Kurt ran back toward the aft cabin immediately, where the Uzi was lying on the bed alongside the detonator. He made it to the bed just as the door opened, leaped across it, lifting the Uzi as he fell behind the bed. Thorne Greer aimed his pistol into the room and began firing rapidly. Kurt waited for the agent to empty his magazine, then came up and returned fire, hosing the doorway. After the gun was empty, he realized that Thorne had moved away before he had fired. Kurt could see through the swirling cloud of smoke that the door, filled with holes and quill-like splinters, was rocking gently like a flag in the breeze. He tossed the empty Uzi onto the floor, took out his pistol, and put the detonator in his top pocket. He also took a fragmentary grenade from the open panel in the bed frame, just in case, pushing the lever into his web belt to secure it.
Kurt followed the extended gun hand. He went out onto the deck and swept it from side to side, ready to shoot at the agent. He saw a shoe, which he took for Thorne’s, lying on its side beside the rail. “Gone over,” he said. “Chickenshit.” He looked around the mast to the starboard side to make sure; it was clear. Then he peered back around at the port side and it, too, was deserted. He saw that Woody was gone and registered without emotion the fact that they had discovered the trip wire. He moved toward the open cockpit and, certain the bow deck was clear, stepped up and aimed his gun inside. The policeman on the floor had been a casualty of Martin’s Uzi. He had taken uncounted hits in the chest and head.
“All clear, Martin!” he yelled into the galley.
Martin appeared. “Where’s your detonator?” he asked.
“Here,” Kurt said, touching the breast pocket with the barrel of the pistol.
“Give it to me.” Martin held out his hand. “We’re going back.”
“What?”
“The family can’t be far behind us. Same boat that dropped the team off. We’ll locate it and we’ll take it out with the Semtex. Send ’em to the bottom.”
Kurt reached into his pocket and took out the device. As he was holding it out to Martin, he was aware of something large descending on him from above.
Thorne had climbed twenty feet up the foremast, where he had clung on tightly, keeping himself as covered by the structure as he could. Luckily Kurt hadn’t bothered to look up. When Thorne saw Martin reaching for the detonator, he had dropped. At the last split second of the fall Kurt had turned his head up, but he had only had time to look surprised before Thorne landed his feet squarely on his shoulders. Thorne had the gun in his fist and was braced for the hit, so he was able to fire at Martin before he stopped sliding on the wet deck. He tried to stand but couldn’t because his ankle gave when he put weight on it. His fingers confirmed the bone was pressing skin out from the inside. He wanted to vomit.
Kurt was stunned, the breath knocked out of him, Thorne assumed. But he was quick enough to get out of the line of fire. Thorne hoped that he had at least broken one of Kurt’s collarbones. Kurt had lost his SIG Sauer pistol, and Thorne picked it up and hurled it back over his shoulder into the water. He fired another few rounds at the galley door.
Thorne didn’t know what to do next. He assumed Paul was dead-how could he not be? He couldn’t walk, but he found he could lift himself upright and stand, balanced on the good leg. At least he could kill one of them, maybe.
Kurt, who had circled the cockpit, came at him from behind on the fly. Thorne turned, and when he put weight on the shattered leg, he started down, but he pushed hard against the deck with the good leg as Kurt hit him. The motion was just enough to allow him to change his attacker’s balance, and the two of them pitched off, their legs hitting the rail hard and turning them on their axis as they sailed out into the darkness.
Martin was going to backtrack. Not to help Kurt, but to go after the family. They would be on the boat that had transported Paul’s team. They’d be following, waiting for Paul’s victory like wide-eyed groupies.
He went down into the galley to make sure Paul was really out of the picture. Between the adrenaline and the speed coursing through his system, he felt invincible.
Paul had managed to drag himself across the room, leaving a wide smear of fresh blood. Martin saw that his enemy was breathing and had a cane clenched in his hand. Martin exhaled loudly. “Paul, Paul,” he said. “No vest can stop KTW, you of all people should know that.” He laughed. “You’re lung shot, I believe.”
Paul opened his eye slowly and focused it on Martin, who was grinding his teeth.
“You are something! But what on earth made you think you could take me? Couldn’t even squeeze the trigger when you had me. Had to listen to me jabber. Paul, you don’t do that. You take the shot.”
Paul exhaled. “You’re right, Marty. Never listen to a man you intend to kill.”
“You’ve learned too late, but you’ve learned.” He took the boot knife from his leg sheath. “Now I’m going to prick you with this. You’ll go fast, if not completely painlessly. Then I’m going to sail back until I can see the boat that brought you. I’ll set the course, jump into the lake, and make sure your family meets you upstairs. There’s enough Semtex against the fuel tanks to take out anything within a few hundred yards. But I’ll be far closer, Paul. If they escape for some reason, I’ll be there, like a shark. I see a head bobbing, and pow.” He held up the blade and admired it.
From where Martin was seated, the cane seemed to come from the side of Paul’s right leg like a cobra rising from a basket. He saw the hole in the center of the tip and held out his right hand to ward off the inevitable. The heavy bullet passed through the hand, exploding the ceramic knife, and struck him dead in his chest, knocking him against the wall. He sat down with a look of complete disbelief in his eyes. Paul watched as Martin closed his eyes and his head dropped, chin against his chest, and he was still. Martin’s thumb was the only digit on the knife hand that hadn’t been destroyed outright by the heavy lead slug.
“You shouldn’t have taken time to talk, you egotistical fuck.”
Paul went up through the galley’s open door, picking up the Colt and putting it into the holster. He stepped out into the rain and looked up at the mast, letting the water run over his face. He ignored the searing pain in his shoulder. He fought the urge to offer a primal scream into the heavens. He had saved his family, and he, Paul Masterson, had slain the monster. Then he removed the battery from the detonator and put the two parts of the device in a molded cup holder on the dash.
He lifted Woody Poole’s radio and spoke into it. “This is Masterson, Cheetah, do you copy?”
“Yes,” the voice said. “We’re due south of your position, picking up Mr. Greer and someone else.”
“Careful, that’s Kurt Steiner. He’s dangerous.”
“Paul,” Laura said. “What about Martin?”
“Daddy?” It was Reb.
“Yeah, son?”
“What about Biscuit? He okay?”
Paul looked through the windshield at the bird in the cage sitting by the open hatch near the bow. The creature was puffed up against the chilling rain.
“I’m bringing him home, like I said.”
Paul laid the cane against the seat and disengaged the autopilot, swinging the boat around and closing the throttle a bit. He removed the Mae West, which was exerting pressure on the shoulder, reset the autopilot to 180 degrees, and went to get the bird. He walked over to the cage, reached down, and lifted it to eye level. He looked in at the gray bird, admiring the orange circles on its cheeks, which covered the ear canals.