Lost - Michael Robotham [105]
Breaking free, I vomit water and phlegm, making room for that first breath. A floodlight is blinding me. Something hard hooks my belt from behind and hauls me upward, dragging me onto a wooden deck. My lungs are heaving in their cage like bloated battery hens. Strong hands pump my stomach. Someone leans over me and wipes my chin and neck. It’s Kirsten Fitzroy!
I loll back against her arm. She strokes my head, pushing wet hair across my forehead.
“Jesus, you’re a crazy bastard!” she mutters, wiping my mouth again.
My stomach is still contracting and I can’t speak.
The boat engine is idling in neutral. I can smell the fumes and see a dull light shining in the cockpit. Taking ragged, greedy gulps of air I turn my head and recognize Ray Murphy kneeling next to me, dressed all in black. “We should have let him drown,” he says.
“Nobody is supposed to get hurt,” replies Kirsten.
They argue with each other but Kirsten refuses to listen.
“Where’s Mickey?” I whisper.
“Sshhh, just relax,” she says.
“Is she OK?”
“Don’t tell him a fucking thing!” threatens Murphy.
A tiny red dot is dancing on his forehead as though bouncing over the lyrics of a song. A fraction of a second later he makes a noise like a popped water balloon and half his head disappears in a spray of fine red mist and shattered bone. One eye, one cheek, half a jaw are suddenly erased from his face.
The sound of the bullet comes a heartbeat later. Zip!
Kirsten screams. Her eyes are as wide as a child’s. Blood has splattered her cheeks.
Murphy’s body is lying across me with his head on my chest. I roll him off me, kicking my legs to get away, sliding on the wet and bloody deck.
Kirsten still hasn’t moved, immobilized by the shock. I turn and crawl back toward her.
A bullet enters my thigh. It’s only a small hole, no bigger than my little finger, but as it exits it vaporizes skin, muscle and flesh, leaving a wound the size of a pie tin. Part of me is impressed. It’s like watching a building getting blown up or a car crash.
Another bullet passes close to my ear and hits the deck near my right knee. Whoever is shooting is above us. I roll sideways, sliding through blood, until I reach Kirsten and pull her below the level of the wooden railings.
A section of the polished wood above our heads disintegrates and a splinter slices into her neck. She screams again.
Unbuckling my belt I lever myself upward and pull it around my upper thigh. I hold one end of the belt between my teeth and pull it tightly, trying to stem the flow of blood. I tie it off with sticky fingers.
Beside me, Ray Murphy flinches as a bullet tears through his thigh and enters the deck beneath him. On the far side, almost touching his leg, is a fisherman’s net on a long pole. Lodged within the mesh are four plastic packages. The ransom.
Someone is in the wheelhouse trying desperately to engage the throttle but the mooring rope is still looped through a large silver cleat on the stern. Reaching under my armpit I feel for the Glock and pull it out of the holster. I look at Kirsten. She’s deep in shock but listening.
“We can’t stay here! You have to get to the wheelhouse. Quickly! Now!”
Kirsten nods.
I push her across the deck, watching her slip and slide through the blood. At the same time I spin around and aim the Glock blindly into the night sky. Nothing happens when I pull the trigger.
Kirsten’s body spins and she clutches her side. A fraction of a second later I hear the bullet. Blood flows over her fingers but she keeps moving.
The choice of two targets has distracted the shooter but I have to do something about the floodlight. It’s made of brass and chrome and fixed to a pillar in the center of the deck.
I spin the Glock until I’m holding it like a hammer. Using Ray Murphy’s body as a shield, I slide across the deck until I’m beneath the light. Reaching up I smash the glass. The bulb flares and dies.
A shadow passes in