Chapter 9 - The Final Confrontation
Word count target: ~1,500 words
"Stop that vessel!" Agent Ramirez screamed into her radio.
The yacht slammed into forward gear, its powerful engines churning the dark marina water into a fury of white spray. The heavy boat scraped against the wooden pilings of the dock, splintering wood as it surged toward the open ocean.
SWAT officers fired warning shots into the air, but the yacht didn't slow down.
Before anyone could stop me, I broke away from the command vehicle and ran down the dock.
"Whitmore! Get back here!" Ramirez yelled behind me, but I didn't listen.
At the end of Pier 4, a small, high-speed Coast Guard interceptor boat was idled, its engines humming, two officers preparing to cast off.
I vaulted over the safety rail and dropped directly onto the deck of the Coast Guard boat.
"Hey! You can't be here!" the officer at the helm yelled, reaching for his sidearm.
"I'm Daniel Whitmore! That's my brother on that boat!" I shouted over the engine roar. "He’s armed and he’s fleeing federal custody! Chase him!"
The officer looked from me to the fleeing yacht clearing the harbor jetties, then slammed his throttle forward.
The interceptor boat leapt out of the water, its twin high-horsepower engines roaring as we shot out of the marina into the choppy waves of the Pacific Ocean.
The morning fog was thick over the water, cutting visibility down to fifty yards. The Sea Spectre was a dark shadow cutting through the grey mist ahead of us, pushing its engines to the absolute limit.
"He’s trying to hit international waters!" the Coast Guard captain yelled over the wind. "Once he clears twelve miles, it gets complicated!"
"Push it faster!" I shouted, holding onto the aluminum handrail as spray stung my face.
We gained on him rapidly. The interceptor boat was built for speed, cutting through the swell like a razor. Within five minutes, we pulled parallel to the stern of the yacht.
Through the mist, I saw a figure standing on the upper deck of the yacht, holding the steering wheel with one hand and a black object in the other.
Andrew.
He looked older, his face hardened by years in hiding, his hair cut short. He turned and saw me standing on the bow of the Coast Guard vessel.
"Daniel!" he screamed over the roar of the ocean and the engines. "Let it go! You can't catch me!"
"It's over, Andrew!" I yelled back, my voice tearing in the cold wind. "There’s nowhere left to run! The accounts are frozen! Vanessa is in custody! Give up!"
"I'd rather die than go to prison!" he roared back.
Suddenly, Andrew pointed a high-powered rifle over the stern rail and opened fire!
Muzzle flashes strobe light through the fog.
Pings of metal echoed as bullets slammed into the hull of our interceptor.
"Get down!" the Coast Guard captain screamed, pulling the wheel hard to the left to evasive maneuver.
I dropped to the deck as rounds whined overhead. The Coast Guard officer beside me raised his tactical shotgun, firing three heavy bean-bag and breaching rounds directly at the yacht’s engine housing at the stern.
BOOM! BOOM!
A cloud of black smoke erupted from The Sea Spectre’s stern. The yacht shuddered violently, its smooth engine roar turning into a sickening, metallic grinding noise as the cooling lines ruptured.
The yacht lost momentum, turning sideways into a large ocean swell. A massive wave hit the disabled boat, listing it violently to the left.
"He’s taking on water!" the captain yelled.
I stood up, pulling myself to the rail.
Andrew was stumbling across the slick, tilted upper deck, trying desperately to reach the lower cabin as water began pouring over the gunwales.
He slipped, crashing hard against the steel railing, the rifle flying from his hands into the dark ocean below.
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"Andrew!" I screamed.
He looked up at me, trapped on his sinking boat, the arrogant illusion of his grand scheme collapsing into the freezing Pacific water.
