"You want to throw her overboard?" Constantine shook his head. "Not good enough, Hawk. We're too close to shore. She might be a strong swimmer."
"With her hands tied? I doubt it."
Constantine took a minute to consider the proposition, but Angela ignored him and focused on the message Hawk was trying to send her. It wasn't much, just the slight, rhythmic caress of his hand where it splayed flat against her side as he held her to him. The fingers against her jaw were moving, too, pressing gently and rhythmically and with a subtlety that escaped the notice of Constantine's sharp gaze.
Hawk was telling her someting, and she couldn't figure it out except to realize that he was still on her side. Not that she'd doubted it. Well, maybe for a minute there she'd suffered a bit of panic, but listening to Hawk as he consulted with Constantine about the dubious merits of a messy deck had thrown her for a loop. She still hadn't figured out his game plan when it suddenly moved into another stage.
His fingers at her jaw and side tightened simul-taneoulsy, then he swore and acted as though he was having trouble holding her. "Stop fighting, honey," he said gruffly, and hefted her right off her feet. "Dammit, I said stop it."
It took a couple of midair shakes for Angela to realize she was supposed to be fighting him. She obliged by kicking him in the shin, and got a surprised grunt for that effort. She was making a serious try at getting enough leverage for a knee kick to the groin when he tightened his grip and squeezed the air from her again.
Her moment of defiance, she guessed, was over. It didn't take any acting to let her head fall forward as she tried to recover two lungsful of air through her nose.
"Let's get this over with," she heard Hawk say, and was about to kick him again when he squeezed her closer—this time without depriving her of her air supply.
"Agreed," Constantine said, "but with one modification. I want her feet tied too."
"Not worried what someone's going to think when the body washes up onshore, are you?" Hawk asked, but the rhythmic caress at her waist began again, and she concentrated on that and not the morbid discussion going on over her head.
"It's nothing to do with me," Constantine said. "As far as anyone at the marina is concerned, the Sea Charmer never left her slip."
Angela finally had enough air in her lungs and was breaming deeply when she heard someone come toward her. She stiffened, then kicked out when a hand grabbed her ankle. It didn't do her any good, though, because her kick missed and the guard managed—with Hawk's generous help—to tie her ankles together.
She began to shake then, because if Hawk was counting on her ability to swim in this condition, he'd seriously overestimated her water skills. The caress at her waist became firmer without losing the rhythm, but even that promise of hope couldn't stop the tears that spilled from her eyes.
If Hawk noticed she was crying, he ignored it as he pulled the T-shirt away and tossed it aside. Her tongue was big in her mouth, dry and impossible to get words around —mough she tried. Oh yes, she tried, but when Hawk swung her high in his arms and carried her to the side, there didn't seem to be anything left to say.
"Now take a big breath, honey," he said with a cruel smile that she prayed was for the guard's benefit. "It won't save you, but at least you'll have time to say your goodbyes."
Angela heard him, but it was all too much for her. A big breath? Who was he kidding? What was another minute or so when she was going to drown anyway? She stared into his eyes and read such fierce determination in them that she did as he'd told her and filled her lungs with the sweet manna of life.
One minute and thirty-four seconds—that had been her personal record for holding her breath, achieved in grade school, but it was like riding a bike, right? Could she do it again, only this time for bigger stakes than a can of soda and a pat on the back from her brother's sidekick? She wasn't sure. . . .
Hawk's arms suddenly shifted her weight and let go. In the split second before hitting the water, Angela met his gaze and silently swore that if she drowned, she'd never do what he said ever again. For now, though, she had no choice but to do this one last thing precisely according to Hawk's direction. And if that meant holding her breath until her lungs burst, then by God, that's what she'd do.
One minute thirty-four seconds and counting.
She slammed full length against the sea, and before she could gather her wits about her and decide exactly what Hawk expected her to do besides keep her mouth shut, the cold water closed over her body and began to suck her into its depths. The shock of cold and dark nearly made her lose what precious air she had left. It wasn't as easy as she remembered, holding her breath, because it was getting darker and colder and she was getting more scared with every passing second.
