Hutch froze. How could I have been so stupid! he berated himself. He knew, belatedly, he should never have let down his guard, even for an instant. Why the hell hadn’t he taken Starsky’s gun when he had the opportunity? Fatigue and worry over his injured partner had dulled his senses; now here he was, caught like a green rookie without a weapon—unprepared.
“Back in!” Copeland gritted out between clinched teeth. He motioned with the gun barrel for Hutch to back up.
Never taking his eyes off the murderer, Hutch complied. “Look, put the gun away before someone gets hurt. These people aren’t going to try anything,” Hutch reasoned.
“Just shut up and do what I tell you! I’m in charge now.” Using his foot, Copeland kicked the door shut behind them. His eyes quickly perused the room, taking in the scared faces of the men, women, and children. Most drew back and huddled against their canvas cots, the men shielding their families—unsure what was happening, and unwilling to risk asking.
“Where’s pretty boy?” Copeland snarled. “The tree get him?”
Unwittingly, Ina’s eyes slid toward Starsky, revealing his quiet form on the cot to Copeland’s right. The man snorted and a cruel smile curled his lips. “Good...good—looks like he’s out of commission for awhile.” When he spied the table laden with supplies, he barked out an order. “You—” With his free hand, he pointed at Ina. “Get me something to eat—now!”
The frightened woman scurried to the table, and with shaking hands, hastily ladled a generous portion of the beans and rice into an aluminum pan and offered it to him. “Not that, you stupid sow! You think I’m crazy? I can’t eat that and hold a gun! Make me a sandwich.”
Tearfully, Ina hurried back to the table and slapped a piece of bologna between two slices of dry bread and took it back to Copeland. He snatched it from her without taking his eyes off Hutch, and scarfed it down, barely bothering to chew.
Hutch cut his eyes over at Starsky and saw the slow, even breathing of sleep. No help from that quarter. Even if Starsky was awake, Hutch knew the chances of him being able to help would be slim to none. He watched Copeland stuffing the sandwich into his mouth, more like an animal than a man. From the looks of his haggard face and torn clothes he’d spent a miserable, harrowing night out in the storm. Hutch could see similar nicks and scrapes covering the man’s exposed skin as those he and Starsky had endured from the biting winds and flying debris. His hair plastered to his head, and two days’ beard growth only added to Copeland’s look of malevolence.
“Coffee! I want coffee with this, damn you!” Copeland demanded of Ina. His eyes blazed with anger, but never left Hutch’s face. He wasn’t taking any chances. When Ina handed him a cup of steaming, hot coffee, he gulped it down, impervious to the scalding liquid. He tossed the empty cup on the floor, the thick stoneware shattering when it landed with a loud crack.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand, Copeland seemed to regain his balance from the food and drink. “I see a truck and a car out there. One of you jokers is gonna drive me out of this dump. And just to make sure blondie here doesn’t try anything cute, we’ll take his partner with us.”
Without thinking, Hutch stepped forward, ready to protest, but quickly found himself staring down the barrel of the Magnum again. “Uh-uh,” Copeland warned. “Don’t even think about it.”
Seeing Copeland meant it, Hutch held his hands up in supplication, hoping to reason with him. “Okay...okay. Take it easy. Look, why don’t we leave these people out of this? They have nothing to do with what’s going on between us. They’re just trying to survive this hurricane and get out of here alive with their families.”
“Awh…you're makin' my heart bleed, Hutchinson," Copeland sneered. "I told you I’m calling the shots now and I don’t need no advice from you.”
“I know...I know... You’re in charge. But Starsky and I are the ones who’re responsible for your being here. Why not let me drive you out. I’ll be your hostage. My partner can’t even walk, he’d just slow us down.”
Copeland laughed. “Nice try, Hutchinson. But I know you’d take a bullet yourself rather than let anything happen to pretty boy. That’s why he’s going and you ain’t.”
Looking around the room again impatiently, the gunman pointed at one of the men standing in front of his family. “You. You’re my driver. You’ll know how to get us out of here.” The man, Raphael, who could speak no English, looked anxiously at Carlos, then Javier, imploring them to tell him what the crazy man with the gun had said.
Carlos quickly interpreted and Raphael drew back in fear, turning to whisper to his wife, who, in turn, threw her arms around him and began to sob. “Please, take me instead,” Carlos offered. “It is my vehicle and I have lived here the longest. You will be safer with me.”
