“Brian.”
“What’s Jackhammer’s name, Brian?”
The kid got it now. He was going to die.
He said, “Don’t do it, man. Please don’t hurt me.”
Brady applied some pressure and the kid grabbed futilely at his bulked-up arms. This kid was either a murderer or he was complicit in the many murders aboard this ship. But there would be no by-the-book interrogation for Brian. No Miranda rights.
Brady relaxed the hold and gave the kid a little blood to his brain, a little air.
He asked again, “What’s Jackhammer’s name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anyone. None of us do.”
“So why did you do this? Why did you take this job? You wanted to kill people? Ruin people’s lives? Why?”
The kid was exasperated as well as frightened.
“I don’t even understand your question. Look. Let me up. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
There was no way around this kid. None. Brady said, “I’m sorry, Brian. There’s no other way.”
He squeezed the kid’s neck in the V of his arm, pressing his left hand to his right wrist to double the pressure. The kid passed out a few seconds later, but Brady held on until a couple of minutes passed and the kid stopped twitching.
He could think about this later. But not now. There was no time to do it now.
Chapter 93
Brady dragged Brian’s body off to the side of the landing and turned his mind to the Sun Deck layout, where more shit was waiting for him and there was less than a fifty-fifty chance that he’d survive the next ten minutes.
He’d been up to the Sun Deck a couple of times.
Before it had turned into a shooting platform.
There was teakwood decking fore and aft, lined out with lounge chairs. At the middle of the deck was an eight-foot-wide running track, rectangular in shape, a hundred yards long by fifty wide and hollow at the center so that the sun could shine through to the Pool Deck below.
A railing ran around the inside perimeter of the track, making it a perfect catwalk and doubling with a first-class gun rest for sighting the captives directly below. Like prison guards looking down from the walls over inmates in a prison yard.
And now footsteps clanged against metal as the ship’s officers climbed toward him on the inside stairs. When they reached him, Brady, said, “I’m going out there first. After that, you all know what to do, regardless.”
The captain said, “Good luck to you, Mr. Brady.”
“And to you, sir. Everyone.”
Brady’s assault rifle hung from the strap over his right shoulder, and he had a loaded pistol on his hip. He said a quick prayer and pulled the knitted mask down over his face. Then he turned the wheel that opened the lock and pushed open the door to the Sun Deck. He closed it behind him.
Squinting through the mask, Brady tried to see everything at once.
The rising sun was streaking the horizon with pink bands, backlighting mountains in the distance and glinting on the railings at the bow.
There were three men on the track, two on the far, short side of the rectangle, the third guy standing by himself on a long side, fifty feet away.
Brady called out to that one, “Bro. Got a second?”
Without waiting for an answer, he set out along the composite rubber track toward the guard.
“I hope you brought me the beef taco,” the man said. “I already had the chicken. Beef is better if there’s any left.”
Brady had considered using the knife, but he wasn’t that good or that fast. So he pulled the gun.
“I don’t know anything about the chow,” Brady said.
Continuing to walk toward the guard, he said, “There’s been a slight change in the rotation.”
The man was only a few feet away.
He said, “Don’t tell me I’ve got to go another watch. I’m dead on my feet, already.”
The guard sensed something wrong in Brady’s posture or demeanor, or maybe he was close enough to see the gun.
He backed up, saying, “Let me see your hands, man,” while shouldering his rifle.
Brady aimed, squeezed the trigger, and fired twice, hitting the guard in the throat and chest.
Immediately shouts came from the men on the far side of the track.
Brady dropped his handgun, gripped the automatic rifle, and fired across the open track. The bullets made the gun’s signature pop-br-br-br-br-br report, hitting the gunmen who were running toward him like cartoon commandos in a video game.
The men flailed and then dropped.
Brady heard the tinny voice of a radio in the shirt pocket of the man lying near his feet.
“Pool deck four to track one.”
Brady picked up the radio and, what the hell, said into the dangling mouthpiece, “Yeah, track one. All secure.” Then he went to the hatch door and tapped on it.
The door swung in, and Brett Lazaroff, George Berlinghoff, and three of his officers, including the hotel manager, dashed out onto the track.
Berlinghoff went directly to the locker with the small lot of weapons. He shot off the lock and his officers emptied the box, then pocketed what they could as others collected guns from the dead gunmen before returning, as planned, to the crew staircase.
Brady was standing with Brett Lazaroff on the track when gunfire exploded upward through the center of it. They propped their AKs on the railing, aimed at the muzzle flare, and returned fire. Then there was a break in the shooting.
Brady said, “Lazaroff. You ready to roll?”
Chapter 94
Yuki was scrunched up against the overturned wet bar outside the Spa when gunfire opened up from the track deck. There had been shooting before, sporadic blasts of automatic-weapon fire meant to scare the prisoners who had already become zombies from unrelenting, paralyzing fear.
The spate of gunfire was worse now, more sustained. Purposeful. There was a spray of gunfire and a gunman near the pool grabbed at his neck and went down, toppling half into the pool.
What was happening?
Were they being rescued? Where was Brady?
Music was blasting from the speakers across the deck.
Bullets rained down from the track. Passengers screamed, scattered, and tried to hide under lounge chairs. Gunmen took cover and fired back.
Yuki moved aside as three passengers converged on the wet bar, looking for protection from the gunfire.
“We’re going to storm the Spa,” one of the passengers said to her. He grabbed her hand, briefly and said, “Good luck.”
Then he was gone.
There were shouts and the sound of breaking glass. Everything was happening fast.
Automatic weapons fired from the bow sent people running toward the stern, where Yuki was crouched near the barricade. Then a movement on the staircase over the Spa caught her eye.
A guard jogged down the steps from the Sun Deck. He stopped outside the Spa’s shattered doors and pulled off his mask. White-blond hair spilled onto his shoulders.
Brady. Oh, my God, it was Brady.
He’d been shot. Blood ran down the side of his face and the shirt he was wearing was dripping red. He didn’t see her.
Brady shouted, “Passengers. I’m a passenger, too. The crew is now armed. Lie flat. Keep your head down.”
The double doors opened out from the Spa and the Luna Grill at the same time.
Men in whites ran out and took positions where they could find them. They were ordinary men, pot-bellied, gray-haired, and some of them were holding rifles, others handguns. Yuki recognized them as ships’ officers.
Looking around, she saw six men in fatigues, all of them finding cover. There was shooting, and people yelled and cursed. Glass shattered. Bottles flew through the air. Yuki squatted behind the bar, hands over her ears when Becky grabbed her arm.
“Yuki. Come with us. Run!”
Yuki said, “That’s Brady. My husband.”
But Becky was already heading for the Luna Grill, her arm around her ten-year-old son, her husband corralling them from behind. A blast of gunfire came from a gunman kneeling beside the bandstand outside the Grill, and Becky’s husband went down.