Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.
“What’s your plan?” Bukolov asked.
“Run fast and hope she misses.”
“That’s not a plan. Why not go belowdecks and stay out of sight?”
He shook his head. “Too easy to get lost or boxed in, and I don’t know how many men she’s got.”
His only advantage was that Felice would be surprised by his frontal assault. How much time that surprise would buy him was the big question.
Tucker took a deep breath and spoke to the others. “Everyone stay here. When the coast is clear, I’ll signal you.” He ruffled Kane’s neck. “That means you, too, buddy.”
Kane cocked his head, seemingly ready to argue.
Tucker reinforced it with an order, pointing to Nick and Bukolov. “HOLD AND PROTECT.”
He stared across the open deck.
But who’s going to protect me?
8:04 P.M.
Tucker took a few deep breaths—both to steady his nerves and to remind himself that he was alive and should stay that way.
Ready as he was ever going to be, he coiled his legs beneath him, then took off like a sprinter, a difficult process with the snow and wind. But the darkness and weather offered him some cover, and he was happy to take it. All the while, he kept a constant watch on the wheelhouse for movement.
Clearing the rearmost cargo hold, he shifted a few steps to the left and ran across the deck toward the cover of the next hold. He was twenty feet from it when he spotted movement along the flying bridge on the starboard side. He threw himself in a headfirst slide and slammed against that next hold’s raised side.
A bullet thudded into the lid above his head.
Not good.
He crawled to the right and reached the corner of the cargo hold and peeked around—just as another round slammed into the steel deck beside his head. He jerked back.
Can’t stay here . . .
Once a sniper had a target pinned down, the game was all but won.
He crawled left, trying to get as far out of view of the starboard bridge wing as possible. When he reached the opposite corner, he stood up and started sprinting again, his head low.
Movement . . . the port bridge wing, this time.
Felice had anticipated his maneuver, running from the starboard wing, through the wheelhouse, to the port side, but she hadn’t had time to set up yet.
Tucker lifted his MP-5 submachine gun and snapped off a three-round burst while he ran. The bullets sparked off a ladder near a figure sprawled atop the wing. Dressed in gray coveralls, the sniper rolled back from Tucker’s brief barrage. He caught a flash of blond hair, the wave of a scarf hiding her face.
Definitely Felice.
Tucker kept going, firing at the wing every few steps.
Movement.
Back on the starboard bridge wing.
Felice had crossed through the wheelhouse again.
Tucker veered to the right, dove, and slammed into the third hold’s edge, gaining its cover for the moment.
Three holds down, two to go.
He stuck his MP-5 over the edge and fired a burst toward the starboard wing—then something slapped at his palm. The weapon skittered across the deck. He looked at his hand. Felice’s bullet had gouged a dime-sized chunk from the flesh beneath his pinkie finger. He stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded, and then the blood started gushing. Waves of white-hot pain burst behind his eyes and made him nauseated.
Sonofabitch!
He gasped for breath, swallowing the pain and squeezing the wound against his chest until the throbbing subsided a bit. He looked around. The MP-5 lay a few feet away, resting close to the railing.
As if reading his thoughts, Felice put a bullet into the MP-5’s stock. His weapon spun and clattered—then went over the ship’s edge, tumbling into the water.
Felice shouted, muffled by her scarf. “And that, Tucker, is the end!”
45
March 28, 8:08 P.M.
Lake Michigan
Tucker tried to pin down the direction of her voice, but it echoed across the deck, seeming to come from all directions at once. He didn’t know where she was. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Felice. She had her sights fixed on him. Even a quick pop-up would be fatal.
He still had his Browning in its paddle holster tucked into his waistband, but the small-caliber pistol at this distance and in this weather was as useless as a peashooter.
With his heart pounding, he tried to guess Felice’s approximate position. She was likely still on the starboard wing of the bridge, from where she’d shot both his hand and the MP-5. Considering him weaponless and pinned down, Felice had no reason to move. She wouldn’t give up that advantage.
On the other hand, she seemed talkative and overconfident. First rule in the sniper’s handbook: You can’t shout and shoot at the same time.
Tucker yelled over to her, “Felice, the Coast Guard knows your course! They’re en route as we speak!”
“Makes no difference! The ship will crash before—”
Tucker jumped up and mounted the top of the cargo hold lid. He sprinted directly toward Felice, toward the starboard wing. As he’d hoped, in replying to his taunt, she’d lifted her scarf-shrouded head from the weapon’s stock—breaking that all-important cheek weld snipers rely upon. She tucked back down.
He dodged right—as a bullet sparked off the metal by his heels—and in two bounding steps, he vaulted himself off the lid, rolled into a ball across the main deck, and crashed into the next cargo hatch, finding cover again.
“Clever!” Felice shouted. “Go ahead . . . try it again!”
No thanks.
He had one hatch to go before he could duck under the wheelhouse bulkhead as cover. To reach there, he had no good choices and only one bad—an almost unthinkable option.
Not unthinkable—just heartbreaking.
But he couldn’t let the LUCA organism escape.
Using his left hand, Tucker drew the Browning from its paddle holster. He squeezed his eyes shut, then shouted above the wind.
