I jumped away from the rock face, squeezed the descender handle, dropping as the rifle flashed again, hitting rock above me. Three shots, the Ruger was out of ammo.
I counted.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
I pulled out my pistol.
Five Mississippi.
Another gunshot, he’d loaded the spare magazine, he’d not had time to chamber an extra round which meant another three shots. I kept the handle of the descender squeezed, the rocky face rushing by as I fell. The metal was heating up in my hand.
120 metres, rapid calculations flashed through my mind.
Nine Mississippi, another gunshot.
Minus ten metres for slowing.
Twelve Mississippi.
I could see a dark shape behind the SUV, the rifle flashed, I pulled the gun up and aimed at the car, squeezing the trigger three times rapidly.
Sixteen Mississippi.
Glass smashed as my bullets found their target. The descender was burning up now. I pulled the trigger another couple of times, no way could I hit them at that distance or speed, but it was giving them something to think about.
Eighteen Mississippi.
Nineteen Mississippi.
I eased off the descender, thankfully it gripped without melting straight through the rope and dropping me the remaining distance to my death.
The rocks zoomed up to meet me, I eased off again and let go as my boots hit. I rolled, sliding on the ice, one hand unclipping the descender from my harness, the other still holding the pistol outstretched. I leapt over the mangled bodies of the two bodyguards and ran for the road.
The Porsche’s taillights vanished around the bend, leaving only glowing red snow piled either side. The narrow pass faded into darkness, silence except for the wind in the dark pines and the trickling stream alongside the road. Ringo and Lennon were gone, but more importantly, so was my prize.
Chapter Thirty-six
Tiburon
It took me less than five minutes to get ready to go see Miller. I pulled on my last dry pair of trousers – a faded and patched-up pair of combats – tucking my waist holster inside. A thick woollen jumper went over my favourite Nirvana T-shirt, adding an on-point fisherman vibe but, more importantly, covering the holster nicely. I left my battered shell tops jammed behind the heating pipes in my cabin and put my slightly less soggy Cons back on.
Raised voices drifted down the passage, I stumbled along, about to make my way up the stairs when I noticed the engine room door was ajar, tapping against the bulkhead with every crash of waves. I took my foot off the stairs and slid next to it.
Two people were arguing in French, they spoke so quickly and used so much of what I assumed was a mix of slang and technical jargon it was impossible to keep up. What I could make out was they were angry about something.
The door opened, I jumped but managed to style it out by leaning on the doorframe and casually looking in.
Poubelle was holding the door open, back to me, shouting at Vincent, who was crouching on the raised platform over on the far side of the room, straining with the door handle into the workshop. He jumped to his feet as he saw me.
‘Trouble?’ I asked.
Poubelle turned, stepping back into the engine room. ‘You can’t be in here,’ he shouted above the engines.
Vincent picked up an old revolver from the floor as he climbed down the ladder into the engine bay. ‘Get the fuck back in your room,’ he screamed, waving it in my direction.
‘No can do, I’m needed upstairs.’
Poubelle looked from Vincent to me. ‘He’s not kidding, back in your room.’
‘Move,’ Vincent shouted as Poubelle stepped into the doorway, blocking the shot. ‘Shoot first, that is what the captain said.’
‘Problem?’ Miller shouted, sauntering up behind me.
‘GI Joe is out of his room,’ Vincent shouted, still waving the gun.
‘Put that away,’ Miller said. ‘Did you find Seb?’
Vincent thumbed over his shoulder. ‘He’s sealed himself in the workshop.’
‘You can’t lock that door.’ Miller frowned, pushing past us into the room. We watched as he dropped down the short ladder, walking between the engines, shouldering past Vincent. He climbed the ladder to the platform at the far end and gave the door handle a pull, looking back at us, confusion on his face.
‘Why would he seal himself in?’ He banged on the door. ‘Open up. Now!’
He’d no way of knowing he was talking to a crowbar jammed down between the spokes.
