'Battle Lines Are Drawn'

The sun was low in the sky by the time the lone boatman arrived back at Bad Santa's private island. He had been hit not once but twice by the deer hunter's bullets, and though not mortal wounds, they still had caused him to lose a lot of blood. The bottom the boat was awash with several inches of pinkish water --- from both the holes the deer hunter's bullets had made in the fibreglass hull and what had come from the driver's injuries. Four guards and one of Bad Santa's lieutenants were on the dock to meet him.

"What the hell happened to you?" the lieutenant demanded.

"What the fuck does it look like, Swanson?! We ran into trouble down in the Clayton Gap. A bloody sailboat full of snipers!"

"Snipers?!" Swanson repeated, unconsciously hunching lower and looking around. "Did they follow you?!"

"It was a sailboat, Einstein! I've got a fucking 75 Merc on the back here!"

Swanson frowned at the sleek white boat and the large black motor weighing down the stern. He also noted the several bullet holes in the hull and the pink water in the bottom. "And the other three men?" he asked.

"Gone," the boatman grunted, moving painfully to stand up. "I told you, they had snipers!"

"What did the sailboat look like?"

The boatman squinted up at Swanson through his pain. "A fucking sailboat! You know! Sails and pointy things!"

"What colour sails? White or dark hull?"

"Shit! I don't know! A dark I think. With orangey-brown or red sails!"

Swanson turned to the four guards who were standing with weapons poised as though they were about to be attacked. "You two help him up to the house. You other two keep watch here. If you see anything at all, send word right away!"

Swanson led the way up the path to Santa's Workshop.

***

Saint Nick heard the distinctive sound of a Mercury approaching at full throttle while eating at his dining room table. He glanced at each of the other three people there, taking note of their different reactions.

Rings Coslowski, St. Nick's's razor-thin, second in command, met his boss's glance as he sipped his third drink. Tommy Two-Tone, his name coming from the wide streak of white hair amidst his long, dark locks, continued to eat, oblivious to everything but the food on his plate. The third person at the table was already on her feet and moving towards the large window that overlooked the bay.

"Boat coming in fast!" Bridget Termin said. "Looks like one of the patrol boats --- with only one person in it!" She drew her .45 automatic and wracked in a shell. "I'll go down and check things out."

Despite his bulk, Bad Santa was at her side in a moment. He saw the boat reach the dock, Swanson and the guards help the driver out and hurry him up the path to the main house. 'Now what the fuck's wrong?!' the ex-biker said to himself.

"Boss, do I go or stay?" Bridget asked.

"Stay. There's no real threat. Probably just another fuck-up!"

The tall blonde holstered her weapon and went to meet Swanson at the door.

Rings was up pouring himself another drink and While Tommy Two-Tone cleaned his plate, then sat back to light up a smoke. St. Nick went back to his seat and waited for the 'bad news' to arrive. As usual, it didn't take long.

***

"So that's it?" he asked a few minutes later. "Snipers on a fucking sailboat?! "Nothing else?"

The wounded man looked confused. "Else?" he repeated.

"Ya," the man known as 'Bad Santa' replied. "You know, like more information?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," St. Nick said dryly, taking a cigar from a pocket and biting off the tip. "Things like how many snipers were there? Did you fire back? Did they follow you back here?! Shit like that!"

The wounded man frowned. "Of course we fired back, but they took out the guys in the red boat right away! After that we circled them a few times, but when Regie was killed I figured it was time to haul ass back here!"

St. Nick nodded towards the man's bleeding shoulder. "When were you hit?"

"Just before I broke off and headed back here."

"And did the sailboat follow you?"

"No sir. They went upriver along the south shore of Wolfe Island's."

"The south shore? Not the north shore?" St Nick demanded.

"No, it was the south shore, I swear! Why? What's the problem?"

"The problem is that Smuggler's Bay is just upriver from there," St. Nick said with considerable force. "The problem is that is where the Grant compound is!"

