With desperate, angry eyes, he watched them as they moved out into the harbor. One was holding the manuscipt under his arm while the other steered the boat to the east. The third man smacked a fresh magazine into his M12 and then fired on Hawke. Sweeping the gun from side to side, he blasted holes in the wooden wharf poles and the rounds gradually snaked their way toward the Englishman.
Hawke dived for cover inside another boat and leaned over the portside to return fire. The men were getting away, and he had seconds to get the boat started or it was all for nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
He yanked the pull cord on the four stroke Yamaha but it tore off in his hand and he nearly toppled out of the boat. Cursing, he removed the engine cowling and the choke linkage. The bolts holding the top assembly were loose enough for him to undo with his fingers and then he pulled off his belt and wrapped it around the assembly.
He pulled the belt and the engine spluttered to life. Lowering the outboard into the water he started out across the foggy harbor in pursuit of the men. They were now no more than ghostly shrouds in the sea mist, but he knew where they were headed. Their boat was too small to go out to sea and their direction of travel was pointing them to Boston Logan International Airport. They clearly had somewhere they would rather be.
Hawke increased speed and slipped his belt back on. Looking up, he was getting closer. With three of them in their boat, the gunmen were heavier and slower in the water, but Hawke was alone and faster. Now, he raised his gun and aimed at the outboard motor on the rear of their boat. One good shot ought to do it, but shooting from one boat to another on restless water wasn’t exactly the easiest thing in the world to do so he slowed his breathing and squinted down the sights.
His shots crackled in the gloomy fog and then he heard the reassuring sound of a ricochet. He fired again and this time he saw a small explosion on their stern. One of the men leaped over to put the fire out and check the damage and this time Hawke got him with a single shot. He fell silently into the black water and after a subdued splash he was gone. The men made no effort to stop for their fallen comrade and pushed on into the mist as fast as they could with their damaged vessel.
But his attack on the boat had been successful, and now they were slowing down. Hawke smiled but his celebration was too soon. The men had changed direction and now ahead of their boat he saw the outline of Long Wharf North rise into view in the fog. They hadn’t given up yet and had changed their escape plans.
The two surviving gunmen clambered up over some mooring poles and as Hawke’s eyes followed them along the wharf he suddenly knew what those plans were: the ferry.
He cursed as his boat ploughed through the icy water yard by yard. It seemed to take forever and now the ferry was pulling out into the harbor on its way across to the airport. Soon they would be on board and crossing the harbor on their way to the airport while he was still buggering about in this tiny little boat.
He changed plans too, and pushed the tiller hard to change the direction of the boat’s travel. The little boat tipped gracefully to starboard in the water and now he was slowly coming up behind the much larger vessel. On the stern he could see some young people holding coffees and pointing at all the police lights illuminating the wharf district in impressive blue and red strobes behind him.
He was almost at the ferry now and sliding around all over the place in its wake. Fighting against the force of the ferry’s powerful wake, he slowly brought the boat up to the rear of the larger boat and grabbed hold of the portside pontoon ladder. The people at the rear of the boat were watching with amusement as he struggled to get some purchase on the stainless steel ladder’s side rail. Slick with the fog and seawater, his hand slipped off several times as he struggled to keep the boat level, but on his third attempt he finally made it.
He raced up the ladder and reached the stern deck. The coffee drinkers weren’t so amused when they saw the Smith & Wesson stuffed into his belt and they fell over each other to get out of his way.
Hawke barely noticed their terror. Pulling the weapon from his belt he stalked forward along the portside wraparound deck and raised the pistol into the aim. With each step he took he swung he muzzle into every nook and cranny in his search for the two surviving men and the stolen manuscript.
The ferry slowly grumbled through the freezing, fog-filled harbor and now Joe Hawke had reached a door near the bow. He stepped inside into the warm and was met by several alarmed ferry workers. He was inside the wheelhouse and looking directly at the captain.
“Oh, my God!” the old man said, reaching for his radio.
“I’m not here to harm anyone,” Hawke said. “So just relax.”
“Who are you?” the captain said, still staring at the gun in the Englishman’s hands.
“That doesn’t matter, but I’m in pursuit of two men who just stole something of great value from the Boston Metropolitan Museum.”
“You could be anyone,” one of the younger men said.
“True, and you’re just going to have to live with that,” Hawke said. “If I wanted to hurt you you’d all be dead by now, no?”
The men exchanged a weary glance.
“I guess so,” the captain said.
Hawke lowered the gun. “Happy?”
The captain sighed. “Not exactly, but it’s better than it being pointed in my face.”
“So what now?” the younger man said.
“Turn the ferry around,” Hawke said.
“We can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. The men are trying to get to the airport. If you look to the stern you might notice Boston’s a funny blue color. That’s the police lights.”
The young man peered outside. “He’s right, Hank.”
“So if you turn the boat around the thieves are out of luck, right?”
The captain made a call on his radio and then started to turn the ferry around. He made a passenger announcement and then the boat was facing west again and sailing directly toward the enormous bank of flashing blue and red lights all over the wharf.
“So what now?” the captain said to Hawke.
“Now we wait. They could be hiding anywhere on a boat this size, but when we’re back on the wharf the police will come aboard and search it.”
They waited as the ferry made its way back to the wharf, slowly pushing through the cold water and fog. Hawke saw the chaos through the drizzle-soaked windows of the wheelhouse and hoped knowing the President might just be enough to stop him being sent to Gitmo Bay for hijacking a ferry.
His thoughts were shattered by the sound of single gunshot and a blood-curdling scream.
The captain and the younger officer exchanged a grim look. “Sounds like it came from the starboard deck,” the older man said, and fumbled for his radio. “Al? Come in! Are you reading me, Al?”
The younger man started to turn a green-white color, and Hawke knew it wasn't seasickness. “They shot Al?”
“They’ve worked out we turned around,” Hawke said. “Damn it all! I banked on them laying low below deck.” He pulled back the slide on the semi-automatic and put a round in the chamber.
The young ferry worker swallowed hard and took a step back. His eyes were fixed on the gun. “What are you gonna do, man?”
Before the reply came to his lips, Hawke heard more submachine gunfire on the starboard side. Everyone in the wheelhouse shared a worried look, and then Hawke pushed past the captain and stepped out onto the deck. Leaning over the metal rail he saw the men he had pursued climbing down into a police boat that was sailing alongside the ferry.
A number of dead officers lay strewn on the small boat’s deck, and one was bobbing up and down in the water behind it. The men had clearly seen the police escort and surprised the officers with their superior firepower, and now they had seized the boat and were taking off into the fog.