by Mark Nolan
Greene stood up and drew her pistol and pointed it at Denton’s face. “U.S. Secret Service. You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal investigation, and assaulting and firing a weapon at federal agents.”
“You’re the one who is going to be under arrest after I get done beating the hell out of you,” Denton said, and she continued to climb onto the dock.
“Don’t test me, I will shoot you.”
Denton got onto the dock, stood up and balled her hands into fists, tensing her legs for an attack. Greene fired a round into the dock in front of Denton and said, “The next one goes in your chest, and I won’t lose any sleep over it.”
“I’m a police officer, you cow.”
“Then you should know better. You’re under arrest. Lie down and put your hands on the back of your head.”
“Shut up, you can’t arrest me. I’m an official, I’m important, and I’m well-protected.”
“Then we’ll send you to an official, important and well-protected prison. Now lie down or I’ll put a bullet in you. I’m in the mood to do it so go ahead and give me a reason to shoot you.”
“You’re going to be sorry for this.”
“Not as sorry as you are, now do it!” Greene fired another round into the dock close to Denton’s foot and then pointed the pistol at her face.
Easton arrived at that moment. He didn’t say anything. He just aimed the red laser sight of his pistol onto Denton’s chest and gave her his stone cold stare that said “I’ll kill you,” in every language on Earth without speaking a word.
Denton spit at Greene and then slowly got to her knees and went face down on the dock. Easton stood where Denton could see him aiming his pistol at her while she was being handcuffed by Greene. Denton’s left bicep was bleeding freely now, after the bandage had been soaked in the water of the Bay.
Denton’s partner Sergeant Kirby ran up to the scene. Easton trained the red laser sight on Kirby’s heart to show him where the bullet would enter his body if he moved an inch.
Kirby slowly raised his hands. His left hand held a badge. “SFPD, I’m on the job.” He noted the US Secret Service badge on the front of Easton’s belt. “That’s my police partner you have in cuffs. What’s going on here?”
Easton ignored Kirby and pointed his weapon back at Denton. Greene grabbed Denton by the scruff of the back of her shirt collar with one hand and pressed her pistol against Denton’s back with the other hand. Greene then power-walked her prisoner toward the stairs leading to the vehicles. Easton followed.
When the group passed by Kirby, Denton said, “I called your phone but you had better things to do than answer a call from your partner.”
Kirby felt terrible, he’d found Denton a few minutes too late. If only he’d taken her earlier calls. “I called you back repeatedly. You didn’t answer.”
“Do something,” Denton said. “Help me, dammit.”
Kirby held his hands out by his sides. “What can I do?”
Beth Cushman came running up to them then. Easton put the laser sight on Beth’s chest. She raised her hands. “SFPD Sergeant Beth Cushman. Hold your fire.”
Easton saw the police ball cap and the badge on a lanyard around her neck. He nodded once at Beth and then turned his attention back to Denton and Greene.
Kirby watched helplessly as Denton was taken away by the two Federal agents and put into the back seat of the black Suburban. He cursed and made a phone call he did not want to make. A call to Chief Pierce to report that he had news about Denton, and it wasn’t good.
Chapter 118
Terrell ignored the arrest of Denton as he ran to the boat slips and found a powerboat to borrow. Sarah and Cody ran after Terrell and got onboard the boat while he was starting up the single outboard engine. As Terrell was pulling away from the dock, Beth ran up and leaped across a few feet of water and onto the boat. Terrell was impressed. “Nice jump, Scooter.”
“How did you start the engine?”
“The keys were in the ignition. But now I’m going to drive it like I stole it.”
Terrell pushed the throttle to make the engine roar, and the boat shot out of the harbor like a rocket. It made a huge wake in the no-wake zone and caused another round of angry yelling from resident boat owners.
Beth looked at the ignition and didn’t see any keys there. Terrell must have hot-wired the engine. He obviously had some hidden talents from his past life on the streets of Philadelphia that he’d never told her about.
