He would retake his ship.
But for the moment, he was caught in his own trap.
It was his Somalian bodyguard who had come up with this plan to escape. To reach the tender docks, rather than descending any of the main stairs, the Somalian had led Devesh to the upper balcony entrance of the ship’s three-story-tall theater. They used the theater’s stairs to descend the three levels back down to the deck that housed the tender dock.
The theater’s lower doors lay directly across the hallway from the dock. A short dash, and they’d be motoring away from this hellish battle.
Devesh used his cane to thump down the last few stairs.
The Somalian guard held up a hand and headed to the door. “Stay back. Let me make sure it’s clear.” He clutched a large pistol in his other fist.
He cracked open the door, checked the hall, covering it with his pistol. He waited a breath, then opened it farther. Turning, he announced with relief, “Hall’s clear.”
Devesh took a step toward him — but movement over the man’s shoulder stopped him. One of the feathered tribesmen stepped out of hiding, sheltered within the hatchway that led down to the tender dock.
The cannibal held a drawn bow in his hands.
The large Somalian must have read something in Devesh’s expression. Even before fully turning around, the man began firing blindly.
The cannibal took three shots to the chest, falling back with a sharp cry.
But the tribesman had already let loose his bowstring.
The arrow pierced the guard’s throat, sprouting like some bloody tongue out the back of his neck. The large man stumbled, fell to his backside. Still, he kept his pistol pointed toward the door.
But the cannibal did not rise again, and the hall remained quiet.
Devesh knew he had to take the chance. He rushed to the guard.
“Help me,” the man croaked out, eyes winced with pain, slipping back to one arm to support himself. The other arm trembled to hold the pistol up.
Devesh kicked the man’s supporting arm out from under him. The Somalian fell back, startled. The arrow tip cracked against the polished wood floor. Devesh knelt on the man’s shoulder and tossed his cane aside. He needed a better weapon. He wrestled the pistol from the man’s grip.
But the large man refused to relent, fingers clenched with fury and pain.
“Let go!” Devesh shifted his knee to dig against the embedded arrow.
A loud wooden crash stopped their struggle.
The doors on the opposite side of the theater had banged open behind them. Devesh yanked the pistol free and turned. A figure flew into view, swift on tiny feet, swirling in silk, stained with swaths of blood.
“Surina!”
But she was not alone.
A roil of shapes pursued her, fueled by adrenaline and hunger. They poured in after her. Some slipped on the polished wood, down to knuckles, then up again, bestial in their hunt. But the tangled stumbling slowed them long enough for Surina to gain half the theater.
Devesh scrambled to his feet, both relieved and horrified at her arrival.
He didn’t want to be alone.
Surina flew to his side, one arm sweeping down. Her fingers collected his abandoned cane, and in a breath, wood slipped off of steel. She brandished the sword.
Devesh headed toward the open door. “This way!”
Cradling the pistol in both hands, he leaped over the Somalian, who groaned, only half conscious, blood spreading over the dark wood. At least the man’s body might distract the cannibals.
As Devesh landed, he felt two sharp bites at the backs of his knees.
He took a startled step, but suddenly his legs lacked any ability to hold him upright. He fell to a knee in the doorway, then harder to an elbow, knocking the pistol away. The pain rang up his arm to his skull. From the corner of an eye, he watched Surina rise from a low stance behind him, her sword held out to one side, blood spattered from its tip.
Devesh kicked to stand. But he had no ability to control his legs. He watched blood pouring through the knees of his pants. As Surina slipped past him, he realized what had happened. The bitch had sliced through the tendons at the back of his knees, hamstringing him.
She sailed across the hall and vanished into the darkness of the dock.
“Surina!”
Devesh tried to crawl, dragging his legs.
Toward his pistol.
But other hands fell upon him, drawn by the blood, digging into his flesh. He heard the guard’s agonized scream from the depths of the dark theater. Devesh was dragged back to join him, his palms scrabbling through the smears of his own blood, fingers dug for some purchase, some last mercy.
