Someone at the barrier tried to quell the crowd with a bullhorn, issuing orders in crisp Italian, full of authority. Not only was he ignored, but it only served to ramp up the panic.
Mac and the others followed the flow, sticking together, elbowing their way forward. Once past the gates, they kept to the stream of people running alongside the docked cruise ship. When they reached the loading area, they slowed. The first wave of the panicked crowd had cleared a path, knocking over handcarts, toppling stacks of boxes, driving the laborers away.
Overhead, the fireworks show reached its crescendo, blasting missile after missile into the air, to a deafening climax. The dock’s planks shook with their reverberations. The sky blazed with fire.
As night turned into day, Gray searched for the right moment—then waved to their group. “Let’s move!”
They quickly pounded up the short wooden gangway and through an open hatch in the ship. A couple of dockworkers spotted them and yelled after them. But the pair were probably too addled by all the chaos to offer much protest.
Bailey called back calmly in Italian, exposing the Roman collar of his priesthood. Whatever he said—or maybe priests just had that much authority here in Italy—the workers didn’t pursue them, likely leaving it to their superiors on the upper decks to sort things out.
Their group hurried away before that sentiment changed. They followed signs, climbed stairs, and eventually ducked through a doorway.
They stepped from the ship’s cold, utilitarian spaces of whitewashed metal walls into a warm hallway of polished teak and carpeted floors. The tinkle of a piano in the distance welcomed them. It was like crossing from the drab cornfields of Kansas into a technicolor Oz.
Before they could take more than a few steps, a waitress swept down the hall toward them, holding aloft a tray full of fluorescent drinks, several with umbrellas. She slowed when she came upon their disheveled group.
“Buonasera,” she said with a smile, then seemed to get a read on the room and switched to English. “Did you enjoy the fireworks?”
No one said anything, only gave her stunned looks.
Her smile stiffened but didn’t fade. “You should know the sail-a-way party is under way on the Cleopatra deck. Next stop—Majorca!”
She slid past them and whisked happily down the hall.
After the waitress was out of earshot, Maria turned to Gray. “What now?”
Mac answered, adding his contribution to the night’s plan, “I say we pay Cleopatra a visit. I could damned well use a drink.” He glanced to Father Bailey. “Excuse my French, Padre.”
Bailey absolved him with a raised palm. “I could also use a damned drink.”
22
June 24, 10:12 P.M. CEST
Off the coast of Sardinia
This is fuckin’ embarrassing.
Belowdecks, Kowalski stood in his cabin’s tiny bathroom, which consisted of a steel toilet with a sink built into its back tank and a showerhead sticking out of the ceiling. The floor had a drain in it. Apparently, one was supposed to close the cubicle’s door, and the entire bathroom became a shower stall.
Maybe if you were a mouse with anorexia.
The rest of his cabin was hardly any larger. It had an upper and lower bunk that folded up against the wall, like the sleeper car on a train—only smaller. But the bathroom was his nemesis. Every time Kowalski moved, his elbows struck the walls. And the rocking of the yacht made everything extra challenging. Case in point: taking a leak. He stared down at the drenched left leg of his pants.
“Doesn’t this just take the cake.”
He zipped up and cursed under his breath. Brushing past the bunk, he shuffled to the door with a jangle of his chains. He pounded his fist. “Hey! Need a little help in here.”
The yacht rocked again, throwing him sideways. They were anchored off Sardinia, where the sea was choppy. It had taken them eight long hours to cross the Tyrrhenian Sea from Vulcano to reach this port. He had managed a brief view of the place as they motored toward it just after sunset. The lights of a big city lit up the coastline. Fireworks splattered the sky above it, but from a mile out, the display appeared anemic, just little puffs of fire.
Still, he could not stop staring. The shoreline had been tantalizingly close, and the city large enough for a guy to get lost in—or a guy and a girl.
He pounded again. “Hey!”
A muffled call came from the next room. “Are you all right?” Elena asked.
He stared down at his wet leg.
We’ll see.
He hammered nonstop, until someone finally swore and the locking bolt scraped. A stocky man yanked the door open. He pointed a compact MAC-10 machine pistol at Kowalski’s chest. Another guard backed him up out in the narrow hallway with the same style of weapon, only holding his firmly with both hands.
“What you want?” the lead man barked in broken English.
Kowalski backed up a step. Standing shirtless and in his socks, he could not look like much of a threat. Still, he lifted both palms.
“I don’t want any trouble. Just need a hand cleaning up.” Keeping his arms high, he jabbed a finger down at his leg. “I don’t want to sleep like this all night.”
The guard looked down, squinted, then his eyes widened. He turned to his buddy in the hall and said something in Arabic. They both laughed themselves close to tears.
“Yeah, real funny, Chuckles. I need to get out of these, and I can’t do that in these chains.” He shrugged. “Or you can help me cut these pants off and go ask Kadir if I could borrow a pair of his sweatpants. Probably be too baggy but I’ll manage.”
The mention of the hulking brute sobered them up.
“Just unlock one of my ankles,” Kowalski said, shaking his soiled leg. “I’ll do the rest.”
