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.
Bukolov joined him in the wheelhouse as he finished. The doctor’s gaze shifted across the dead bodies. “Is that all of them?”
“I think so. Time for you all to get to work. Take Kane and use his nose to sniff out which cargo holds might have been contaminated by Felice’s team.”
From an inner pocket of his jacket, Tucker removed a gauze sponge prescented with the sulfurous discharge from Bukolov’s specimen of LUCA. He held it to the shepherd’s nose.
“TRACK AND FIND.”
He next turned to Nick. “Go with them,” he ordered. “Keep them safe.”
“Will do.”
The three took off, heading belowdecks.
Remaining in the wheelhouse, Tucker crossed quickly to the computerized helm console. He hoped to find some way to turn the Macoma, to stop its collision course with the rocky coastline.
Off in the distance, a light glowed through the snowfall. It had to be Old Mission Point, dead on the bow.
Maybe two miles, probably a little less.
He glanced at their speed on a gauge and calculated swiftly.
Eight minutes to impact.
Tucker studied the helm. Dozen of additional gauges, switches, knobs, and readouts spread across its console—but no wheel.
Instead, he spotted a joystick with a handgrip—beside it, an LED readout marking the ship’s course. He grasped the stick and eased it slightly to the right, while keeping his eyes on the course readout.
“Come on, come on . . .”
The LED digits refused to change. Frustrated, he shoved the stick all the way to the right, but to no effect. The Macoma continued it relentless charge for the coast.
The glow in the distance grew brighter.
What am I doing wrong—?