He found none.
5:45 A.M.
As screams and gunshots echoed down to them, Lisa joined Monk at the bottom of the launch bay’s stairs. She shivered in the damp breeze.
Ryder’s private bay was small, arched in steel, reeking of gasoline and oil. In the center rested what looked like the aluminum tracks of a roller coaster, consisting of a pair of cushioned rails, tilted at an angle and aimed toward an open hatch in the ship’s side. Beyond the hatch, the dark lagoon beckoned, brushed with sweeps of rain.
But it was what rested atop the tracks that continued to hold her partner’s full attention. “That is no goddamn boat,” Monk blurted out.
Ryder led them forward, hurrying. “It’s a flying boat, mate. Half seaplane, half jet boat.”
Monk gaped at the sight.
Lisa was no less awed.
Seated on the launch tracks, the craft looked like a diving hawk with its wings tucked back. The enclosed cabin ended in an aerodynamic point at the bow. Its stern supported two raised propeller engines. And over the top, two wings lay folded over the cabin, tips touching just in front of the upright tail section and propellers.
“She’s built by Hamilton Jet out of New Zealand,” Ryder said as he ran a hand along her hull and led them to the open side hatch. “I call her the Sea Dart. In the water, her twin V-12 petrol engines pump water from the front and shoot it out the stern’s dual nozzles. Once you get her up to speed, all you have to do is explode the hydraulics to snap wide the folded wings, and she sails into the sky…where her rear props keep her aloft.” Ryder patted its side. “She’s quick on her legs, too. Sky or water. Clocked her airspeed up to three hundred miles per hour.”
Ryder held out a hand toward Lisa. He helped her up the steps beside the launch track. She ducked into the cabin. It was not that much different from a Cessna: a pair of seats for a pilot and copilot in front and four more seats in the back.
Ryder climbed in behind her and scooted forward to settle into the pilot’s seat. Monk clambered in last, closing the hatch.
“Strap in!” Ryder called out.
Monk took the seat nearest the side hatch, ready to haul Susan inside when they reached the beach. Lisa climbed forward and took the seat next to Ryder.
“Hold on,” he said to her.
Ryder triggered an electronic release, and the Sea Dart rolled smoothly down the inclined tracks and dumped into the lagoon with a slight jar.
Water washed over the windshield as the boat’s bow bobbed deep.
Lisa immediately heard the rumble of engines behind her, throaty and growling with horsepower. She felt it in the seat of her pants, too.
The Dart began to glide forward across the water with a gentle burbling from the stern. Rain rattled in fits and splashes over the top of the cabin.
“Here we go,” Ryder mumbled, and throttled the speed.
The boat lived up to its name and shot like an arrow across the storm-swept water, throwing Lisa back into her seat.
Behind her an appreciative whistle flowed from Monk.
Ryder angled the boat, skimming over the water as if on ice. He sailed the boat around the cruise ship’s bow, a gnat before a whale.
Lisa stared up at the mighty ship. Away from the gunshots and screams, the Mistress of the Seas looked p
eaceful, gently aglow in the storm’s gloom.
But she knew the ship was anything but peaceful.
As she settled back, she could not escape a slight twinge of guilt. For Jessie, for Henri, and Dr. Miller. And for all the others. She still felt like she was running from a fight, abandoning the others for the sake of her own skin.
But she had no choice.
Ryder swung the boat and aimed for the island, where they were to rendezvous with Susan. The boat sped toward the expanse of dark jungle, trimmed by a narrow beach.
She silently repeated Henri’s last words to her.
The cure must be taken beyond the Guild’s reach.
Lisa watched the jungle swell ahead of her, the beach stretch wide.
They could not fail.
5:50 A.M.
Rakao watched the strange craft sweep around the cruise ship and speed straight toward his location. Through his infrared binoculars, the boat was a hot crimson smear across the colder water.
He signaled his team to be ready. They were waiting for his first shot before launching the full assault.
