by Sean Ellis
In a heartbeat, the approaching objects resolved into more recognizable forms: a trio of personal watercraft, more or less identical to the Wave Runner Mira had commandeered, riding ahead of a sleek, black cigarette boat. Though the larger jet powered vessel could have easily outpaced the smaller craft, its operator chose to hang back, letting the Wave Runners take the lead like pawns on a chessboard.
The gap between the opposing forces diminished rapidly. Mira could distinguish the silhouettes of the riders and two human forms in the jet boat, and then even their features and expressions became visible. The driver’s face was eerily familiar.
As if on cue the three Wave Runners broke formation, peeling off in different directions in an obvious attempt to flank her and close in from all sides. She surmised that Rachel was in radio contact with the cigarette boat, if not all of her henchman, and had informed them that their prey was unarmed.
Unarmed, thought Mira with a grim smile, but not defenseless.
Rather than veering off to evade the trap, she chose instead to hold her course, aiming directly at the approaching prow of the black jet boat. She crouched low behind the vertically swiveling control column, presenting the smallest possible target. The reduction in drag, coupled with the steady wind blowing from out of the west and against her back, resulted in a substantial increase in speed.
A collective grasp of her strategy caused each of the men on the Wave Runners to hastily alter course, but their gambit had already cost them the initiative and momentum to catch her. The pilot of the boat, disbelieving the message of his own eyes, kept the nose of the sleek vessel lined up with her approaching Wave Runner. Only when the low torpedo-like silhouette of Mira’s craft was eclipsed from his view by the cigarette’s high-riding bow did he comprehend that his opponent was playing an old-fashioned game of chicken, and playing to win.
The pilot frantically jammed the rudder hard to starboard, hitting the face of an approaching swell like a ramp. The jet boat soared out of the water, its turbines screeching as the intakes sucked air. The rash maneuver caused the boat to twist in mid-air, and when it landed, with enough force to send a spider-web of pressure fractures shooting across the immaculate black fiberglass, it almost flipped over. However, as the starboard gunwale cut into the ocean, the rush of water into the jet intakes forced the boat into motion again, miraculously righting her without any help from the stunned man at the helm. The craft hit another swell head on, lofting clear of the water again, but this time landed on an even keel. The pilot didn’t see one of his comrades vanish under his prow, but the noise of the larger vessel crushing the Wave Runner and its rider shuddered through the hull.
Mira grinned in satisfaction as the cigarette boat mowed down one of its own, but she knew it was only a minor victory. The boat was the real threat. Its larger twin engines could easily overtake her before reaching the relative safety of the harbor. She had to find a way to take the jet-powered craft out of the equation.
The two remaining Wave Runners quickly recovered from the momentary confusion, turning wide circles in the choppy ocean in order to find Mira and give chase. They searched the horizon in every direction, looking for the telltale streams of water spray that might indicate a low-riding craft hiding in the swells, but saw nothing. The jet boat joined the search, turning a broad high-speed circle around the other two craft, but there was no sign of her; it was as if she, like the Unterseeboot, had hidden beneath the surface.
A brightly colored oil slick marked the place where the jet boat had destroyed one of the watercraft. The broken form of its rider floated in the midst of the debris, bobbing with the swells, but was otherwise motionless. As the search for Mira grew more futile, one of the Wave Runners veered toward the wreckage. The pilot of the craft eased off the throttles as he drew near, allowing the ski-like craft to coast the remaining distance.
Without warning, the debris field erupted in a wave of spray. A fully intact Wave Runner burst from the heart of the oil slick only a few meters from the approaching craft. Before the driver could even raise a protective hand, Mira’s Wave Runner broadsided him, breaking bones and fiberglass as her hull rode over his.
She turned hard to port, easing back on the throttle to cut a tight circle, and came up on the newly wrecked craft. As she slowed, the hydroplaning resistance against the hull diminished, causing the craft to sink until the sea lapped at her ankles.
