Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [121]
The simple lock yielded to a brief attack. There was enough ambient noise to cover his movements. Though the door was now unlocked, he did not yet open it. He knew from listening to the radio there were many more people on board than he had originally anticipated—Lowe had been deceived—and he realized he had fallen into a trap. The boat was heading for the Narrows and no doubt the Atlantic Ocean beyond. How unfortunate.
Unfortunate, that is, for the survival chances of those on board.
Again he listened to the chatter, building an ever-clearer picture of the situation on the vessel. No clue as to Constance’s whereabouts was offered. One person, clearly the man in charge, spoke in a mixture of German and English from a location with loud background noise—perhaps the engine room. The others were scattered about the yacht, all in place, all awaiting orders. He did not hear Esterhazy’s voice.
From what he could gather, however, there was no one in the main saloon. With exquisite care he cracked open the door and peered into the dim but elegant space, paneled in mahogany, with white leather banquettes, a granite-topped bar, and plush carpeting barely visible in the ambient light. He looked around quickly, making sure it was empty.
He heard running footsteps in the companionway and a burst of radio chatter. Several men were on their way aft and would reach the saloon momentarily.
Quickly, he backed out of the door again, easing it shut. He crouched again in the darkness of the door-well, ear to the fiberglass panel. The footsteps entered the saloon from the front. From the whispered radio chatter, he learned there were two of them. They were on their way to check on Viktor, last seen on the aft deck, who hadn’t responded to his radio since launching the burning tender.
Excellent.
He eased himself around the corner from the door and pressed himself against the aft wall, concealed from above by the overhang. All was once again quiet in the saloon. The two men were waiting and listening as well, evidently spooked.
Moving with exquisite care, Pendergast reached an access ladder that ran to the upper aft deck; grasped a rung and slid himself up; and then, reaching out with one leg, transferred himself from the ladder to a small roof area above the saloon, still hidden from view of the sky deck by a large cowl vent.
Stretching out on the polished fiberglass, Pendergast leaned down over the overhang and—with one arm extended—lightly brushed the barrel of his gun on the door. It made a faint noise, no doubt magnified inside the saloon.
No response. Now the two men inside would be even more agitated. They couldn’t be sure if the sound was random or not; whether someone was outside the door. That uncertainty would, for the time being, keep them in place.
Sliding back up on the roof above the saloon, keeping hidden behind the vent, Pendergast pressed the barrel of his Les Baer against the fiberglass roof and pulled the trigger. A massive explosion sounded in the saloon below as the .45 ACP Black Talon expansion round ripped a hole in the roof, no doubt filling the saloon air with fiberglass and resin dust. Instantly he skipped off the roof and slid back to the door-well as the two panicked men opened fire through the roof with their machine pistols, riddling the area where he had just been and thereby revealing their location within the saloon. One of them did the expected and came charging out the door, firing as he went; Pendergast, positioned behind the door, kicked him hard across the shins as he emerged and then struck him a simultaneous blow to the neck; the man’s momentum sent him sprawling facedown on deck, unconscious.
“Hammar!” came the shout from within the saloon.
Without slowing, the agent charged in through the now-open door. The second man turned and let loose a burst, but Pendergast had anticipated this, throwing himself to the carpeted floor, rolling, and firing a single