The boatman managed another frown. "That the fella they call 'Prince Rodney'?"

"Ya, that's him!" Bad Santa replied, the rage that had been boiling inside him finally bursting free. "Prince Rodney Fucking Grant! The cock-sucker that would be king! He's the bastard that sent the snipers!" In his rage he looked around the room for something to destroy. A stuffed head of a ten point buck hung over the fireplace. St. Nick drew his handgun and fired four shots. One bullet chipped off a tine and another shattered a glass eye. The loud noise and smell of gunpowder filled the room.

Bridget Termin smiled and moved closer. "Fell better now, boss? Or would you like to shoot something else?"

St. Nick looked at the dangerous beauty and smiled coldly. "I'd like to shoot that sonovabitch Rodney Grant! And I will! I swear to God I will!"

Bridget shook her golden mane and gave the ex-biker a long, sultry look. "Maybe you'd like to take me upstairs so I could help you 'relax' a little?"

St. Nick showed some teeth. "Maybe later, doll. Right now I have to get the boys ready for war."

Rings Cozlowski snickered and raised his glass. "It's about fucking time. I never liked that bastard Grant!"

Bad Santa knocked the glass from Ring's hand and slapped him hard on the face. The heavy hand on sallow flesh was almost as loud as the gunshots. Ring's glass eyes suddenly focussed and his be-ringed hand went to the Beretta on his hip --- but the muzzle of Santa's piece was already under his neck.

"I need you, Rings! I need you sharp n' frosty! So forget the booze and gear-up! I want fifty men ready and packing heavy shit by sunrise tomorrow! Two or three large boats to carry half the gear and troops, but I want half doven smaller speedboats as well. Each with a three man crew; one to drive and two to shoot!"

His eyes flashing and his sallow skin still smarting, Rings conjured up an evil grin. "We're gunna lay down some heavy shit on the prince's head, right boss?"

"The heaviest shit we can bring!" came the reply.

"Out-fucking-standing!" the skinny psycho replied.

Bad Santa gave him his warmest smile.

***

The two teenagers, Becky Lansdowne and Vinnie Ferretti brought Molly Tweed's late husband's sailboat neatly alongside the dock at the Grant Compound in Smuggler's Bay. Several armed men and woman were there to meet them. One tall, darkhaired woman in particular seemed to be in charge. She stepped forward and spoke to Becky as the teenager stepped onto the wharf. "It looks like you've had some trouble?"

Becky, though in shock, was still functioning at her usual high level. Her hands still covered with blood from dressing Vinnie's shoulder wound, she looked up at the imposing woman and nodded. "We were attacked by two speedboats coming through the Clayton Gap. Probably Bad Santa's men. The barber, Mr. Flood was shot and killed and my friend Vinnie was hit in the shoulder. We've brought a letter for Mr. Grant."

Catherine Curotte, called 'The Baroness' by most, smiled at the young girl and offered her hand. "I'm Cathy, Mr. Grant's second in command. He's not here right now, but should be back tomorrow. Come up to the compound. I'll have someone take care of the body."

The lass goes nowhere without me," Alistair MacPherson put in gruffly, his deer rifle cradled easily in the crook of his arm.

Catherine Curotte's welcoming smile suddenly vanished as she turned to the thick bearded Scott. "And you are?"

"One o' the men sent to protect these young'ns. The other lies dead in the cabin. But the lad there needs tendin'. He's still bleeding n' I fear his shoulder's broken."

The Baroness held Macpherson's fierce gaze, glanced at Vinnie's pale face and bleeding shoulder, then turned to the guards. "Two of you bring boy up to the house. Another of you find the doctor. You last two take the body out and bury it."

"The body stays where it is," MacPherson said firmly. "We'll be takin' Harry back home in the mornin' to his kinfolk."

Catherine nodded agreement, her smile returning when she faced Becky. "Let's all go up to the big house. I'll get you some dry clothes while the doctor sees to your friend."

