WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (Part 25)

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152

Jared Mulligan

I looked left, then right. Then up, and finally, down. I saw no one who could possibly witness what I was about to do.

I stepped back into my room to fetch the CPU and placed it on the balcony table.

153

Once inside the adjacent cabin, Archer locked the door behind him, and proceeded to the balcony. Archer took advantage of the privacy partition between the balconies for concealment. He peeked around. Mulligan balcony was not sitting out under the stars, but there was something sitting on the table. A computer?  He saw Mulligan’s shadow as he came back out onto the balcony. Archer ducked back behind the partition.

154

Jared Mulligan

Another quick look revealed no last-second potential witnesses. I heaved the computer over the railing, as far out as I could. I turned immediately and went back into my cabin to grab the monitor.

155

Archer began to climb over, but stopped suddenly when Mulligan came out onto the balcony again, dressed all in black, with a cape, a mask, and a funny-looking hat. Mulligan grabbed the computer and heaved it overboard, then went back inside his cabin.

156

Jasmine

She would wing it, do the job any way she could. This would be her last opportunity before reaching Sydney. With no plan, she remained concealed behind a stairway. One of the ever-present Aussies, the taller one, was engaged in conversation with Daniel Seton. She could, if necessary, take them both out. Easy to do. Just a bit more complicated.

Earlier, when she’d been standing in the shadows, listening to the Australians—no doubt in her mind now that they were Death Adders sent by Dexter Flynn—making last minute plans for tonight’s attack, she had considered protecting Ty Hamilton, and abandoning the contract on Daniel Seton.

She’d done it once before, when she’d shot the real Mulligan. She thought that she had failed, but now she knew that she had underestimated Ty Hamilton. Why he was now posing as Jared Mulligan was anyone’s guess.

Raquel and her family had already gone through the grieving process, such as it was, and there was nothing to be gained by resurrecting a man who was not missed and ready to move on. Let him be, and let him fend for himself. This might actually work to her advantage, splitting the Aussies. While one went after Mulligan—who she now knew to in fact be Ty Hamilton—she would have a better chance of getting to Daniel Seton.

A thousand scenarios raced through her mind. Ways to get it done were aplenty. Ways to get it done and get away without drawing suspicion—not so much.

And then, the answer fell from the sky. Literally.

157

“What was that?” Seton said.

“I didn’t see anything,” the tall Aussie, Peter, replied.

“Something just fell. I couldn’t tell what it was.”

158

Jared Mulligan

When I returned, I again checked for potential witnesses, and again found none. I tossed the monitor into the ocean.

159

Archer raised himself up, standing on the railing, holding onto the partition, and was about to swing over onto Mulligan’s balcony when Mulligan came out again. This time, Mulligan was carrying a screen, the monitor from the computer. Just as before, he heaved it overboard, then stood perfectly still with his back to Archer, looking upward toward the night sky.

160

They both looked upward, just in time to see another object coming downward. “What in the world?” Seton ran to the railing, to peer overboard.

161

Jared Mulligan

It was done. I looked up, into the sky. Inspired by the sight of the beautiful full moon peeking out from between the gathering storm clouds, I removed my plastic sword from its scabbard, and began fencing with an imaginary foe. Slashing, blocking, lunging, and twirling as lightning flashed in the distance. Slashing a Z.  “So the devil will know who sent you,” I said. I finished the performance with a final lunge and thrust. That felt good. I stepped back, flipped the sword upward.

162

Archer watched, suppressing the urge to laugh as Mulligan removed the sword from its scabbard and began twirling around, moving forward, then backward, side-stepping, sword-fighting an invisible opponent. Slashing, blocking, lunging, and twirling. And then, Mulligan slashed the letter Z, and said, “So the devil will know who sent you.”

Archer quietly slipped around the partition to the railing on Mulligan’s balcony. Keeping one hand on the partition for balance, he spread his feet shoulder-width apart. With his back still turned to Archer, Mulligan lunged forward and thrust the sword as if running through his imaginary enemy just as the first few droplets of rain began to fall.

 It was now or never. With the quickness of a cat, Archer launched his attack.

A split-second before Archer crashed onto him, Mulligan stepped back, flipped the plastic sword upward.

“Jesus!” Archer cried out as the tip of the plastic sword struck his right eye.

163

Jared Mulligan

I was stunned. I lay there on the floor of the balcony, gasping for air, unable to inhale. My mind was in a state of confusion.  A moment ago, I had been playing Zorro, like a little kid. And then, the wind had been knocked out of me.

I gasped for air, but, with a collapsed diaphragm, I could not inflate my lungs. It had happened to me before a couple times, as a kid, and I felt the same sense of panic now that I had then. Times ten, factoring in the fear of having an attacker next to me on the balcony.

I’d heard him cry out in pain just as he landed on me, and in the corner of my eye I could see him, struggling to his feet, holding one hand over an eye that was bleeding profusely. He grabbed for the railing, pulled himself up onto his feet. He turned toward me.

Archer? What the . . .

With hatred his good eye, he began stomping me, kicking my head, my ribs, and, when I threw them up in defense, my arms.

After what seemed an eternity, I finally managed to inhale. Only a little at first, then a bit more. Archer kept dishing out the punishment. I assumed the fetal position, covering my head with my arms and hands.

I had at one time been a proficient martial artist. Not a badass. But I had learned enough to feel confident in my ability to defend myself.

On the path to earning my black belt, I had to learn literally hundreds of techniques. Some were good, useful in the real world. Others, like what you see in movies and on television, look great but will get you killed if you try them on someone who knows what they are doing.

Archer was younger, stronger, and a badass. My only hope of survival was to stick to the basics. After about the twentieth kick, Archer began to tire. Not enough to quit, but enough to slow down just a bit. I threw up my hands in a cross block, cupped my right hand over his heel, my left hand over his toe, and rolled to my right. There was nothing fancy about the move, but it was effective, using Archer’s leg as a lever to flip him.

His head crashed onto the table, opening a gash over his good eye. He cursed, and lashed out with a powerful backhand that caught the side of my head and made me see stars. I maintained my grip, continued rolling over on top of him into what would be a submission hold in a tournament.

Only, this was not a tournament. Archer was crying out in pain, slapping his hand on the floor. Was he tapping out? Or trying to sucker me into releasing my grip? I couldn’t last against him if I were to take pity and let go. He had come here to kill me, and that is what he would do. But, I couldn’t maintain this hold on him forever, either. I twisted sharply, breaking the leg.