by Graham Smith
I almost black out, but manage to retain some kind of awareness.
He stoops over me and removes the rope holding me in position. Stepping back, he grabs the lapels of my shirt and yanks me out of my seat. I fly past the point of balance and plunge head first over the side of the boat.
81
I slip into the dark water and the first thing I feel is cold. Not just the cold of the water, but utter, bone-chilling panic. I feel momentum pushing me down. Gravity and my struggles are helping me to sink ever deeper, so I try and force myself to be calm.
I fail. Badly.
As I thrash around under the water, I feel every sinew stretching itself to breaking point. The tape binding my arms snaps under the stress of my frenzied contortions. Having them free takes the edge off my terror. I have never learned to swim, but at least I have a half chance of not drowning if I have the use of my arms.
Slamming the panic down, I use brain instead of brawn for a moment.
My lungs are full of air but I know it won’t last me long. Not with the way I’ve been fighting my bonds. Not with my head so far from the surface.
I blow a tiny amount of precious breath through my nose and feel the bubbles pass over my chin.
Now I know which way is up, I claw towards the surface. My movements are ungainly but I feel the weight of the water pushing down on me lessen. I’m making progress.
My head breaks the surface for a second and then I start to sink all over again.
Is this what is to become of me? Bobbing up and down from the depths to the surface until my strength wanes and I inhale lake water?
The other danger is Norm sitting on his boat watching. A crack from the boathook he’d used to push off from the jetty will knock me unconscious. Hell, he won’t even have to hit me with it, he can just use it to hold me under the water.
As I flap my way to the surface for a second time, I dig a nail under the tape over my mouth and yank the tape free. It stings, but a kiss from a supermodel couldn’t open my mouth right now, so there’s no way a yelp of pain is going to happen.
This time when I break the surface, I get a decent lungful of air. I also open my eyes for the first time since entering the water.
Norm is standing on the boat with his back to me. I see him turning as I slip beneath the water.
While I know I can’t keep up this rhythm for long, every time I break the surface feels like a victory as well as a chance to replace the spent air in my lungs. With two of Norm’s three pieces of tape removed from my body, I start figuring how to remove the third.
Stuffing a hand into my pocket, I draw out the key to my apartment. It’s a Yale key with a rough serrated edge. With it clamped between my fingers, I saw at the tape around my ankles.
It snags and tears at the coarse tape. Feeling the key slipping, I realign my fingers and ignore the fact I’m sinking as I resume my attack.
With my ankles free, I start to kick and claw upwards. There’s a strong temptation to flail and panic, but I know I must retain the small measure of control I have. If I lose my head now, I may never taste air again.
This time when I break the surface, my eyes can’t find the boat or Norm. Either he’s started the engine and struck out for home or the moon is behind a cloud and the boat is shrouded in darkness.
Despite him trying to kill me, I now feel his disappearance as a form of abandonment. At least when he and his boat were here, there was the tiniest glimmer of hope that I may be able to somehow board the boat without Norm knowing and overpower him.
Now the boat is gone, even that slim chance has been stolen from me.
My head ducks below the surface again. A couple of strong kicks from my legs solves the problem. I’ll never achieve proficiency as a swimmer, but I’m managing to keep my head above the water with increasing regularity.
I can feel my breathing settle into a more normal rhythm than the frenzied gasps I’ve been giving.
While I may be literally keeping my head above water, this submerging and fighting to get to the surface isn’t going to work as a long-term solution.
I cast my mind back to the many pool parties I’ve attended – I remember Alfonse and others splashing around in the water. A memory strikes me as a bolt of inspiration.
Kira lying on her back in Claude’s pool. She’d lain motionless in the water with her face turned to the sky. She’d looked so relaxed, letting the water support her.
When she wanted to move she just kicked her legs, the action enough to propel her steadily towards her destination. Her movements had been so languid and graceful they were on the point of being balletic. I can’t begin to emulate her grace, but I love the idea of keeping my mouth and nose above the water.
