Footsteps echoed, I ducked back into the room, pressing myself against the wall alongside the door.
The steps came closer, pausing outside the cabin. An arm appeared, a man stepped into the room, taking in the scene, the arterial spray, the body of his mate sprawled next to the bed. His mouth opened to shout just as his head completed its circuit of the room, landing on me and the business end of my gun. He hesitated, sneered, hand going for the holster at his thigh.
It only made it halfway when the barrel of my gun whipped across his temple, he stumbled, bringing his arms up, I kicked him backwards, into the wardrobe. The door cracked in half and dropped from the frame as he landed in a heap of designer clothes. He scrabbled at his holster again, I’d given him plenty of chances so stopped fucking around and put two bullets into his chest. His fingers twitched, I put a third through his forehead.
I pushed the splintered wardrobe door away and grabbed a fire extinguisher from a bracket inside, laid it in the passageway outside the door, and wedged it against the wall with a folded-up dress to hold it. With a glance back at the window to orientate myself, I set off aft.
A door opened ahead. One of Branko’s goons stepped out and immediately retreated back into the room as I accelerated, shoulder-barging the door before he could close it. Another was halfway out of an en-suite, already reaching for a gun on the bed. I squeezed the trigger three times rapidly, the crisp white sheets speckled red as the man dropped to the floor. I punched sideways, catching the first man under the chin, swung the pistol round, bringing it down on the nape of his neck. He crumpled to the floor. I pulled his pistol from his holster, took out the magazine and pushed it into my pocket, grabbed the other off the bed and did the same, then grabbed the man’s knife from the sheath on his thigh.
I opened the window above the bed as wide as possible, held there on the bracket. Salt hit my nostrils, sea spray misted the pillows. I grabbed one then went for the wardrobe. It contained another full-size fire extinguisher, I backed into the passageway and placed it on the pillow outside the door to stop it rolling around.
The heavy door at the end opened onto a more functional-looking staircase than the areas I’d seen so far: less polished veneer, more bare steel and pipework. No prizes for guessing this led down to the guts of the superyacht. With one last glance along the passage, I closed the door softly and made my way down to the lowest level. The vibrations rose as I stepped off the bottom step, grabbing the handle I presumed would take me through the aft bulkhead into the engine room.
I was right, and it was beautiful. I closed the door behind me, jumped the few short steps down to the spotless floor. Three enormous, sixteen-cylinder Rolls Royce engines stood at attention across the room, each as tall as me. I scanned the one immediately in front of me, the control screen and data dials, the leads and wiring harnesses, the air intakes, exhaust manifolds, turbochargers. Ironic, since I’d come aboard masquerading as Poubelle, that our places had been switched. I needed to disable the engines, and fast, to buy the others some time.
He’d cut the Tiburon’s wiring, but that had been easily repairable. Had Branko kept any of the crew alive? Did he have his own mechanics who’d be able to make repairs? Best to assume so. I looked across the pipework. Destroy the air intakes? Jam the turbos? There were a million and one ways to hobble the engines, but nothing seemed permanent enough.
The door opened, I looked up as a man walked in. I fired twice and ducked behind the engine as bullets replied. His gun wasn’t silenced, the sound was sure to bring others running. I’d just lost the element of surprise.
I chanced a look and fired a couple of times as his legs disappeared behind the far engine. I paused, then fired several more times to keep his head down, before moving around the side. I needed to control that door, that choke point. If more of them got in here it’d be over.
I leaned round the engine and fired again, over the top of the far engine so the bullets would ricochet around and give him something to think about. I slid out the empty magazine and took one of the Glock ones from my pocket, fingers a blur as I flicked rounds from the latter and loaded the former.
The door opened again just as I’d slid it back into place, I waited until the figure crept into the room then fired twice. He dropped, screaming, writhing on the floor. I took a more careful aim and fired into his head. The racket stopped.
The other guy was still in here somewhere, but I daren’t move away from the corner with my vantage point of the door. I noticed a couple of fire extinguishers were stood in brackets at the end of each engine, one foam and one water. I grabbed the water one.
