Instead, the man ran toward a stack of crates parallel to John’s position as the remaining shooter on deck provided covering fire. The hail of bullets kept John pinned down behind the crab pots. The second man disappeared behind the large stacks. What the hell?
More bullets tore through the Quadcon, and Logan squirmed his way backward on his belly, eager to minimize his target profile. The boat moved further away from the pier as the team leader expertly turned it toward the opening of the bay.
Logan’s options had dwindled to one—stand and fight. At least now it was only two on one, but I think I can even those odds. His last glimpse of the deck beyond the Quadcons had given him an idea, one that would require perfect timing.
He knew he couldn’t risk a direct assault on his attacker. A submachine gun in the hands of a trained professional was lethal, no matter who the target was. Instead, Logan smiled and rotated his body on his stomach. He quickly slithered across the rough surface toward the other end of the adjacent Quadcon.
———
John was frustrated. The sustained fusillade of bullets had kept him pinned down for the last minute of the gunfight. He was irate, suffused with a cold fury he wore like armor. Okay, motherfuckers. You better pray one of those bullets hits me, because if not, I’m going to kill all of you, one way or another.
The onslaught stopped. Silence shocked his senses, and he shook his head as if to clear it. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or not.
John looked around the edge of the crab pots and saw the Arctic Glide pull away from the pier. From his vantage point, he saw Logan crawl on his stomach toward the left edge of the Quadcon. Something was wrong, and then he realized what it was—there was only one shooter. Where’s the other one?
A loud engine roared to life behind a huge stack of crates forty yards ahead of him. A moment later, a dark-blue Ford F-350 pickup truck accelerated around the corner of the crates. It gripped the gravel for traction and rocketed toward John. The driver aimed his PP-2000 out the driver’s window and opened fire.
John dove toward the ground to avoid the bullets, careful to keep the crab pots between himself and the rapidly approaching pickup. He scrambled to his feet and shuffled around the large stack of steel traps. The Ford passed his location, and the driver fired his remaining rounds toward John.
The pickup gained momentum as it sped away. Its driver was now obviously intent on a secondary objective. One which apparently doesn’t involve killing me. Guess I’m not that important after all.
John glanced back at the boat. It was already more than 150 yards from the pier, and Logan was no longer behind the Quadcon. Whatever was happening on the boat, he couldn’t do anything for his friend from here.
He turned and sprinted toward Al’s pickup. He jumped behind the steering wheel and turned the ignition, keeping his foot on the clutch. The engine growled, and John released the clutch, shifting through the gears and accelerating after his new target. Don’t worry. I’m going to catch up to you, and then we can sort this whole thing out. He cracked a smile. On second thought, I’m not really in the mood for conversation.
He floored the gas pedal and caught a quick glimpse in the mirror of the boat behind him. His own burning, intense eyes stared back at him, and he redirected his gaze toward the road and focused on the Ford, which was now a quarter mile ahead of him. He was gaining ground already.
———
Neither of his attackers had seen Logan low-crawl to the other end of the stack of Quadcons. Bullets struck his previous location and tore through the sheet metal where he’d been moments before.
Logan couldn’t see his attacker from this angle, but it didn’t matter. If he’d calculated correctly, the man would be where Logan needed him in just a few seconds. He waited. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
Logan moved from behind the Quadcon into a steady crouch on one knee and aimed the Kimber .45. He fired three quick, precise shots.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Logan was a world-class marksman, an elite shooter among the best anywhere, and all three bullets struck his target. Sparks scattered across the deck and were followed by a high-pitched zzzzzzzz!
The yellow submarine suspended thirty feet in the air suddenly plummeted to the deck below. As it fell, Logan stepped around the front corner of the Quadcon, his pistol up and ready to engage the last attacker.
Though he knew it would be a great diversion, he was still pleasantly surprised when the submarine crashed to the deck with a tremendous boom! that shook the boat.
