Clawback (33 page)

“Holy shit!” I went forward, trying to get under the rifle—anything to avoid the full-auto spray.

An enormous splash, audible even over all the other noise. I glanced sideways, saw Rondo in a crouch. Nobody else. His opponent must have gone into the river.

Then I collided with the gunman, the two of us banging into the door, falling. I landed on top, jammed an elbow into his throat, grabbed the weapon’s barrel. It burned my fingers, but I yanked it free and tossed it away.

“Down!” Lockerby, louder. I didn’t move, confused—wasn’t I
already
down?—then I saw Rondo leap for shelter under the overhang. Flashes of gunfire from deck two, above. Wood chips exploded from the deck boards. I rolled away.

“Two men up there.” Lockerby was in control again.

“No shit,” said Rondo.

“Lost my pistol,” I said, more to myself. I’d dropped it somewhere in the melee. I started to rise.

“Body armor,” said Lockerby in my ear. “And concealed behind the pillar. Can’t sight them.”

Sudden shooting from inside the doors. Rondo and I were
trapped—couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go backward, and in about two seconds the firing would cross on our positions.

“Lockerby!”

WH-O-O-O-MP!

The grill’s propane tank exploded. The fireball blasted one recliner completely off the deck, but that was fortunate, because the chair struck me on its way, shielding me slightly and knocking me down again.

“Fuck.” Rondo’s voice, in the earpiece, not loud. I couldn’t see him. “Good one, Lock.”

Being in the open, right under the shooters above us, was certain death. I went forward instead, crouching and sprinting toward the shattered door.

And as I did, I glimpsed Rondo, in peripheral vision, leaping from behind the other chair, upward. The second deck was eight feet above us, the top of its rail three feet more. Rondo went up like LeBron James, grabbed the rail and in one motion chinned himself, kept pulling, and rolled over the top.

No time to be amazed. As I went through the door, a figure came into focus on my left—gray, armored vest, submachine gun. If he hadn’t still been stunned from the propane blast, I would have died. Instead, I had an extra fraction of a second to get close. I went low, under the weapon, then slashed up with one arm, knocking the barrel aside.

Guns are better, but once you’re inside, they become a hindrance. Still, the man was good. He brought his knee up, hitting me sharply in the chest. I kept my arm strike going, over and down, catching his gun’s stock and yanking it into a brief hold.

He pulled the trigger, and I felt the burst course through the weapon. The noise, so close to my body, was deafening. Somewhere, more glass shattered and fell.

Desperate, I grabbed him around the waist, shoved, and tumbled us both to the floor. By pure luck his head struck the hard tile first, and I sensed him go woozy. I released the submachine gun, raised slightly, and smashed him in the temple with my forearm.

My brain, running behind, realized that several single shots had been fired above us.

“Lockerby?” No need to maintain radio silence now.

“You all right, Silas?”

“Is Rondo still alive?”

“Sure.”

And as if coordinated, the man himself landed on the deck right outside the door, dropping like a paratrooper from the sky. He didn’t roll, but took the shock entirely in his thighs, grunted, and swung around, looking for me.

I stared at him. “What happened?” He’d jumped into the laps of two experienced warfighters, both shooting to kill with automatic weapons. I couldn’t understand how he’d survived.

“One guy popped up when I came over the rail, and Lockerby shot him.” Rondo shrugged.

“Yeah.” Lockerby’s voice. “And the kung fu master here disarmed the other one like he was pulling a weed. Fucking beautiful.”

“Where are they?”

“They had plastic handcuffs, so I tied their hands to their ankles. Lockerby hit the one guy in his vest—he’s still breathing.”

“Five down, then. That has to dent their force.”

“Where’s Clara?”

“I don’t know. This boat’s
huge.
”

We were standing in a lounge, just inside the broken fragments of the glass doors: marble tile, ornate and heavily padded furniture, gold-framed mirrors on both walls. Fluffy towels were stacked three feet high in a brass rack. A tiny, bluish safety light glowed at ceiling height.

I picked up the last guy’s SCAR, swapped the magazine for a full one from his belt, and lifted it into a forward ready. Rondo wiped his face and arms with one of the little bar towels.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Wait up.” Lockerby broke in.

“What?”