“No.” Chuckles nodded toward the bathroom. “You clean while wearing on.”
“And sleep in wet pants all night?”
Chuckles waved dismissively. “Then sleep like this. In piss pants.”
Kowalski took an angry step toward the guy. “Listen, bub!”
The guard raised his weapon higher, cursing him in Arabic, and drove Kowalski deeper into the room—in fact, deep enough.
Okay, Chuckles, let’s dance.
The yacht gave a gentle bobble, but Kowalski pretended like the boat had been struck by a rogue wave. He fell against the bunk beds, then shoved his arm up, slamming the foldable upper tier into Chuckles’s chin. Metal met bone with a satisfying crack.
As the guard’s head snapped back, Kowalski relieved the man of his weapon, spun it around, and fired a point-blank burst into his chest. As he hoped, two rounds blasted clean through and hit the second guard standing at the threshold. The impacts threw the man against the far wall. Still, the guard swung his weapon toward the door.
Oh no, you don’t.
Kowalski had Chuckles’s shirt balled in his fist and was already moving. He carried the dead man like a battering ram and lunged out the door. Still firing through the body, he slammed into the second assailant, pinning him there while continuing to squeeze the trigger. He only stopped when the man slumped, his head falling crookedly.
He let both bodies drop and rushed to the next door. He slid aside the locking bolt and pulled it open. Inside, Elena gawked at him, then collected herself and rushed toward him.
“So, it worked,” she said breathlessly.
He crossed back to the bodies and retrieved the second machine pistol. He straightened with one clutched in each hand now. “Tried to get them to free an ankle. But no go. Probably didn’t even have the keys.”
“Where do we—?”
“This way.”
Kowalski led her toward the ship’s stern. They needed to get down another level. He prayed no one heard the spate of gunfire. By keeping the muzzle pressed against solid flesh, he had done his best to muffle the shots.
Their escape was risky, but he knew they had to take the chance.
It was now or never.
/>
Earlier, as the ship dropped anchor off of Sardinia, it was plain something had gone wrong with whatever those bastards had been planning on shore. Nehir had stormed into the lounge and ordered Kowalski and Elena to be taken below. Earlier in the day, Nehir had given Elena another deadline to come up with more information to help the bastards.
Midnight tonight.
So, Elena had spent the day poring over history texts, reading ancient poems, even studying geology books. But all of Elena’s work and Nehir’s timetable had been set aside as the situation had suddenly changed.
While being led belowdecks, Kowalski had heard Nehir yelling, dressing someone down. More of her crew passed them, running up to the lounge. Apparently she was demanding all hands on deck.
Either way, Kowalski knew this opportunity might be their one chance. With most of the crew above and land so close, they had to risk it. During the long voyage here, they had sketchily outlined a plan, whispering in secret, though neither of them really thought it would ever play out. It was more to buoy their spirits.
But the Fates must have been listening.
On the way down here, Kowalski had warned Elena to be ready. Still, it had required some last-minute improvisation on his part. His soaked leg was not part of that original plan—and sure, maybe it wasn’t the most brilliant ad-libbing, but it had gotten the job done.
They quickly reached a set of stairs down to the bottom deck.
He led with both pistols raised and did his best to move quietly with his chains. He held his breath the entire way down. He checked the lower hall and pointed a gun to the right.
“The yacht’s garage is down that way,” he whispered. “Through the double doors. But we’ll have to move fast.”
Her eyes were huge and shiny with fear, but she nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
10:22 P.M.
Elena kept close to Joe as he stayed low and rushed down the narrow hallway. She cringed with every clink and clank of his chains. But they reached the double doors safely.
Joe exhaled in relief, likely as surprised as she was that they’d made it this far. He grabbed the U-shaped handle and tugged on it—then tried pushing it. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door’s polished teak surface.
Locked.
“What about sneaking up top?” Elena whispered. “We could dive overboard and swim for shore.”
“Even if we could get all the way up there without being seen . . .” Joe looked down at his leg irons. “It’s a mile or more to shore.”
She understood. He’d never make it, not with his legs weighted down.
He turned to her. “But you could do it.” He lifted both pistols. “I might be able to blast our way to an outside rail, and you could jump.”
“They’d kill you.”
“Probably, but no plan’s perfect.”
She shook her head. “No. We do this together.”
Joe nodded and pushed her back. “In that case, we’ll have to ring the dinner bell.”
He aimed both machine pistols at the teak door and fired at the lock. The noise of the twin guns in the narrow hall was deafening. She clamped her palms over her ears, but it did little to muffle the sound of that barrage.
Finally, he stopped firing. He tossed aside the pistol he’d just emptied, but he kept the other.
His machine pistol had chewed a ragged fist-sized hole through the thick wood, taking the lock with it. Joe stepped forward and kicked the door open. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard shouts from the decks above, along with the pounding of boots.
Joe turned and reached for her hand—when a wave rocked the ship, throwing her against the opposite wall. But it wasn’t a wall. A door opened behind her. She fell backward through it. Strong arms caught her, one hooked around her waist, while a hand grabbed the base of her ponytail. She was yanked to her tiptoes.