Copeland considered this, sizing up the older man. “All right,” he said after a moment's hesitation. “You, me and pretty boy. I want two of these men to take him—” His words were drowned out by the shrieking wind and the deafening hammering of the rain as Debbie began her deadly march over the shelter again. “What the hell—?”
“It is the hurican′, señor´. She is moving again. We were in the eye.”
Hutch watched Copeland sharply, hoping for a distraction so he could make his move. Despite the howling wind and the loud drumming of the rain on the roof of the depot, the gunman stayed focused, not giving him any quarter.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Eye? What eye? You tryin’ to hand me some mumbo-jumbo? We’re getting out of here now!”
“You can’t, Copeland. The worst part of the storm is just beginning. If you try to leave now, you’ll all be killed,” Hutch argued.
“Please, señor, he is right,” Carlos agreed. “If we leave now, we will not make it to the mainland. Please trust me. I do not want to die, and we all three will, if we try to leave now.”
Copeland’s face was a mirror of conflicting emotions as he tried to decide if the scared Cuban man was lying to him. Then, without warning, a loud crash shook the ground just outside the window behind him, rattling the shelter from its concrete floors to the highest beam of the rafters. Before anyone knew what was happening, the sanctuary was plunged into darkness.
Seeing his opening, Hutch lunged forward in the pitch-blackness, grabbing Copeland’s hand, driving his right arm up—deflecting the gun toward the ceiling. As he struggled for control of the weapon, Hutch was surprised by the strength Copeland still possessed after being stranded outdoors in the gale-ridden night. Hutch felt the sharp kick of the Magnum as it discharged, slamming a round into the ceiling above them. Suddenly, Hutch heard a dull thud and felt the assailant go limp and crumple on the floor before him.
Without stopping to wonder what had happened, Hutch wrested the gun from Copeland’s loosened grip and stood up, pointing it down at the dark lump at his feet. Within seconds, a battery operated lantern flamed to life, revealing the prostrate man on the floor, lying in a puddle of steaming, hot black beans. Beside his head lay the cast iron pot that had held the mixture. Hutch’s eyes flew up to the frightened face of Elena—the pot wielder—who seemed no less surprised by her own actions than Hutch had been.
Quiet hung in the air for only a moment before a wide grin broke the solemn expression on the girl’s face and she began laughing. Hutch, awash with relief and exhaustion, gave way to the laughter himself. Suddenly, the whole room joined in—immensely amused by the irony that an armed gunman, who'd survived a night alone outdoors in one of the worst hurricanes to hit the peninsula this century, had been taken out by a sixteen year old girl, brandishing a pot of beans!
The lights flickered back on, then off, and back on again. Outside, the maelstrom still raged, but the electricity held. Hutch rolled the unconscious murderer onto his stomach and secured his hands with a spare set of cuffs. At the direction of Carlos, two of the men dragged Copeland to a broom closet and locked him in.
Ina lightly touched Hutch’s shoulder. “Señor Starsky is awake," she told him with a smile. "I think his fever has broken. He’s asking for you.”
Stuffing the Magnum back into its holster, Hutch made his way across the room to where Starsky lay on the cot. “Hey, buddy. How’re you doing?”
“Terrific,” Starsky muttered. “What’d I miss? I thought I heard that cannon of yours fire. Was it a dream?”
“No, you heard it all right. Copeland’s here, but we’ve got him in custody now.”
Starsky’s eyes widened momentarily, then drooped again. “Awh, come on—I didn’t sleep through somethin’ like that, did I?”
“Afraid so. But it’s okay.” Hutch smiled indulgently and patted Starsky’s arm. “I’ll let you take out the next bad guy, okay?”
“Okay,” Starsky whispered back. “He didn't crack that big, dumb skull of yours, did he? I mean, I wasn't there to watch your back for ya…” His eyes were only slivers of blue now, as their tired lids slid shut.
“You may find this hard to believe, Starsk, but somehow I managed to muddle through on my own," Hutch smirked good-naturedly. You just try and get some rest. The hurricane is nearly passed, so we should be able to get you to a hospital soon. Just take it easy.”
Starsky only grunted, giving up the effort to stay awake.
Hutch sighed tiredly, running an exhausted hand over his eyes before reaching down to tuck the covers around Starsky again. Once satisfied his partner was sleeping soundly, he slumped over in his seat and fell asleep. Even the blaring sound of the cruel wind and the pounding rain couldn’t keep him awake now.