As Saduq and his companion mounted the sea stairs, Kealey gave Abby’s arm a soft tug, pausing under the pale silver glow of the half-moon to motion toward the bay. A casual observer might have thought he was pointing out a harbor beacon in the near distance, or possibly one of the constellations visible above the low horizon, its stars spilling across the sky as countless tiny sequins of light.
“You’ve killed before,” he whispered. It was not so much a question as confirmation.
She stood looking out over the water, her features becoming almost imperceptibly tighter. “Yes.”
Kealey couldn’t have articulated how he’d known. To say it was something he’d seen in her eyes was oversimplistic, although that was part of it, and he paid close attention to what he intuited. But he supposed another part was realizing she wouldn’t have gone along with his plan if she hadn’t, because killing was essential to its success. He decided to leave it alone.
“Those guards on the dock will be armed,” he said. “I can take them. But I’ll need you to distract the one with the cigarette.”
She nodded her head. “Okay, let’s get on with it.”
Arm in arm, they walked the rest of the way up the dock, past the bobbing recreational boats, to the Yemaja.
“Excuse me,” Abby said. “Might I trouble you for a cig?”
Saduq’s guards had been aware of the couple even before their employer and Barre turned to board the yacht, but their attention had turned up a notch as they’d come within a yard or two of the berthing area.
His Djarum between his lips, Yasir looked at her in stony silence. He had understood her question perfectly but was interested only in seeing the pair move on.
Abby slipped her arm out from Kealey’s and mimed holding a smoke to her lips. “Cigarette?” she said, tilting her head back in the direction of the Bonny Bight. “I must have left mine back there in the lounge.” She sniffed the breeze. “Did you know clove cigarettes were banned in the States? It’s been a problem since I moved there…”
Yasir continued to ignore her with visibly growing impatience. Kealey could see a concealed weapon bunching the fabric on the right side of his sport jacket and, while looking at him peripherally, noted how his partner’s jacket fell over a holster in the small of his back. Having the weapon in that spot would add at least a fraction of a second to his draw time.
Kealey turned to face the second guard, keeping his hand loose near his hip. “Sorry if we’ve bothered you, but-”
The Muela combat knife came out from under Kealey’s Windbreaker in a blur, his right fist around its lightweight rubber grip even as he grabbed the man’s wrist with his free hand, locking his fingers around it, pulling him forward and off balance an instant before he tried reaching back for his firearm. The black blade plunged deep into the man’s throat, Kealey giving it a sudden twist, dragging it through the flesh as bright, warm carotid blood came out in a spurt. Then he shoved the man back hard with his forearm, plunging him into the dark water between the yacht and quay.
A pulse beat later Kealey spun toward the one with the cigarette, the MP9 appearing from under his jacket. He jammed the forward end of its cylindrical sound suppressor between the second man’s ribs and then moved between him and Abby and squeezed the trigger. The flump of the discharging weapon was louder than Kealey would have wanted, its removable tube not nearly as effective as what an integrated can would have done, and he knew the sound would echo across the water. But there was the slap of the current and the soft creaking of wooden planks and the openness around him-and, most of all, an element of surprise, which he hoped would buy him the small amount of time he needed.
The lighted cigarette spinning out of his hand, the guard went limp and collapsed around the barrel of the gun as the 9-mil round’s kinetic energy burst his heart in his chest. Kealey bodied into him with his entire weight, pushing hard, forcing him off the dock and into the bay seconds after the first man had toppled into it with a dull splash.
Soft, swift footsteps came now from the direction of the parking area-Etienne Brun sprinting light-footedly toward him as they’d arranged, a B amp;T MP9 identical to Kealey’s against his thigh.
Kealey made eye contact with him, sheathed his knife, glanced around to see Abby staring down at the water, her hair blowing about her face. Her posture was wooden, the tendons of her neck bulging out in tight, strained cords.
“Come on, let’s move!” he said, placing his hand firmly around her arm to snap her out of it.
She took a breath, nodded. And then the three of them were bounding off the dock and up the sea stairs onto the deck of Hassan al-Saduq’s yacht.
“Hell, look, ” Martin said in the SUV’s backseat.
Steiner saw him motion toward the Bonny Bight, flicked his eyes toward his window, and instantly spotted three large men trotting toward the dock through the tall, columnar trunks of the royal palms. Hurrying along Avenue de la Marina, they ran abreast with furious purpose…and there was no mistaking them for ordinary guests of the hotel.
“You think they’re with Saduq or the pirate?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know-but it’s only important that we stop them.” Steiner slapped a clip into his submachine gun with the ball of his palm and heard Martin doing the same, his magazine locking into place with a metallic click. Then he set the gun down beside him on his seat and keyed the ignition. “Hang on!”
He stepped on the gas, shot out of the parking space with a jolt, then swung the steering wheel to the right and pulled from the lot onto the pavement, his front end facing the curb. Gripping his door handle, he braked to a sudden stop between the men and the dock, grabbed his compact assault rifle, and lunged out of the SUV, keeping its armored body between himself and the trio. He had his ID holder in one hand, the rifle in the other.
“Halt! Halte! ” He waved the ID holder at them. “Europol!”
The men held in their tracks, one slightly ahead of his comrades. Steiner kept his identification in clear view as Martin exited the right side of the vehicle. Using his partially open door as a shield, Martin angled his weapon at them over the top of its laminar glass window.
“What do you want from us?” one of the men said in English. “Let us through-”
“I’m afraid we cannot,” Martin said.
“What are you talking about?” The man motioned past him toward the yacht. “We have to get over there. Our employer is expecting us to-”
“That’s enough bullshit,” Martin said. “Put your hands over your heads. All three of you.”
The men just glared at him.
“ Merde, are you deaf?” Martin jerked his weapon upward. “Let’s see your hands in the air now. ”
The lead man’s eyes continued boring into Martin as he finally frowned and raised his arms with slow reluctance. The other two followed suit a moment later.
Alert for any sudden move, Martin slid around his side of the car, his left hand around the assault gun’s barrel, his right on the pistol grip, the back of its stock pressed into the hollow between his shoulder and chest. Out the tail of his eye he saw the sparse traffic on the street slowing down at the scene as drivers in both directions began to rubberneck. Then he became aware of something else-the warble of police sirens in the near distance. At least one of those gawkers must have phoned for the gendarmes.
Which, Martin thought, was not the worst thing for him and Steiner. The key was to play the situation to their advantage. The Interpol-EU antipiracy task force was under no obligation to coordinate its efforts with local authorities. A little finesse, then, and their actions here might be explained as falling inside the bounds of a covert investigation. But Hassan al-Saduq had not been charged with any crimes. The task force could not violate the law, and hijacking Saduq’s yacht crossed lines Martin didn’t wish to contemplate. Or explain.