The gunman had been closer to the sub than Logan had anticipated. He’d realized what Logan’s target was and had tried to dive out of the way, only a moment too late.
The submarine’s front left ballast tank crashed down on top of the shooter’s legs. The tremendous weight crushed his knees and pinned him facedown on the deck. He screamed in agony and tried to wriggle free from under his own personal paperweight.
Logan quickly combat-walked toward the fallen man with the intent of disarming him and keeping him alive. Unfortunately, like a desperate, caged animal, the man roared in pain and outrage, spotting Logan. The man glared at him with a fury and hatred Logan recognized—he’d seen it in the faces of men about to die, men intent on going out with one last gasp of violence in accordance with the lives they’d led.
The man pushed himself up. He reached out for his fallen PP-2000, which lay inches from his outstretched right hand.
Logan looked the man squarely in the eyes, aimed, and fired. The bullet struck his adversary in the right temple and snapped his head back. Blood sprayed a bright-red mist across the nose of the yellow submarine. The dead man slumped back down to the deck.
Logan looked toward the wheelhouse. He saw the team leader watching him. There was a look of puzzlement on his face, perhaps mixed with professional admiration. Logan thought he saw a small smile, but at this distance, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have time to consider it because suddenly the man disappeared from sight and slunk into the shadows.
Now it’s your turn, Logan thought as he moved determinedly toward his final target.
———
John concentrated on the road and kept the Ford in sight. The other driver expertly maneuvered the pickup along the peninsula till he reached the island and turned left. John accelerated after him.
Moments later, John skidded around the corner onto the main thoroughfare that ran along the waterfront. Boat repair shops, warehouses, and other businesses that catered to the fishing trade lined the right side of the road. To the left was the open water of the bay.
Fortunately, the road was empty. I doubt there’s ever traffic here. My kind of place, he thought.
He pushed the pickup truck harder and reached seventy miles per hour. He picked up Logan’s phone and pressed the speaker button. He dialed Captain Phoenix’s number and was relieved when the police chief picked up on the first ring.
“Mr. West, how goes it?” the police chief asked.
“It’s John Quick, Chief. It turned into a gunfight at the dock. Logan’s on the boat right now, which just left the pier, and I’m in pursuit of another suspect in a dark-blue Ford pickup. We’re on the main road along the waterfront. He’s a pro, but I’m slowly gaining on him. Where are you?”
A moment of silence passed as the police chief processed the information. “It’s just me and one of my men. The other had to go to the hospital with the injured tourist. And that’s Ballyhoo Road you’re on. We’re still on the other side of the island. Heading in your direction. Be there in five minutes.”
John heard sirens in the background. Storefronts flashed by in his periphery. Suddenly, the Ford’s brake lights illuminated, and the vehicle slowed. It fishtailed as it turned right off the main road.
“Shit,” John said. “Chief, he just turned right up a small road that leads up into the hills.”
“That’s Ulakta Drive. It goes to the World War Two Historic Area. There’s nothing out there but
old bunkers that overlook the water. It’s steep, rugged terrain, especially at the waterline.”
John thought for a moment. Why would the boat leave? Their commander had to know he couldn’t come back to the bay. And this guy was risking capture by fleeing in a pickup. Both vehicles had to be headed somewhere specific, someplace where they could link back up. But why send one man across land? He didn’t know.
“Chief, are there any caves, grottos, any place you could hide a small boat? This guy has to be going somewhere. They’re not the type to go on a suicide run. These are pros. He’s going to have to link up with the rest of his team somewhere.”
Silence. “The Lookout,” the police chief said, almost in disbelief. “It’s an abandoned bunker built into the side of a cliff a hundred feet above the water. There’s a small tunnel about a hundred yards long that leads to it, but it’s off-limits to tourists because the tunnel has some structural issues.”
“What’s below it?” John asked.
“Nothing but jagged rocks, although there is a small area that curves under the cliff where I guess someone could hide a boat. It’d be concealed by the rocks. But there’s no way to get from the bunker to the water.”