I pulled the knife, holding it in my left hand, backed slowly to the far starboard engine. Above my head was the air intake. Slowly standing, eyes flicking between either side of the engine in front of me, alert for that thug, I stuck the knife up into the pipe leading to the air filter. I ragged it around, then reached behind me and pulled. The cover popped off, pieces of torn air filter rained down. I tore the safety tab from the water extinguisher and sprayed it down the air intake. The effect was instantaneous – first the engine spluttered and struggled, not getting enough oxygen, each stroke failing to combust the damp fuel mixture. I kept spraying until something went bang and the engine juddered to a halt. That bang was one of the cylinders fighting physics as it filled with water, its piston cycling up, trying to compress it, and finding that water is not compressible. The pressure was forced down, bending the connecting rod and probably fatally knackering the crank too. One engine down, two to go.
A gunshot echoed around the room, I ducked and rolled back towards the middle engine as I caught a glimpse of the guy crawling over the top of the furthest one. I peered up and watched as he slid belly-first along the top, working himself down among the pipes where I couldn’t shoot him, but he could see the whole room. He was hidden behind the cylinder heads. From where I crouched I couldn’t get the angle to shoot him without revealing myself.
I threw the knife over the engine in front of me, sending it sailing towards the far side of the room. I saw him jerk as his head turned to follow the noise.
I stood, firing several times at the oil cooler above him. He shouted in anger, then when he realised the entire engine was pissing scalding oil onto his legs he shouted in pain, shuffling forward, dropping his gun to scrabble at the engine, pulling himself away as his legs began to cook. He turned, face contorted in agony, I only had to fire once this time. He slumped forward, body sliding off the engine and thudding to the floor.
I ran round to the other side of the middle engine, grabbing its extinguisher on the way, used it to smash the air filter clean off. I stuck the nozzle in, jamming it against the top of the engine so it kept spraying. The engine juddered, the whole boat shook as the cylinders drowned. Already I was at the far end of the room, smashing the air filter from the third engine. The boat rolled more as it slowed, limping on one engine. The revs increased as someone on the bridge tried to compensate for the drop in propulsion.
Feet echoed on the steps to my left, I dropped and turned to the door. No one entered.
I moved to the wall, sliding along it until I was hidden behind the door. A gun entered first: this was a cautious one. It was followed by an arm, then a head, face obscured by long dark hair. Their driver.
I grabbed her arm, spinning her into the room, bringing my gun up. A gunshot cracked, not mine or hers. I twisted, pulling her round in front of me as a shield as the guy who’d been behind her in the doorway struggled to get a decent aim. I brought my own gun up with my free hand, she rammed an elbow into my stomach. I dropped my gun but managed to keep hold of her arm as I doubled over, pulling her to the floor with me. As we hit I grabbed her gun, sliding my finger over hers, pulling the trigger over and over again at the doorway as we lay on the floor. Bullet holes punched through the brilliant white wall cladding, the man in the doorway’s mouth flapped open as perfect red circles appeared in his T-shirt then proceeded to spill down his belly.
The woman snarled, reaching for her boot, pulling an evil-looking knife. I managed to get my arm up to block her forearm, the knife stopped centimetres from my face. I twisted my head, she whipped her knife round again, glancing the side of my arm, still gripping her pistol.
Instinctively I let go, rolling away across the floor and springing to my feet. As I turned, I saw her bring the pistol up, she pulled the trigger. It clicked, fortunately we’d emptied the magazine into her friend in the doorway. She hissed and threw it at me. I ducked as it bounced off the engine behind. I was just steadying myself when she came at me again, knife up. I feinted left then went right as she struggled to adjust her momentum, I turned with her, grabbing her arm as she passed, sticking out my leg and pushing her onward into the engine. She tripped, spun, kicking out as she fell, catching me in my ribs. I stumbled, dropping to my knees, momentarily stunned. She somehow turned her fall into a graceful roll, coming back up onto her feet like a cat.
