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Ringo said, “I’m going to them. I want firepower up here on the pier.”
Jean Claude stepped closer and said, “Bring two.”
Ringo said, “Carry your own. Come with me.”
Jean Claude grumbled, but wasn’t about to confront the man everyone called the zombie. Not to Ringo’s face, for sure, but behind his back and out of earshot. The legend of Ringo’s burial in Haiti, and his subsequent resurrection, well, that sort of story couldn’t be kept secret.
As soon as they descended and began walking, Jean Claude regretted opening his mouth because the constant stinging sand was relentless.
When they reached the vehicles, which were all pointed toward the pier for a quick getaway, Ringo tapped on the front fender. The back door opened and he got in the rear seat. Jean Claude had to go around the vehicle and get in the opposite side. Ringo said to the driver, “I will take two M4s with the Beta double drum magazines, plus two extra Betas.”
The driver motioned to the front seat passenger and the man exited the Escalade and disappeared into the storm. The driver said, “I received a transmission on my HF radio.” He touched the radio that resembled a CB on steroids, “It was from the boats. They are close, but the Malice has some leaking problems. It hit something out in the storm and is taking on water. The pumps are keeping up, and it isn’t taking on any more at the moment. He thinks it will make it to shore.”
“All it has to do is land on the beach. Marc has something special on that one.”
The man returned with a canvas bag containing the extra magazines and another, longer one that contained the two M4s. Ringo tossed the one holding the magazines to Jean Claude and took the other for himself. He said to the driver, “Signal us with your lights when they are approaching.”
“I’ll give you two flashes of the headlights.”
Ringo exited the vehicle, followed seconds later by Jean Claude. In less than a minute is was as if they had been swallowed by the storm and were gone from the earth.
The passenger said, “Bazin scares me. There is something not right about him.”
The driver said, “He scares everyone but Marc Dessaline.”
“Mr. Dessaline seems a gentleman, nothing like Ringo Bazin.”
“I’ve known both of them for ten years, and deep inside I don’t know that there is much difference between them. It is like choosing which angry leopard is going to be put in a pickup cab with you: the yellow one with golden eyes or the black leopard with dark eyes. If either one is in the cab with you…well, I am sure you can imagine.”
The other man felt goosebumps spring up on his neck and arms, “That is a terrible image.”
The driver touched his temple and said, “Remember this, they are worse than leopards. Do not speak of your thoughts about Ringo Bazin again.”
The shaken man said, “Not a word.”
Ringo wiped the rain from his face. He stood by the Quartermaster again, but Marc and several others were not there. Jean Claude put his bag on the floor and ran both hands across his face and head, trying to squeegee off the water.
Ringo opened the large canvas bag and removed one of the M4s. The Beta double magazine protruded on both sides of the weapon with each part as round as a small soup bowl and fitted close to the receiver.
The other man pointed at it and said, “The Mexican Cartels call it huevos de toro, bull balls. It holds a hundred rounds.”
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Ringo wasn’t interested in small talk and said, “Have you handled one of these before?”
“Yes.”
Ringo handed him the weapon. “Shoot anyone who tries to stop us.”
“Are we expecting trouble?” The man moved his hand around indicating the hurricane, “Especially in this?”
“Are my instructions clear?”
“Well, yes.”
Ringo tossed him an extra magazine from Jean Claude’s bag. He asked, “Where is Dessaline?”
“He and the others went to the end of the pier. They took a lot of rope and other things.”
