Tucker crawled across Bukolov’s legs and shoved at the side door. It was jammed. Tucker slammed into it with his shoulder a few times until the door popped open. He hurled himself out and landed hard on the roof of the cargo hold. Staying flat, he rolled away from the man climbing to the deck. As he reached the starboard edge of the raised cargo hold, he fell the yard down to the main deck.
He landed on his back, unzipped his jacket, and drew out his MP-5 submachine gun.
Bullets ricocheted across the cargo hold as the man on the far side took potshots at him from across its roof.
Tucker shouted to Kane. “CHARGE SHOOTER!”
He heard the shepherd land on the roof and begin sprinting toward the gunman. Tucker waited two beats—then popped up out of hiding. As planned, the shooter had turned toward the charging dog. Tucker fired twice, striking the guy in the chest and face.
One down . . .
“COME!” he called to Kane.
The shepherd skidded on the snow-slick surface, turned, and ran to him, jumping down beside Tucker.
Now to deal with the man who had shot their bird out of the air. The assailant with the RPG launcher had been atop the aft superstructure. But where was—?
Boots pounded to the deck from the ladder behind Tucker. He swung around. The assailant had his weapon up—but pointed at the helicopter. During the man’s frantic climb down, he must have failed to witness the brief firefight, and now he missed Tucker lying in the shelter of the raised cargo only yards away in the dark.
Small miracle, but he’d take it.
He fired a three-round burst into the man’s chest, sprawling him flat.
Two down . . .
That left Felice and how many others? The police report mentioned three men accompanying her on the boat, but were there more? Did she have other accomplices already on board, mixed with the crew, to expedite this takeover? Regardless, his most pressing question at the moment remained: Where was she?
He poked his head up and took five seconds to get the lay of the land. Their helicopter had crash-landed against the aft superstructure and on top of the rearmost cargo hold. He turned and stared down the length of open deck between him and the main bridge, studying the ship’s wheelhouse and its two flying bridges.
The first order of business was to reach there, try to take control of the ship.
There was only one problem.
Between him and the bridge stretched two hundred yards of open deck. Aside from the other four raised cargo holds and a handful of davit cranes down the ship’s midline, there was no cover.
Which meant they had two problems.
Somewhere aboard this ship was an expert sniper.
Tucker called toward the helicopter, “Nick . . . Doc!”
“Here!” the men called in near unison from inside the craft.
“Think you can make it over to me?”
“Do we have a choice?” Bukolov yelled back.
It seemed to be a rhetorical question. Both men immediately vacated the broken bird at the same time. Nick helped Bukolov, as the doctor was weighted down by the backpack over his shoulders. They ran low and fast together. Nick pushed Bukolov over the roof’s edge to the deck, then jumped down after him.
They both collapsed next to him.
Nick had brought the first-aid kit with him and passed it over. “Looks like you could use this.”
Tucker quickly fished out a winged pressure bandage. Using the pad, he pressed his ear back in place, then wound the strips around his forehead and knotted it off.
“What’s this I overheard about the ship may be blowing up?” Nick asked as he worked.
“Just a possibility. The good news is that it hasn’t happened yet. The bad news is that there’s a highly trained sniper on board, and unless I miss my guess, she’s probably looking for a decent perch to—”
A bullet zinged off the cargo hold beside Tucker’s head.
They all dropped lower.
And there she is . . .
He rolled to face the others, while keeping his head down. “Nick, you stay put with the doctor.”
“Wait! Do you feel that?” Bukolov asked.
Tucker suddenly did: a deep shuddering in the deck. He knew what that meant.
“The engines are picking up speed,” he said. “And we’re turning.”
Tucker had spent the last two days studying a map of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. In his mind’s eye, he overlapped the Macoma’s approximate position, picturing the ship slowly swinging to port. He suddenly knew why the ship was turning.
He yanked out his satellite phone and dialed Harper, who picked up immediately. “She’s here!” he said. “On the Macoma. And she knows she’s been exposed and knows the ship will never make Chicago now that the alarm has been raised. So she’s gone to Plan B and is heading straight for land, to try to run this ship into the ground.”
It also explained why her forces hadn’t overwhelmed Tucker and the others by now. She and her remaining teammates must have turned their attention to the bridge and likely entrenched themselves there to keep anyone from thwarting them.
“If Felice is truly attempting to crash the ship,” Harper said, “that might be good news.”
“Good? How?”
“It means she hasn’t had time to set up any explosives . . . or maybe she doesn’t have any. Either way, I’m vectoring all teams to you now. The State Police and Coast Guard won’t be far behind us. Still no one will reach you for another twenty minutes.”
“We don’t have that much time, Harper.”
“Do what you can to delay her. Cavalry’s coming.”
Tucker disconnected.
“How long until we hit the coastline?” Bukolov asked after eavesdropping on the conversation. He crouched, hugging his body against the cold and snow.
“Twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes at most.”
Tucker needed to get the others somewhere safer. A bit farther up the deck was a thick enclosed hinge for the cargo hold. It was only two feet high, but it offered additional shelter both from the wind and from direct view of the main bridge’s wheelhouse, where Felice was surely perched.
“Follow me, but stay low,” he said and got everyone into that scant bit of cover.
Nick clutched Tucker’s elbow. “I was born and raised in Michigan. If this ship is heading to shore around here, that’ll put them in Grand Traverse Bay, headed straight for Old Mission Point. The rocks there’ll rip the hull to shreds.”
“Must be why she chose that course,” Bukolov said.
Tucker nodded grimly. “Doc, stay here with Kane, prep your dispersal rig, and do your best not to get shot. Felice is holed up there in the forward wheelhouse, with who knows how many others. She intends to make sure this ship stays on course for those rocks. I have to try to get to her before that happens.”