“KANE! CHARGE TARGET! FAST DODGE!”
The loud command strikes Kane in the heart. Up until then, he has heard the blasts, knows his partner is in danger. He has strained against the last order; it still blazes behind his eyes: HOLD. Another’s hand has even grasped the edge of his vest, reeking of fear, sensing his desire.
But the shout finally comes. He leaps the short obstruction, ripping out of those fingers. Wind, icy and full of salt, strikes his body hard. He ducks his head against it, pushing low, getting under the wind. He sprints, finding traction with his rear pads to propel him forward.
He obeys the order, the last words.
. . . FAST DODGE.
As he flies across the deck, he jinks and jukes. He makes sudden shifts, feinting one way and going another. But he never slows.
He races toward where his ears had picked out the blasts.
Nothing will stop him.
Tucker heard Kane pounding across the deck. His heart strained toward his friend, now a living decoy, sent out by his own command to draw deadly fire. He regretted the order as soon as it left his lips—but he didn’t recall it.
It was too late now. Kane was already in the line of fire. The shepherd knew his target, knew he needed to evade, but would it be enough? Were Kane’s reflexes faster than Felice’s?
Miss . . . miss . . . dear God, miss . . .
From the starboard bridge wing, a single shot rang out. Kane had drawn her fire, her attention . . .
Good boy.
Tucker popped up, took aim on the starboard wing, and started running that way. Felice crouched up there, rifle up to her shoulder.
He shouted to Kane. “TAKE COVER!”
Kane instantly reacts to the new order and pivots off his left front paw. He slides on the wet, icy deck, up on his nails, spinning slightly to slam into the next raised metal square.
He stays low.
But the blaze of it grows.
Felice had heard Tucker’s shouted order. She pivoted toward him, bringing her rifle barrel to bear, her scope’s lens glinting for a flash through the storm.
Tucker fired, three quick shots in that direction with no real hope of hitting her. The rounds pounded into the steps and railing around Felice. Not flinching, she pressed her eye to the scope.
“CHARGE TARGET!” he screamed.
Kane pushes the pain deep into his bones and lunges back out of hiding. He runs straight, gaining speed with each thrust of his back legs, with each pound of his front.
He stays low against the sleet and snow, his entire focus on the steel perforated steps leading up. His target lurks above, in hiding, and dangerous.
Still he runs forward.
Then a new order is shouted, but he does not know this word. It flows through him and away, leaving no trace.
As meaningless as the wind.
So he keeps running.
“KILL!” Tucker hollered, using all his breath.
To his right, Kane passed his position and raced toward the starboard stairs, taking no evasive action as ordered. The shepherd sprinted along the deck, his head down, his focus fixed on the objective. He was pure muscle in motion, an instinctive hunter, nature’s savagery given form.
“KILL!” Tucker shouted again.
It was a hollow, toothless order—the word had never been taught to Kane—but the command was not meant for the shepherd, but for Felice. It was intended to strike a chord of terror in Felice, igniting that primal fear in all of us, harkening to a time when men cowered around fires in the night, listening to the howling of wolves.
Tucker continued his sprint across the cargo hatch, firing controlled bursts in her direction. Felice shifted back, lifted her face from the stock, and glanced to her left, toward Kane.
The shepherd had closed to within twenty feet of the steps and was still picking up speed.
Felice swung her rifle around and began tracking the shepherd.
Firing upward, Tucker covered the last few feet of the cargo hatch, leaped off, and headed for the shelter of the wheelhouse bulkhead.
“KANE! BREAK TO COVER!”
Crack! Felice shot as Tucker’s body crashed into the bulkhead. He bounced off it and stumbled along its length until he was in the shadows beneath the starboard bridge wing. He pointed his gun up, searching through the ventilated steel, looking for movement above.
Nothing.
He peeked behind him.
No sign of Kane.
Had his last order come in time?
No matter the dog’s fate, Kane had done as asked, allowing Tucker to close the gap and get inside Felice’s bubble. Her primary advantage as a sniper was gone. Now she was just another soldier with a rifle.
Which was still a dangerous proposition.
She was up there, and he was down here—and she knew it. All she had to do was wait for Tucker to come to her.
With his gun still trained on the wing above him, Tucker slid over to a neighboring hatch, one that led into the main bridge’s tower. He tried the handle: locked. He slid farther around the bulkhead, searching for another.
As he stepped cautiously around an obstruction, leading with his Browning, a dark shape lunged toward him. He fell back a step, until he recognized his partner.
Kane ran over to Tucker, panting, heaving.
Relief poured through him—until he saw the bloody paw print in the snow blown up against the bulkhead.
Buddy . . .
He knelt down and checked Kane. He discovered the bullet graze along his shoulder. It bled thickly, matting the fur, dribbling down his leg. He would live, but he would need medical attention soon.
A growl thundered out of Kane.
Not of pain—but of warning.
Behind Tucker, the hatch handle squeaked, and the door banged open against the bulkhead. He spun, bringing the Browning up, but Kane was already on the move, leaping past Tucker and onto the man in three bounds. The shepherd clamped on to the hand holding the gun and shook, taking the assailant down with a loud crack of the guy’s forearm.