Despite his injuries, the rider of the Wave Runner broken by Mira’s charge was trying to bring his weapon to bear with his left hand, his broken right arm draped over a piece of floating debris. Before he could get his finger through the trigger guard, however, Mira reached down and plucked the weapon from his grasp.
“You’ll float better without this,” she remarked, ignoring the agonized whimper as the strap snagged momentarily on his wounded arm.
The gun was identical to the one Rachel Aimes had been wielding. Mira gave it a cursory inspection, shook droplets of salt water from the barrel, and then looped the strap around her neck.
Two down. And now I’ve got some teeth.
The Wave Runner shot away from the spreading oil slick, revealing her presence with an eight-foot-high plume of spray. The remaining pursuers immediately converged on her location and soon were bouncing back and forth across the wake of Mira’s craft. This time, the cigarette boat driver did not cede the vanguard position to his comrade, but chased ahead at full speed. The man on the remaining watercraft swung wide to prevent Mira from slipping past.
A glance over her shoulder revealed the nearness of the pursuit, but this came as little surprise. What did come as a surprise was the sudden staccato crackling of gunfire from the jet boat. Mira’s foes had not taken advantage of their superior firepower, leading Mira to believe that their intent was to take her alive, or at least subdue her in such a way as to avoid losing the treasure in her mesh bag to the depths once more. There was no way of knowing if the shots were simply being fired in warning or if the gunman on the boat meant business. She had to assume the worst.
Once again, she wheeled about and set a collision course with the jet boat. From her low crouch, she laid the MP5 on the control column and squeezed the hard plastic forward grip of the gun and the handle bar of the Wave Runner together in her right hand. Then, as she hit a swell and the little jet powered craft rose out of the ocean, she squeezed the trigger with her left hand.
The machine pistol bucked in her hand, but a short burst of nine-millimeter ammo flashed ahead of her, punching a trail across the hull of the cigarette boat. If her volley had found flesh, she could not tell, but the panicked driver abruptly steered the boat away before she could close the gap. As he presented the boat’s port side to her, his passenger returned fire.
Staying low, Mira altered her course only by a few degrees, locating the remaining Wave Runner and challenging its rider to a joust. Bright flashes, followed by a noise like fireworks, warned her of an incoming fusillade and she ducked low again, answering with a couple short bursts.
It was evident that there was no way to shoot accurately while piloting the Wave Runner. Instead of wasting her limited supply of ammunition, Mira chose to use the latter skill to full advantage. She let the gun fall against the web sling to dangle under her right arm, and tightened her hold on the control grips as she drove headlong toward the other craft.
The driver of the jet boat came around, chasing down her wake, but it was obvious that the two smaller watercraft would meet before he could re-enter the battle.
As the gap closed, Mira intentionally drifted to the left. The opposing rider did not correct course to meet her head on, choosing instead to brace the folding stock of his weapon under his right arm in order to fire a killing burst as they passed each other. Unable to effectively operate the controls, his Wave Runner immediately slowed. Mira sensed the deviation and knew that she had won.
With fifty feet between them she turned sharply across his bow, cutting to his left side. Without thinking, her oppon
ent brought the muzzle of his weapon around, twisting his torso and overextending his left arm across his body in a futile attempt to keep control of the craft. In the instant that he squeezed the trigger he realized his mistake, but it was too late. Unbalanced, he tumbled backwards into the sea. Before he could even think about trying to catch his errant vehicle, the muzzle of Mira’s captured gun crashed into the back of his head, knocking him senseless.
The cigarette boat reached the scene within moments, but Mira was already speeding away. Nevertheless, the pilot of the larger craft idled close to the floating form of his comrade long enough to retrieve the dazed man from the water. It gave her a few extra seconds of lead-time, but it was obvious that they would still catch her before she could hope to reach the safety of the harbor. The head start she had gained improved her odds of surviving the next five minutes dramatically, but unless she found a way to defeat the jet boat, it would be in vain. Her eyes scanned the shoreline, then the horizon, searching for options.
A devious grin parted her lips as she realized what she had to do.
