s in high school, when he and Pete Harris decided it was a good idea to take LSD and go to the Anderson County Fair. He had never wanted to experience again the noises, the distorted faces, the screaming, the lights, the spinning uncontrollable confusion and paranoia that had taken place that evening. But now it was all back and despite having a few beers before waking up Drew, he was painfully sober and all of this was real. Adrenaline was the only drug that had its talons in him as a weakened section of brick in the northern curtain wall crumbled under his weight when he came over the top of it. The two US Coast Guard boats that now lay quiet on the protected beach had pummeled it with their .50 cals and he cursed as he almost fell. His arms and legs felt loose and rubbery, like Stretch Armstrong’s, and the God-damned heavy, restrictive wool of the Union uniform made it even more difficult to scramble over to the Twist of Fate. A single gunshot came from inside the walls of the fort and he paused for a second at the sound but then pressed on. He prayed that Tom had remembered to leave the keys in the Twist’s ignition as they had all discussed. He also prayed that there were guns. Drew hadn’t mentioned seeing any more boats offshore but then again, Shark hadn’t been listening. When he was on top of the wall he had noticed one though, a Scarab, sitting a hundred yards out in Cumberland Sound. He wasn’t sure if this Carlos guy was the one at the helm but he was sure of one thing, he was going to kill him.

The Scarab hadn’t noticed him on the small beach, either the white navigation light on its stern was limiting the captain’s vision, or it was the light rain coming down. Shark climbed the Twist’s swim ladder and untied from Delilah. His stealth was short-lived when the roar from his starting twin Mercurys carried over the water. He watched as the man throttled forward in response, creating a white, foamy wake that highlighted his path in the direction of downtown Fernandina Beach.

Son of a bitch, Shark muttered, slamming the Twist’s shift lever into forward and then reverse trying to unseat her from the small sandbar she was cradled on. After several attempts she broke free and he took pursuit.

Growing up around his father’s business, Shark had become a mascot around the place. Even the weathered sign above the entrance had a cartoon shark painted next to the bold letters, Blackwell’s. Back then, everyone in the shop called him Sharky. His real name was Nicholas but his dad told him that when he was born, his head came out all pointy like a shark. The nickname stuck before his father cut the umbilical cord. Not long after that line had been severed, his mom ran off with some loafer-wearing faggot from Atlanta, his father explained. Frank Blackwell had never remarried nor had a girlfriend since, but instead, placed all of his focus on Shark and his business and took those responsibilities to heart.

His dad was a solid, working-class man, simple, with cut-and-dry ideas on what it took to be a man and how a man should act. As the owner of a machine shop in Anderson, South Carolina he had learned early-on not to put up with any shit—not from his employees and not from his customers. When you dealt with Frank Blackwell, you would get nothing but straightforward honesty and fairness but he very much expected the same from you in return. He was a true man of character with a good sense of humor and a pleasant demeanor but followed the code of Hammurabi when managing his affairs. Sharky, when someone hits you, you hit them back unless you want them to hit you again. You understand, son?

It wasn’t those words playing over and over in his head that were driving him now. No, this was revenge. Payback.

Shark tried to maintain course with the twin Mercs at full gallop as he fumbled around in the Twist’s center console for a weapon—something more manageable than the AR that only had one full magazine left in it. It was hard to see but he kept the cockpit lights off in order to maintain night vision as he felt around blindly and put his hand on a pistol. He pulled it out of its Uncle Mike’s cloth holster. Oh fuck, he said, fumbling with the Walther P22 rim-fire. He knew they had agreed to leave a weapon aboard the boat but this? Jesus, ridiculous. There were two full magazines and numerous boxes of ammunition—a knife in a gunfight but it would have to do. He switched off the safety and tried to track on the three large outboards that hung from the transom of the Scarab. At least this fucker has a laser, he said in frustration, firing several rounds in the direction of the leading vessel. He followed the boat’s zigzag pattern as the man fired back. The shots went wild until one met with a thunk in the Twist’s fiberglass hull. Why wasn’t this guy trying? He puzzled, as the shadow of downtown Fernandina appeared off to port. Solar lights marked the docks of the marina and he could see crowding monsters that made their way to the piers. As they roared past, the anchored Minerva rocked at her mooring to starboard.

Shark could see that the man was having difficulty navigating and returning fire at the same time. It was dark as hell on the water and the rain started up again, greatly hindering their visibility. He could already tell the Scarab was outgunning him three motors to two and was worried that once they got past all the navigational hazards in the area—the fucking abandoned boats and crab traps—on open water, the man would be gone.