Rakao lowered his binoculars and brought to his eye the telescopic sight on his rifle. He fixed again upon his target, the escaped woman. She had stepped out of the jungle, easily discernible now, and waited on the beach.
Rakao heard the rumbling of the approaching boat.
She lifted an arm. Her limb seemed to catch the moonlight as it was raised. But there was no moon.
Rakao felt a chill at the sight. Still, he did not let it distract him. He had a mission here. Answers would come later.
Out on the beach, one of the tribesmen shoved the lone dugout canoe off the beach and into the shallows. He beckoned the woman to come. She crossed to the water, climbed aboard, and sat awkwardly in the back.
Standing behind the stern, the tribesman bent down, ready to shove the woman out toward the coming boat. They did not have long to wait.
The craft swept up, turning smoothly to expose its starboard flank, idling about seven meters out.
The side hatch was already open.
Rakao spied a man inside, braced in the opening.
Perfect.
Rakao shifted his rifle, aimed, and fired.
5:51 A.M.
Monk jumped at the crack of a rifle.
From his perch in the hatchway he watched the tribesman behind Susan collapse into the water. His falling body bumped the canoe, sending it drifting toward him.
A flurry of gunshots followed, tiny flashes of fire in the dark jungle.
Another tribesman stumbled out, bleeding from chest and shoulder. He held an arm out toward Susan in the water, hoping the witch queen could save him. But another crack of a rifle, and his head flew back and the lower half of his face exploded.
He fell to the sand.
This was all a trap…with Susan as bait.
A spat of rounds peppered the flank of the Sea Dart, driving Monk back inside. Ryder swore harshly. Monk scrambled to the assault rifle on the backseat, fumbling around with it.
But a barked shout stopped the strafing of the boat.
In the silence Monk warily crept back.
A man with a familiar tattooed face stood knee-deep in the water. Rakao held a spear in one hand and a Sig Sauer pistol in the other. With his arm extended, he aimed the pistol’s muzzle at the back of Susan’s head as she floated in the canoe, crouched low in the stern.
Susan’s eyes, aglow in the darkness, stared back in terror toward Monk.
Rakao yelled across the water in English. “Cut your engines! Throw out any weapons! Then one at a time, you’re going to jump and swim to me.”
Monk turned. “Lisa, I need you here. Ryder, do not cut those engines. When I yell go, you blast the hell out of here.”
Lisa struggled with her straps but finally freed herself.
Monk shifted his rifle to grip it by its stock and held it out the open hatchway. A single round pinged off the side of the Sea Dart. Rakao barked at the stray sniper, angry. No damaging the merchandise. Rakao must recognize a prize well worth preserving.
Monk climbed into view, exposing himself fully in the hatch. He held his rifle out to one side, his other hand open and high.
Lisa whispered to him. “What are you doing?”
“Just be ready,” he murmured.
“For what?”
It would take too long to explain.
Rakao noted his appearance and stepped farther into the water, his muzzle only a foot from the back of Susan’s head. The bow of the canoe pointed toward the Sea Dart, slightly tilted up from Susan’s weight in the stern.
Monk called, “We’re coming out!”
To demonstrate his sincerity he tossed his rifle to the left in a dramatic underhanded throw. It cartwheeled through the air. As he had hoped, Rakao’s eyes flicked to follow it, the reflex of a hunter toward movement.
Monk leaped a fraction of a second after it. He jumped high, like he was planning on doing a cannonball into the lagoon. Instead, he landed on the tilted bow of the canoe. His weight and momentum slammed the bow deep. The stern of the canoe catapulted up like a seesaw.
Susan flew over Monk’s head — thrown straight at the Sea Dart.
A shot rang out from Rakao, but the stern edge of the boat had clipped the Maori’s hand, sending the pistol flying.
Monk heard a splash behind him as Susan landed.
Then the canoe crashed back to the water, throwing Monk into a sprawl on the dugout’s bottom. He lifted himself up on an elbow. He caught sight of Susan’s legs as Lisa dragged the woman through the side hatch.
Good girl.
