It took him five seconds to reach the commander’s desk, paw at the drawer, and find one of the Brownings. He slapped a magazine in and thumbed the safety off.
Pulled the slide back to inject the first round.
The boat rocked slightly as the man came aboard.
“Come on, McCory. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
McCory moved aft toward the communications console and slid along the bulkhead until he reached the central corridor.
“Where you at?”
McCory peeked around the corner. The man was standing in the juncture of the corridors, his gun held out in front of him. The light of the cargo bay defined him in the doorway. He saw McCory’s head and shifted his gun hand.
“Just step… ”
McCory shot him.
The report numbed his ears.
The cabin filled with the stink of cordite.
McCory wasn’t a marksman, but his target was large and close. The slug caught him high in the chest and slammed him backward into the doorjamb of the cargo bay.
He was propped against the wall for a full two seconds as his knees wobbled. The gun tumbled from his hand and hit the deck. His eyes held total surprise.
Then he collapsed and died.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
McCory was numb, his ears ringing.
Ibn el-Ziam had heard both shots. The spacing was awkward, perhaps a minute and a half apart.
He sidled along the front of the building to the door and tried the handle. It turned easily, and he pushed it open a few centimeters.
Inside, it was brightly lit. He leaned close to the gap and scanned a narrow area. Seeing no movement, he edged the door open a little further.
Still, he saw no one.
But there was the boat. Ibrahim Badr had been correct. He frequently was.
El-Ziam stepped inside.
The boat moved.
A head appeared in the hatchway near the dock, and el-Ziam slipped back outside and pulled the door nearly shut.
It was not Chambers.
He assumed it was McCory.
He watched for another minute, then saw Chambers. McCory was dragging his body out of the boat.
Softly, he closed the door. Obviously, McCory was going to be busy for a little while.
While scanning the empty boat yard, he pondered his moves. Colonel Badr wanted the boat, and el-Ziam had a memorized list of approximate positions for the Hormuz. He was certain he could operate the boat. The only unknown was the fuel state. If there was enough fuel, he would take the boat out late at night. If the fuel was low, he would simply blow it up, drive to Miami, and fly to Beirut. He would no longer be needed.
From inside his waistband, el-Ziam withdrew the .22 caliber Bernadelli, found the silencer in his pocket, and screwed it in place. It was already cocked, and he slid the safety off.
Again, he turned the door handle slowly and eased it open.
McCory was less than five meters away, his arms wrapped around the chest of the dead man, dragging him toward the door. McCory held an automatic pistol in his right hand for some reason.
El-Ziam shoved the door fully open.
It squeaked.
McCory looked up. “Oh, shit!”
El-Ziam raised the pistol and fired.
Unfortunately, he shot the dead man again as McCory pushed the body aside and dove toward the floor.
McCory fired as he fell, and the bullet whined past el-Ziam’s head. He dodged sideways, lining the Bernadelli once again.
He had McCory sighted perfectly.
When McCory’s second shot hit him in the right cheekbone.
His vision blurred, then blacked out entirely.
Allah.
The Sikorsky Sea King set down in the middle of the street, amazing a few drivers who had been forced to a stop. They clambered out of their cars and stared. Dust and paper litter swirled away from the rotor blast.
Monahan slid the door back and dropped to the pavement. He waved off the copilot as he ran for the curb, and the helicopter lifted off immediately.
He looked around, spotted the office on the other side of the parking lot, and started toward it.
Down in the marina, people emerged from their boat cabins to check on the ruckus. Two women stood outside the office, the door open behind them. Monahan strode purposefully across the lot and up to them.
“I’m looking for Kevin McCory.”
One of the women, a girl really, said, “What are you? A captain?”
He smiled at her. “Commander Monahan. Is McCory around?”
“No,” the girl told him. “He left an hour ago.”
“Do you know where he went? It’s important.”
“He was supposed to come to my boat for dinner tonight, but he had to work,” the older woman said. It was difficult to tell her age. In retirement, certainly, but she had damned nice legs under the shorts.
“Do you know where he’s working, Mrs.…?”
“Kuntzman. But people call me Mimi. What’s the Navy want with Kevin?”
“It’s… kind of like consulting.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he went up to Barley’s place. He’s got a big boat he’s working on.”
“Where is this Barley place?” Monahan asked.
The girl smiled at him. Perhaps she liked uniforms. She was examining his hand. Looking for a ring?
“Five miles down the coast,” Kuntzman said.
Monahan sighed and looked around. “Is there someplace where I could rent a car?”
“Ah, you don’t need to do that, Commander. I’ll take you down,” Kuntzman said.
“I’d really appreciate that.”
“Debbie, I’m going to take the Camrose.”
“Don’t scratch it,” Debbie said. “He’ll dock my pay, and there isn’t that much left to dock.”
“C’mon, Commander. We’ll go this way.”
Monahan followed her around the office, through a chain-link gate, and down a ramp. She sure had nice legs.
An hour after he had killed two men, McCory was still in shock.
That made three in a week. Little over a week.
They were going to put him away forever.
He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
There had been some thought of loading the body of Chambers into the back of the truck, driving somewhere remote, and dumping it.
He had been right about Chambers. The man’s wallet held two driver’s licenses, one in the name of Richard Chambers and one in the name of Harold Davis. He decided the correct name was Chambers when he found an ID card listing Chambers as an assistant vice president of Advanced Marine Development, Incorporated.
For a moment there, his shock had been overcome by his rage. The bastards would have killed him to protect the secret of the SeaGhost’s origins. For the ten-thousandth time, he again questioned whether or not the explosions in Fort Walton Beach were accidental or not. He would have Daimler look into Chambers’s history, see how long he had been working for Malgard.
McCory sat there on the deck in the corridor for a couple of minutes, holding his Browning in one hand and the dead man’s wallet in the other. Finally, he had roused himself, shoved the wallet back into the man’s coat pocket, and picked up his gun from the deck. He didn’t even think about fingerprints. He inserted the gun back into the holster under Chambers’s armpit, then got up and wrestled the body upright, dragging it to the hatchway.
The body was heavy, and it took some time to get it back onto the dock.
Where in hell will I dump it?
He knew he wasn’t thinking too clearly, but he didn’t worry about it. There was blood on his hands from the chest wound, though it hadn’t really bled profusely. He was still gripping the Browning tightly in his hand.