A uniformed police officer drove up to the boat dock on an ATV four-wheeled vehicle. He didn’t stop. He kept right on going and drove off the dock into the water. He pushed a button, and the quadski vehicle’s wheels retracted into the body, turning it into a jet ski. The quadski then took off across the water and raced after the fleeing boats. Few people knew that such equipment existed, but the SFPD had several of the quadskis. The officers of the Marine Unit who rode them were like motorcycle cops, but patrolling on the water and the shoreline instead of the streets.
Out on the bay, Zhukov and Jake raced their stolen vessels at full speed across the choppy water. They both took shots at each other but accuracy was difficult with the boats moving erratically as they bounced across the waves in the dark.
The FBI helicopter appeared in the sky above them and shone its spotlight down on Zhukov’s stolen boat. The vessel was in an open area of water now and away from other vessels. Reynolds started firing repeated bursts from her weapon at Zhukov.
Zhukov took evasive maneuvers and moved the boat in an unpredictable pattern, but some rounds struck the vessel, and a window on the bridge shattered. Jake’s motor yacht was newer and faster. He soon caught up with Zhukov’s boat and rammed into it from behind. The two men took more shots at close range. Rounds tore into both boats but missed their human targets.
Reynolds’ voice came over the loudspeaker of the helicopter. “Ivan Zhukov, this is the FBI. Stop your engines and lay down your weapon or we will sink your vessel.”
Zhukov ducked out of sight, took a folding stock assault rifle out of his backpack and sprayed rounds at the helicopter.
Reynolds leaned out the door of the helicopter wearing the harness, and she returned fire at Zhukov. She blasted the boat below her with withering fire from her automatic weapon.
Jake began firing round after round into both of Zhukov’s boat engines. A hit in the right spot could disable them and leave his enemy’s boat dead in the water.
The battle between Zhukov and Reynolds ended quickly when Zhukov scored a lucky hit on the FBI helicopter. Smoke began streaming from the engine, and the helicopter spun in a circle three times until the pilot regained partial control. The pilot attempted to steer the copter toward Fisherman’s Wharf and made a wobbly course while losing altitude.
When the helicopter spun around, Reynolds was tossed out of the door. Her safety strap coupling had taken a hit, and it let loose now with the slack of her strap. Instead of holding her inside the helicopter, the strap let her drop and left her hanging and twirling in the wind below.
The pilot checked the gauges. He knew he had to find a place to land quickly or they would crash in the bay. They could die when the wreckage sank and pulled them down with it. He fought with the controls, and the helicopter went up and down. Reynolds was dunked into the icy bay water several times like a puppet on a string.
At Alioto’s waterfront seafood restaurant, the dinner customers stared out the windows with their mouths agape as the helicopter flew toward them. Just when it seemed like the helicopter might crash into the windows of the restaurant, it flared and struggled to gain altitude. Then it barely cleared the edge of the roof as it landed on top of the building with a heavy thud. The pilot’s skills had saved lives. Reynolds was still hanging below from the strap. She slammed against the thick glass windows that covered the side of the ocean view restaurant.
Some dinner customers screamed, but a little girl at the table closest to Reynolds just stared in wide-eyed wonde
r. She waved her hand at the woman outside the window who had the side of her face pressed against the glass. The bruised and sore FBI agent grunted in pain and waved back at the child. Then she started climbing up the strap, hand over hand toward the rooftop. Walking up the wall of thick glass like a Ninja warrior.
Out on the water, Zhukov threw a grenade into the bow of Jake’s boat and yelled, “I saved one more grenade just for you Wolfe. Have a nice swim.”
Zhukov steered his boat to starboard in an attempt to escape the impending blast. Jake knew the grenade would go off any second now. He followed closely and rammed the bow of his boat against the other boat’s stern. Fuel was leaking out of one of Zhukov’s engines. The grenade exploded and blew up the bow of Jake’s boat and the stern of Zhukov’s boat simultaneously. It ignited the fuel from Zhukov’s leaking boat engine, causing it to explode as well. It created a flaming lake of fire on the ocean’s surface.
