Chapter 8

From underneath the canopy, Kurt watched the throng of people race down the hill. There was no stopping the charge. Attempting to stand in its way was like throwing one’s shoulder into an oncoming wave. It would run over and around you and knock you down all at the same time.

His thoughts switched from preventing the destruction of the whale carcasses to the preservation of human life. He spotted a group of volunteers being attacked and ran out of the tent to aid them. He arrived to find Chantel wrestling over a gas can with one of the rioters while several others set upon her and her colleague.

Kurt rushed in, lowering his shoulder and barreling into the back of the most threatening man. They crashed into the sand together, but Kurt rolled and leapt to his feet far more quickly.

He was up in time to grab a second rioter, blocking a wild haymaker of a swing and delivering a punch that doubled the man over. Kurt shoved him backward and out of the picture as two more assailants came at him.

The first rushed in only to have Kurt flip him over and into the surf. The second never got that close, as Joe arrived in time to spin the man around and throw a forearm into the man’s face.

With the tide in this small battle turning, Chantel pulled the gas can loose and swung it like a medieval shield, knocking her attacker into a stupor.

The battered group re-formed, but looked undecided about answering the bell for a second round.

“Get out of here!” Kurt growled.

They took off, limping and shouting profanities as they went. Other rioters joined them as Lacourt and his police escort arrived with Paul and Gamay close behind.

“Are you okay?” Kurt asked Chantel.

“Disappointed in my fellow islanders,” she said. “This is not who we are. They’ve been manipulated into doing this.”

Kurt didn’t doubt it.

“More police are coming,” her uncle insisted.

“Too late,” Kurt said. “All we can do at this point is get everyone out of harm’s way. Don’t engage these people. Just round up the volunteers and escort them to safety.”

As Kurt spoke, a Molotov cocktail flew through the air and crashed against the dead animal behind them. The glass container didn’t break, but its contents were dumped all over the exposed skin and flames spread across the animal in a blue and orange flash.

“Is there anywhere safe around here?” Gamay asked.

There were rioters everywhere.

“Down in the surf,” Kurt said. “Away from the action. Have everyone gather down there.”

Gamay and Chantel began gathering up the other volunteers and moving them to the safety of the water. By now, a dozen fires had been lit. A pall of black smoke had risen all along the beach while the stench of burning whale blubber filled the air. Half the crowd seemed to be in a state of ecstasy, rejoicing and jumping around in victory. The rest were more subdued, perhaps shocked by what they’d just done. They started to drift away, looking for ways to get off the beach as more police arrived.

Amid all this activity, Kurt noticed a lone man dressed in dark clothing moving against the tide. As others ran toward the street, the man in black walked calmly in the opposite direction. He made for the canopy and the temporary laboratory. Ducking inside, he grabbed something, tossed a couple of small objects into the lab, and then turned to leave.

Kurt started toward the tent, but it was already too late. The canopy erupted in a pair of explosions. Shrapnel flew in all directions as twin globes of fire burst from the incendiary devices.

Fire was one thing, but thundering explosions were another. People dove to the ground all along the beach. Others started running in all directions, scattering for safety.

Kurt raced after the figure in black, realizing the man was carrying a NUMA laptop in his hand.