From the flying bridge of Muldoon’s boat, Rachel and Turner had an unrestricted view of the battle their comrades were waging against Mira Raiden. Their countenances had grown grim as one of their number was crushed beneath the jet boat. They had shouted impotently when Mira had concealed herself in the wreckage caused by that accident in order to ambush another of their friends. And they had hurled curses across the water when the third rider went down. But when they saw the object of their rage do an about face and aim her little watercraft at the boat where they now stood, they fell silent with incomprehension. Only when it was obvious that she was indeed returning to Muldoon’s boat did Turner lurch into action, ejecting the spent magazine from his AK-47 and slamming in a fresh one.
“Put that down,” admonished Rachel without looking at him. “All this will be for nothing if we lose what she has.”
Turner disregarded her warning, raising the stock of the weapon to his shoulder and tracking Mira through his sights. “We can recover it from her corpse.”
“Not if you destroy everything with that cannon of yours,” Rachel hissed, her tone brooking no defiance.
Turner lowered the weapon but remained anxious. “What the hell do you think she’s doing? Is she trying to attack us?”
Rachel shook her head uncertainly. “Get on the radio to Jorge. We need him here. It’s time to end this once and for all.”
The cigarette boat resumed its pursuit moments after picking up the wounded Wave Runner riders. Mira saw the column of spray as the pilot of the craft opened the throttles to full and gave chase. She turned her eyes forward again, still grinning.
She reached Muldoon’s boat a few seconds later, quickly picking out the moving forms of Rachel Aimes and her burly companion. The mercenary fired a few rounds over Mira’s head, but it was clear that he wasn’t aiming to hit her. Her scheme hinged upon the fact that her enemies needed her more or less intact, and the warning shots provided the final confirmation she needed.
As she cruised past the boat, she slowed enough to maintain control of the craft with only her left hand. Her right braced the machine pistol under her arm as she fired several short bursts that ricocheted off the superstructure, driving Rachel and Turner for cover.
Pulling even with the stern of the boat, Mira swung her Wave Runner around. She released the control grips in order to hold the MP5 with both hands. When she found her target in the sights, she squeezed the trigger.
The clip all but emptied in a matter of seconds, but most of the nine-millimeter slugs went exactly where she wanted them and perforated the fuel tanks. As gasoline spewed from dozens of jagged holes, she sighted and fired until one of the hot rounds sparked against the surface of the tanks and ignited the spilled fuel in a flash of heat and black smoke.
The constant wind flattened the column of fumes against the surface of the water, providing Mira with cover for her escape. She did not wait around to see the fire quickly spreading, or her enemies leaping from the doomed craft. The cigarette boat slowed to an idle as it neared the burning craft so that its crew could hastily pull Rachel and Turner aboard.
Now it was simply a race to shore.
The added weight of extra passengers caused the jet boat to ride a little lower in the water, slowing it considerably. Nevertheless, the driver pushed the engines to a feverish whine in order to close the gap with his prey.
A few seconds later, Muldoon’s boat erupted in a pillar of fire. Though she was already several hundred yards from the boat, Mira felt the shock wave against her back and ducked reflexively lest any airborne debris reach that far as well. The jet boat, much closer to the explosion, was pummeled by the force of the blast and pelted with burning shrapnel. In the momentary confusion that followed, Mira’s lead continued to increase.
She held a straight course toward the inlet, staying low and not looking back. As the rocky shoreline drew close, she leaned to her left, adjusting slightly to line up with the channel, but did not slow. A few seconds later, the walls of the fjord seemed to close around her like a crypt. The jet boat was less than two hundred yards behind her.
Muldoon’s neglected harbor loomed ahead, and with it an end to the water-borne chase. The old boat still rocked in its slip, but there was no other sign of activity in the harbor or in the little town above. Mira’s eyes narrowed into grim slits as she lined up on the wooden pier. Without slowing, she lifted her feet and crouched on the Wave Runner’s seat like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun.