As I tried to get my breath her arm whipped round, the knife flashed, I dropped to the floor again just as the knife cut the air above me. In the corner of my eye I saw her bending down, I dived away to the far end of the engine as she swept up my pistol and brought it round towards me.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Yacht Zuben
My silenced pistol coughed once in her hands, I rolled over, fingers scrabbling across the floor. The bullet tore through the pipework above the engine, a second gunshot echoed, this one deafening in the confined space, her eyes went wide. My pistol wavered in her hand, I pulled my arm from under me and fired again, her eyes glazed over, she slid to the floor, revealing a spray of blood on the engine behind her.
I dropped the oily Glock, wiping my hands on my legs, slick from where I’d picked the gun up off the floor, out of the puddle of hot oil beneath the body of her shipmate. I walked to her, gave her a tap with my trainers, retrieved my own gun, pushed it into my trousers, jogged to the door.
The stairwell was empty but I could hear voices somewhere above. Behind me, an alarm started barking for attention. I looked at the control screen on the first engine, flashing red. Oil pressure warning. It was about to shut itself down thanks to spilling its lubricant all over the floor. That’d put all three engines out of action, two of them couldn’t be fixed without a shipyard and these idiots wouldn’t get the third fixed this side of Christmas.
The third engine shuddered and finally went silent, just the noise of the warning alarm blaring in the engine room and the crash of water against the fibreglass hull. Almost immediately the room tipped up, I held on to the bulkhead as the waves spun the dead boat round. I waited until she righted herself then bent to pick up the pistol the dead guy had dropped in the doorway. A Sig Sauer with a full magazine. I pressed into the wall alongside the door, looking up the stairs. The voices were calling to each other, Branko shouting orders at someone else, I wondered how many minions he had left. Two in the bedroom, two in the other bedroom, three in the engine room. I’d counted eight thugs plus the driver. God knows how many more had been on the bridge. I was still grossly outnumbered.
‘He has nowhere to go,’ Branko shouted above. ‘Get him up here.’
I ducked back as someone appeared at the top of the stairs, raised my gun ready. A small object bounced off the wall above me and thudded down the stairs, rolling into the doorway. A flashbang.
I kicked it backwards into the engine room as I launched through the doorway, up the stairs two at a time. The stun grenade exploded behind me. The walls muffled the blast, my ears rang sharply, I took another breath and stepped up, firing into the passageway. Shapes flashed, screams as figures ducked or fell into cabins either side, gunfire erupted. I pressed myself into the wall, aiming low, at the fire extinguisher I’d placed by the far door, and fired. A white cloud instantly filled the passageway, blocking their view of me. Coughing and spluttering accompanied a hail of fresh bullets as the dense cloud rolled towards me. A shadow moved in a doorway to my left, I aimed at the closer extinguisher and fired. The fog grew thicker. I fired again to keep their heads in, held my breath and dived through a doorway into the nearest cabin.
On the far side of the room the window was sprayed with blood from the guy I’d tagged coming out of the en-suite but, crucially, it was still wide open on the bracket, just as I’d left it. Water sloshed over the ledge onto the bed as another wave slammed the side, I shifted my balance, pushed the Sig into my pocket, kicked the door closed behind me.
I saw the movement from behind the closing door too late. Branko hit me like a train, driving me across the room and into the desk with a crunch that bent me sideways, driving the wind from my lungs and smashing my head through the cladding on the wall. My eyes dimmed as I was vaguely aware of Branko dragging me by the lapels, then an odd sensation of weightlessness which ended with a smash of glass as I hit the mirror on the far wall. I landed on the floor, still winded.
I let the room stop spinning, pushed up onto my hands and knees, blinking away tears to see my hands were bloody. I was pressing down onto shards of mirror, I rocked back onto my knees and plucked a small piece of glass from my arm, before I flew backwards as Branko’s boot connected with my stomach. I rolled over, reaching out, grabbing a shard in my right hand, swiping it at his leg. He backed away, I sprang to my feet, gripping the glass in a bloody fist, watching him carefully. He weaved side to side then darted forward, one arm ready to parry my inevitable strike, the other poised to follow up. Instead, I stepped forward and turned inside him, into his arms, bringing my hand down hard as he encircled me in a bear hug.