“Activity.” He paused. “There’s a door at waterline, about five feet toward the front from where you are. It’s opening.”

“Waterline?”

“Facing the marina, not the dock.” Another pause, and I could hear a faint buzzing whine through the yacht’s bulkheads. “It’s a, a…a garage, I guess. Small boats inside…it looks like they’re launching one.”

I turned back to the deck. “How many? Armed? What?”

“Three…four? One’s carrying—” He stopped abruptly.

“
What?
”

“Fuck—”

BAMMM!

A car in the parking lot exploded.

“Lockerby!” I was yelling.

A moment, then, “I’m okay.” But he sure didn’t sound it. “RPG, I think.”

“Get out of there!”

“Yeah.”

Rondo and I stared through the rain at the parking lot, a hundred yards away. I saw Lockerby appear, stumbling for the boathouse.

Even over the pounding noise of the rain I could hear automatic weapon fire. Lockerby stopped, fell forward, then rose and continued, more slowly, in a crouch.

“Go,” I whispered. “Go.”

He almost made it.

Just as he reached the corner of the boathouse, another RPG round struck, demolishing half the structure in an explosion of wood and metal. Lockerby was tossed like a rag in a gale.

I started to run toward the dock—and the fuel tank caught fire, bursting into flame from the pipe connections at its top. Lockerby disappeared in a shockwave of fire.

“Oh my God.” Rondo seemed to be entering shock.

I couldn’t blame him. I was more and more wobbly myself.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, okay, okay.” Trying to calm him and me both. “Come on. We’re here to save Clara.” I took his arm. After another moment he looked away, then down at my face.

“I’m going to
kill
them,” he said. Low voice. “All of them.”

“Forget that. Clara. She’s all that matters.”

I ran to the next door inside, through the lounge, and kicked it open. The hallway beyond was lit by crystal sconces over teak
paneling and a Persian runner on the floor. The buzz was louder, coming from behind another door directly opposite.

Rondo reached for the knob, and I grabbed his arm.

“Me first,” I said. “If there’s gunfire, stay out here until it stops.”

Without waiting for him to argue, I stepped to the side and tested the door’s latch. It depressed easily, not locked. I held it down, glancing at Rondo. He went to the other side and nodded. In one motion, I shoved the door open, tucked the assault rifle to my chest, and dived through in a tuck roll.

Bright light. I slid across the floor, came to my feet in a crouch, and swung around.

It
was
a garage. A Zodiac inflatable hung from a gantry mounted in the ceiling, pointed toward a wide-open door in the yacht’s hull. A Jet Ski sat alongside. Two workbenches held tools and grease and a stack of Day-Glo life vests. Just beyond the small boats, water lapped below the edge of the door.

The Zodiac was moving, the hoist rolling it toward the exit.

CH-H-H-H-CKKKK!

Bullets shattered plastic and boat parts all around me. I went to the floor again, getting behind a tackle locker against the outer wall. I looked back, saw Rondo peering in, and waved him away.

I couldn’t fire back, not without a firm location for Clara.

“Give it up!” I shouted. “Police will be all around this barge in two minutes!”

“Fuck off.” Another burst of gunfire. I hunched into my narrow shelter.

The gantry’s whine stopped. A moment later, I heard the Zodiac drop to the deck, then slide out, splashing into the river.

“
Assalamu alaykom, keef halak?
” I called out in my grade-school Arabic.

“Silas?
Matha?
” Clara’s voice, weak.

“
Ayna anta?
”

“
Fi ep markeb
.”

In the boat. I risked a look over the top of the locker. The inflatable bobbed just outside. Clara lay inside, silver binding her legs and arms. Duct tape. And at the doorway, about to jump aboard, was Saxon. In one hand was an M4, the military’s standard assault weapon. In the other he held a small box, connected to the bulkhead by a cable.

“All I want is the girl,” I yelled. “Put her back inside, you can go.”

Instead, Saxon fired all his remaining rounds at me—one long burst. The wall overhead basically imploded, demolished by the fusillade. The locker rocked as it was slammed by bullets that, fortunately, were stopped by the steel facing. Dust and shards of plastic showered over my head.

A
clunk.
I looked out again, warily. Saxon had tossed the carbine into the Zodiac. As I emerged, he tore the cable from the wall and threw it and the box into the river.