She'd forgotten to count, she realized, and started from one because her lungs had no doubt expanded since she was ten.
Two, three, four . . .
There were other things in the water with her too. At least, she assumed there were; it was really too dark to tell. A scene that was a cross between Jaws and Moby Dick flashed across her mind, and she thought it was a good thing her hands and feet were tied. Making thrashing movements would attract the more dreadful denizens of the deep. The chance alliteration almost made her laugh, but she couldn't do that and hold her breath, not unless she wanted to disappoint Hawk.
Ten, eleven, twelve . . .
Angela knew she was sinking because her ears hurt and she had to assume it was from the pressure. She wondered if she should swallow to relieve the pressure or if that would waste the air she held in her mouth. She swallowed anyway.
Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five . . .
She couldn't hold the air in her lungs, not all of it, so she let a little out through her mouth and had to remind herself not to try to replace it. If felt better, for a second.
Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three . . .
It was amazing how long it took to count to ninety-four, and she wondered if she was going too slow or too fast. It didn't matter, she realized. No one was going to give her a soda or even a medal for getting it right. Hawk would care, though. . . .
Eighty—no, that was supposed to be seventy, wasn't it? She let a little more air escape, then realized she must be hallucinating because she could see something coming toward her—a light, a fish that glowed, a confused firefly. Suddenly a mask appeared with a face attached behind it. A diving mask, she realized, and she remembered with startling clarity her first summer of swimming lessons. Her mother had been the one to take her, and she'd had this thing about not letting her wear goggles, something silly about Angela not needing them, that she was perfectly fine in the water without them. Angela had begged and pleaded and pointed out that her best friend had a pair, but her mother had stood firm. Her best friend, Cindy. That was her name, wasn't it? What was she doing here?
But the face behind the mask belonged to a man, so it couldn't be Cindy. That confused Angela and she let some more air out while she thought about it. She didn't spend long at it because she'd just realized the man had an arm around her shoulders and was holding something against her mouth. She wasn't sure what to do ... like that first time when Hawk kissed her and she'd wanted to open her mouth to him, but hadn't, hadn't even admitted thinking it, because he was the enemy. Then, not now, and besides, Hawk had a plan and she was supposed to be counting. ...
The man pushed the thing harder, and she thought about telling him it hurt when it dawned on her that hallucinations didn't hurt! She started struggling then because she didn't want to drown and there was someone here who could help her if she could only explain. His arm remained firm across her shoulders, and he took the thing from her mouth and pointed to his own and she finally got the idea. Lord she was slow! He didn't seem to hold it against her, though, because he tried again, putting the thing back to her mouth, and this time she opened enough to take it inside.
As Angela struggled to learn the do's and don'ts of breathing through the mouthpiece, she thoug
ht about Hawk's plan and how she'd rate it on a scale of ten. Putting aside the fact that she might have died from heart failure, and not counting the pneumonia she'd undoubtedly be stricken with by morning, there were still several flaws in his plan that bothered her—not least of which was Hawk's arrogant faith that she'd even be capable of learning something new under what anyone would regard as trying conditions. What if the man hadn't found her? After all, it was a big ocean. Then she looked over his shoulder and noticed not one, but two other men also decked out in scuba gear.
She was breathing more easily now. The first man nodded his approval and gestured for her to keep it up while another cut her free, and then they were all swimming away, Angela in the center and held firmly against the side of the one who had found her. As she allowed herself to be guided from the scene of her brush with death, she awarded Hawk's plan a six and hoped he had a better one for himself.
She'd never forgive him if he didn't.
THIRTEEN
So far, so good.
The splash marking Angela's entrance into the water had barely subsided when Hawk turned away. He had, he calculated, about ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get into position. After that, it was anyone's guess what would happen. Blackthorne hadn't been specific, and Hawk hadn't pressed him except to emphasize that nothing would interfere with Angela's rescue.
