He retracted the flexi-cam, then drew the SC-20 and thumbed the selector to Cottonball. He turned the doorknob and eased it open. He stepped inside, shut the door. The man didn’t stir. Fisher picked up a magazine off the coffee table and tossed it onto the man’s chest. The man gave a grunt and sat up. Fisher fired.
He heard a soft thump, followed by a faint pffft.
The man shook his head as though he’d been slapped, said, “What the—” then slumped sideways in his chair.
I’ll be damned, Fisher thought. He hadn’t doubted Redding’s word, but there was no substitute for real-world testing.
He dragged the man behind the couch, then smashed the two nearby nightlights and keyed his subdermal. “Napper; clean.”
Only two left, Fisher thought. The boss — Lei — who was awake and presumably no longer occupied in the main cabin’s bathroom, and the last crewman, location unknown. Fisher checked his watch: No time to go looking for him. Keep moving.
There were four cabins in the salon passage, two to port, one to starboard, and one at the end — the captain’s cabin. Facing the door, he found himself grateful he’d frisked Chon the guard. The door’s lock was card-key access. There was a downside, though. Like most card-key doors, this one would do two things when the card slid through the reader: flash a green light and give a solid thunk as the bolt was thrown back.
Fisher did a check with the flexi-cam. Unlike the salon, the cabin showed no emergency nightlights. In the glow of the NV he could see a figure lying on the queen-sized bed. This was Lei, he guessed. The man’s eyes were closed, hands folded across his chest. The cabin was small, perhaps ten feet by twelve feet. If Fisher moved quickly enough, he could reach the bed in less than a second.
Fisher drew his pistol, then took a few seconds to mentally rehearse his entry. He slid the key through the reader and pushed in.
Lei was immediately awake, sitting up in bed, hand reaching toward the nightstand.
Fisher fired once. Lei yelped and jerked his hand back, his hand shattered by the 7.62 slug.
“Next one goes in your eye,” Fisher said, shutting the door behind him. “Lay back down. Hands back on your chest.”
His face twisted in pain, Lei complied. “Who are you, what do you want?”
“The boogeyman, here to kill you if you move again.”
Fisher was impressed. Lei was the boss for good reason. Most men, shot in the hand, facing a ghostlike apparition, would have been cowed. Not this one.
“You’ve made a mistake, friend,” Lei said. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Funny you should say that. Tell me who I’m dealing with.”
“No.”
Fisher fired again. The bullet slammed into the pillow beside Lei’s head.
Lei jerked to one side, but the scowl on his face never wavered.
Very tough. Plan B, then. Fisher had brought an extra flotation vest for this very contingency. They already had one prisoner; two was better. The interrogators could work on Lei’s attitude.
“Sit up,” he said. “You and I are going on a little trip. Move very slow—”
Fisher heard the thunk of the door latch being thrown. In that instant, as his eyes instinctively flicked toward the door, Lei had moved. His good hand was coming up and around. Fisher saw a blade flashing toward his face. He jerked his head backward, felt the blade slice the space where his neck had just been. The door opened. In his peripheral vision Fisher saw a figure standing at the threshold.
“Run!” Lei shouted. “Blow it! Blow it now!”
Fisher fired. Lei’s head snapped back. As he fell backward, Fisher saw a black quarter-sized cavity where Lei’s right eye once was.
“Warned you,” Fisher muttered, then turned and rushed out the door.
14
Back in the corridor, he turned and headed toward the ladder just in time to see the crewman’s foot disappear from the top step. Fisher raised the pistol and fired, hoping for a lucky leg shot, but it was a half second too late. He started running.
Blow it, Fisher thought. Lei’s command could mean only two things: One, destroy something aboard the Duroc; or two, destroy the Duroc itself. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach had him betting on the latter.
But why? And who commanded such respect and/or fear in these men that they would essentially commit suicide? Was it Lei, or someone bigger? Fisher shoved the questions aside.
As he reached the top of the ladder, he heard the forward door bang against the bulkhead. He stopped, pressed himself to the wall. Pistol extended, he slid forward until he could see the doorway. Clear. He sprinted forward, peeked into the corridor. To his left, the engine room hatch was open, revealing a ladder. A flashlight beam was playing across bulkhead below.
Fisher stepped to the hatch and peeked through. A figure was standing on the deck. The man raised his arm. Fisher jerked his head back. Two gunshots rang out. A pair of holes appeared in the corridor bulkhead.
“Give it up,” Fisher called. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.”
No response.
“We can work this out. Just drop your gun—”
Footsteps pounded, then faded away.
Fisher peeked around the corner again, saw nothing. He started down the ladder. At the bottom, to his right, around a stanchion, he saw the glow of the flashlight on the other side of the engine. He stepped to the stanchion, pressed himself to it.
Something clanged. Like sheet metal clattering to the deck. Access cover, Fisher thought. Move, move now!
Gun raised, he stepped out.
The last crewman was crouched beside the engine, hands fumbling inside an access hatch.
“Stop!” Fisher commanded.
The man turned his head, stared at him for a few seconds, then turned back and kept working.
Fisher fired twice. The man grunted and rolled onto his side. Fisher rushed forward. He kicked the man’s gun away. It skittered across the deck. The man, barely conscious, let out a wet, bloody cough and grinned at him. “Too late,” he croaked.
Inside the engine’s access hatch, a blue LED readout blinked from 10 to 9, then to 8.
Fisher turned and ran.
With a countdown running in his head he was up the ladder in two seconds. He turned, charged up the bridge ladder, turned again, and headed for the door.
Five… four… three…
He threw open the hatch, rushed through, sprinted toward the railing, vaulted over it. Behind him, somewhere deep within the Duroc, there came a muffled crump. Fisher absently thought, First charge; fuel tanks will follow…
It took him a split second to orient himself in the air. He looked down. The ocean surface rushed toward him. He curled into a ball, hoping to protect himself from the heat and shrapnel that was coming. Then he was underwater. All went silent.
Resisting the urge to kick to the surface, he flipped over and kicked hard, arms spread in a wide breaststroke. He heard a whoomp and felt himself shoved from behind as the shock wave hit him. The air was compressed from his lungs. He started rolling.
When he stopped, he righted himself in the water. Above his head, the surface glowed orange for a few seconds, then faded. Lungs burning, his every instinct screaming for air, he forced himself to stay submerged. The danger now was pools of burning oil and fuel. If he surfaced into one of them, his lungs would be seared.