Both men were thrown through the air and into the water by the shock wave of the explosions and the violent tilting of the decks. Each of their boats burst into flames and began to take on water and sink. Oil and gas spilled onto the surface of the water, adding fuel to the fire. Jagged and burning chunks of wreckage floated in the flaming oil slick.
The police boat Marine One shone its spotlight on the water all around the flaming wreckage, searching for the men. A police sniper stood on the bridge looking for Zhukov. His secret orders from Washington DC were to capture the man dead or… dead.
The SFPD officer driving the quadski was able to go 45 mph on both land and sea, and he quickly caught up to the boats. He began patrolling around the flaming wreckage with his police lights flashing as he searched for survivors.
Below the surface of the cold water, guided by the glowing light of burning wreckage above, Zhukov spotted Jake and started swimming toward him. Bullets from the police sniper above zipped into the water near Zhukov like small fast fish, leaving short trails of bubbles in their wake.
Jake was swimming underwater too, trying to get away from the burning oil slick so he could come up for air. When the police spotlight swept past, he saw Zhukov swimming toward him. Jake changed direction and the two government-trained killers closed the distance toward each other.
Zhukov had some kind of weapon in one hand that looked like a pistol grip shotgun. Jake was surprised to see it because he knew that any kind of conventional firearm could not shoot a round more than a few feet underwater. When Zhukov got closer, Jake recognized the weapon as a pneumatic speargun. The kind designed to work underwater and shoot a slender spear shaft attached to a strong fishing line. Zhukov must have found it in the cockpit of the stolen boat.
Zhukov fired the speargun. Jake tried to dodge the spear, but he couldn’t move fast enough in the water. The spear flew straight like an arrow and hit Jake on his left side, in the exposed flesh above his belt and below his Kevlar vest. It was a smaller sized spear, a foot and a half long. The spear sunk into the fleshy area of Jake’s waist that people call a love handle. It went through and stopped with about a foot of the stainless steel shaft sticking out of the front and just the spearhead sticking out the back.
The spear’s sharp screw-on spearhead had a barb that opened and prevented Jake from pulling the spear out. He couldn’t push it through either because it was attached to the extra-strong fishing line.
Zhukov tied his end of the fishing line onto a metal bar protruding from the bottom of a large piece of boat wreckage that was floating past. The wreckage began to drag Jake along with it, pulling him out to sea by the strong line. Zhukov dropped the speargun into the deep sea, gave Jake the middle finger and smiled, then swam toward the surface, leaving Jake to drown.
Jake felt a sharp pain every time the bobbing wreckage yanked on the line and tugged the spear. Most people in his situation would be as good as dead, but Jake wasn’t like most people. He grabbed the line with his left hand and twisted it to relieve the tugging on his wound. He then reached his right hand behind him, pulled out his KA-BAR knife and slashed through the fishing line.
Once the line was cut, Jake clenched the knife in his teeth like a pirate and started kicking his feet and swimming after Zhukov. As Jake swam, he reached back and unscrewed the spearhead, then pulled the spear out of his side. The shock and pain from that made him dizzy, and he almost gasped and dropped his knife. But he used the pain to spur himself on as he swam with all of his strength toward the surface.
Zhukov was swimming as fast as he could, desperate for oxygen. When he reached the surface near the edge of the burning oil slick, he took deep breaths of the foul, smokey air. Jake was a faster swimmer. He caught up with his enemy, burst above the surface of the water and attempted to stab Zhukov in the chest with his knife. Zhukov got lucky and saw Jake’s glistening knife blade just in time to avoid the point that was aimed at his heart. He grabbed Jake’s knife hand by the wrist and then kneed him in the stomach.
Jake threw a punch with his left hand at Zhukov’s jaw. Zhukov tried to dodge the punch, but it hit him on the side of the head and sent jolts of pain through his skull. He pulled his own knife and tried to stab Jake in the throat. Jake grabbed the wrist of Zhukov’s knife hand in a crushing grip and then tried to force the blade of his own knife into Zhukov’s eye.