Now that the worst was over and Angela was, he assumed, in the hands of Blackthorne's very capable associates, he found himself almost hoping that something would happen to keep him alive long enough to see her again. The frantic, disbelieving look in her eyes as he'd dropped her into the sea wasn't something he wanted to take to his grave.
He had known within thirty seconds of boarding the Sea Charmer that there was only one weapon he was likely to get his hands on, but it was so obvious that he was almost certain it was a trap. A speargun was de rigueur for a seagoing cruiser, and this one was double-barreled and appeared to be loaded and ready. On a normal boat, that would have been considered a serious breach of safety standards. On the Sea Charmer, it was probably normal operating procedure. Unless it was a trap, and that was something Hawk would soon find out. For the time being, he concentrated on keeping his gaze from wandering too often to the wall under the flying deck on which the thing was mounted.
He looked over to where Constantine was talking into a cellular phone and wasn't surprised to realize the person on the other end was Paul Marchand. It made sense that Constantine would call his man inside the DEA to discuss Hawk's presence and the video. What didn't make sense was why Hawk hadn't used the video to extricate himself from the murder charge. He had come onto the Sea Charmer knowing that was his plan's biggest weakness, but there hadn't been another way around it. It had been all he could come up with that would stall Constantine long enough for him to get Angela off the boat.
Constantine clicked the phone shut and smiled thinly. "Marchand said that he doesn't believe there's a video. I'm inclined to agree with him."
"No?" A quick glance told Hawk the guards were still alert, but their positions had changed since he'd tossed Angela overboard. One man was standing close to Constantine, while the other was leaning against the stern rail. Hawk pretty much had the port side to himself, except for the lookout on the flying deck, and that man's visibility was limited to the back part of the deck unless he hung upside down over the rail.
"No," Constantine said. "If you had one, you would have used it before now."
"Then I guess you don't want to look at the copy, and I emphasize copy, that I brought along with me." He traced a line on the deck with his toe and tried to sound nonchalant. Bringing even a "copy" had been a risk, because he didn't know if luxury accessories aboard the Sea Charmer extended to a VCR. As the copy was nothing more than a blank tape, it was a substantial risk indeed. "The original is being kept in a safe place. Unless, of course, I don't go back for it, in which case it will be sent along to the proper authorities."
"You don't trust me?" Constantine's question produced a snicker from the guard standing nearest, and Hawk smiled as well.
"There is the matter of a personal grudge you might bear me." Hawk shifted his body a foot or so to the left as though to compensate for the slight roll of the boat, a position that left him closer to the speargun. "If I hadn't run out of money, I might not have come at all. But there you have it."
Constantine pointed at the sports bag. "What's in there if not my money?"
"Paper, mostly." Hawk took advantage of a larger swell to inch closer to the gun. "Like I said before, I'm broke."
Constantine snapped his fingers in the direction of the sports bag, and the guard he'd called Jerry handed it to him without taking his aim from Hawk. Unzipping it, Constantine pulled out a banded stack that was about half an inch thick with a ten-dollar note on either end and tore it open. The nicely cut pieces of newspaper Hawk had gotten from one of Blackthorne's people, slipped into his bag at one of the banks he'd visited, were no contest for the slight ocean breeze, which sucked them into the air and scattered them across the deck and surrounding waves.
In a frustrated frenzy, Constantine ripped three more bundles apart with the same results. Hawk was reluctantly admiring the guards' persistent vigilance—they hadn't taken their eyes off him—when two things happened at once. Constantine grabbed Jerry's Steyr and swung the heavy machine pistol around to point it at Hawk; and the skies suddenly exploded with light and color. Blackthorne's surprise, Hawk assumed, and was filled with confidence. The flares wouldn't have been released if Angela wasn't safe and sound.
