Wake: Episode Two… North to Norfolk

With a gentle jab from General Grey’s foot, Liberio’s body slid into the water as Marcelo looked on in disbelief. Marcelo’s body was numbed by the adrenaline, yet his mind remained extraordinarily clear.

“Funny isn’t it? What happens to the body when the mind gets scared?” General Grey said.

The words echoed in Marcelo’s head. Repeating them was the only thing he could do to remain conscious.

“You see, they call it fight or flight,” General Grey continued. “All the blood rushes to the extremities to provide adequate oxygen to the legs and arms. That way, you can either swing at somethin’ or run away. Fight… or flight.”

The general smiled sinisterly. “In this situation, I think it would be smart for you to fly.”

Marcelo could no longer stand. The numbness in his legs caused his entire body to collapse. His knees slammed onto the dock. The cool, moist wood both refreshed and magnified the pain that shot up his legs into his chest.

“Guess he’s not going to do either,” Grey said as he turned to his men, laughing.

Marcelo looked back to the puddle on the ground, the light, slowly rippling over the tiny disturbances in the water’s surface caused by a cool wind. He wanted to escape to it. To the water. To freedom. Anything to remove himself from this horrible reality.

“Oh it’s okay,” the general said. “Son, I’ve been in a lot of war. Horrible war. A lot of my men react the same way you do. So don’t feel like a coward.” The general placed his hand on Marcelo’s shoulder. “You probably don’t even understand what this is about.”

Grey observed Marcello for a moment and then backed away. “Let’s move out!” He raised his index finger to the sky and made a circular motion. The remaining men rushed to the garage and uncovered the black boats.

Within what seemed like moments, Marcelo could hear the dual Mercury Racing SCi engines of the six 46 XP rider cigarette boats roaring. The vibration made the hair on his arms stand up. All six boats took off, along with the General’s 148-foot Richmond yacht, which moved as fast as its 3,600 horsepower Caterpillar engines could take it.

Marcelo wanted to cry. But he couldn’t. No time.

The water at the marina was no longer peaceful. The seas had become rough, tumultuous as the rage within Marcelo’s soul. There was no time to mourn. Marcelo had no choice but to pursue, and he knew it.

The decision to run was almost subconscious, Marcello found himself running across the wooden docks, fast, as though his feet didn’t have the time to strike the ground.

The first stop was an abandoned shed at the back of the shabby deserted dock. The rusty doors popped and squealed as Marcelo forced them open. He was looking for something, but he didn’t know what. He grabbed two items, a rusty screwdriver and a 10-inch-long piece of dirty, broken PVC pipe that he placed in his back pocket. Then he got out of the shed as quickly as he had gone in.

Running. He would have run clean out of his own skin if it weren’t so tightly attached to his body. Where was he going? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know where he was.

The landscape changed frequently, from marsh to sand to rocky banks. Before long, Marcelo found himself running through dense vegetation. The waterfront disappeared. He ripped through vines and thorns like a prop through icy water; his lungs struggled to suck every bit of oxygen from the atmosphere. The wet vegetation provided a cooling rain, a stark contrast to the hot anger within him.

Before long, the vegetation was gone. A cool wind remained and his were once again saturated with the sound of water. His shoes sank into the white sand at his feet. Not 10 yards from where he now stood at the edge of the forest was a private wooden dock, a private estate. Two boats were tied up at the slips.

Marcelo needed a mode of transportation. He needed it fast. He needed it free — he needed it stolen.

The first option was a Sea Ray 40 Sundancer. Marcelo could see the Custom euro-style helm seat with flip-up, thigh-rise bolster and heavy duty pedestal with slide, swivel and pneumatic vertical adjustment. The cockpit wet-bar with Corian countertop and stainless steal handrail was visible from the dock. It was a vessel perfect for a luxurious cruise on the water, but it’s standard twin 8.1S Horizon MerCruiser engines wouldn’t provide the speed he needed.

He briefly imagined cruising on the still waters of the Guanabara Bay, and then something caught his eye.

It was the glint of sunlight off of low-profile stainless steel louvered engine vents. The white paint shined bright, accented by Pepsi blue racing stripes that ran the length of the boat. It was a Donzi 22’ 6” Classic, Carrol Shelby Edition. The only boat in the world to carry Shelby’s name, the same name as the famed mustang that symbolized the pinnacle of American muscle.

The custom blue upholstered high back bucket seats beckoned. Now to get it started. The coast was clear. Everything at the estate seemed still. Maybe Marcelo would get lucky and no one would be home. He jumped into the boat. Where was the access panel? There, below the ignition. He reached for his screwdriver. It easily popped the panel open.

Now the wires.

It was easy. Too easy. It was finally clear why his father had taught him to hotwire boats at such a young age. The movements were almost involuntary. Pull the battery terminal. Pull the ignition terminal. Twist. Pull the starter terminal. Touch.