‘Cut through,’ he shouted at Vincent and Poubelle, still banging on the door. ‘Cut these hinges off.’
‘With what?’ said Vincent. ‘All the tools are in there.’
‘Neptune on a pedalo! Vincent, you stay here.’ He was already dropping back down to the engine bay walkway. ‘Poubelle, you and Kat go through the forward hatch, see if you can get in the other side.’
Poubelle didn’t need telling twice, launching up the stairs two at a time. Miller climbed up the ladder, ushering me out into the corridor and turning to slam the door behind us. The thrum of the engines dropped to a background hum that pulsed through the floor and walls.
‘If you need another pair of hands, I’ll help,’ I said.
‘We don’t need help,’ Miller spat.
‘So what do you need?’
He turned and climbed the stairs. I followed him to deck level but we didn’t keep going to the bridge, instead pushing into the radio room.
Nic removed his headphones as he felt the door go, closing his laptop on the desk. I felt guilty when I saw a long bruise forming across his forehead, he looked down at his shoes.
Miller glared at me. ‘Don’t worry, he’s sorry. Aren’t you, Blofeld?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, fishing out his cigarettes, placing one in his mouth and offering the pack to me. I shook my head, he held them out to Nic.
Nic took one, stuck it in his mouth, taking forever as Miller first lit his own then held the lighter out to Nic.
‘You made out it was urgent…’ I said, leaning back against the wall.
Nic made a show of drawing the flame into the cig slowly, looked at me like he wanted to blow the smoke at my face then turned away again when he saw the look on it.
‘Tell him, Nic.’
Nic took another drag on his cig. ‘The HF, here.’ He tapped a cracked dial. ‘It was changed.’
‘Changed?’
He pointed his cig at the radio, as if I had any clue what I was looking at. ‘It has changed since I used it.’
‘Someone’s been using the radio? When?’
‘I didn’t notice earlier. This morning, maybe four, I listen for the weather traffic. There is always a Morse code transmitted between traffic. I had to retune. I didn’t think about it.’
‘So what did make you think about it?’
‘I came again to get the latest weather just now. Same again, I had to retune. This, I thought, was strange.’
‘Were they communicating?’
He pulled on the cig and blew smoke across the radio, nodding. ‘Possibly in contact with someone, yes.’
‘Any way to tell who’s on the other end?’
‘No.’ He tapped the dial. ‘I listen on this, this…’
‘Frequency,’ Miller added.
‘Yes, no one responds now. But,’ he shrugged, ‘they could have changed the dial after, there is no way to know what frequency they were using or who they were talking to.’
‘But someone’s definitely been using the radio?’
He nodded.
‘Nic, I want you listening out,’ said Miller. ‘You hear anything at all, you come straight to me. And don’t tell anyone else about this.’
He nodded, slipped his earphones back on, turning the dials.
I looked at Miller. ‘Well I think we know who they were speaking to.’
He frowned, holding a finger to his lips.
I point
ed at the earphones. ‘It’s gotta be linked to that boat.’
‘Seems someone on the ship took them up on their offer of killing your passenger.’
‘We already knew that, or he wouldn’t be dead. But this means someone’s been in touch with them since. Possibly the same person that killed King.’
‘I don’t like it. Where’s Seb? And why is the workshop sealed?’
‘I think we can rule out my guys,’ I said.
Seemed the wrong time to mention it was me that’d sealed the door, and that I’d thrown Seb overboard.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Tiburon
The storm had weakened, the waves now carried the crushing, nausea-inducing monotony of a lazy, overweight clock. The rain had stopped too so I was outside in my T-shirt, gripping the railings on the port side bridge wing to let the salt spray wake me up. To my left the sky was still black, over the other side the sun had still to rise over the rollers but the sky had brightened. The sea was a mess of dark grey in every direction, I turned aft, leaning over the railings to look at the rolling waves merging with our wake, churning off into the murky distance.
A bang on the window next to my head spun me, Katanga had returned. I opened the door and stepped back into the relative warmth of the bridge. Poubelle was cradling a cup of coffee.