Each man held his knife in his right hand and held his enemy’s wrist in his left hand. Both knew that any moment now one of them would deliver a deadly knife wound to the other. They fought hard, wrestling and kicking each other and thrashing in the water. Zhukov forced his knee into Jake’s side, right on the spear wound. It caused a sharp pain to shoot through Jake’s body. Jake head butted Zhukov in return, breaking his nose and making blood come out of his nostrils.
Nearby, there was a sudden roar and a bright flash of light as the gas tank in Jake’s boat exploded, the same way Zhukov’s had previously. The men were illuminated in the flash of light as they fought in the water among the wreckage.
The police sniper saw them and said to Captain Leeds, “I see them but they’re too close together for me to get a clear shot at the target.”
The police boat kept its spotlight on the area, and the two men could be seen fighting in hand-to-hand combat, their knife blades glinting as they wrestled in the water. Zhukov repeatedly kneed Jake and then forced his head below the water. Jake held his breath and fought for control of the knives.
“Do svidaniya.” Zhukov said goodbye as he held Jake’s head underwater and watched him begin to drown. But he spoke too soon because Jake wrapped his legs tightly around Zhukov’s waist and rolled over in the water with a powerful wrestling move. He brought his own face up for air and put Zhukov’s head underwater.
Jake took deep breaths as he held Zhukov’s surprised face below the surface. Zhukov fought to get Jake off of him, but Jake managed to keep him down. Jake also felt himself losing blood and losing strength. He knew what he had to do now, even if it meant he might die.
In a hoarse voice, Jake said words he hadn’t spoken for quite some time, and had believed he would never speak again. “The avenger of blood… shall put the murderer to death.”
He took one last deep breath, let go with his legs and kicked the water behind him. He swam forward and downward, pushing Zhukov backward and deeper in the water. Both men continued to hold onto their opponent’s wrist in a death grip. They each knew that the first one to let go would be the one to die.
Zhukov fought and kicked, but Jake continued swimming downward into the dark water. Jake was true to his promise as he dedicated his last breaths of life to ending Zhukov’s life. He was betting that he could hold his breath longer underwater than his enemy could. Betting and gambling with his own future. He would willingly die along with Zhukov if that was what it would take to protect his family and friends.
Zhukov sensed this moral resolve, and he knew deep down that he had no answer to Jake’s selfless willingness to die for his loved ones and for his country. As Zhukov was being forced downward, he began t
o knee Jake in the gut repeatedly. He focused on knocking the air out of him and increasing the damage to his spear wound.
Jake took several kicks to the abdomen. Then he bent his knees, tucked his legs under him and brought his feet up and forward fast as he shoved both feet hard into Zhukov’s stomach. It was like the kick of an Olympic swimmer kicking off the wall at the start of a race.
Zhukov took the fierce jab in the gut and was barely able to keep the air in his lungs from bursting out of his mouth. Yet he never let go of the wrist of Jake’s knife hand, and he continued to press his own blade ever closer to Jake’s face.
After Jake slammed his feet into Zhukov’s gut, he wrapped his legs around his midsection again and squeezed him tight. Then he used the leverage of his grip on his enemy’s body to help him force his elbow into the man’s throat. The hard blow hit Zhukov’s windpipe at the same time his midsection was being crushed like a vise by Jake’s powerful legs.
For a moment, Zhukov’s face looked… insulted. It was as if he could not believe in the possibility that this fool might actually be able to beat him. Zhukov then focused all of his anger into one violent thrust to bring his knife closer and stab Jake through his eye and into his brain.
Jake was expecting it, and that was the moment he went for the kill. He let Zhukov’s knife hand come toward him but moved his head to the side so the blade missed his eye. The momentum of Zhukov’s thrust brought his face closer to Jake’s, which is what Jake wanted. Jake wrenched his knife hand sideways, climbed Zhukov’s body with his legs and forced the tip of his knife part way into his enemy’s throat.
Zhukov was caught by surprise by Jake’s move. He was even more shocked to feel the cold knife blade slice into his flesh. Zhukov saw foaming bubbles of air and blood burst out of the wound in his windpipe and rise up in front of his face. He involuntarily inhaled through the throat wound and sent ice cold water into his lungs. His strength began to fail, and his hands weakened their grip.
