THE GETAWAY

#143 - I felt a heavy thud. Like I’d run over something. I looked back to see what it was, and there was Harry, on Jules’s airboat, closing the distance fast. He leveled his handgun and fired a round

James Ron

Jan 05, 2026

Welcome to Before I Forget . .

I’m glad you are here. Thank you for your time.

THE GETAWAY

part 1

I had never fired my gun on a job before.

As Harry was running toward the guest house, I took off in the opposite direction around the side of the house and into the high grass.

At my airboat, I tucked the “CANNES” away under the console, put on my ear protection, and fired up my boat.

I lurched through and over the bulrushes into the waterway and got up to speed.

I put a lot of fast distance on the Intercoastal in my escape. Frequent looks back revealed no pursuer, and I settled into a cruising speed.

I met up with a tugboat.

I had to slow down to navigate its wake. Too much speed and at too sharp an angle from the wave crest and trough, and my flat shallow craft would pitch into the water and submerge.

It would be a quick end to my endeavors. Not to mention the damage to the painting from the dunking.

I felt a heavy thud. Like I’d run over something.

I looked back to see what it was, and there was Harry, on Jules’s airboat, closing the distance fast. He leveled his handgun and fired a round. Now I knew what that thud was. One of his rounds hit my boat somewhere. The high-pitched whine of my propeller muted the sound of his gunshots.

I don’t know where the shot went, but if he were to hit my prop blade, it could take me out of the game.

Harry was going too fast when he hit the first of the tugboat’s waves. He almost went under. His boat veered sharply, almost throwing him in the water. He recovered but lost distance on me.

We were putting on a show for the tug captain. A witness.

He fired another shot. I had only the wire cage enclosing the blades, the blades themselves, and the backrest of my seat for protection.

I fired a couple of rounds in his direction to give him something to think about. I had two rounds left.

Looking back again, I saw Harry wrestling with his pistol. It had jammed, as automatics are wont to do. I got lucky. He slowed considerably to deal with his gun.

Clearing the last of the tug’s wake, I throttled up. Another mile and I’d reach the shortcut into the marsh, right after a bend in the canal. Looking back, Harry was on my tail again.

No one was on that stretch of waterway as I rounded the bend.

I neared the narrow grass covered slough. If you didn’t know where to look, you’d never see it. I glided in slowly, tucked myself into an adjacent thicket of brush and bank trees, and shut down my engine.

I loaded up my gun.

I heard him coming.

Not seeing me ahead of him, he slowed down looking for my escape route. He shut off his engine to listen for me. Silence took over.

He started up again and cruised both banks looking for me, shutting down every so often for another listen.

I took him for a novice airboat pilot. He could have powered up and easily scaled the bank into the marsh for a look.

Half an hour passed, then he gave up, gunning the engine for home.

It was early afternoon.

I skirted Hackett’s Corner and headed for Scotty’s place at Little Chenier, another twenty minutes away.

His place appears on the horizon like a bug on long straight legs. After Hurricane Ike wiped him out in 2005, Scotty raised his new build high. Power was restrung for the small community, but Scotty was the only one to rebuild.

The winds picked up and the temperature dropped as I motored up the slough to his small box-like house high on 16’ piers.

I glided over his yard and under the house next to his pickup and airboat.

Scotty came down the stairs. “You got here just in time. It’s going to come down. You staying out of trouble, Ronnie?”

“I’m clean as a whistle, Scotty. Geez, your hair is even whiter than the last time I saw you.

“You got my text that I was coming?”

“Um, no. My phone is off. That thing is a nuisance; I have to go back up the road a couple of miles to get a signal.

Scotty changed the conversation. “You hungry? I have red beans and rice. Just got to heat it up.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

The rain settled in. Strong gusts and heavy rain that minutes later became a steady patter on Scotty’s roof.

The cabin is a little longer than wide. The bathroom is walled off in a corner. The rest of the place is open. Windows all around, and from the height, the Gulf is visible on the southern horizon.

It’s sparsely furnished; a couple straight back chairs, a sofa and a small table, an open kitchen and bedroom and a small but full bookcase next to the bed. A couple of bookmarked books lay on the table.

No TV, no computer, no clock. On the wall, next to the refrigerator, was his solar control station and battery array, and his weather station readout screen.

He lives mostly off the grid.

A portable propane heater is his heat source unless he needs the house heater.

An easel stands in a corner. Scotty is an artist. Used to work with oils but now uses only pencils and chalks. “It’s much easier this way,” he says.

The walls are covered with his work. Landscapes, portraits, black and white and full color.

He does portraits at local festivals. He’s good. I think he should get his stuff on the internet, but he says he’s not interested, doesn’t look like fun. He’s pretty laid back.

Hunt, fish, read, draw. “That’s enough,” he says.

I’ve known him all my life. He knew my dad.

I managed to keep myself busy. I read a book – L’Amour’s ‘Last of the Breed.’

The rain let up on the second afternoon and I headed for home.

When tying up my boat at the shipyard, I saw that Harry’s first bullet, that thud I felt, had hit the transom. Good that it is reinforced for the engine mount. It left quite a dent.

I drove back to the landing near my camp, launched my skiff, and got home before dark.

Jule’s cruiser was at his dock. He and Cole and another guy were loading packing crates onto his boat. The airboat was gone. So was Harry.

I called Christi on my burner phone. “Let’s get together.” We would meet up at Jackson Square in two days to swap the “CANNES” for my cut and spend a couple of days in the Big Easy.

She said, “I thought you’d be calling soon. Tell me, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the shooting incident down your way on the Intercoastal, would you? It made the news.”

Thinking discretion was the best way to go, I said, “What happened?”

“A tugboat captain called it in. Two guys on airboats were shooting it out. Authorities have come up with nothing.”

“I didn’t hear about it,” I said. “I’ll check it out. See you soon.”