PART THREE: THE LAST STAND
Chapter Nine: The Last Stand
Hundreds of heads turned, hundreds of mouths hung open, a sea of stunned 0's, gazing up in horror at me - some bat beast from a bad dream, standing on the edge of the bridge clutching the smoking gun.
I followed the wave of horror as it spread along the whole deck, mouths opening, hands backing away, until it reached Senator West, standing resplendent in an immaculate black suit on the podium. When it reached West, all horror was replaced by nothing but bitter rage and frustration.
As he yelled at a bodyguard to do something, the ship below descended into wild chaos. I caught brief glimpses of familiar faces – the chief of the NYPD, a famous actor, a famous model that had graced the front cover of magazines just a few weeks ago, high ranking members of government. All were falling backwards out of their chairs, spinning round and stampeding for the edge of the boat.
No more time. Nothing left for it but to get inside, make one last stand. Before taking down West.
I leapt down on to the deck as West's goons ran forward, shoving past the wild guests as they fled to the lifeboats. A hefty goon in a suit fired three shots, all of them ripping through a beautiful blonde lady in a red dress who I recognised as a popular local writer. She slumped dead to the deck, her husband taking one last look before fleeing with the rest.
I reached for my Beretta. No need to play it quiet anymore.
I opened fire on the goon who had killed the writer, and a bullet took off the top of his head, sending him to the ground. I spun round, leaping behind a table, opening fire on another bodyguard. A bullet punctured a hole in his neat white shirt and he fell backwards, into a set of tables, one hand yanking the cloth down like a shroud over his limp corpse.
As I hit the floor, a blast sent my shoulder flying backwards, knocking the socket of my arm out of place. My gun fell out of my hand, skittering along the surface of the deck, as hot blood rushed down to my wrist.
Damn, I thought. Hit a vein, maybe.
Bullets were rushing past my face now, hundreds of them. Goons were piling on to the deck from all directions, firing indiscriminately in a bid to hit me. The famous model took a bullet to the ankle and collapsed screaming to the ground. Another hit a renowned corporate head in the face and his body slumped over the side.
I stood up, reaching for the silenced pistol with my working arm, and responded with gunfire. Two goons were killed instantly, their bodies hurtling down into tables and chairs. One yanked down a candle and the cloth around burst into flames.
I opened fire on a bodyguard sneaking up on the side. As he fell, his fresh corpse hitting the steel bars, another bullet ripped through my lower chest.
I winced. My good arm slipped into my inner pocket, clutching the painkillers and swallowing them back. Never mind, I thought. All that's left is to kill West, and once that's done I can let it end. I'll die pretty happy if I know I can achieve that. Keep going now, Max. Finish this.
I turned around. Three guards were scaling down the bridge, all heavily armed. I leapt for the shelter of an upturned table and began to shoot. A bullet shattered the shins of the nearest guard, sending him tumbling down the steps in a screaming pile. Two shots went wide of another goon, and he responded with two bullets.
One grazed against my hand, sending a trickle of blood to the deck.
Rage rushed through me and I fired back relentlessly. His body jittered wildly before he hit the deck, little more than a smoking mess.
As the final goon drew closer, guns at the ready, my focus began to slip. My head was spinning, getting hazy. Doubling over.
Come on, Payne, I thought bitterly. Pull yourself together. Focus.
Squinting through tears of pain, through giddy haziness, I shot the goon in the chest, blowing his guts out of his back. A look of utter horror spread across his face and he bent double, crying out in agony.
Behind me the onslaught continued. No chance now but to push them back.
I stood up, bullets ricocheting off the back of the table I'd been sheltering behind, and began to shoot back. My head was growing giddy. Behind the bow of the ship New York lay spread out in the hazy, milky dawn light, the first rays of sunlight bouncing off the walls of glittering glass and steel. And there, before it, yelling at his bodyguards as around him everything fell apart, was Senator West.
I shot the nearest goon dead and slipped out from behind the table, creeping forward on legs like jelly. Down the ends of the boat the audience were launching off the lifeboats, all of them gathering in a clot at the exit, desperately wishing to escape. Bullets flew round their heads. Women screamed.
I opened fire on another guard nearby, who was reaching for extra ammunition when the bullets ripped through his chest. Blood flew up into the dawn air, a thick black streak, and he rolled to the ground.
I was fighting on instinct now, firing at any goons near me, aiming wildly for black suits. My head was spinning sickly. Blood was streaming and pouring down my wrist, splattering in large puddles on the floor, making my grip slippery. I ignored it.
West was up on the stage. I could just about hear his voice.
"He's just a man!" he yelled. "He can be killed! So kill him! For god's sake!"
I fired at the goon. The bullets tore through his back and he collapsed forward, landing on a light. The light collapsed forward, shattering on the podium and bursting wildly into flames.
West flinched, stared weakly at me as I advanced.
His goons were dead, wounded or fleeing. Flames were consuming his stage, rolling up his banners, swallowing up his speeches. It hit hard, dawning in his eyes as bright as the sunlight that crept across the eastern horizon beyond.
It was over.
To be continued…
