A lit cigarette arced out of the open bridge window toward the pier below. Tommy Carmellini saw it go and knew instantly what it was. The butt hit the concrete pier in a shower of tiny sparks.
He couldn’t see the man who had tossed it. No, wait! He was walking in front of the open door at the top of the ladder. Now he was gone, back toward the helm in the center of the bridge.
Carmellini moved forward, almost a dark shadow.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, silently.
You had to admit, this was living! Others could have the eight-hour days and houses in the suburbs; Carmellini liked living on the edge. He was certainly in his element now, although if he weren’t very careful he could end up a corpse. That didn’t worry him much. In fact, it added to die danger, so it added to the thrill.
He was thinking about the thrill when he got to the bridge ladder. He examined it for alarms, then experimentally put his weight on the lower step. Now the next.
The door at the top of the ladder was open, which Carmellini decided was a lucky break.
Or a trap.
He had had that feeling earlier, that they knew someone was coming. Was that just nerves?
Whatever, there was the open door, the dark bridge, and the man waiting up there.
He thought about sticking his head around the corner, then rejected that. If the man was expecting him, he would be in no position to shoot. He thought about jumping through the door, hoping he was faster on the draw. That option didn’t seem so great, either. If the man was waiting for him he was dead meat.
Ah, I’ve watched too many movies, read too many thrillers. These guys are smugglers, thugs.
He decided to go in the third way, the tried-and-true Tommy Carmellini special way. He would sneak in, glacially slow, his weapon at the ready. And shoot the smuggler dude when he got a shot.
Up the last step, ever so carefully, weight balanced, weapon in left hand, so the barrel went around the edge at the same instant the eye passed it…
There he was, by the navigator’s table on the far side, bent over something…
Slow as melting ice, Tommy Carmellini stepped onto the bridge, the gun leveled, his finger on the trigger. Carefully, purposefully, he scanned his eyes to ensure there was no one else on the bridge.
Just the one man.
Shoot him now or move closer?
Less chance to break a window with the bullets if I get closer.
Step… step…
Close enough. Sorry, pal!
He pulled the trigger. The gun coughed a short burst. Three shots in the lower back, to ensure he didn’t punch one through the bridge window, breaking glass.
The man half turned and fell. Carmellini stepped forward to shoot him again in the head to finish it.
Something smashed him across the arms, ripping the gun from his grasp. His arms were numb! He couldn’t feel his hands.
Another blow, this time across the back. The bag containing the night-vision goggles and spare ammo helped cushion the blow, but still he fell forward, sprawling on the deck. There was a room off the bridge, the captain’s cabin. This guy must have been there!
“That twit!” a man’s voice said conversationally. “I told him you’d be along sooner or later, and the fool wouldn’t listen.” The lights snapped on.
That voice…
“I heard about you, Carmellini. Harold Barnes told me.”
Carson Eisenberg.
Another mighty blow across the shoulders. A pipe or a baseball bat. Eisenberg smashed Tommy across the ribs, over the head, almost broke his arm when he raised it to protect himself.
Carson Eisenberg was going to kill him. He was going to beat him to death with the pipe.
“You… cost… me… my… life… fucker!” Eisenberg accented every word with a blow.
Tommy Carmellini fell to the floor, reached for the gun, but his hands were too numb to hold it.
Whack! “Bastard!”
Desperate, Carmellini lashed out with a foot. And caught Eisenberg on a knee.
The ex-CIA officer lost his balance, and the pipe made a metallic ring as it struck something.
The knife! Carmellini realized he had it on his belt! Could he hold it with his numb hands?
He forced his right hand to curl around the handle. He got it out of the scabbard. And lost it.
Eisenberg was trying to scramble up from the deck. Carmellini kicked him again, this time with more force behind it. And again. Now Carmellini levered himself erect and aimed a kick at the man’s chin.
He caught Eisenberg with his head coming forward and bobbing down as he prepared to shift his weight aft, over his legs. Eisenberg’s head snapped back from the force of the kick. He went over backward and lay still.
Sobbing, Carmellini sank to his knees. His hands… he kneaded one with the other, felt along the forearms where the pipe had struck him. It was a miracle bones weren’t broken. His shoulders, ribs, on fire… Eisenberg had given him a hell of a beating.
Can’t stay here … Gotta get the gun, get the knife, move on. To stay here is to die. Can’t stay, can’t stay, can’t stay.…
He got the gun in both hands, checked it over as well as he could, then picked up the knife.
His forearms felt like they were broken, but they weren’t.
Carson Eisenberg lay absolutely still, the back of his head touching his spine, his eyes open wide.
Carmellini wiped his eyes on his sleeve, smearing shoe polish, Vaseline, and blood, and staggered to the bridge door.
There was a light switch on the bulkhead, and he snapped it off. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom before he stuck his head around the bulkhead and looked at the deck below.
Empty.
Where was Grafton?
The blood flowing from Kerry Kent’s smashed nose gradually slowed to a drip. Her shirt and jeans were covered with it. She was thinking of all the things she would like to do to Jake Grafton when the door opened and one of the Chinese York controllers stuck his head in. He looked the situation over, then stepped into the room and pulled the door shut behind him.
She tried to talk, but all she got past the tape were grunts.
The man squatted in front of her and ripped the tape from her mouth. She almost screamed.
“Wow,” the man said, staring at her nose and the blood.
“Cut me loose, goddamn it. Hurry.”
As the controller slashed with a penknife at the tape that held her to the chair, she demanded, “Where in hell have you been? Why did you leave me sitting here bleeding?”
“Cole just stepped out to the porta-potty. He’s been in front of the monitors continuously.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“In my pocket.”
“Hurry. Before he decides to ask more questions.”
The controller jerked the tape away in great wads. Everywhere it touched her skin it tore the tiny hairs out. She bit her lip until it bled.
“What did you tell them?” the controller asked.
“Nothing. I told them nothing. They knew a lot without a word from me.”
When the last of the tape came clear, she stood. There was not a rag in the room, nothing made of cloth. She pulled off her shirt and used it to wipe the worst of the blood from her face, then threw it on the floor.
“Give me the gun.” She held out a bloodstained hand.
The controller passed it over. It was a 9-millimeter automatic, a fairly small one.
Kent checked the chamber to ensure it had a cartridge in it, then let the slide close. She pointed it up and thumbed off the safety.
“We’re leaving,” she said and jerked open the door.
Cole had just reentered the trailer and was standing ten feet away in front of the master York console when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the office door fly open and Kerry Kent come boiling out. When he saw she had a pistol he dove behind the only desk in the place, so Kent’s shot at him missed.