The pistol—a Russian Makarov—clattered to the deck.
Tucker stepped to the fallen man and slammed the butt of his Browning into his temple. He went limp—only then did Kane release his arm.
“Good boy,” he whispered. “Now HOLD.”
Tucker moved to the hatchway and peeked past the threshold. Inside was a corridor leading deeper into the bridge’s superstructure, but to his immediate right, a bolted ladder climbed up toward the wheelhouse above.
Then came a clanking sound.
A grenade bounced down the ladder, banked off the wall, and landed a foot from the hatch.
Crap . . .
He backpedaled and stumbled over the splayed arm of the downed assailant. As he hit the deck hard, he rolled to the right, to the far side of the hatch.
The grenade exploded, the blast deafening.
A plume of smoke gushed from the doorway, along with a savage burst of shrapnel. The deadly barrage peppered into the steps leading up to the bridge wing, some pieces ricocheting back and striking the wall above his body.
Both he and Kane remained amazingly unscathed.
Tucker strained to hear, perhaps expecting some final taunt from Felice—but there was only silence. She had the upper hand, and she knew it.
If that’s how you want to play this . . .
8:18 P.M.
Working quickly, Tucker holstered his Browning and returned to the unconscious man. He slipped out of his own hooded parka and wrestled the man into a seated position. He then forced his coat over the man’s torso, tugging the hood over his head.
The man groaned blearily but didn’t regain his senses.
Straightening, Tucker hauled his limp body over a shoulder and carried the man to just inside the hatch, leaning him against the bulkhead. He took a step past him—then leaned forward, grabbed the ladder railing, and gave it a tug.
The aluminum gave a satisfying squeak.
Immediately, he got a response.
Clang . . . clang . . . clang. . .
The grenade dropped, bounced off the last step, and rolled toward him.
Twisting around, he vaulted over the seated man and dodged to the left of the hatch. The grenade exploded. More smoke blasted, and shrapnel flew, finding a target in the man at the door.
As the smoke rolled out, Tucker peeked around the hatch and kicked the macerated body deeper inside. It landed face-first on the deck, coming to a bloody rest at the foot of the ladder.
He backed out again.
Five seconds passed . . . ten seconds . . .
Felice was a hunter. He knew she would want to inspect her handiwork.
At the first scuff of boot on metal rung, he signaled to Kane and they both climbed the outside stairs to reach the open starboard wing of the bridge. Reaching the last step, he leaned forward and peered through the open hatch of the wheelhouse. It appeared empty.
He pictured Felice on the ladder, abandoning the bridge to gloat over his body.
Good.
With the Browning up and ready, Tucker quietly stepped across the threshold into the wheelhouse. He slipped to the head of the ladder, took a breath, and pointed the Browning down the rungs.
No Felice.
No one.
Just the corpse on the floor in a widening pool of blood.
Kane growled at his side.
On instinct alone, Tucker spun on his heel, jerked the Browning up, and fired—as Felice stepped through the wheelhouse’s port hatch.
His sudden shot went slightly wide, catching the woman in the side, just above her hip bone. She staggered backward and landed hard on the deck.
Rushing forward, he reached the hatch in time to see her rifle rising.
“Don’t,” Tucker said, cradling the Browning in both hands, centered on her face. “You’re
done.”
She lifted her head, her scarf fallen away, revealing the ruin of her handsome face. Part of her nose was gone, sewn with black suture, along with a corner of her upper lip, giving her a perpetual scowl. A thick bandage covered her left cheek.
He recalled his last sight of her, as she vanished into the icy waters. She had been found later, saved, but it seemed not before frostbite ravaged her.
She snapped her rifle up, trying to take advantage of his momentary shock—but he also remembered feisty Elena and poor Utkin. It tempered any shock and revulsion. All he saw in the ruin of her face was justice.
Holding steady, he squeezed the trigger and sent a single round through her forehead.
46
March 28, 8:22 P.M.
Grand Traverse Bay
From behind Tucker, boots clanked on the outside stairs. He turned and spotted a shotgun-wielding figure charging up the ladder toward the starboard wing. Here were the boots he had heard descending the ladder earlier—not Felice.
As the man reached the top stair, his shotgun up, Kane bounded into the hatchway before him, hackles raised, growling.
The sudden materialization of the large dog knocked the man back, his shotgun barrel dropping toward Kane.
Tucker shot once, placing a bullet through his sternum. The gunman tumbled backward down the ladder. Tucker followed him out, covering with his Browning, but the man lay on his back, snowflakes melting on his open eyes.
Tucker took a fast accounting. He’d shot three men, along with Felice, the same number as reported stealing the speedboat.
But was that all of them?
He waited a full minute more—but no other threat appeared.
Satisfied, he moved farther out onto the bridge wing and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Doc! Nick! Come forward quickly!”
As the two men joined him, running forward against the sleet and snow, Tucker peeled off the pressure bandage from his ear and called Kane to him as he knelt. He secured the bandage to the shepherd’s wound and wrapped it snugly, patching his friend up as best he could for now.
Kill Switch (9780062135285) Page 37