Helping Vinnie off the boat, Becky guided him up the steep path. MacPherson followed along behind like a well armed nursemaid

***

Sometime later, after putting another log on the fire, Catherine Curotte turned to Becky who was sitting in a large chair wrapped in a blanket. Vinnie was in another room with the doctor and MacPherson sat close by with a stiff drink in one hand and his rifle in the other. "You mentioned a letter for Mr. Grant," the Baroness said. "Can you tell me who sent it and what it's about?"

"I haven't read it,' Becky answered; "but it's from the boatbuilder, Samuel Burnham. He's sort of become the town leader --- and he's asking for Mr. Grant's help."

"What kind of 'help'?"

"Have you ever heard of the Gleason family?" Becky asked.

"Unfortunately, yes." The Baroness was still smiling, though her eyes had gone cold.

Becky leaned forward and continued. "Mr. Burnham had some trouble with Billy-Ray Gleason about a week ago and the other day Billy came back with some friends and setMr. Burnham's boatyard on fire. Apparently there was some shooting and Billy was killed. One or two others as well. Mr. Burnham believes that now Billy-Ray's father will want revenge against the whole town."

"And Mr. Burnham wants Mr. Grant to come to your town's rescue?" the Baroness asked.

Becky stiffened at the older woman's tone. "Mr. Burnham wants Mr. Grant to keep the promise he to him made last month."

"Oh?" Baroness Curotte asked, with one raised eyebrow. "And what promise was that?"

"At the beach party last month on Grindstone," Becky replied. "Everyone's heard about it. How Mister Grant promised that he and his men would to patrol the river and come to the aid of any community that needed help in return for a portion of the different town's goods and yearly harvests. They both swore and oath and shook hands! Doc Stone said it reminded him of a Medieval play!"

The stern face of the older woman suddenly creased into a pretty smile. "At the time I thought that as well, Becky. Arthur and Lancelot, each pledging fealty to the other!"

"Or Jamie Fraser hand swearing to Column McKenzie, the Laid of Castle Leoch!" Becky quickly added.

The Baroness frowned and glanced over at MacPherson. The Mad Scott showed her a toothy grin and raised his empty glass. "It's from a romance the lassie's reading. I'm afeared she's enamoured with everything Scots."

Catherine Curotte snorted out a laugh. "Aren't we all, Mr. MacPherson? I'm quite familiar with Jamie and Clair's 'heeland adventures'. Another wee dram, sir?" she asked, nodding at Alistair's empty glass.

The Mad Scot's dour face creased into a warm grim. "I don't mind if I do, lass."

***

"Will you come then, Mr. Grant?" Becky asked the darkly handsome man the next day after he had finished reading Sam's letter.

"Of course I will, miss," Rodney Grant told the wide-eyed teenager. "I gave the man my word. One soldier to another."

"Aye," MacPherson put in dryly. "The lassie kens well that a mahn's only as good as his word. But when can we tell Samuel to expect you? For Ralph Gleason is a stout of a mahn, n' will not wait on his revenge. Tarry overlong n' the town o' Mohawk could be but dead bodies n' smouldering ashes when you arrive!"

Grant noted the arrogant twinkle in the old man's eye and smiled, for in many ways MacPherson reminded him of his stern and very canny father. "You leave for Mohawk tomorrow at first light. We'll do the same the next morning --- so look for us around noon the day after tomorrow."

"N' the numbers o' armed fighters that you'll bring?" MacPherson asked.

"A hundred at least. More if I can."

The old Scott beamed. "You're a prince o' a mahn, Grant. Worthy of a song well sung!"

"Or a book well read!" The Baroness added with a smile.

"Aye, lass," Alistair smiled through his thick beard. "Perhaps such old tales will once again spring to life!"

"Perhaps they will, Mr. MacPherson," Baroness Curotte replied wistfully. "And wouldn't that be a grand thing indeed?"

***