I tilt my head back and give firm kicks with my legs. It’s enough to set me off backwards. I won’t win any awards for style, but I’m moving. On top of the water instead of underneath it. I realise the good fortune in taking off my heavy boots to use as a weapon. My feet would have been forever pulled downward by their weight. Norm removing the cumbersome bulletproof vest from me is also working in my favour.
If the need for stealth wasn’t so great, I’d cheer. Despite my fear of water, I haven’t drowned yet.
The next concern is which way to go. I know Panchtraik Reservoir is shaped like a kidney bean and I don’t have to be a genius to work out Norm has dumped me overboard as near to the middle as possible.
Floating as I am, I have no idea which way is the shortest to shore. The reservoir is at its longest on a southeast–northwest axis, so the shortest way to shore is northeast or southwest.
Without the light of the moon or stars to guide me, I have no way of knowing whether the direction I’m taking is the best or worst.
A flash of light attracts my eye. I lift my head towards it, but stop the movement as soon as my feet start to sink.
A voice carries across the water. Strong and confident. ‘I know you’re still alive, Boulder. I can hear you splashing. I’m coming for you.’
82
I slow the kicking of my feet until they drift under the surface. My back is arched and my arms are frog-kicking to help propel me away from Norm’s flashlight.
Direction no longer seems so important. As long as I’m moving away from the light, I’m heading towards safety.
The beam of the flashlight plays across the water. It doesn’t find me, but it’s searching the right area.
Norm is steady and calculated with his sweeps. He’s moving outwards a couple of feet at a time.
His actions speak of calm, of training, of experience in managing life or death situations.
I recall what Alfonse unearthed about him. He’s a trained Marine with gaps in his service history, which speak of secondment to a black ops or Special Forces unit.
He’s in a boat hunting a man who’s only just learned to swim. Never mind the smart money, even dumb folks would back him against me at this point in time.
I increase my efforts to put a greater distance between me and the flashlight. I’m desperate to thrash my legs but I daren’t make a sound.
It’s a form of mental torture. Every part of my body is screaming at me to hurry, while my brain is trying to send calming messages explaining why haste will be my undoing.
I settle for lowering my arms and increasing their speed. It’s not much but it’s as much as I dare offer.
It seems to work until a sudden wider sweep of Norm’s flashlight dances over my half-submerged body.
I strain my ears listening for a taunting shout but it doesn’t come. The flashlight scans back and forth twice more before being switched off.
Just as I start to hope Norm has given up, I hear the rumble of an engine starting.
A sliver of moonlight dances across the water allowing me to see Norm’s boat moving towards me. It’s not moving fast, but neither am I.
The flashlight comes back on. He’s mapping a grid which is creeping towards me.
I have seconds to decide what to do. If I w
as a better swimmer I’d dive under the boat and try to escape behind him. As it is, I’m burning way too much energy trying to stay afloat.
The idea of making a stand while hundreds of yards from terra firma is ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better option. I’ll never outswim his boat.
I pull my hands behind me into pretty much the position he’d taped them and kick my legs to keep my head above water. Surprise my only weapon.
As his flashlight picks me out, I whip my head away from him to hide the lack of tape over my mouth. I kick harder to make him think I’m trying to escape.
The boat alters course and he cuts the engine. It’s a good sign.
If he’d been intending to run me down and let the propeller savage me I would be done for. For the first time, I’m glad of his earlier boasts. He’s planned for me to drown and I know how important his plans are to him.
This is what my whole plan of defence and attack is based on – his adherence to his methods. The earlier admission he’d wanted a more painful death for me was a signal of his self-imposed protocols.
His choice of death for me has been preordained and he won’t deviate, regardless of how much he wants to.
Either he will use the boathook to hold me under the surface, or he’d join me in the water and use his bare hands to finish the job.
Both options give me a glimmer of a chance.
I keep my mouth in the water and breathe through my nose. My legs kick a steady enough beat for me to retain my position. Taking care not to look directly at the flashlight, I watch his approach.
A gust of wind several thousand feet above us moves a cloud enough for the moon to backlight the boat with an ethereal glow. Norm’s body is silhouetted against the sky. So is the boathook in his other hand, the curved lug distinctive against the sky.
The bulk of the boat drifts closer until Norm is above me.