“Chief, these guys are good. I guarantee they found a way.” The Ford had disappeared in front of him as the curve of the winding road masked the vehicle. Shit. “Where’s the entrance to the tunnel?”
“You can’t miss it. When you get close to the water, the road splits. Go left. It dead-ends a short ways after. You’ll see a chained gate and the entrance to the tunnel beyond.”
“I bet it’s not chained anymore. I’m going in after this guy when I get there. He’s in a hurry, which concerns the hell out of me.” He paused, and added, “When you get there, park and wait outside. I’m sure I won’t have a signal in the tunnel. When I come back out, I’ll make sure you know it’s me. If you see anyone else, light ’em up,” John said matter-of-factly.
“Understood. Be careful. It’s dark in there.”
John smiled. “That’s just the way I like it,” he responded, and concentrated on the winding road in front of him. The Chevy came around a hairpin curve to the right, and John saw the Y-intersection in front of him.
“Chief, I’m at the intersection now.” He slammed on the brakes and took the road to the left, immediately spotting the dead end. The Ford was parked in front of the gate and still running. The driver’s door was open. John caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure entering the tunnel entrance. Motherfucker’s moving fast.
“I’m here. The suspect is already inside the tunnel. I’m heading in after him. Hanging up now. Hopefully, I’ll see you shortly.” He paused before he hit the end button. “Like I said, don’t hesitate. If anyone other than me comes out, shoot him. These guys are trained killers. You don’t want to give them a moment to react. You understand?”
“Got it. Good luck,” the police chief said.
He slammed the brakes of the Chevy and skidded to a halt.
Showtime.
———
The Wolverine crouched in the corner of the wheelhouse and assessed his options. He couldn’t go downstairs. The hatch was still open, and the man on deck would have a clear shot at him the moment he left cover.
Whoever he was, he was no amateur. The man with the green eyes had eliminated Dimitri, right after his partner had shot and killed Nikolai. They had to be US federal law enforcement, probably with Special Ops training—they were just too good. He also knew they’d have backup, but one incomplete task remained before he could leave. Which is why I need to kill him as quickly as possible.
Another door to the wheelhouse led to a walkway and the bow of the boat. If he positioned himself on it, he’d have a view of the entire bridge, including the top of the stairwell. Whoever this man was, he’d have to come up the stairs, eventually. The Wolverine was a patient man, having once spent two days in a field outside Grozny to kill a Chechen commander from more than a thousand yards away. He’d wait as long as it required.
He opened the door to the walkway and pushed the door against the exterior bulkhead. He crept silently backward as the cold air and wind assaulted him. Once outside, he flattened himself on the walkway.
The PP-2000 was aimed directly at the top of the stairs. He knew he couldn’t miss at this range, even if he closed his eyes. The Wolverine stilled his body and lowered his heart rate. His breathing slowed. This engagement will be over shortly.
Minutes passed. The boat rocked back and forth as it proceeded through the mouth of the bay. He’d put it on autopilot to the preprogrammed destination. The Wolverine heard nothing but the roar of the engines and the wind, amplified by the boat’s speed.
He has to come up. It’s the only way. He forced himself to remain motionless. To move could reveal his location and likely result in his death. He knew that’s what the American wanted—for him to make an amateur mistake.
Thud!
The Wolverine felt the walkway shake from a sudden impact behind him. A shadow engulfed his figure, stretching out in front of him. Impossible! There was no way to reach the roof of the bridge from the deck. And yet, his opponent had flanked him from behind. The man’s tenacity was impressive.
Now I really only have one choice, he thought grimly.
———
Logan had known that the Russian team leader—as Logan thought of him after hearing his orders issued in that Slavic language—wouldn’t be drawn out from the wheelhouse. It would’ve been foolish to surrender his tactical advantage. Consequently, Logan’s dilemma had been a simple one—reach the bridge without being spotted.
