FORTY

FORTY
We spent the next hour preparing.
The cabin had a small radio. Old but working. We turned it on and listened to the local station covering the festival.
The event was in full swing. Live music. Food vendors. Thousands of tourists crowding the waterfront. The reporter sounded excited. Kept mentioning how this was the biggest turnout in years.
Perfect for what we needed.
Hank found some supplies the guards had missed. A first aid kit. Some rope. A flare gun with three flares left.
"This might work," he said, checking the flare gun. "If we can't get the crowd's attention any other way, we fire this. Everyone will look."
"And then we tell our story."
"And then Vincent either has to let everyone go or show his true colors in front of a thousand witnesses."
I cleaned my cut hand properly with supplies from the first aid kit. Wrapped it in fresh bandages. The cut wasn't deep but it was infected. Red and swollen. It would need real medical attention soon.
But first we had to survive the next few hours.
"We should eat something," Hank said. He found some canned food in the cabin's small pantry. Beans and crackers. Not much but better than nothing.
We ate in silence. Both of us lost in our own thoughts. Both of us probably thinking about all the ways this could go wrong.
"Hank?" I said after a while.
"Yeah?"
"Tell me about your mother. The one Vincent mentioned."
He set down his can. He set down his can of beans. Stared at nothing for a moment.
"She was kind," he said finally. "Which sounds stupid for a mob boss's wife. But she was. Always trying to see the good in people. Even when there wasn't any good to see."
"How did she die?"
"The Rosetti family. They wanted to expand into our territory. Father refused. So they killed her. Made it look like a car accident but we all knew the truth."
"I'm sorry."
"She used to tell me I had a choice. That just because I was born into this family didn't mean I had to become like my father. Like Vincent." He looked at me. "I didn't believe her. Not until she was gone. Then it was too late to tell her she was right."
I reached across the small table. Took his hand.
"She knows," I said. "Wherever she is, she knows."
He held my hand for a long moment. Then pulled away gently.
"We should go soon. The festival ends at six. We need to be in position before then."
I checked the clock on the wall. Four thirty. We had ninety minutes.
Ninety minutes to either save everyone or get them all killed.
We left the cabin and got back in the stolen truck. Drove toward town on the back roads. Staying away from the main highway where Vincent's men might be watching.
As we got closer to Windermere Bay, we could hear the festival. Music drifting through the trees. Voices and laughter. The normal sounds of people having fun.
People who had no idea what was happening in the shadows of their town.
"Where do we park?" I asked.
"There's a lot behind the old cannery. Walking distance to the marina but out of sight. We can approach on foot."
He drove past the festival grounds. I caught glimpses through the trees. Booths selling food and crafts. A stage where a band was playing. Families with children. Couples holding hands.
All of them are potential witnesses if we could just get them to the marina.
Hank parked behind the cannery like he said. The lot was empty except for some rusted equipment and broken pallets. We got out. Started walking toward the waterfront.
"Stay close," Hank said. "Vincent will have people watching for us."
We moved through the back streets. Using alleys and side paths. Avoiding the main festival crowds.
The marina came into view. Boats bobbing in their slips. The sun getting lower in the sky. Maybe an hour until sunset.
And there, at the end of the longest dock, I saw them.
My mother. Jim. Maddie. The three girls we'd tried to rescue. All of them tied up. Surrounded by Vincent's guards.
Vincent himself stood apart from them. Watching the sunset. Waiting.
"He's early," Hank said.
"Or we're late."
We crouched behind a storage shed. Watching. Counting guards. At least eight of them. All armed. All positioned to have clear shots at the prisoners.
"How do we get the crowd here?" I asked.
Hank pulled out the flare gun. "We fire this. Everyone will come running. Then we tell them what's happening."
"And hope they believe us before Vincent's men start shooting."
"You have a better idea?"
I watched Vincent. The casual way he checked his watch. Like he was just waiting for a dinner reservation instead of planning to kill people.
Then I noticed something. His phone. He kept looking at it. Checking messages. Probably coordinating with his men throughout the festival.
"His phone," I said. "What if we could access it? Get proof of what he's been doing?"
"How would we do that?"
"I don't know. But if we had proof on his own device, messages about the trafficking, the murders, all of it—"
"The FBI couldn't ignore that. Even if they have people on Vincent's payroll."
It was a long shot. Getting close enough to Vincent to steal his phone without getting killed. But it was also the kind of evidence we desperately needed.
"I'll do it," I said.
"No. Too dangerous."
"Everything we're doing is dangerous. At least this gives us something concrete."
Hank looked at me. I could see him trying to find a reason to say no. Trying to protect me.
"Together," I reminded him. "We do this together."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. But we need a distraction. Something to draw the guards away from Vincent."
I thought about it. Then I had an idea.
"The boat," I said, pointing to a yacht moored nearby. Expensive. Probably belonged to one of Vincent's associates. "What if it caught fire?"
"You want to commit arson?"
"I want to create chaos. Get the guards focused on something other than us."
Hank smiled. Just a little. "You know what? That might actually work."
We spent the next ten minutes planning. Hank would circle around to the yacht. Use supplies from the marina to start a small fire. Nothing too dangerous but enough to cause alarm.
While the guards were distracted, I'd approach Vincent. Get close enough to take his phone.
Then we'd fire the flare. Bring the crowd. Tell our story with proof in hand.
Simple. Except for all the ways it could go catastrophically wrong.
"Ready?" Hank asked.
"No. But let's do it anyway."
He squeezed my hand once. Then he was moving. Staying low. Using boats and equipment for cover. Working his way toward the yacht.