Pop, pop, pop. He fired the little Walther and it barked like a pesky terrier. He tried to make some impact on the vessel that was gradually gaining distance on him but he had little faith. Amazingly, just after they passed under the Shave Bridge, it happened. He could see smoke coming off of the leftmost engine. He fired three more rounds, emptying the magazine before tossing the little gun aside and switching back over to the AR. He hoped they were more evenly matched as more smoke poured from the crippled motor, blurring the white navigation light at the Scarab’s stern.

Shark pressed the throttle forward trying to get every rpm possible from his props. At a hundred yards, the Scarab didn’t seem to be gaining speed nor slowing down and it was at the disadvantage of having to be the navigational leader. Shark just had to follow between the two lines that marked the wake in front of him.

Beyond the bridge, the blackness was thickening and they were surrounded by marsh on either side. It was difficult to see where water ended and the land began and the moon only offered a dim glow through the clouds above. The boat ahead swerved sharply to the left around a red channel marker. The man was trying to lead him into it but Shark was just in time to swerve. He flicked on the radio to channel 16. Hey asshole, I got a full tank of gas and I can do this all night! He screamed into the cabled handheld.

The man didn’t respond.

Shark blew the Twist’s air-horns and held up the VHF hoping the guy would pick up the radio. He could see the man’s back and could see he wasn’t turning around. In fact, he was slowing, not by a lot, but Shark could hear the motors spool down and noticed the Twist was inching up and closing the hundred yards that separated them. Just ahead, the waterway branched and put the Scarab in a decision making time-out. Shark closed the gap to 75 yards before the Scarab held left. He immediately noticed the man had made the right choice as they passed the next channel marker. They were clearly outdriving their headlights at the speed they were going.

Stepping out around the center console of the boat while maintaining a hand on the wheel, he fired the AR. At the pop of the first round, the Scarab began fishtailing to throw him off. Shark shouldered the rifle and focused on piloting the boat. He hadn’t lied about the fuel tank being full and was glad that they had filled it up before returning from Oyster Bay—that was less than twelve hours ago but it seemed like a week. Anyway, this coward wasn’t going to be hard to shoot if he ran out of fuel.

The Amelia River began to widen and they both responded by picking up speed. The Scarab once more began to pull away despite the loss of an engine, but the Twist stayed after him. In the distance, Shark could see the southern bridges that connected Amelia with Little Talbot Island to the south. High above the span, he could make out the black shadow from the tail of the downed commercial plane, framed in the sky. It appeared that they were traveling straight toward a solid wall.

As they approached, the Scarab lined up with the open section of the fishing pier. Obviously, this guy had come to know his way around because it was hard as hell to tell exactly where it was. Without slowing, the man was through the first bridge and approaching the second, when Shark saw a large section of floating metal aircraft debris rise out of the water—disturbed by the wake of the passing vessel. He immediately throttled down but was too late; the twisted wreckage was a can opener through the glossy black gel-coat of the Twist’s bow. The force of the impact lifted the rear of the boat and spun it around as Shark Blackwell flew from the captain’s bench and slammed hard against the Twist’s port gunwale.

Chapter 2

Shark was thirteen and with his dad on a vacation trip to Myrtle Beach. His best friend Pete had been able to come along with them and Shark was glad his father had let him. Shark and Pete were on the beach seeing how deep of a hole they could dig in the sand when their construction efforts were interrupted by two girls their same age, walking up the shoreline toward them.

Hey Sharky, check out the girls in the green and purple bathing suits, they are coming over here, Pete said.

I see them, Shark returned, trying to play it cool. In reality his heart was pounding in his chest. The girls had already passed them once and the brown-haired girl in the green bathing suit had previously made eye contact with him. Now that they were face-to-face, he felt like he would shatter into a million pieces.

Hi, what are you guys building? The blonde girl with the purple bathing suit asked.

Nothing much, just a hole, Pete returned. What are you guys doing?

We’re just walking, the girl with green suit said. God, she was pretty.

Wanna help us dig this hole? Pete asked.

Shark rolled his eyes.

Um, not really, Green Suit said. Why are you digging?

Pete looked at Shark with a puzzled expression, searching for a logical reason for why they were burrowing childishly. Shark looked back, drawing a blank—a voice in his head screamed, Say something, say something, say something!

Nothing came.

Well, have fun digging that hole, Green Suit said. The two girls began to walk off.

Shark’s heart sank but was jolted back to life when Purple Suit turned, We are going to look for sharks’ teeth. You guys can come along if you want.