The shard sank into flesh, at the expense of my hand. He shouted in anger and released me, clawing at the glass sticking out of his thigh. Blood spilled between the fingers of my right hand, I crouched, spun to face him, reaching across for the Sig with my left. It was an awkward angle, the gun jammed on my pocket. He went for the Desert Eagle under his arm. I kicked high, he blocked it but in doing so couldn’t draw his weapon. He tried with the other hand and I kicked again, forcing him to defend himself. He turned side-on, hunched over, finally managed to pull the gun, drawing it round onto me in one fluid movement. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and flicked it at his head, not the best weapon but it made him flinch, meaning the bullet ejected from the barrel punched through the ceiling instead of me. I grabbed a corner of the duvet and ran, throwing it over him.
More gunshots erupted, punching holes through the fabric and into the walls. I managed to pull out the Sig with my injured right hand, fumbled it, then fired into the mass. Five, six, seven times, the slide stuck back as the gun ran dry. No idea how many times I’d hit him, or where, but he toppled backwards and that was good enough for me.
I dropped the bloody Sig, wiped my hand on my trousers. The door opened, faces crammed the corridor outside, the cavalry had arrived too late for their boss.
I jumped on the bed just as the mass started moving. Branko pushed the duvet out of the way and stood up. One of the goons lifted a rifle, I fumbled with my jumper, trying to get to my own HK pistol. Branko pushed the man’s hand down, smiling. He looked at me as he slowly unzipped his fleece, revealing body armour. Only a couple had actually hit him, trickles of blood on his neck said one had done some damage but clearly he didn’t seem to think so.
He raised his gun, grinning.
I leapt backwards, straight through the open window, out into the cold night and the colder sea.
Chapter Fifty-nine
English Channel
The window wasn’t high. As far as bullet-avoiding leaps into the sea went it didn’t rank up there with my worst. I dove straight down, ignoring the stinging saltwater in fresh wounds, striking out underwater into the black. These yachts have a fairly shallow draft, no more than a couple of metres, and being a streamlined, high-speed superyacht, she had a relatively narrow beam. Bullets sliced the water around me as I pulled hard under the hull, easily clearing the keel. When my lungs burned and I couldn’t swim any fu
rther I came up on the other side, forcing myself to break the water slowly.
The waves lifted me almost as high as the boat’s deck, I’d come up a few metres off the port side. She was being rolled around in the swell, dead in the water. The glow from her lights lit the crests all around me. A shout from the flybridge, I ducked back under and swam further away. When I surfaced again I’d only gained another few metres, but at least it was a few metres in the right direction. I treaded water, watching figures running around on the deck and flybridge, leaning over the railings. Occasionally a flash of torchlight on the waves, the crack of a pistol as they fired blindly into the sea.
Lights came on at the rear of the deck, the steps I’d climbed up were brightly illuminated and the sea beneath the stern glowed a deep green. The rear of the yacht opened up like a boot lid, more shouting as people ran down the steps to the low swim platform, on level with the sea.
Something moved. I realised they were launching the yacht’s tender. An outboard barked into life, revving and grumbling as a couple of dark figures climbed on board. More movement, more noise as a jet ski started up, immediately setting off in the opposite direction. Another jet ski shot aft, moving in ever-increasing circles behind the stricken yacht.
The launch revved and set off on my side of the yacht, a powerful spotlamp flared across the waves. They moved slowly along the yacht’s low, pointed hull, lamp scanning the sea in long sweeping arcs. The boat turned, looping back towards the stern of the yacht, the beam of its lamp moving ever closer. I kicked hard, rising out of the water, shouted, then dropped back under. The beam played over the sea nearby, the boat adjusted its course and buzzed towards me.
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