She caught the briefest glimpse of the giant Kadir.
Joe swung around and pointed his pistol. His face was beet-red, his expression angry. It quickly turned pained as he saw he had no shot without risking her.
Elena realized it, too.
As the giant dragged her deeper into his cabin, shouts grew louder, echoing down the passageway. Boots hammered toward them.
She met Joe’s eyes.
“Go,” she said.
10:26 P.M.
Across the hallway, Kowalski had one second to make his choice—but knew he had none. To hold his ground would only get him killed, and likely Elena, too. The best hope for both of them was to turn tail and run.
He locked eyes with Kadir.
This ain’t over, bastard.
Kowalski backed into the garage. With a curse, he slammed the door and searched the area around him. A fire ax hung on the wall next to the door. He yanked it free and jammed its handle between the two U-shaped door handles on this side.
The brace would not last long.
But hopefully long enough.
He hooked his pistol’s strap over a shoulder and shuffled down the three steps to the main floor of the garage. Yesterday, while boarding the yacht, he had gotten a good view of the space. Six black jet-skis, three to a side, sat on wheeled rails tilted toward the closed stern door. Between them stood a four-man submersible, armed with mini-torpedo launchers.
As he squeezed past the sub toward the stern’s garage door, he imagined using the vessel’s weaponry to sink the damned boat.
Fat chance.
Instead, he did what he could. He reached the large red button next to the garage door and punched it. A motor sounded, and the metal door began to rise. A stiff wind blew in, smelling of salt and hope.
As he turned, something heavy slammed into the double doors behind him.
Kowalski cringed, but the ax held. He shuffled to a rack of vests with dangling keys. He snatched one, praying the jet-skis were all keyed the same.
Need a little luck here.
Gunfire erupted at the door. Rounds tore through the thick teak.
Kowalski ducked and did his best to hobble over to the closest watercraft on its rails. By now, the garage door had risen halfway, revealing a black sea rocking with waves. The opening was still not high enough for the jet-ski to pass through.
He used the time to toss the vest onto the watercraft, then kicked and clawed himself up onto its raised seat. He finally got his belly over it, hanging like a saddlebag over the back of a horse.
A loud CRACK cut through the rattle of gunfire. The two halves of the ax flew across the space as the doors burst open.
Crap.
He snatched the machine pistol and fired awkwardly toward the door as the first men tried to enter. It was enough to drive them back into the hallway. Then his weapon clicked, and the trigger froze.
Cursing, Kowalski tossed the empty weapon and grabbed the upright crank next to the rails. He yanked it hard. The tracks snapped forward with a spring-loaded jolt, extending beyond the yacht’s stern. Jarred, the ski shot down the wheeled rails—and sailed high over the water.
He held his breath as it flew, then gasped when it crashed into the waves. The impact almost tossed him overboard. Clinging tight, he fought his legs to the back and gripped the sides of the seat with his knees. It was the best he could manage with his ankles still bound. He fumbled the key in place, thumbed the red ignition button, and the jet motor growled.
That’ll do.
Staying low, he reached to the handlebars and squeezed the throttle. The ski nosed up and shot across the dark sea—and not a second too soon.
The waves behind him shredded with gunfire.
A bright searchlight ignited from the stern deck and chased after him. He scooted up, sitting on his bound ankles, squeezing with his knees. The loose flotation vest flew away, flapping in the wind, threatening to tug out the imbedded key, which would conk out the engine.
No, you don’t.
He snatched the vest back and stuffed it under his butt.
Behind him, a loud whine cut through the chatter.
Then another.
And another.
More jet-skis in pursuit.
Kowalski ducked lower, intending to keep his lead. He raced toward the shore, now a half mile off. He spotted bonfires burning along a beach. Closer at hand, a buoy field was crowded with moored boats, several with lights.
I can make it.
Then the engine coughed, caught again—and died.
He stared at the illuminated display, where the icon of a tiny fuel pump blinked.
He groaned at his luck, realizing he’d picked a ski with a near-empty tank.
Out of gas.
10:32 P.M.
Elena stood teary-eyed on the stern deck of the yacht. Kadir had a fist still snarled at the base of her ponytail. He had never released his grip after capturing her, dragging her along like a toy doll up from the lower decks. The back of her scalp burned—but the tears that threatened were not due to the pain.
She stared out to the dark sea.
A searchlight swept the waters. But at least the trio of men with assault rifles had stopped firing into the waves. Kowalski must’ve made it beyond the range of their weapons. Still, he was far from safe. The scream of pursuit echoed over the water, ready to run him down.
Her eyes strained to pierce the darkness, to know what was happening.
She prayed he reached shore.
Godspeed, Joe.
10:33 P.M.
Kowalski perched at the back of the ski’s seat. He used his considerable bulk and heavy chains to weigh down the craft’s stern. He stared over toward the field of buoys and boats, so tantalizingly close.
Behind him, the whine of skis trebled in volume. It sounded like they were coming from everywhere, spreading a wide net in the darkness.
The Last Odyssey: A Thriller Page 21