‘Go,’ Boone screamed at him.
Flynn’s head jerked forwards. He vaulted what seemed to be an old railway sleeper left diagonally across the deck. Michelle followed easily.
There were more shots, Flynn ducking instinctively as he. felt them zing by just above his head.
Then a sudden bad feeling hit Flynn, making him stop and turn — only to see that Boone had been shot and was half-lying, half-kneeling across the railway sleeper. His left shoulder had been blown apart. Boone dragged himself up and looked at Flynn. Then there was more shooting as, sixty metres further back, the uninjured men came on relentlessly.
Boone’s head angled up, and a bullet struck the back of his skull. His face exploded from the inside out, as the bullet, having bounced around his cranium at a thousand feet per second, tumbled crazily and exited, removing Boone’s nose and mouth.
Michelle screamed. She too had stopped to look. She ran back to Boone, his body now prostrate across the sleeper, blood pooling under him, body twitching.
Michelle ran quicker than Flynn could reach out to stop her.
‘We can’t do anything,’ Flynn shouted, but to no effect.
She sank to her knees by Boone’s shattered head and a dreadful wailing sound erupted from her.
The gunmen had stopped running now, were approaching at an easy, confident stride, their shoulders rolling. Then they stopped twenty metres short of Boone and one of them raised his weapon. Flynn saw it was the H amp;K.
‘No!’ Flynn bawled, believing the gun was going to be fired at Michelle, who at that range would be torn apart. He moved towards her, then realized his mistake. The machine pistol was aimed at him, not her, and as this dawned on him, he reacted. Using his forward momentum, he curled away and launched himself off the quayside into the brown, brackish water of the creek which he knew was deep enough to dive into.
As his feet left the ground, a bullet impacted his left side and turned what would have been a graceful dive into an uncoordinated messy spin of arms and legs, like a gull being shot out of the sky. He hit the water hard, went under, inhaling and swallowing huge mouthfuls of the muddy concoction.
He writhed painfully as he sank. Unable to see a thing, he kicked out frenetically with arms and legs, feeling like he’d been hit by a baseball bat connected to an electricity supply.
He fought panic, realizing that it would land him in a dirty watery grave. The first thing he had to do was remain calm, surface and purge his lungs of what he’d swallowed, even though that action could result in death, too.
But he had no alternative. He had to go up and hope the guys weren’t serious about finishing him off.
With a huge effort that sent an explosion of pain through his side, he kicked upwards and broke the surface, choking and spluttering. He opened his eyes and was momentarily confused at finding himself surrounded by darkness. Air sucked automatically into his lungs and he realized he’d surfaced right underneath the slatted wooden boards that formed the unsteady quayside.
He trod water, looking up, knowing that his upsurge to the surface must have made a noise, his coughing and spluttering not having been exactly surreptitious.
His side hurt. He inhaled and spat out — quietly — and saw no blood in his saliva, giving him hope he hadn’t been shot in the chest. However, it was fucking creasing him and as he rocked gently in the water, holding position, his ribs felt like they were scraping together like tinder. Maybe the bullet had just gouged him. His self-absorbed musing stopped.
Footsteps on the planking six feet above his head. Shadows moving. Talking, muttering.
Flynn kicked across to one of the stanchions, pile-driven into the mud, holding up the quay, and hugged it, trying to keep his breathing even, trying not to emit any pathetic squeaks of pain.
The gaps between the planks were uneven — it was a shoddily built structure and Flynn had a theory that it was the Ba-Ba-Gee keeping it upright. Sunlight shone through some of the wider gaps between the planks, whilst other planks tightly abutted each other.
He could see the soles of shoes right above him, hear urgent whispering and Michelle moaning further down the quay. The men had stopped, now no longer talking. They were listening, trying to locate Flynn.
He heard a slide being pulled back, then slotted back into place, one of the scariest noises in the world. A gun being loaded, ready to fire. Flynn could not say which weapon it was until it opened fire.
It was the AK47, the Kalashnikov, the widow-maker, Russia’s present to the world. The man holding it opened fire and Flynn recognized its very individual signature noise. Whoever was firing it was doing so randomly down through the quay, spraying bullets through the planks into the water below. A guessing game. They had easily worked out they hadn’t fatally shot him, and that he must now be underneath them, cowering in the water.
They got that bit right.
The bullets tore through the wood, splintering it. Flynn gripped the stanchion and hoped for the best.
Then the gun did exactly what he would have prayed for. Flynn heard the firing mechanism clunk and jam and the bullets stopped as suddenly as they’d started. The AK47 was a very robust weapon, but it had to be lovingly maintained and decent quality ammunition was always best. Flynn guessed that neither was the case here.
The shooter cursed. Flynn could hear the man trying to loosen the slider and drag it backwards to clear the problem.
After taking a deep breath against the agony in his side, he pushed himself away from the upright, silently he hoped, and started to breaststroke quietly under the quay, pushing his way through the debris that had accumulated on the surface. This included a lot of floating rubbish, polystyrene cups and, gruesomely, the carcass of a dead boar. Horrified, Flynn reared away from this, trying to contain a gagging reflex in his throat. He kicked away, remaining underneath the quay, moving further and further away from the houseboat which he could still see behind him. The water was still muddy brown, but was warm, and he noticed he was leaving a trail of blood, already attracting little fish that fed in a frenzy of tiny splashes. He knew he had to get out, dry off and see what damage had been done. He was feeling weak and woozy now.
He grabbed another stanchion, paused, looked back, listened, watched. He groaned noisily when a shot of pain tore at his ribs, like a lion had scraped a claw along them, then inserted the same claw for an extra jolt. Working his way around the stanchion, he found a thin rope ladder tacked to it. Flynn grabbed hold of the bottom rung and slowly eased himself up until he could raise his head just above the quay and peer back to the scene of the incident.
He watched with horror.
One man was kick-rolling Boone’s body to the edge of the quay, his lifeless limbs flailing with each revolution of his body.
Another man was holding Michelle down on her knees, his hand wound tightly in her hair, causing her face to warp in agony as she was forced to watch the other man flatfoot Boone’s body off the quayside into the water below.
A third man, the one shot by Boone, stood as witness to this, his right arm dangling uselessly by his side, blood dripping from the wound.
When Boone’s body splashed into the water, they turned their attention to Michelle, who struggled to break free from the man holding her hair. He held tight.
Using the last of his waning strength, Flynn hauled himself on to the quay and rolled quickly out of sight behind a low wooden fence that surrounded two large waste disposal bins. He squatted low and pulled up his shirt to inspect his own wound.