Sure, Pete said eagerly, throwing down the shovel and climbing out of the pit. Pete had his mom and two sisters, so women were his norm. Shark however, didn’t quite know how to handle women, nor the feelings he sometimes had when he liked one. He had not so much as kissed a girl or even held one’s hand for that matter. What do you even say to the ones you think are cute? These two girls were just that—especially the one in the green suit that already seemed to like him.

The girls walked ahead a bit and they were laughing about something. As Shark and Pete caught up, his best friend scolded him. You were just going to leave me hanging like that Shark? He asked, slapping Shark on his sunburn.

Fuck man, that hurt.

Quit being a little ass-face and catch up, Pete said.

Shark was tongue-tied and lucky for him; Green Suit did most of the talking. She said that she and her friend were Mormons and in town for the week. Purple Suit’s brother was going to be starting something called a mission. She went on about what it was going to be like for him and that he would be away from home for the first time. Shark had no clue as to anything that she continued on about, instead, he was focused on the power she had over him. It was crazy, and uncontrollable, and hard to figure out. He didn’t want it to go away and if one thing was for sure, if all Mormon girls were like this, he could say you betcha he was into Mormon girls.

Pete ran up and popped the bubble that had formed around him. Hey Shark, I got this cool plan, Purple Suit says she will sneak out with us tonight.

Shark looked at the girl in the green suit who began to blush.

Purple Suit smiled as she approached. It will be fun. Come on Green Suit, we got to be getting back, she said, starting to head up to a row of houses. See the light blue house next to that pink one? Our window is the one on the second floor above that walkway that goes around to the front of the house. Just knock on the window tonight and we will come out with you.

I guess we will see you tonight, Green Suit said to Shark, before catching up to her friend.

Shark just stood and stared as the girls departed, trudging their way through the soft sand. Purple Suit said something to Green Suit that he couldn’t hear. The two girls giggled.

That night, when Shark’s father was sleeping, Shark and Pete put on fresh shorts and t-shirts and slipped out of their bedroom window, onto the patio, and down the short path between the dunes that led out to the beach. Shark loved sneaking out. It felt safe, and quiet, and without anyone around, he felt like he had all the power in the world. In the distance, headlights from two police beach patrol four-wheelers flashed this way and that. The cops were rousing a group of drunks that had fallen asleep along the shore after wandering down from the bars. Shark wasn’t sure if the beach patrol would be interested in them but the thought of it added to the excitement as they hugged the dunes, trying like thieves not to be seen.

The girls’ blue house was the third in a row of five rental houses. Shark and Pete crouched down in a clump of dunes to assess the situation. This had looked a lot easier during the day than it now did at night. The blackened windows of the neighboring house stared out on their location and it felt like eyes were on them. Earlier, Shark had agreed to go first after they had decided that the best plan of action would be to not use the stairs coming up to the walkway from the front of the house, but instead climb the lattice up to the walkway directly below the girls’ window. Shark lived up to his promise and crossed through the dunes, approaching the lattice-work that ran up to the second floor walkway. His nerves were shot and he didn’t know how cool Mormon mommies, or daddies, or big brothers would be if they caught him climbing the side of their house in order to lure the two cute girls outside.

Standing below the walkway, he looked up at the window and just inside the glass; he could tell that the curtains were pulled tight. All of the lights in the house were out. He turned and looked back over at the neighboring house. Its two darkened windows and back-porch door, along with its pale painted skin in the starlight made it look like a screaming face; like that painting he had seen in Mr. Smith’s art class. It was as if it was trying to tell on them. Sound the alarm! It called out, but remained silent.

Shark gathered up several small shells and climbed up the lattice to the second story walkway. Once on top, he remained on the outside of the railing as a simple jump down seemed like the quickest escape route. He threw one of the small shells and hit the window with a sharp crack. He flinched at the sound but there was no response.

He tried with another shell. Still nothing.

Hey, Green Suit, Purple Suit, are you guys coming out? He whispered. Shark looked down at Pete, who was staring up at him from below and shook his head as it looked like this was going to be a no-go.

He tossed another shell and it cracked off the glass.

Suddenly, lights illuminated the curtains in the window. Shark felt his face go flush, this was going to be a go. When the curtains jerked sharply aside, Shark lost his grip on the railing. Her face against the window, squinting in a grimace to see out, an old woman stared right into his eyes. And then she screamed. Her wiry white hair standing on end and her expression of sheer terror sent Shark pin-wheeling backward and there was hang-time in the ten feet or so that he fell horizontal. Below, a massive patch of stinging-nettles engulfed him but didn’t do much to soften the blow. The wind was knocked out of him and he had that