Shane, still holding his position on the dock, fired blindly up at the house. He couldn't see anyone, so he popped only one cap firing for effect turned, and ran to the boat.
Chooch was under the dash pulling out ignition wires, and Longboard ducked down low in the backseat. As Shane jumped into the boat, two more shots rang out from the sloping lawn. One of the bullets thudded into the boat's hull. Alexa pulled her pistol and returned fire.
"Save your rounds!" Shane yelled. "Unless you can see 'em, don't fire."
Suddenly the boat engine started, and Chooch backed out from under the dash. Longboard came up from his hiding place and started throwing off lines.
They could now see two men running down toward the dock. Both stopped halfway out on the wooden pier, aimed their pistols, and fired down from a position of advantage. Shane felt a bullet tug at the sleeve of his sport coat. He dropped into the seat behind the wheel and slammed the throttle all the way forward.
The Chris-Craft roared away from the dock amidst a hail of gunfire. He heard Alexa's Beretta bark near his left ear, then the distant sound of return fire from the dock.
"Shit," she said, and dropped onto the seat beside him. He glanced over at her, alarmed.
"I took one," Alexa said, looking at her side. She couldn't see the blood in the moonlight because of the dark turtleneck.
"How bad?" Shane shouted over the roar of the engine.
She pulled up her shirt and checked the wound. "Looks like a through and through. The right oblique. Just drive. If I start fading, I'll let you know," she shouted.
They heard two more shots, but they were distant popping sounds. One bullet ricocheted off the metal windshield, and then they were out of range.
Longboard and Chooch were lying prone on the backseat. "Did we make it?" Longboard asked tentatively as he sat up.
Shane looked back at the dock, a receding structure in the distance.
"They're out of range," he said. All of them had wide smiles on their faces. It was a well-known police axiom that nothing is more exhilarating than being fired on without serious result.
The little speedboat streaked across the lake, its metal-tipped bow parting the moonlit water, leaving a frothy, expanding wake behind them as they headed toward the lights of Arrowhead Village two miles away.
"We've gotta get to a place where Sheriff Conklyn won't panic making the arrest. Someplace out in the open. I don't want one of his trigger-happy deputies ruining this perfect rescue," Shane shouted to Alexa over the wind and engine noise.
"How 'bout the main dock in town?" she suggested. "It's open from all sides. He can make an arrest easily there."
"Good idea," Shane agreed. She pulled out her cell phone to call, but before she could dial, the odds abruptly changed.
It was coming at them low and fast across the water, its rotor blade flashing streaks of reflected moonlight. The blue and green helicopter was ten feet off the surface, approaching quickly. By the time they heard it, it was way too close. The throaty roar of the speedboat's engine had camouflaged its deadly approach.
The Bell Jet Ranger swept low across their speeding bow. Two men leaned out the open door with police shotguns aimed down at them, and seconds later the men let loose… The teak deck and left windscreen were peppered with buckshot. Exploding safety glass flew back in pebble-sized pieces. Chunks of pellet-riddled teak flew up, caught the air, and were whipped away over their heads.
Shane jerked the wheel right, to change the angle, taking away the Bell Jet's point-blank line of fire. Now the speedboat was heading west, away from the town. The chopper banked, its engine whining as it turned, and in seconds it was behind them again, closing in. Two more blasts from the shotguns, and the rest of their windshield was gone.
Shane felt sharp pain on his ear and cheek where several pellets from the widening shot pattern had nicked him. Blood started running down the right side of his face. He spun the wheel again.
Alexa turned and was now facing back. She had her knees on the leather seat; her body was prone across the center deck. She had her 9mm Beretta in both hands, aiming up at the approaching helicopter. She took her time sighting. "Slow down, you're bouncing too much!" she shouted.
Shane eased the throttle back, slowing the boat and subtly drawing the chopper in closer. Then, sighting carefully, she fired twice. Suddenly the chopper veered right and pulled up fast, exposing its belly. She fired again. The pilot, feeling the hits, banked the helicopter away. He pulled back to avoid further gunfire, but was now also way out of shotgun range.
Her shots had not disabled the Bell Jet Ranger.
Shane sped up. The chopper paced along a hundred yards to the right, skimming low across the water, tracking the speedboat from the side at about forty miles an hour.
The boat was bouncing badly, hitting the larger chop in the center of the lake. The waves slammed against the varnished hull, throwing water wide to each side.
"Don't shoot! Don't waste rounds we're pounding too much!" Shane shouted. "They can't reach us with those twelve-gauges save it for when they come in close."
Alexa nodded as they sped across the center of Lake Arrowhead, the chopper flying sideways now, the nose aimed at them. Four faces were staring out from behind the bubble-glass windshield.
Shane was headed toward Blue Jay Bay.
Alexa pushed redial on her phone. A moment later Shane heard her shouting at Conklyn. "Sheriff, it's Alexa Hamilton. I'm with Shane Scully and two others. A male Caucasian and teenage Hispanic. We're Code Six Mary in a speedboat heading across Lake Arrowhead, taking gunfire from a helicopter above us. We're at Blue Jay Bay. We need help. Get here fast, or notify the coroner." She threw the phone down on the seat without waiting for a reply, then aimed her gun at the tracking helicopter.
They streaked past a sign marking Village Point, then past two poles planted in the lake that warned:
SHALLOW WATER SANDBAR
"Shit," Shane said. He was going almost forty. If he went aground at that speed, they would all end up as part of the dashboard. He pulled the throttle back, slowing to about twenty. The helicopter veered again, vectoring toward them. They could see distant flashes of fire from both shotgun barrels, then heard the slower sound of the blasts. Simultaneously the varnish on the side of the boat exploded and turned chalky white as the pellets tore holes in it.
The body of water narrowed abruptly ahead; they were running out of lake. Shane saw Totem Pole Point coming up on the right, marked by a hand-painted sign. Suddenly they were in the narrow and unforgiving waters of Paradise Bay, heading for the mouth of Little Bear River.
"Fuck," Shane said. If he turned back now, he would be forced to slow way down to make the turn in the narrow inlet, making them vulnerable to a withering shotgun attack. So he eased back on the power, cutting his speed to ten miles per hour, then headed up the narrow mouth of the river. Occasionally he could feel the boat hesitate as it scraped bottom.
The helicopter came in close now, making another pass. Two men were leaning far out of the door of the chopper. Alexa fired three more times. One of the men screamed, his voice faint and distant, barely audible over the racket of the competing engines. Then the man tumbled out of the helicopter door and splashed into the shallows below.
Shane could see the end of the ride coming up ahead. A sandbar was stretched across the narrowing river. He sped up momentarily so he could run the heavy boat up onto the sand.
The Chris-Craft shot up onto the bar. He felt the sand scraping beneath, heard the propeller pin shear. The engine screamed as the propeller flew off. As soon as the boat slammed to a stop, it leaned right against its bottom, white smoke and a high-rpm whine coming from the exposed shaft.