Monk bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Ryder! Go!”
But the Sea Dart just idled.
Monk prepared to yell again, when the canoe jarred.
Rakao had hauled into the canoe, rising to his feet. The canoe spun, but he expertly kept his balance. He drove his spear at Monk with both arms.
Monk reacted instinctively. He tried to block the deadly plunge by grabbing its shaft. Prosthetic fingers locked onto it.
A mistake.
A fierce jolt of electricity ripped through his body. He remembered Rakao’s earlier rescue of Lisa, striking out with his electric spear.
Monk’s body clenched with agony. Muscles spasmed with a bone-breaking intensity. Still, he heard the fresh barrage of gunfire pelting at the Sea Dart.
Why was Ryder still here?
Monk fought the electrocution. He should have been killed at the outset as the volts fried through him. He only lived because of the dampening insulation of his prosthetic hand. But now he smelled plastic burning.
Ryder…get the hell out of here…
5:54 A.M.
“Wait!” Lisa screamed over the rattle of bullets against the flank of the Sea Dart.
Lisa lay beside Susan on the floor. She had a view of Rakao, leaning his weight on the spear, trying to drive its electrified steel tip into Monk’s chest. Monk fought. Black smoke rose from his prosthetic hand.
The canoe spun, close…or at least close enough.
“Now!” she yelled.
A loud explosive pop sounded over her head, detonating the hydraulics above. The Sea Dart snapped out its wings, chopping out like a pair of ax blades. One wing cracked into Rakao’s shoulder, sending him flying from the canoe and dumping him in a sprawl into the lake.
The barrage of rifle fire momentarily stopped as the maneuver stunned the shooters.
Lisa yelled into the ringing silence, “Monk! Above your head!”
GROGGY, MONK HEARD Lisa’s command.
It took him a moment to realize what she meant. Something was above his head. One of the wings of the Sea Dart. Trembling in a continuous quake, he gathered his legs under him — and leaped.
He didn’t trust the strength in his real hand. Smoking plastic fingers latched on to one of the wing struts. He clamped tight, twitching a signal to lock down.
Go…
“GO!” LISA HOLLE
RED, still on the floor, bracing herself against the seats.
Under her belly she felt the twin engines rev. The Sea Dart leaped away, swinging its stern toward the beach as the snipers again opened fire, finally shaken free of their momentary stun.
Lisa watched a stray round strike Monk’s flailing right leg.
Blood burst from his calf. She read the twist of agony in his face. His lower leg hung crookedly as Monk shifted. The bullet must have shattered through his tibia, breaking it.
Thank God, he still held on…
Ryder aimed away from the beach, flying across the water, out of range.
Lisa wanted to weep.
They would make it.
5:55 A.M.
Rakao choked and sputtered his face out of the water. His toes, then heels, found rock and sand underfoot. He stood chest-deep in the lagoon. The roar of a motor drew him around.
The enemy’s boat shot across the lagoon, dangling a figure from one wingtip. Furious, he waded toward the beach. His left arm was on fire, burning in the seawater. He fingered the upper arm on that side, felt the sharp point of bone protruding through his skin, broken by the blow that had sent him flying.
He clutched his spear in the other hand.
Luckily he had not lost the weapon, having clung to it.
He might need it.
Already Rakao noted the flashes of fire under the water, aiming for him, drawn by the blood. He turned his back on the beach and retreated step-by-step. He kept his weapon poised, ready to use it. The shock might sting him, but it should drive the squids away.
Reaching waist-deep water, Rakao allowed himself a breath of relief.
Once out, he would hunt the others down.
No matter where in the world they landed, he would find them.
This, he swore.
Lightning cracked overhead, momentarily lighting the black waters, bright enough to illuminate the depths. A tangle of arms spread wide around his legs. The longest arms winked with a yellow glow. The bulk of the monster rested quietly in the sand only a step away. Then the flash ended, turning the lake into a dark mirror, reflecting the terror in his face.
The Judas Strain sf-4 Page 37
