Sally is bleeding. The bullet went clean through, back to front piercing her left shoulder. With no vital damage assessed she attempted to remain calm. And she recognized it was the recent ice out water temperature of the lake slowing her pulse and blood flow, thus keeping her alive. For now.

“Later, when there is time for later, I will thank Tawny for swimming me to the bottom in full-on-escape-mode. And apologize for overstepping my bounds in that bass tournament,” she thought.

Then, not totally confident of the situation on land…. She cautiously communicated with Link who was now on point with his nose sixteen inches above hers. Her voice murmured into bubbles, “Go get Rusty, boy. Tell him Eagle One is here.” And then she passed out.

Shorty Short’s countdown continued near the firepit with a twitchy finger. He had Professor Scale in his sights and was down to “FOUR—THREE—TWO”.

Cos was about to crack with his entire being shaking like a leaf on a poplar tree. Rusty started to dry heave (no surprises here). Ellie was glancing down reading her own lips (we are screwed). Tawny fought the tie straps on her wrists and legs like a timber wolf caught in a snare.

Then suddenly, Professor Scale blurts out, “The eggs are in a vault—explosive—pressure of a volcano if not opened properly!”

          This made Shorty Short raise his singular eyebrow. “Go on! Go on!”

“Yes,” continued Cos. “Clearly you know the Kraken eggs are below the boathouse, but what you don’t know is there’s a scientific method in play that if disturbed incorrectly, the entire contents of the vault will combust!”

          “Combust? Speak English, old man!”

“You know—combust—like nitro—blow up—ker boom—we are all gone—including this island.”

Cos was completely shooting from the hip, but Shorty Short was at least hesitating and now looking at the boathouse. Everyone caught their breath waiting for his next move.

Hazel was done waiting. From inside the confines of the building she decided it was time to make her play. Time for “The Fall of Too Tall.”

Prying the last board loose she watched as Too Tall momentarily turned away to discard the last length of lumber. Below, she could see a military-grade waterproof case with quadruple biometric locks (tricky) resting in the squared-out space of the brick fabrication.

Raising her Glock 19 with Bond speed it was now or never—but not fast enough. A ricochet grazed the edge of her right hip. Somehow Too Tall knew she had turned double-agent. And the mirror from a ’72 Chevy C10 rigged to the wall of the boathouse in which he viewed, gave light and opportunity to fire first. It was a poorly executed awkward no-look, and at best an extremely clumsy under the opposite arm attempt. Not exactly a Michael Jordan dish move.

He wounded her, but the titanium suppressor attached to the barrel of his pistol drew no attention from the crowd of listeners at the beach. Then, with the speed of a lightning bolt—the kind that chases anglers off the water—Hazel launched like a tiger for close quarters combat.

Violent chaos ensued—A corroded pipe wrench from the work bench—A tattered rope with a metal dock cleat dangling from its end—A sturgeon gaff reaching in excess of six feet—The proverbial gloves were off and it was not over until she busted his knee cap with a boat oar (this noise was for sure heard by Link who held an evolutionary advantage) that Too Tall went down for the count.

“One more shot for good measure!” she huffed while smashing his head into a mooring post. “Your fishing tournament is over! And you know what else…. Your mother was smarter than you, but a worse shot! That’s how she ended up in the bottom of that septic tank.”

Then she turned to exit the boathouse…. Thought twice…. Thought about Sally…. Picked up Too Tall’s gun and shot him once in the gut. “I hope you bleed out like a northern pike speared below the ice, you Kraken egg sucking pig!” she added for finality.

Link had heard enough and darted off the dock in full puppy stride toward the firepit. But not before being overly careful, per the British gentleman he was, to make sure he marked Sally’s pinpoint location with the slightest of tinkling. One leg up—no splattering—just a calculated one quarter test tube sized amount of fluid.

Rusty, at the opposite end of the spectrum, could no longer maintain regulation of bodily functions. Thankfully, the dry heaving had involuntarily ceased, but bladder control had now become an issue.

Link was not the only animal on the move. Shorty Short had also heard rumblings from the finality of the ruckus in the boathouse. And now, with his dime store pistol (according to Tawny) raised, he started walking—slowly like a junkyard tomcat that has figured out how to flush rats from a garbage tin.

Chas the gander held a no win, lose, or draw view from his safe distance. “Remain silent, look away, don’t involve yourself,” he thought inside his pea sized brain. Then in the next breath he rolled his eyes (twice), let out an ERR-RONK, ran across the top of the water flapping his wings, and took flight towards the boathouse. “These damn Brits are always getting us Canucks into trouble!” he cursed.

 –To Be Continued—