Hawk didn't wait to see if the guards were that good. Springing aside, he dove for the speargun and had it in hand and aimed straight at Constantine before the drug lord recovered from the surprise of the flares. The guards were slow, too, but it didn't matter because they'd lost their chance. If they shot him now, Constantine would get a harpoon through his gut and they'd be, at the very least, unemployed.
As standoffs went, it wasn't very promising, but Hawk wasn't given a chance to worry about it. The flares hadn't even reached their zenith when the blurred rat-tat-tat of an automatic weapon echoed through the night. Another of Blackthorne's surprises, Hawk guessed as he saw the guard at the stern fall a moment before Jerry dove for the deck near Constantine's feet. Hawk didn't spare a glance for the other guard aloft, because he knew that if he took his eyes from Constantine, he'd be dead. He moved to the rail without looking where he was going, pointing his gun at Constantine, who looked enraged and, Hawk thought, handled the Steyr as though he weren't familiar with it. That was a bonus, because automatic weapons weren't as easy to use as they looked. On the other side of the coin, though, Constantine himself appeared at the very edge of control. Even so, he didn't shoot, not yet, and that gave Hawk all the leeway he needed.
He made it to the rail and got one leg over the side before he saw the change in Constantine's eyes. He knew then he was going to have to shoot the speargun. He waited until the last second, and not because he had any qualms about killing Constantine. He didn't. Constantine deserved to die, and that hadn't changed.
Hawk still wanted justice, but he'd lost his taste for blood.
In the end, it wasn't his choice. He read in Constan-tine's eyes what he was going to do a split second before he did it, and that was all the time he needed. The bullets went wide as Hawk jerked to one side, then he fired and the harpoon caught Constantine high in the chest.
Hawk pitched backward into the water and dove deep, keeping one hand on the speargun even though it slowed him. The clock ticking in his brain told him time had nearly run out, but there was nothing for it except to try to get as far away from the Sea Charmer as humanly possible.
When he came up for air, he was still much too close, so near that he could hear the shouts of the guards giving each other orders and doing nothing in the way of looking for him. That was good, because he didn't dare dive again. As quietly as he could manage, he turned and began swimming. He wasn't headed toward sh
ore, and that concerned him because he wasn't sure of the tides and if he'd be able to manage them when it was time. It couldn't be helped, though, because the Sea Charmer was between him and the shore and he'd be a fool to go near her.
He hadn't gotten far when the muffled thunder of the underwater explosive charges reached his ears. Not sparing even a glance behind because he knew what was coming, he kicked and stroked and fought his way through the waves. He was too late, too close. The explosion reached the diesel tanks and the Sea Charmer burst into a million projectiles of fire ... and death rained down on the sea around him.
* * *
From the beach where she crouched barefoot and shivering beneath a blanket someone had thrown around her shoulders, Angela watched in mute shock as the Sea Charmer was engulfed in a ball of flame that dimmed the stars and spewed fire and debris across the waves. Throwing off the blanket, she got up and ran across the sand toward the water—Hawk was still out there!—but someone caught her before she got her feet wet again and passed her back to the man who was in charge of all the others.
He held on to her and shouted orders at the same time, then took her by the shoulders and made her look toward the water where three men in frog suits were hustling through the waves. They disappeared beneath the water as she watched.
"There's a dinghy out there too," the man said, and she remembered he'd told her to call him Peter. She also remembered he'd said he worked for Micah Blackthrone— which didn't explain anything but was at least reassuring. Blackthorne was the man Hawk had intended to send her to. It followed that his men could be trusted.
Peter continued. "If he's out there, they'll find him."
"Couldn't you see?" Peter had, after all, been using field glasses.
"The flares we used were quick burning, for surprise only. We didn't want Constantine's men to have time to look for our dinghy or, if Hawk got away, to spot him in the water. Unfortunately, there was still too much light for night lenses and too little for regular ones. So no, Angela, I didn't see."
Night of the Hawk (LS 767) Page 17