Page 56 of Touchdown

“You're only wasting darts,” Noah yelled. “I bet that tranquilizer costs real money. A lot more than conventional ammo.”

“Nah,” I fake-whispered in a voice I hoped was loud enough for them to hear. “It's probably cheap animal tranquilizer ripped off from the local vet. You ask me, this is a dumpster fire amateur-hour operation from the get.”

Mockery couldn't hurt. It could even help. If it made the shooter nervous. Or angry.

Although probably not in response to my taunting, the taller guy grabbed Shorty's elbow, throwing off his second shot even more than the first. The fish in the sea were going to sleep well tonight.

Another sweep of light from above. I blinked. When I could see again, Tall appeared to be showing Shorty something on a slightly larger-than-phone-sized device.

Shorty's shoulders slumped. He put down the rifle with large, sarcastic motions meant to be visible from above.

So. Had they gotten orders from on high not to shoot? Or were they receiving instructions from somebody else?

It would be nice to have some idea of what the fuck was going on around here.

Noah gripped my elbow underwater. I followed the jerk of his chin.

Another helicopter.

Well, that was interesting. Was there about to be an air battle over the two of us?

Noah had a look in his eye like, what the fuck do we do now? It isn't like you can outrun even a Zodiac, much less a couple of aggravated helicopters, when you're wearing nothing but one of those last-ditch airplane life preservers.

I lifted my shoulder in a tiny half-shrug, knowing he could feel it if not see it. What the fuck? was indeed the question of the hour.

The original plan was still on the table, of course. Be the pirate king. Board the Zodiac. Overwhelm the enemy through sheer physical brilliance. Once you've secured control of the vessel, zip away at the highest speed the motor will allow.

Oh, and the whole time you're doing that, you're sacrificing sacred voodoo chickens to unknown gods to keep the helicopters too busy fighting each other to take off after you.

Yeah, great plan. What the hell had I been thinking?

It's the classic Mike Tyson quote. Everybody's got a plan until they get KO'd.

In fantasies, you can hurl yourself out of the water by sheer force of will to strangle your enemy.

In real life?

Water is heavy. Being submerged in water for hours—most of those hours in direct tropical light huddled under the pathetic sunscreen of a wet scrubs top—is utterly exhausting. To fling myself out of the sea and into that Zodiac would take the same effort of will required to execute a three-hundred-pound dead-lift with perfect form.

Sure, I could do it. In theory.

But how fast could I do it?

Not very.

By the time I was in that Zodiac, they'd have that trank locked and loaded again. They'd drop me and drop Noah. Boom, boom. All I would have accomplished was to save them the trouble of lifting me into their boat.

That was probably the only reason we were still awake. The taller guy had figured it out.

Fuck.

My next bright idea probably wasn't any better, but it could buy us a few more minutes of consciousness. I faked a big smile.

“If you help us onboard, maybe we can get out from under those warring helicopters before pieces parts start raining down on our heads,” I said.

“What is this,” the taller guy said suspiciously.

“What you wanted.” Noah again caught on right away. “We surrender.”

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