“Take it,” she called out again. “It’s all yours.”
She began to step out to the gunwale, ready to beckon the driver of the lifeboat closer so she could heave the thing over. The gunman on the stern leaned into the lifeboat’s cabin, said something to the driver, and the little boat turned and motored down the top of a wave toward McKenna.
Okay, she thought. Nice and easy. Throw them the briefcase, and then duck for your life.
She knew as soon as she threw the briefcase, she was fair game for the men. She thought about dying. Thought about her father.
Might see you sooner than either of us planned, Daddy.
Then something exploded from somewhere above McKenna’s head. Instantly, there was a hole in the lifeboat’s bow. The shooters ducked for cover, disappeared inside the orange canopy. McKenna heard a noise from above, a familiar chu-chunk from the wheelhouse door. Looked up and saw Ridley with the pump-action Remington, swinging the barrel around to the lifeboat’s stern.
Ridley fired again. One of the lifeboat’s plastic windows disappeared, along with the back of its canopy. The lifeboat shuddered and wallowed. The shooters stayed down. Ridley pumped another shell, fired at the bow again. Made another hole.
McKenna could only watch. What the hell are you thinking, Nelson? That shotgun only holds five rounds. What are you planning for when the ammo runs out?
Ridley fired his fourth shell at the lifeboat, amidships. Shot spattered the hull, pitting it with holes. One more shell.
The shooters were regrouping now. McKenna could see the barrels of their rifles poking out from the lifeboat’s mangled canopy. Ridley pumped the shotgun one more time.
“The brake,” he called down to McKenna. “Release the brake, skipper.”
McKenna blinked. Didn’t get it right away. Ridley caught her eye through the stairway’s metal grating.
“The winch brake,” he shouted. “Let her go.”
The shooters let off a rapid barrage of shots from the lifeboat. Ridley ducked down as sparks exploded around him. Stood up again and fired his last shell at the smaller boat. This one put another hole in the bow.
Ridley ducked into the wheelhouse and slammed the door. Bullets spattered the superstructure around him. The lifeboat’s engine whined loud, working hard. The attackers would close the distance in no time, climb aboard the tug and kill them all.
McKenna hurried to the winch. Looked up to the wheelhouse and saw Ridley at the aft controls, yelling something through the window. She reached the winch, heard bullets all around her. Felt them fly past. Found the manual brake on the winch, pulled it out of its chock. Instantly, she heard the tug’s engine roar.
The Gale Force bolted like a spooked horse. The winch paid out towline, no longer restrained. The thick wire spooled out, fast as a train, as the tug’s twin propellers churned white water at her stern.
The lifeboat kept pace. The bullets kept coming. From behind the winch, McKenna saw the driver aim his ailing vessel at the tug’s stern. But the lifeboat was hurt. It was underpowered already, and Ridley had blasted a couple big holes in her bow. Every time a wave hit, the boat took on more water, sagged lower.
Ridley had the tug’s engines revved to the limit. Now the lifeboat dropped back. The driver sold out for the Gale Force’s stern, one last-ditch Hail Mary. One of his shooters climbed to the bow. Readied himself, crouched, leaped at the tug. Seemed to hang in the air a long moment, then fell into white water. The lifeboat wallowed in the Gale Force’s wake. The shooting stopped.
McKenna watched the little boat settle in the water. It was listing to starboard now, thanks to Ridley’s new holes, and it was sinking fast. The shooters had clambered atop the lifeboat’s ruined canopy, the highest, driest point, the tug and the briefcase forgotten.
Inside the wheelhouse, Ridley powered down the engines a little. Took them off redline. It didn’t matter now, McKenna knew. The lifeboat was a goner. The Gale Force was safe.
McKenna heard a noise above her head. Looked up to see Ridley step out of the wheelhouse door, survey the damage on the wheelhouse wall, pockmarks and bullet holes. Nothing a little spackle and some paint wouldn’t fix.
“You want to tell me what that was all about, Nelson?” McKenna asked, her heart still racing.
Ridley didn’t answer. Tracked the spotlight back to follow the lifeboat, its bow submerged by now.
“I had this thing resolved,” McKenna continued. “They put their guns down. I could have thrown them the briefcase and resolved this thing peacefully.”
Ridley studied the lifeboat some more. McKenna watched him. He came down the stairs without ever taking his eyes off the attackers.
“You do what you want with that briefcase,” Ridley said. “You can turn it in to the police, throw it overboard, hell, turn this tug around and drop it in the water next to those assholes. I don’t care.”
He looked at McKenna, and his eyes were hard. “I told your dad I’d keep watch over you, lass, if he ever couldn’t do it himself. And as long as I’m your engineer, no one, but no one is going to bully this boat around.”
McKenna studied his face. Realized she appreciated Ridley’s resolve, though she would never admit it.
“I guess we should go back and rescue those guys,” she said.
Ridley followed her gaze. Narrowed his eyes. “Nah,” he said. “Coast Guard’s on its way. That little dinghy they’re riding won’t fully sink for a little while yet. We’ll keep the spotlight on them, let them stew in their bad decisions for a bit.”
McKenna looked at the lifeboat. The bow was underwater, most of the passenger compartment flooded. The three shooters clung to the stern, to the ruined canopy, as the wreck bobbed in the swell. Far behind, the Lion followed the Gale Force, but it would slow before it reached the shooters, McKenna could see, drift away from them.
In the distance, she spied lights on the horizon. The Canadian Coast Guard lifeboat, closing fast. The shooters wouldn’t drown in the water, but their bad night wasn’t over just yet.
“Fine,” she said, straightening. “Let the Coast Guard haul them in. Get the Parents out of the engine room. Let’s clean up this tow and get a move on.”
100
Nakadate stared at his computer in disbelief.
A Google News alert: MORE DRAMA ON THE PACIFIC LION. Three Japanese nationals rescued from a sinking lifeboat. Firearms recovered in the wreck. Reports of an audacious attack on the Pacific Lion and her tugboat escort, the Gale Force, the same tug that had rescued the ship after her near-capsize in the North Pacific three weeks ago.
The three attackers were safe, Nakadate read, but were in Canadian custody. The Pacific Lion, meanwhile, would continue her voyage to Seattle—though from now on, with a military escort.
Nakadate read the article over again. Sato and his colleagues had failed. The Lion continued. There was nothing about a briefcase. No mention of his stolen property.
Perhaps there was no need. The scope of Sato’s failure was so vast that Nakadate could be sure the briefcase remained in the salvage crew’s possession. That was a problem, but it was not yet a disaster.