Flashback

Flashback
Chris’s radio crackled, Peter’s voice cutting through. “Chris, come in.”

“Peter?” Chris replied, crouched in the mansion’s shadowed hall. “What’s up?”

“Found Sharon,” Peter said. “We’re moving through the tunnels. Over.”

“Nice work, buddy,” Chris said, scanning for guards. “Jinx and I’ve got the exit clear, but there’s still a few goons roaming.”

“Handle ‘em,” Peter said. “We’ll be up soon.” The line went dead.

Peter glanced at Sharon, her silhouette sharp against the darkness of the tunnel. They were at the penultimate bend leading to the door of the main house. Six guards blocked their path, sharing a bottle of rum and drinking, their jokes ricocheting off moist concrete. The stench of mildew and alcohol hung in the air, the refulgent neon lights far above barely penetrating down to them.

"Ready, love?" Peter queried, stroking his silenced pistol.

Sharon grasped her weapon, her eyes alight. "Ready."

They emerged from cover, guns blazing. Two guards dropped simultaneously, blood spurting as bullets found their mark. The others dived for shelter, seizing weapons, but Peter and Sharon sought shelter behind a boulder as counterfire ricocheted off the rock. The tunnel rang with cries, radios calling for reinforcements.

Peter pulled out two grenades, throwing one to Sharon. "On three," he told her. They nodded at one another, pulled the pins, and threw the bombs. Twin explosions boomed, ripping the guards apart in a maelstrom of shrapnel and fire. Arms and legs flew everywhere, the rum bottle detonating in a sea of fire.

Sharon smiled, with adrenaline coursing. Peter smiled as well, pride on his face. "Good throw."

Jinx's voice crackled on Peter's radio. "Bad news, Killshot."

“What?” Peter asked, tensing.

“Addicus didn’t take our bomb bait,” Jinx said, her tone grim. “He’s alive, heading back. Five minutes out.”

“Damn it,” Peter muttered. “We’re moving. Cover us.”

“You’d better haul ass,” Jinx said, her sniper scope trained from her treetop perch.

Peter grasped Sharon's hand, pulling her towards the gate. The tunnel walls closed in around them, acrid smoke and death filling the air. Footsteps behind them echoed—distant, measured, not guards but something else, pursuing through darkness. Peter's senses screamed they were not alone, but he moved on, Sharon's safety his sole concern.

.

.

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Six Years Ago: North Pacific Ocean...

Thunder crashed, shaking the small ship’s cabin. Debora jolted awake, heart pounding, the vessel lurching violently. Rain lashed the porthole, wind howling like a beast. She stumbled to her parents’ bed, shaking them. “Mom, Dad! Wake up!”

Jane stirred first, blinking in the dim lantern light. “What’s wrong, dear?”

“The thunder,” Debora said, voice trembling. “It’s loud, and the ship’s shaking. I’m scared.”

Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Just bad weather, Debby. Nothing to fear.”

“Your dad’s right,” Jane said, tucking a strand of hair behind Debora’s ear. “It’ll rain a bit, then pass.”

“Come sleep with us,” Peter offered, patting the bed. “Plenty of room.”

Debora rolled her eyes, seventeen and defiant. “Dad, really? I’m not a kid crawling into bed over a storm.”

They laughed, cozy despite the chaos out there. But a blast of wind struck the ship, nearly turning it over. Peter and Jane were knocked to the floor, Debora falling after them. The cabin creaked, wood complaining of the anger of the sea.

"What was that?" Jane screamed, clutching Peter's arm.

"No idea," Peter said, standing Debora up. "You all right, baby?"

"Okay," Debora said, though wide eyes betrayed her.

Another wave struck, rocking the ship. Rain lashed, winds howling, and there were screams of terror on the deck. "We remain here," Peter declared, his voice unyielding. "Safer than up there."

A huge wave struck, overturning the ship. Water flooded into the cabin, cold and unforgiving, rising quickly. "Peter!" Jane shrieked, holding on to the bedframe.

"Time to go," Peter said, taking their hands. "To the deck."

They bludgeoned their way up the passage filled with water, waves surging against them as they went up. Janeckos on deck—human beings ran, falling on soaked planks, lightning casting frightful faces into relief. Peter was searching for lifeboats, spotted life jackets scattered on the deck. The jackets were grabbed by a man who pushed Jane aside before Peter could get hold of them.

Peter pulled Jane up, anger seething, but the jackets were gone. "Dad?" Debora wailed, voice small.

“We’ll find a boat,” Peter said, gripping her hand. They pushed through the crowd, elbows and fists flying as people fought for survival. A lifeboat loomed, half-full. Peter hoisted Debora toward it, but a man yanked her back, claiming her spot.

“Hey!” Peter roared, dragging the man down. “That’s my daughter’s place, creep!” The man swung; Peter blocked, landing a punch and kicking him away. “Get in, Debby.”

The boat was full, going down to the sea. "Peter, what next?" Jane screamed in fear.

"Another boat," Peter said, taking them with him. They noticed one, not yet full, but a wave drove it into the sea, gone. Desperation gripped Peter, but he kept it hidden. "Stay together," he said, his hands holding theirs. "Don't let go."

There was a wave of massive proportions, a wall of water shining under lightning. Passengers screamed, citizens ran, but they had nowhere to go. Peter's eyes met Jane's and he grinned bleakly. "I love you," he said, and kissed her. "We'll make it, I promise.".

The wave topped, sweeping over the vessel. Peter's grip slipped, Jane and Debora were torn from him. He fought to the surface, choking on the frozen sea. "Jane! Debora!" he bellowed, voice lost in the storm. There was nothing. He drifted, screaming until his throat was hoarse, alone in the darkness, the loss a wound that never healed.