If wishes were assholes…
Bottom line, he was cut off. Or, at least, until either the remains of the boat’s crew got their act together and assaulted the bridge or Lara decided to do something from her end. Frankly, he hated the idea of waiting for one of them to do something already. Patience had never been his strongest trait.
The captain flinched even before Keo got close enough to do anything to him. “Don’t kill me!”
Keo put a finger to his lips, and the man clenched his mouth shut. He picked up the white captain’s hat from the floor and put it back on the man’s damp head, then gave him a slight tap on the cheek.
“That’s a good boy,” Keo said.
“Don’t kill me,” the captain mouthed.
“Now why would I do a thing like that? You’ve been so cooperative.”
The captain glanced down at his bleeding leg.
“Oh sure, that,” Keo said. “You’re not the type to hold a grudge, are you?”
The captain looked uncertain about answering, so he didn’t.
“Let’s put that behind us and move on,” Keo said. “Start with this: How many of you are on the boat?”
The man stared back at him, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cooling mid-October weather. It was still hot in the day, but at night Louisiana dipped to fifty and sometimes hit the forties. Right now Keo felt a slight chill; then again, he had been submerged in the lake not all that long ago, so that probably factored into it.
“Numbers,” Keo said when the man didn’t answer fast enough. “I need numbers, el capitan. How many are on the boat with you?”
The captain seemed to be seriously brooding over the question. It wouldn’t have surprised Keo if the man thought his life might be at stake, depending on his answer. He was a man in his late thirties and wore a beard that was flecked with white strays, and he actually did look like a ship’s captain. The only thing missing was a pressed white uniform like the one worn by that guy from The Love Boat.
“Come on, spit it out,” Keo said. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”
“Sev — eight,” the captain finally said.
“Sev-eight? I must have been absent from Mrs. Krapthorpe’s math class that day. How many is sev-eight again?”
The captain swallowed. “Seven.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I think you’re lying.”
Keo pushed the barrel of the shotgun against the man’s wounded leg. The captain let out what sounded like a low-pitched squeal. Keo didn’t know what to make of that noise, but it seemed to be working so he added more pressure.
“Seven or eight?” Keo said. “Think carefully.”
“Eight,” the captain said, almost shouting the word out.
Keo lessened the pressure slightly. “Rod the sniper is one.”
“Yes…”
“Where is he?”
The captain’s eyes shifted up to the ceiling.
“Still?” Keo said.
A shrug and a look of uncertainty.
“And the others?” Keo asked.
“Below.”
“Doing what?”
“Guard—”
Keo heard a soft tap! and glanced up, reaching forward and clamping one hand over the captain’s mouth at the same time.
Tap…tap…
It was coming from the roof.
Rod, the sniper.
Keo pulled his hand away from the captain and took two, then three quick steps toward the middle of the bridge. He leaned the shotgun against the nearest wall and unslung the MP5SD. He traced the sound as it moved from the back of the roof toward the front. Slowly, carefully, because Rod the sniper was that kind of a guy.
A second later, an elongated shadow draped over the windshield. It was in the shape of a human head.
Keo fired into the ceiling, stitching it from west to east, then north to south until he had emptied half of the magazine. The only noise was the cyclical whine of the German weapon’s parts as it unleashed a series of 9mm rounds. The clink-clink-clink of bullet casings flicking and bouncing off the floor was louder than the actual gunshots themselves, thanks to the built-in suppressor at the end of the barrel.
There was a soft thud, followed by a pair of arms dangling out the windshield where the glass met the roof of the bridge. Blood dripped from the fingers and ran in thin rivulets along the smooth surface all the way to the bottom.
Five down, three to go.
Keo moved quickly to the door and pressed up against it. He stopped breathing entirely and listened, flattening his hands against the wall to search for any hints of vibrations that would signal the impending attack he had been waiting for.
To his surprise, he continued to hear nothing and felt nothing. Either these guys were incredibly patient, or they weren’t willing to risk their necks to regain control of the bridge. Frankly, Keo didn’t know whether to be impressed by their sense of self-preservation or irritated by it.
He looked over at the captain, who was staring back across the room at him. The man’s face was slicked with a new coat of sweat. That was either all fear, or the man was just a perspiration machine.
“Three to go,” Keo said.
The captain’s lips trembled slightly, as if he wanted to say something but was too afraid to.
“Catfish got your tongue?”
He got a confused reaction that time.
Keo nodded at the largest chunk of the destroyed two-way radio on the floor next to the first mate’s body. “Got another one of those?”
The captain followed Keo’s glance, then looked back at him. The man gave Keo a look that convinced him the guy wasn’t sure if he should cooperate. Or maybe he was wondering what was in it for him.
Keo decided to help him out and drew the revolver from his waistband, cocking the hammer back. The loud click! seemed to echo through the large room.
The captain’s entire body went rigid.
“I think that’s a yes,” Keo said. “But you don’t want to tell me where I can find it. Now, normally I’d make you show me how to use the boat’s radio, but that console looks awfully complicated, and I’m just not a very techie sort of guy. So…where’s the backup radio?”
“Under the console,” the captain said.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Keo moved back across the room, maneuvering around the still-wet glistening pools of the first mate’s blood and brass casings that were now everywhere, and slid back a compartment under the large console that controlled every facet of the yacht. Inside, he found a first aid kit, supplies, and, near the back, another two-way portable radio. He fished it out and spent a few seconds trying to recall the frequency the islanders were using.
Keo turned the dial and pressed the transmit lever. “Lara, come in.”
Five seconds of silence went by.
Then ten…
Had he tuned into the right channel? The island was well within the radio’s reach, so that couldn’t have been it. Of course, if they didn’t recognize his voice, they might not respond. Maybe they were wondering who the hell had just broken into their lines of communication—