THE STORM

Panic bored through his body as he kept his foot on the accelerator. The lights in his rearview mirror began to fade in the distance. Rain was coming down in horizontal sheets across the windshield. The high beams of the hotwired Monte Carlo danced in the covering night, bouncing off the asphalt road in shimmering bits of light. Finally he lost them as he turned onto the wet gravel pass, brakes skidding.

His grip on the wheel was hampered by the sweat and blood on his hands. His blood. He gunned it, he had to put more distance between him and the men who meant to kill him. This road would lead him to the eastern part of the island and out to the sea, away from the mainland.

All day the radio had been filled with reports of the approaching storm, now upgraded from tropical storm to category two hurricane. The island was battening down. The sound of tree limbs snapping in the gale force winds sounded like gunshots. Much like the one that entered his side while he stood on the dock, waiting for his chance to go home, waiting for redemption, waiting for Peter. He was so close. Mozzie had arranged the meeting, everything was set. Then everything went to hell.

It was getting harder and harder to keep focus, his vision dulled by the pain. He didn't remember driving off the road, the car going over end to end, tumbling until it came to an abrupt stop. The windshield cracked but didn't shatter. He leaned his head down against the steering wheel. The air was thick, different, filled with the smell of mud and palmetto. The island jungle was wilder than usual and strangely beautiful in the fading moonlight. Everything was eerily quiet, even the cicada had taken shelter. The only sound, surf pounding the distant shore.

He was bleeding again. He grabbed his side and checked the wound. Luckily it had been a through and through, just below his right rib cage, no organs involved. He swallowed, pushed at the car door and tumbled out onto the muddy cliff road. Three miles, four maybe to the boat landing, he could make it. He was cold.

Only those who can't leave behind everything they have ever believed in, can hope to escape. And if all else fails, keep a well fueled getaway craft mi amigo. The words echoed in his head.

Mozzie was good at his word; the small boat was tied right where he said. Just in case the suit's plans don't go as expected, always have a backup. He hated to admit it, but Moz had been right. The diesel made him nauseous as he powered up the small craft. If he could make it to the eastern tip, he would be safe, could lay low, heal and regroup. He fumbled for his phone, predictably there was no service. The screen was strangely illuminated in the thick night air; the last number called was to Peter Burke. He held the phone as if all the failures of his life could be erased by one call. The rain was blinding now. The roof of the sky seemed to blend with the water's edge.

He had to work fast to make it over now. The wind was like a battering ram, as waves began crashing over the planked deck. The tide was pushing inland and the small craft was no match. It took all his strength to hold the wheel steady. The storm felt like a weight on him. He had to focus. In his mind he could hear Peter's voice.

Concentrate, Neal. You can do this.

Squinting into the darkness, he thought he saw something...blinking. He was in the heart of the storm now, strange and mysterious hurricane lights played across the sky and in his head. Was he close to shore? Was it his imagination? Water was pouring into the small cabin. It was knee deep and freezing, when the aging engine stalled and locked in place.

"No, no!"

His fingers trembled as he struggled to turn the ignition over, but it wouldn't budge. It was frozen under his shaking hands.

"Move. For God's sake. Please."

The angry voice of the storm drowned out the drumming of his heart, its low whine swelling to a crescendoing scream that splintered the tiny vessel into the raging sea. Black water surrounded him, pulling him under as he cast wildly and desperately about for something to hold onto. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or shut. His lungs were on fire from the salty water. He gasped for air as the sea took him under again, pushing and pulling his battered and beaten body. His fingers brushed against something solid, he grabbed hold and was pulled up with it as the next wave swelled.

He scrabbled for purchase hauling himself onto the shattered board all that remained of the vessel. He watched helplessly as his cell phone floated from his pocket and out of his grasp, fingers too cold and tired to hold on. The makeshift raft listed as the winds died down for a minute. He turned onto his back. He wanted to sleep, the blackness tugging at consciousness.

Wake up Neal. You're running out of time.

He startled awake, Peter's voice was urgent. Peering into the darkness, he searched for the shore lights. Pain pounded his ribs with every shuddering breath. He had one last push in him. The wind shrieked through his hair and hurt his ears, as the pressure dropped. He felt the wooden board under him creak and groan under the weight of the raging water, and then fall away in a million pieces. He was being dragged down. He kicked and pounded his way to the surface, gasping for air. The pain was unbearable, but if he were to make it he had to swim.

He was a good swimmer. He remembered as a boy his mother taking him to the beach, teaching him the breast stroke. How he took pride in himself when he was able to keep up with her. For a moment he wanted to cry.

Hang on, Neal. Do you hear me? Take my hand.

He reached for him. There was nothing but icy blackness. Where was Peter? Where was Mozzie? Why didn't they hear the sea calling to him? He wanted to hold on, fight against the darkness below. It was too much. This time he couldn't fight it. The salt water filled his lungs.

"I'm so sorry."

He let go.