Alex straightened up and stared ahead through the haze, as if in disbelief. “What’s this?” she asked.
Guarneri turned sharply and looked also. “Uh-oh,” he said, followed by a violent obscenity. “Local militia!”
The squad of men on the beach spread out and went into crouching positions. In the center of the squad stood a small wiry man in a similar blue uniform but with a red beret. He was obviously the commander. He had no rifle, but he wore a sidearm and carried a megaphone. He let the boat ease closer; then he raised the megaphone and started to bark orders in angry Spanish.
“Paul, what is it?” Alex pressed.
“I don’t know. I’ll handle it!” he said. “Everyone stay calm.”
Guarneri moved to the bow of the boat, arms aloft, waving as if in friendship. Leo, at the tiller, looked petrified, as did Pedro. Felix’s face seethed with rage.
Alex was about to put a hand to Felix to calm him. Instead, impetuously, Felix broke toward the front of the boat, slid into a low crouching position, and pointed his weapon toward the shore.
Meanwhile, the small man in the red beret continued to bark at them through his bullhorn. He announced that he was Major Ivar Mejias of some police brigade, but that was all Alex could hear.
Paul saw clearly what Felix was about to do, but he couldn’t stop it. Neither could Alex.
“?Felix! ?Calmese!” Paul yelled. Stay calm! But it was too late. Felix opened fire on the men on the beach, firing half a dozen shots. “Felix! No! No! No!” Paul screamed.
The commander dropped his bullhorn midsentence and ran for cover. The other men scattered, and Alex saw at least one of them go down, clutching a shoulder, hit by one of Felix’s bullets.
Paul tackled Felix and knocked his gun away. But this was followed instantly by a barrage of gunfire thrown back at Leo’s boat. Then Pedro, almost as impetuous as Felix, raised his pistol and fired wildly at the shore. Meanwhile, Paul and Felix hit the deck, wrestling.
The first barrage of return fire hit the boat with a series of powerful, heavy whacks. Pedro was the first to go down. He was hit badly, and more than once. He made a horrible guttural sound, and his pistol flew from his hands. Then he got hit again. He staggered as another volley found him, and suddenly he was picked up and hurled overboard, as if by an invisible hand. At the same time, Felix broke free of Paul’s grip, grabbed his rifle, and tried to stand, but a bullet found him as well. He hurtled backward, the rifle flying from his hands. It rattled onto the rail and tumbled overboard.
Alex had hit the deck as soon as she could. The boat veered wildly in the water, its tiller not guided by any hand and the boom now swinging freely. As the floodlights illuminated their boat, Alex knew that somewhere along the line – either in the intelligence community, in the underworld, or in some cabal she did not yet know or understand – something had gone horribly wrong.
“Paul!” she screamed. “Paul!”
She could see Guarneri, lying flat on the deck but moving, apparently untouched by the gunfire. The same could not be said for Felix. He was lying across the foredeck, blood pouring from the wounds in his neck and upper chest. Alex had no idea if the man was dead. Not far away, Leo was also on the deck, bleeding badly.
Paul wriggled forward toward Pedro’s pistol. Shots continued to hit the small skiff. They hit the hull of the boat, ripped through the sail, and ripped into the wood of the mast. Guarneri put the nose of Pedro’s pistol over the bow and began to spray bullets toward the beach. Alex watched for a second, which seemed to last a lifetime. The men had all successfully scattered except for one who was trying to crawl to shelter. No one was helping him. Then Guarneri turned toward her, while keeping his head low.
“It’s me they want! They’re going to kill me! You! Get out of here!”
She made a helpless gesture. Get out? How? She was frozen in place. But to delay obviously meant death.
“Get out!” Guarneri demanded. “Jump and swim!”
“No!” she said. She reached toward her own weapon. Her instinct told her to stay and fight. But her hands were soaking, and she couldn’t quickly access her pistol.
“Alex!” Guarneri demanded again. She looked up. Bullets continued to hit the boat. “Get out or I’ll shoot you myself!” he screamed. And to break her out of her trance, he turned his revolver to her and fired a shot near her. It ripped away a chunk of wood on the hull. It was all the impetus she needed.
She crawled madly a few feet toward the stern and with a quick motion pulled herself over the side. She hit the water with a dull splash, sinking instantly. She never touched the bottom but knew immediately that she was well over her head. A moment later she reached the surface again. The water was warmer than she expected, which was good. That meant hypothermia wouldn’t be a problem. Still, if she got hit with a bullet, hypothermia would be the least of her problems.
She stayed behind the boat, with her head above water only at nose level. Even through the mist, the scene was surreal. The boat was still only about fifty yards offshore, but she could hear the angry shouts and curses from the reception party. She moved several feet behind the boat. Stray bullets hit the waters around her with sharp zipping little splashes. Paul threw the occasional pistol shot toward shore to slow the pursuers. He was the only one returning fire, and he was trying to work the tiller, throw the sail back up, and turn the boat at the same time.
She assessed where the floodlights were and whether they would follow her. There seemed to be three of them, two high ones on the top of the building and a smaller one that seemed to be mounted on a truck. At the same time, she counted the men on the beach. There were eight, maybe ten, not counting the little runt in the red beret.
She treaded water for a moment, then knew it was best to get away from the boat as quickly as possible. Yet part of her heart and conscience was in the boat. Guarneri kept firing at the shore party, and they were returning his fire.
Despite her terror and her tears, her instinct for self-preservation took over. She moved a dozen yards from the boat. Then two dozen.
She could feel a strong current, and wisely, she allowed herself to go with it. To fight it would be to spend all her energy and end up where she began. To ride it would allow her to get farther away than swimming alone could take her.
The gunfire continued but was more sporadic. She kept her head low, exposed just enough to breath. She was sure someone, somewhere, was scanning the area with binoculars, maybe even a sharpshooter looking for anyone who had escaped. She kept her arms under water and moved rhythmically with the current, gaining greater distance. The floodlights still blinded her, and she could still hear the crackle of gunfire, and now and then the sound of the bullhorn, as the opposing force presumably closed in on Paul.
Oh, Paul. Oh, Paul. Oh, Paul, she felt herself thinking. But she kept drifting. Then she was confident enough to use her arms to start a slow crawling swim. She guessed she was a hundred feet from the boat. She kept going. When she was maybe another fifty yards away, the shooting stopped. She kept moving, pulling herself along on her back now and allowing herself the dark luxury of watching events unfold. The sailboat’s mast had crumbled from the gunfire, and lay nearly motionless in the water, like a great wounded gull. The boat was bathed in floodlight, and now a pair of small craft, filled with pale figures in dark blue uniforms, cautiously approached it.
Then there was another volley of bullets from Leo’s boat. The engine started again, and the crippled craft wobbled back out toward the sea. A few moments later the two police boats started in pursuit.