The stairwell was his enemy’s personal target range, to be avoided at all costs. There had to be a way to access the bridge from outside and still remain unseen. He’d been stumped, at least until he saw the crane. After it had dropped the submarine, its arm had swung back toward the main structure and remained suspended a few feet above the roof of the wheelhouse.
Logan had scaled it quickly and climbed on top of the long arm. Running across the narrow steel beam, he’d spotted the open door in the back of the bridge and instantly identified an ideal ambush position. He’d leapt across the gap to the roof and landed softly. For a moment, he’d thought his enemy had seen him. Logan had frozen, waiting, until he realized he was in the clear, and had crept across the roof as quickly as he could manage in the shifting seas.
When he had reached the edge, he’d looked down and saw the prone Russian, his weapon aimed through the bridge at the stairwell. Since Logan had killed his previous target, his intent was to take the team leader alive. And so he’d dropped onto the walkway, directly behind him.
Hoping to avoid lethal action, Logan spoke in a low voice. “I’m going to give you one chance before—” was all he had time to utter.
The man was lightning quick. He released the submachine gun and used his arms to launch himself up and forward before scrambling on all fours and propelling himself halfway through the open hatch.
Seriously? Logan thought as he raised his Kimber to fire, then hesitated. If you want him alive, you can’t shoot him, an inner voice warned. Logan West heeded the warning and obeyed his alter ego—it had proven reliable and saved his life too many times to be dismissed.
Logan holstered the Kimber and took two purposeful steps toward the Russian. Without breaking stride, he delivered a powerful kick to his left hip and was rewarded with a grunt of pain.
Unexpectedly, his adversary kept moving through the doorway on his hands and knees. Logan followed him into the wheelhouse. I need to end this, he realized as he shot a glance through the bridge’s window. The boat was nearing the north end of the island, and Logan didn’t want to discover what other surprises the Arctic Glide had in store for him.
Logan reached out and grabbed his assailant by the shoulders. He intended to slam the Russian into the boat’s controls when his opponent delivered an elbow to Logan’s face. Logan turned his head to the right in an attempt to avoid
it, but the elbow glanced off his head nonetheless. He felt an all-too-familiar ringing in his ear.
Logan rotated his body toward his prey and pulled his left foot backward, hooking his right arm under and around his opponent’s left arm and securing it at the elbow. He whipped his body completely around and pulled as he pushed his body upward in a judo hip throw.
The man who called himself Martin was lifted off his feet, propelled partially by his own momentum, as Logan flung him over his right shoulder. He crashed to the floor of the bridge and rolled to a stop at the base of a computer rack along the back wall.
The Russian shook his head to regain his focus.
Seizing the moment, Logan stepped forward and delivered a short roundhouse kick to his face. The kick was expertly executed, but somehow the man blocked it with both arms and used the computer rack as leverage to launch himself at Logan’s midsection.
The Russian struck Logan in the stomach and pushed him backward. Logan’s back collided with the instrument panel in front of the captain’s chair, and he felt a lever shift beneath his weight. The boat accelerated.
Logan clasped his hands together and brought them down viciously between his attacker’s shoulder blades. He felt the blow stagger the Russian, and Logan risked a quick look backward out the window of the wheelhouse.
Oh no. The currents around the northern corner of the island, combined with the speed of the boat and the pounding waves, had redirected the Arctic Glide. To Logan’s horror, the boat was now on a collision course with the island, aimed directly at an outcropping of jagged rocks at the base of a cliff two hundred yards away.
We’ve got thirty seconds at the most, he thought as he delivered a knee to the Russian’s stomach, hoping it would put him down for good.
But he had no such luck.
———
John moved silently through the tunnel, alert for any sign of his prey. He’d forced himself to wait one minute, tightly squeezing his eyes shut to adjust to the dark, dank environment. It was a trick he’d used during his time in the Marine Corps. He just hoped it’d help now.
Oath of Honor Page 4