His torch is dropped into the basin of the boat as the boathook upends and comes down. He’s aiming the tip towards the crook of my neck.
There’s no hurry to his movements. He’s being slow and deliberate, intending to draw out my suffering.
I let the rubberised tip find its mark.
When it does, I kick harder so he has to use more force.
The pressure increases on my shoulder until I feel myself being driven under the surface. Once my head is submerged, I stop kicking and grasp the boathook with my hands. Jerking it to one side, I haul with everything I have. My body soars upwards with the change in thrust and my head breaks the surface.
Norm lets go before he’s dragged into the water, but I’ve got him off balance. His arms windmill as he tries to retain his equilibrium.
The water doesn’t let me swing as hard as I’d like, but my aim is good.
The wooden pole hits him on the side of the kneecap, the blow enough to finish what the yank started. He topples into the water with a violent roar.
I take the chance to fill my lungs as I spin the boathook round so I can hit him with the business end. My fear of water has been dispersed by the fiery MacDonald blood surging through my veins.
Trained Marine or not, right now I’m fancying my chances.
My legs’ rhythmic kicking keeps my head above the water as I wait for him to surface.
He doesn’t.
Instead I feel strong hands grab my waistband.
There’s no time to grab another breath before he drags me under. The wooden boathook in my hands pulls upwards towards the surface.
I have to choose between having a weapon or two hands to fight him with.
Fingers grasp at my throat.
Instinct makes me release the boathook.
I scrabble at his hands as the pressure on my throat increases.
My fingers find and isolate his pinkie. A sharp tug back breaks it. The hand around my throat doesn’t loosen, so I move on to his ring finger.
It takes a firmer jerk to break it, but I don’t stop there. I keep pulling as his hand slips from my throat.
Extending my hands, I reach for his face.
After showing him how to defend against strangulation, I’m not stupid enough to go for his throat.
My thumbs find his eyes, but he shoves me away before I can put any force behind them.
I thrash upwards and bang my head against the boathook as I surface. My fingers grasp it as I peer into the blackness searching for Norm.
He’s a few feet away. I think about taking a swing at his head but he’s out of reach.
He ducks under the surface after drawing in a rasping breath.
Expecting another attack, I pull the boathook into a vertical position with the curved lug pointing down.
Nothing happens. There’s no pulling on my legs, no stiletto piercing my skin.
I listen for him splashing, in the hope he’s given up and is swimming away. I’m just starting to believe he has, when I feel the water behind me swirl and an arm snaking round my throat.
He isn’t trying to choke me. Rather than pulling me back against him, he’s leaning forward using his weight to push my face into the water.
A knot of muscle pressing against my left cheek tells me which arm he’s using. This knowledge lets me know where his face is.
I tilt the boathook as I straighten my arms.
Thrusting backwards with every last morsel of strength, I drive the boathook into his face. There’s a sudden halt to its momentum so I repeat the blow a second and third time.
The arm leaves my neck and I kick my way towards some precious air.
As I fill my lungs, I turn to see him thrashing in the water. He has both hands pressed against his face. There are unintelligible screams of pain and frustration coming from him.
Whatever damage I’ve done to his face gives me enough of a distraction to do one of two things.
I can make my way to the boat and escape to summon help to round him up. Or I can raise the boathook above my head and save the taxpayer an expensive trial.
There’s no real decision to be made. If I leave him here, there’s a chance he will make it to shore and evade capture.
He may take a while to heal, but one day soon, he’ll be ready to kill again. I can’t allow that.
Taking a careful aim, I slam the lug of the boathook into his temple. It doesn’t just collide – it penetrates. His contortions slow to a judder then stop.
The only movements he’s making are caused by my efforts to free the boathook.
Pulling him towards me, I place my hands on his shoulders and push down.
I start to count. It’s a slow count, which may be out by thirty seconds either way.
It doesn’t matter how accurate I am. Six minutes under the surface with a crushed temple will make sure this ends tonight.
When I reach three sixty, I let go and allow him to drift face down. I’m certain he’s dead by the way his limbs hang low in the water.
I turn my head, locate his boat and set off in the worst backstroke known to man.
THE END
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Table of Contents
Epigraph
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
