The Basque convulsed under the penetrating impact of the slugs. He gave Carter's neck a final choking squeeze, then went limp.
Shaking himself out of his hysteria, Abu-Bakir unslung his automatic rifle. Rage and fear sparked his urge to kill.
"No!" Vernex knew what would happen if Abu-Bakir cut loose with a burst of AK-47 rounds: they'd rip right through the spy, smashing the controls, perforating the bottom of the boat.
His free hand waved in frantic warning. "Don't! You'll sink us!"
But Abu-Bakir was beyond recall. He flipped the selector to autofire, as Vernex feared he would. He reached for the trigger just as Vernex shot him.
Fired point-blank, the slug tore into the astonished Palestinian with a meaty thud, taking him in the side.
Abu-Bakir lurched, groaning. He was swinging his rifle muzzle around when Vernex shot him twice more, crying, "Die, die!"
"No, you die!" Abu-Bakir whipped the gun around until it pointed at Vernex.
Vernex's scream was obliterated by roaring rapid-fire rounds. He was obliterated along with his scream, being cut almost in half by the sustained blast.
His dead weight thumped into the bottom of the boat.
A heartbeat later he was joined by Abu-Bakir. Hunched forward on his knees, the terrorist dropped his weapon and held his shattered chest.
Blood covered his hands, dripping through his fingers. Red foam bubbled out of his moaning mouth.
It all went down in just a very few seconds.
Nick Carter wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He squirmed, working his upper body free from Elias until he was sitting up. His pistol drew a bead on Abu-Bakir's bowed head. He pulled the trigger, to deliver the coup de grace.
Nothing happened.
The Tokarev must have jammed when he took that hard fall.
Hot light flickered behind the film of Abu-Bakir's fast-dulling eyes. He sized up the situation at a glance.
Carter worked the slide, futilely trying to free the pistol's action.
"Ahhhh… having problems, spy?" Chuckling, Abu-Bakir picked up his rifle. He stopped chuckling as he coughed up some blood, but he kept on smiling.
Even a jammed gun is good for something. Carter threw it at Abu-Bakir. It bounced harmlessly off the Palestinian's shoulder, but Carter made good use of the split-second diversion it provided.
The Killmaster flipped open the boat box lid, grabbed the flare gun, and fired. A miniature sun erupted from the muzzle, exploding square in the middle of Abu-Bakir's grinning face.
The Palestinian jumped up screaming, his scorched flesh bubbling. His face was a charred, smoking piece of meat. Arms flailing, beard and hair burning, face melting, he careened off the sides of the boat.
He hit the port gunwale too hard and flipped overboard. A big splash marked where he fell into the sea. His gear weighed him down, and he swiftly sank from sight.
Nick Carter dragged his legs out from under Elias and climbed into the seat behind the wheel. He sprawled there, recovering, taking stock of his injuries.
His throat ached from the Basque's death grip. He could hardly swallow. Where he hit the boat box, his upper back felt like one big bruise. His ribs were tender but uncracked. He was stiff, shaky, and sore, but nothing was broken.
He was lucky to have gotten off so lightly. Especially after doing something so stupid.
He should have shot down all three without warning, but he wanted to see the look on their faces when they discovered that their mission had gone sour. That little personal indulgence nearly cost Carter his own life. He vowed not to let his emotions interfere with the job at hand.
High overhead, a silver jet slashed a chalky white contrail across the remote blue dome of the sky. The sun blazed. Carter mentally pictured Tel Aviv's golden beaches, jammed with fun-seekers on this gorgeous day.
And any moment now, the Melina would make its final run, might already be making it, even now…
Time to get moving.
Carter shook his head to clear it, fighting dizziness. He pushed back hair that had fallen across his face, brushing it back with his fingers. His hands were steady enough.
Groaning, he stumbled aft, picking his way over Elias and Vernex. He saw no sign of Abu-Bakir, not so much as a ripple or a bubble. Too bad. The Abu Nidal faction of the Palestinian Liberation Front would just have to get along without him.
He picked up the Tokarev and shook his head. Even the Soviets had phased it out in favor of the Makarov SL. That was what he got for going into the field minus Wilhelmina, his lethal Luger. But he had been under the deepest cover and couldn't risk being recognized as the formidable AXE operative who had terminated so many top enemy agents with a 9mm Luger.
It was an anxious moment when the Tokarev jammed, but Carter wasn't entirely without resources. If the flare gun hadn't been at hand, he still would have had an ace up his sleeve — quite literally. He hadn't left all his old friends at home.
He tossed the pistol into the sea. Time to bring out the big guns. Luckily, he had a boat full of them.
It was also full of blood. Vernex's corpse sprawled across the weapons. Abu-Bakir's sustained blast had chopped Vernex through the middle. When Carter hefted the dead man, Vernex's upper half came apart from his lower half.
Fighting hard to keep down the contents of his stomach, Carter heaved both halves overboard. The fish would feed well today.
Elias could stay where he was for a while. Carter didn't have the time or strength to wrestle that huge hulk over the side.
He hauled two fairly dry weapons bags forward, putting them on the passenger seat. Opening one, he took out a rocket launcher.
A portable shoulder-fired job, its smoothbore firing tube was a three-foot-long piece of olive-drab plastic pipe as thick around as a man's arm. Protective coverings sealed its ends, while the sighting and trigger mechanisms were folded down flat.
Carter unbagged the other launcher, securing both within easy reach. He found his sunglasses under the control console, intact, unbroken. Donning them, he glanced at the Shamash complex. It, too, was intact and unbroken.
Might as well do it up in style, Carter thought. He put on his yachting cap, tilting it to a jaunty angle.
He spun the Superbo around, reversing her so her bow aimed north, then opened the throttle wide. The powerboat took off like a bullet.
The Melina's distant outline was in sight when Carter discovered he was not alone.
A flutter of sliding shadow, a sobbed grunt, a rustle of whispering motion more sensed than heard over the throbbing motors…
Carter was slammed by what felt like a ton of bricks.
Elias wasn't dead. A hard man to kill, the mortally wounded Basque had played possum, gathering what remained of his once great strength to make one last try.
Rising up behind the Killmaster, Elias wrapped his arms around Carter's neck and did his best to break it.
He applied a choke hold. Working from behind gave him advantages in weight and leverage that were only partly offset by his weakness. At full strength, Elias could have effortlessly snapped Carter's spine.
Carter released the wheel. The Superbo streaked forward at full tilt. Carter grabbed the hairy forearm that labored to crush his larynx. He snuggled his chin down to stall the attempt.
The boat was out of control. Swaying, fishtailing, she heeled precariously from side to side.
Elias's head loomed over Carter's right shoulder. He grunted, gasped, but said nothing. His breath smelled like a lion's, hot, foul, blood-scented.
Carter couldn't break the hold before Elias broke his neck, so he stopped trying. Instead, the fingers of his right hand closed on Hugo.