The engine roared. The vibration of the engines sent a constant chill up Marcelo’s spine. The water at the back bubbled with rage. He could tell by the sound, the engines were MerCruiser 4496 Magnum H.O. BIX’s. The 425-horsepower engines could propel the 3,400-pound boat to over 100mph. Just what he needed. He wouldn’t be able to go against the XP Riders, but it was more than enough to catch Grey’s yacht.

“Hey! Hey you! What the hell are you doing.?”

Marcelo’s luck had run out. The boat’s true owner ran from the house, waving his cell phone through the air. It was time to go.  Marcelo jammed the throttle forward and the boat took off, almost throwing him off the back. It had a lot more power than he had expected.

Behind him, he could see the man frantically jumping up and down, holding the cell phone to one ear. If the man was on the cell phone, that could only mean one thing, the police weren’t far behind. But Grey needed to be found.

With the Donzi Shelby doing 80 mph on commend, he scanned the water looking for the Richmond yacht and its entourage of sleek cigarette boats.

What did General Grey do for his father? Who was he? Why would he want to kill Liberio? The questions would be answered one way or another. Marcelo was sure of that.

More speed. He continued to scan. Nothing. He began to recognize his surroundings. He was in Guanabara Bay, the oceanic bay on the eastern shores of the city of Rio de Janeiro. He knew the bay well. He and his father used to cruise Botafogo, the beachfront barrio, frequently when Marcello was little. Botafogo was a high-class place; lots of people, beautiful mountain scenery and lots of boats.

His ears picked up something that his eyes couldn’t yet find. A roar louder than the Donzi engines. It was the Mercury Racing engines. Not too far ahead was the giant Richmond yacht, surrounded by the six go-fast boats, with Marcelo now in pursuit.

The Richmond yacht’s liability was its slow speed. And General Grey was arrogant. He wasn’t even cruising at full speed. Marcelo was pulling close. Very close. Close enough to read the back of the general’s vessel —
“Norfolk, Virginia.”

Norfolk. They wouldn’t get to Norfolk. Marcelo was sure of that.

Ping!

“What the hell was that?” Marcelo thought.

Grey’s men were peering out of their boats, laying down a suppressive gunfire. Marcelo swerved to make a hard target and ducked below the deck, occasionally peering over to see where he was going. The gunfire fire was thick. The Donzi wouldn’t withstand much more punishment, but Marcelo kept the throttle up. He couldn’t let Grey get away.

Then another sound, one worse than the sound of the bullets pelting the Donzi hull. Sirens. Marcello looked behind him. The Brazilian police water in hot pursuit. “I was going to give him his boat back,” Marcello thought to himself. “The guy couldn’t even give me fifteen minutes?”

It was a painful decision, but with the increasing gunfire and the police in hot pursuit, Marcelo was forced end his chase. He had to get away; to run today and live to pursue the man that killed his father tomorrow.

Still ducking, he throttled back and violently wrenched the steering wheel as far left as possible. The boat swerved hard as he struggled to stay aboard. Throttle up, the Donzi Shelby accelerated almost clear out of the water. If the boat had wings, it would have flown.

There was only one place to go. Someplace crowded, some place where he could get lost. Botafogo.

He looked behind him. Two police boats were still in pursuit and they were gaining. The beautiful, high-class Botafogo beachfront loomed larger. He just needed to reach it, to get lost amid the countless yachts populating the harbor.

The police yelled for Marcello to stop over the bullhorn. Why were they pursuing him while the true criminal got away? He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. Another warning came from the police boats.

Marcelo made it to the harbor. The Donzi began weaving through the vast array of yachts, handling so well that Marcello momentarily forgot he was on the water.

The police were not letting up. Shot’s rang out as Marcelo continued to weave. The bullets ricocheted off the back of the boat. Are they crazy? They’re going to hit the gas tank! The boat would explode amid all these people, families trying to enjoy themselves on an otherwise beautiful day.

More shots. More frequently hitting their target. They didn’t want to shoot Marcello. They wanted to blow him up.

Instinctively, Marcello leapt from the boat into the water, just barely escaping the heat and pressure of the explosion. Apparently, the tanks were full. His ears popped with sharp searing pain as he fell to the water.

Underwater, Marcelo contemplated giving up. Don’t worry about swimming to the surface. If you stay under, you can’t get caught. You won’t feel the rage of losing your father. You won’t have to mourn. But he couldn’t let Grey get away.

Marcelo could see the silhouettes of the various yacht’s floating above. The police boats circled the burning hull of the Donzi Shelby. They were still looking for him.

He reached for the PVC pipe still in his pocket and swam to the surface. He was in luck. A line attached to one of the boats above, a Meridian 580 Pilothouse yacht, was loose in the water.

He grabbed ahold of the line. The cool water made him aware of the stinging pain in his shoulder, which had a fresh gunshot wound. But he couldn’t worry about that now.

He used the PVC pipe as a snorkel while being dragged away by the boat, which, like all the others, was being pushed from the area by the energy generated as a result of the explosion. The police continued searching for Marcelo’s body. He should have known better than to think that the corrupt Brazilian police would deliver justice. The Americans probably paid them off.

He had to find the general. One word stuck in his mind. Norfolk.