‘Seb’s missing,’ said Miller simply.
I put on what I reckoned was the right amount of frown. ‘How the bloody hell can he be missing on a ship this size?’
‘Door was secured with this.’ Katanga held up the crowbar. ‘We went in through the forward hatch. No sign of him.’
‘I’m sorry, Tyler,’ said Miller. I looked at him, standing with one hand on the wheel. He looked at the floor. ‘Looks like Seb killed King.’
Poubelle moved out of the way, something was on the table, resting on an oily towel. The wrench, bloody and sticky, which Seb had launched at me in the workshop. Katanga finished my train of thought for me.
‘Found it under the workbench. It’s got black hair on it.’
‘Seb was bald,’ Miller added.
I pictured him snarling towards me, like a bigger Vin Diesel. Then I pictured his wide eyes, the plastic bag on his head filling up with blood, blowing in and out with each laboured breath. ‘Thanks, Poirot.’
‘I’m sorry, Tyler,’ Miller said again. ‘Looks like it puts your guys in the clear.’
My fingers traced the edges of the piece of paper in my pocket. ‘What did you guys do after I left you in the saloon?’
Miller shrugged. ‘That was what, four? We were all in there for…’ he shrugged. ‘An hour or so?’
‘’Til five,’ Poubelle agreed. ‘That’s when you relieved me up here.’
‘So that’s the last time anyone saw Seb?’
They looked at each other and nodded in turn.
‘And you were together in the saloon all that time? Everyone?’
‘Except me,’ said Poubelle. ‘I was at the wheel.’ He nodded at the chair.
Unless they were all lying it put them all out of the frame for the murder in my cabin. And yet, someone killed him. Poubelle? No, apart from the fact I couldn’t work out how it would have been done, he couldn’t have trusted the autopilot during a ferocious storm, not with those waves and the constant corrections they’d demanded.
‘I saw Mr King go outside just after six,’ said Katanga. ‘But I didn’t see Seb.’
‘Seb was already outside by then,’ I said. ‘In my car.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Miller.
‘King came up to the bridge to fetch you just after six. He saw something out there, out the windows. Maybe he saw Seb on deck, maybe the light on in my car, something drew him outside.’
‘Why didn’t he say anything to me?’ asked Miller. ‘I didn’t see nuthin’.’
‘You weren’t looking. He’s a – was – a suspicious type of guy.’
‘You bastards have all got a death wish,’ said Miller.
Katanga nodded enthusiastically. ‘What was Seb doing on deck?’
‘He put my car window through.’
‘Why?’ asked Miller. ‘What was he lookin’ to steal?’
‘When I arrived in La Rochelle I came in hot, to put it mildly, with false plates on. He was looking for documents or something to get the true registration. Probably took the real reg off the VIN etched in the window. Anything to try to get some more info on me.’
‘On you?’
‘Well someone disabled the bilge pumps and gummed up the tank gauge to slow us down, someone’s been communicating with that boat. I’m guessing whoever’s tailing us wants to know who they’re dealing with.’
Miller chewed it over.
‘And Mr King tried to stop him…’ said Katanga. ‘I should have gone with him.’
‘And you might have ended up dead, too, and we’d be an experienced pair of hands down,’ said Poubelle.
‘I buy that,’ said Miller, finally having considered it. ‘He killed King, maybe panicked, sealed himself in the workshop. Guy’s gotta be batshit to do that. Why not just go back to work, act like nuthin’ happened?’
It was my turn to shrug. ‘I don’t have the answers.’ It was an outright lie, I did have them. The simple answer was he had gone back to work, then either seen or heard me and followed me into the hold, to send me the same way. But, still not a good time to tell them I’d taken matters into my own hands. I’d lied this far, better to keep it up. I nodded at the window. ‘Storm seems to be on its way out, can we increase speed? How long before they overhaul us?’