From the perspective of those on the cigarette boat, Mira’s approach appeared suicidal. Though they had closed to within fifty yards, the pilot was already easing back on the throttles. Boats, unlike land vehicles, could not simply put on the brakes and come to a complete stop. Mira. however, was already past the point of no return; a collision was inevitable.
That was when Mira began to fly.
Releasing her grip on the handlebars, she uncoiled her legs, springing into the air above the doomed Wave Runner. Arching her back like a skydiver, she sailed forward in a gentle parabola over the planks of the pier. A millisecond later, the small watercraft smashed into the rickety wooden deck, annihilating both itself and quite a bit of the dock with a sickening crunch.
Before the destruction of the Wave Runner was complete, gravity ended Mira’s flight. At the last possible instant, she tucked in, lowering her shoulder to the rapidly approaching surface. Though her forward momentum had carried her safely past the timbers shattered by the crash, it was now the force that would hammer her against the unyielding planks.
Her right shoulder met the surface of the pier in a collision that was, she imagined, something like being hit by a bus. She rolled through two complete somersaults, the hard metal of her captured guns whipping against her like truncheons as she turned over and over again. Mira halted her uncontrolled tumbling by extending her palms, but her body mass had not completely given up its inertia to friction, causing her to skid on hands and knees.
Even as she came to a complete stop, she knew she had to keep moving. Her muscles and joints screamed in protest as she tried to lever herself upright, but the sudden crack of gunfire, originating from the slowly approaching jet boat, drowned out the objections of her flesh. An overriding sense of self-preservation got her through the agony, and she hauled herself erect and launched into a full run.
None of the shots from her foes found their mark, but she could see the outside walls of Muldoon’s office splintering with each impact. As round after round punched into the weather-beaten shingles, the little shack seemed on the verge of disintegrating altogether. Nevertheless, Mira sprinted headlong toward the crumbling building, diving at the crosspiece of a smashed out window frame.
For a few seconds, the gunfire relented. Though she could not see what was happening outside, she had a good idea why the barrage had ceased. Rachel and her crew were disembarking from the cigarette boat to bring the battle to her.
On hands and knees, both splintered and bleeding, she crawled across the floor. She almost made it to her goal before the shooting resumed. The air above her head was suddenly filled with the noise of bullets ripping through the walls of Muldoon’s office. Though one of her weapon still held a partial magazine, she knew that a prolonged gunfight was a battle she could not win.
A moment later she reached the shadow of the elegant antique desk. The beautiful, dark wood had already taken several hits, perforating the side panels, but the top was fashioned from a slab of tropical hardwood three inches thick. Mira rolled onto her back, braced her feet underneath the desk, and pushed it forward.
A few shots found the makeshift barrier, but did not penetrate. Mira lay supine for several seconds, searching for some kind of solution, but discovered that the adrenaline coursing through her blood was beginning to make her nauseous, and she knew that the longer she remained inactive, the more her pain and despair would paralyze her.
She took in a deep breath, struggling in vain to hold it, and then repeated the exercise three more times until she was no longer on the verge of hyperventilating. Her heart continued to pound in her chest, the blood roaring in her ears as loud as the gunfire, but she had found her will to succeed.
Rolling once more onto her battered knees, she braced her left shoulder against one of the legs of the desk and pushed it across the floor. The heavy desk scraped along the worn floorboards, crunching through glass splinters, until it ground to a stop near the cabinet where she had secured her possessions before leaving with Muldoon. She snagged her backpack and pulled out the shoulder holster rig, which she laid on the floor beside the bag. Rather than removing anything more from the bag, she crammed in the mesh bag with all its contents.
Mira spun off her knees and rested her back against the table as another heavy torrent of heavy gunfire assaulted her shelter. She didn’t need to look outside to know that at least a couple of her enemies were probably sneaking in close, under the cover of the constant barrage of gunfire. Though the noise of the shooting was deafening, making it impossible to distinguish one gun from another, the intensity of the shooting had diminished to the point where she was almost certain that Turner, with his AK-47, was doing all the work.