“Don’t come after me.” He wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’ll kill her if you do.”

“No—!”

Too late. He hopped into the inflatable, and a moment later the outboard roared into life.

“What’s going on?” Rondo, calling through the door.

Saxon glanced up at me, a pistol in one hand. I ducked back inside, followed by two shots cracking into the wall, wide and wild.

It’s impossible to aim a handgun from a small boat.

“Clara!” Rondo appeared beside me. Outside, the outboard rose in volume, and we could hear the Zodiac start to move away.

“We can’t chase him with the
Queen Mary
here,” I said. “By the time we find the bridge, he’ll be in Nova Scotia.”

Sirens rose in the distance, getting closer.

Rondo and I saw the Jet Ski at the same time.

“Get it into the water!”

Rondo ran over and bent down, looking at the little mechanical sled the Jet Ski sat on. A track led to the door.

“I can’t see any way to make this
move.
” He looked ready to tear the machinery apart by hand.

“Shit.” I remembered the cable box Saxon had thrown to the fishes. “Saxon wrecked the hoist before he left.” Smart.

Rondo stood up. “We can’t let him get away!”

“That thing must weigh five hundred pounds. How can we get it out?”

He glared, started to say something, then bent down and tried to push the Jet Ski toward the door. It didn’t budge.

“Come on, let’s talk to the police. Maybe they can get a helicopter over here.”

“Not in this weather.” Rondo set his feet, braced, and gave a tremendous, vein-popping heave. The Jet Ski moved, about a quarter inch.

“Fuck!” His face went dark with effort. He tried again—and the craft abruptly jerked out of its cradle, crashed to the deck, and slid forward. Breathing like a steam engine, Rondo kept moving, shoving it forward, until it tipped over the sill and dropped into the river.

I pulled on a dark green life jacket, slung my rifle over it and looked through the doorway.

“I’m going!” Rondo said.

“No. It’s a one-seater.”

“I want to go!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Look, have you ever killed anyone? Do you even know how to use this thing?” I tapped the rifle at my side. “Stay here. You want Clara back, let me handle Saxon.”

I stepped out, got a foot onto the Jet Ski, and almost toppled into the river as it slid away from the yacht. I jumped, banging onto the seat, nearly losing the SCAR. The key was in the ignition. I turned it, punched the start button and the machine rumbled to life.

“Tell the cops everything,” I hollered. “Get a lawyer, but don’t play games. Not worth it.”

If he had any sense, Rondo would do exactly that: surrender, spend a day in an interrogation room and then go home. He’d probably start getting movie offers five minutes after his picture showed up in the news.

Or at least reality TV. He’d be fine.

I accelerated into the river, after Clara.

A
squall of rain pelted down so hard it knocked the earpiece out. I squinted into the murk. Saxon was just disappearing around the end of the jetty, accelerating in a high plume of river water. Jersey was a thousand hazy lights in the distance. The Jet Ski was absurdly loud. I couldn’t even hear the rainfall on the river. I twisted the throttle, all the way, and the craft sprang forward with such a lurch that I almost fell off.

How fast were we going? It felt like ninety miles an hour—Saxon a few hundred yards ahead, me on an intersecting tangent, catching up but barely. Even the middle of the river seemed crowded at that speed. Rain stung my face. We swerved around a Circle Line tourist boat—what’s a little precipitation to the midwesterners?—dodged a bedraggled sailboat, shot past a maniac in a rowing shell. I think our wakes swamped him, but he shouldn’t have been out anyway, the idiot.

The Manhattan skyline flashed past on our right. Long docks, mostly empty. Thank God for the rain—otherwise the news helicopters would be all over us, live video streaming to millions.

As we passed the Chelsea Piers, I finally closed enough distance to shout at Saxon. He saw me, but there was too much noise for any kind of communication. Instead, he raised the M4 and fired a burst in my direction.

When the hell had he reloaded?

Missed by a mile, of course. I couldn’t risk shooting back, not with Clara in the boat. She wasn’t visible—lying on the bottom, I assumed—but my bullets would go right through the canvas pontoons.

I didn’t know where Saxon was going, but he must have had a destination, and there was a good chance he’d have backup waiting there: Friends? Guns? Or friends
with
guns. No matter what, another bad outcome.