Miller picked up his notepad of scrawled calculations. ‘Not long enough. And meanwhile, Seb’s down there somewhere doing holy shit knows what.’
‘We should stick together,’ said Katanga.
Miller nodded. ‘Double up the crew. No one should be alone.’
‘Especially Vincent.’
Miller gave me daggers. ‘We don’t need vigilantes.’
I held up my fingers. ‘Cub’s honour. Katanga, can I have a word?’
He looked round at the others. ‘Sure.’
Miller and Poubelle eyed us as I put my arm round him, leading him through the door into the stairwell.
‘We should hit the Channel what, late afternoon?’
He nodded. ‘Should be off Cornwall by sundown. That’s as long as the engines hold out.’
‘And as long as we’re not overtaken by then.’ I looked down the stairs, the passageway was empty. ‘Time for you to earn that bonus.’
He stood straighter, glancing round. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s going to be an attempt on someone’s life.’
His face dropped. ‘Who…’
‘Go get some rest then meet me outside my cabin at one p.m.’
‘But I don’t understand, Miller said…’
‘You’ll need to be armed.’ I looked through the window in the door, into the bridge, Poubelle swaying at the wheel, Miller still watching us. Satisfied there was no way anyone on the ship could overhear us, I laid it out for him, all the details.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Tiburon
Fields, Marty, and I had used the lull in the weather to move King’s body from my boot into the ship. We’d wrapped him in a blanket on the floor of the cold store, I’d mouthed a promise to get him a decent funeral back in England – one I’d no intention of attending. I had enough memories, and no interest in sharing them.
I’d started my car too while we were outside, given it a few revs before pocketing the key. Good old German engineering, strapped to the bow of a ship through a winter storm and she hadn’t hesitated. How much rust I’d have to contend with when I got her back in the garage was another matter, all that seawater forced into places it should never reach couldn’t be good.
I’d opened the glovebox again, checked the old CD changer. Nice and dry and untouched, either by waves or Seb when he’d broken in. I hooked a finger round the front panel and pulled, revealing
a black plastic box inside the hollowed-out carcass of the CD changer. A single green LED flashing away to itself. Seb hadn’t understood the significance of the equipment – not that it had anything to do with him.
Now I was sat in the corner of the saloon, feet on the table, watching Marty nursing her third cup of coffee at the starboard windows. Behind a counter, Doc and Poubelle were arguing over the hob, each trying to cook an entirely different type of breakfast. The dying back of the storm and arrival of the sun, albeit swaddled in mist, had brought a new sense of optimism to everyone on board.
My own optimism was slower to rise, because while we’d been able to speed up, our pursuers had also taken advantage of the calmer weather to increase their speed even more. And I knew what kind of people they were. If they caught up, then best case scenario, no one on the ship would be left alive. It could be worse.
Poubelle brought out a plate of seemingly random items, dubious-looking cheese interspersed with slices of cold meats, and some greasy sausages swimming in beans that Doc had insisted we wanted despite our assertions to the contrary. Marty didn’t even look round from the window, putting her hand on her stomach.
‘Doc,’ I shouted. ‘Any more scopolamine? I think someone’s feeling it.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He looked over at me, then Marty. ‘Of course, I’ll fetch some more tablets.’ He wiped his hands on his trousers and hurried from the room. Secretly I hoped he’d bring enough for all of us, it was making me feel sick just watching her.
‘You need to eat,’ I said to her.
Marty looked back at me, at the plate, then back to the window. ‘I wouldn’t even eat that if I felt well.’ She looked over at Poubelle. ‘No offence. I don’t eat anything that could wear sunglasses or shoes.’
He tutted, frowning as he tried to work it out, and stamped from the room.
I pulled out the soggy, torn page from King’s book with my timeline and suspects. With the time of death so unquestionably nailed on at 04:12, there was a very narrow list of candidates. The entirety of the crew had been in the saloon together, other than Poubelle, who’d been at the wheel. I just couldn’t see them all lying, which put not only Seb in the clear, but everyone else as well.
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