Blank Slate Press
Copyright © 2024 Raymond Paul Johnson
All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of the imagination. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. While some of the characters and incidents portrayed here can be found in historical or contemporary accounts, they have been altered and rearranged by the author to suit the strict purposes of storytelling. The book should be read solely as a work of fiction.
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Blank Slate Press
Blank Slate Press is an imprint of
Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi
Cover art: Kristina Blank Makansi
Set in Adobe Caslon Pro, Big Caslon, Gill Sans Nova
Library of Congress Control Number:
ISBN: 9781943075836
To my wife June—my partner, my love, my muse and truly the wind beneath my wings.
With liberty and justice for all.
CHAPTER ONE
Southern California, 2005
Gasping for air, Eric Ridge’s body slapped the dark, cold water in the marina. Saltwater exploded everywhere as the whacking sound turned muffled, then quiet, like a closing coffin. Above surface, life at the marina went on. Below, Ridge knew he had to pull himself together. Move his arms, go deeper. Escape the huge, screaming sonofabitch in a black wetsuit who for no reason had bashed him in the head and tossed his 210-pound frame from the boat like a fisherman throwing back unwanted catch.
As Lieutenant Eric Ridge training as a combat pilot in Southeast Asia, he’d taken plenty of water survival courses. But none of them, nada, mentioned submerging at night with your head split open and no time to suck in air. In the pitch-black water, his eyes darted back and forth. His heart thudded against his ribs. It pulsated. What about the new stent? Left anterior descending artery. The widow maker. No time to dwell on that. Had to push past it. He had one chance. He flipped around, swam deeper and headed back toward the sonofabitch.
Ridge’s arms stretched out and pulled water, like oars. His mind swirled. Decades, in courtrooms. Fighting for justice. Against the powerful. For those less so. Sometimes thankless, soul-crushing, even dangerous. But this? What was this? Payback? Intimidation? Madman on the loose?
Beneath the boat, Ridge grabbed one of two rear propellers. Pulled up. Craning his neck left, he pushed his right ear into the flat bottom, and forced his mouth and nose into a small air pocket created by the slightly elevated swim step. He hoped to God he hadn’t left the boat keys where the psycho could switch on the props. Rip him to shreds. Ridge used short, measured breaths to control his heartbeat. But the real problem—was the blood. The asshole had sliced open his forehead. Ridge pressed his left hand above his eyes to slow the bleeding. Cold saltwater might help, but still. It hurt like hell. His mind raced. Who the hell was that guy and what new case was he screaming about?
He caught himself. Wasting time he didn’t have. Any minute the maniac would figure out where he was hiding. Stay here? A sitting duck. Swim out? Be seen. Helluva choice.
Releasing his forehead enough to read fluorescent numbers on his dive watch, Ridge let two minutes tick by. His thoughts flashed to his son, Sean. Drowned during amphibious ops. Port city of Umm Qasr, invading Iraq. Ridge stopped breathing. Pictured Sean. Then he switched back on and drew in deeper breaths. He had to do something. But what?
Seconds later, sucking in a long pull of air, he released the prop, and started to sink. He reached into the right pocket of his jeans for his pocketknife. Hoping the cold water had slowed the bleeding, he dropped his left hand from his head and snapped open the knife. He quickly cut off both sleeves of his flannel shirt, tied the cuffs together and wrapped it tightly around his head. He pushed water down with both arms and kicked to propel himself back to the air pocket. Grabbing the prop, he pulled up, pushed his left ear into the fiberglass bottom, and took in a long, slow breath.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Then another. He whiffed a strange blend of fish and fumes. Not good.
Another long, long breath and Ridge dove down. He was six-feet two-inches and estimated the bottom at twenty feet. He pivoted left and swam across the sand, like a manta ray, another fifteen feet north. Figuring he’d passed the finger dock and the sailboat in the next slip, he pivoted up and pushed water down with both hands, twisting in place to face south toward his boat. As his wrapped head slowly broke water, he sucked in a deep breath. The neighboring 30-foot sailboat was between him and the maniac. Ridge pulled himself along the side of the sailboat, peered out beyond the back toward his boat, and witnessed all Hell break loose.
Fire erupted from the rear of his boat like a flamethrower aimed at the heavens. He choked on burning rubber and smoke. Grit in the air. Heat braised his face. The water’s surface had turned colors—eerie orange, blue, and red hues—against the night sky, broken only by sheets of reflected flames. Just south of his slip, a Los Angeles County patrol boat, red and blue lights gleaming, began spraying a torrent of high-pressure water into the blaze. His heart and stomach sank.
A moment later, a flood of light engulfed him followed by a familiar voice calling out, “Eric? Eric Ridge? That you?”
He pivoted toward the sound and managed to call out an acknowledgement.
“Thought it was your boat. It’s Patty Barnes. Hang on, we’ll get you out.”
Ridge had met Patrisse Barnes, the first African American woman in the Redondo Beach Harbor Patrol, fifteen years ago. She’d testified for him at trial, and they’d kept in touch. Now she held senior rank. “Jones,” she said to another patrol officer, “jump in there. Help him mount that swim ladder. Then cross the sailboat to the pier. Meet you there.”
By the time Ridge flopped exhausted on the wooden dock, Patty was down on one knee with her medical kit open. Ridge’s hand went to his makeshift headband and throbbing head as she started unwrapping the sleeves. “That’s a hell of a slice. Here, stay down. Put pressure on it with this.” She placed a compress on his forehead. “Paramedic’s on the way. You’re gonna need stitches. I’m guessing at least a dozen.”
Ridge, pressing harder on the compress, stared up at her. “With this hard head, it’ll take a riveting gun. The boat’s gone?”
“No. Fire’s under control. We’ll have it out in a bit. But you need to lay back. Keep that compress tight to your head. Don’t shut your eyes. No snoozing! Why did this happen? Talk to me.”
Laying back, woozy, fading in and out, he turned toward Patty. “No idea why…why these things happen to me. Lucky, I guess.”
