Lost - Michael Robotham [106]
His face is a pale blankness of shock. A red dot appears in the center of his chest. Even without the spotlight the sniper can still see us. He must have an infrared scope.
Gerry looks at his chest and then at me. He’s about to die.
He rolls and the deck splinters beneath him. Over and over, he tumbles, past the netting and the packages. He disappears off the stern but the splash is muffled by the sound of the engine revving at full throttle. I have visions of him falling directly onto the spinning propeller.
Kirsten is in the wheelhouse, opening the throttle. A mooring rope is still looped through a cleat on the stern. The boat dips and sways, going nowhere. The dual engines are pulling us under. Rolling across the deck, I reach up and uncoil the last loop of rope from the cleat, feeling it whip through my fingers. The boat pitches forward but instead of turning away from the bank we steer toward it, colliding heavily against the stonework.
For fuck’s sake, what’s she doing!
The boat collides with a sunken pylon or another boat, before spinning into open water. There’s nobody at the wheel. Where’s she gone?
The boat is going around in circles. The shooter is waiting to get another clean shot at me.
Half crawling and half dragging myself across the deck toward the wheelhouse, I brace my back against the outside wall. Reaching up, I hook my fingers over the edge of the porthole, pulling myself upward until my eyes reach the glass window.
There’s nobody there. In that same instant a dark stain fills my vision, a spray of blood. My finger disappears along with my wedding ring. It’s a neat, clean amputation by a high-velocity bullet. I slide backward, landing heavily on the deck.
The shooter is somewhere high up on a bridge or a building. Now he’s aiming at the engines or the fuel tanks. The current is turning the rudder and we’re drifting on the tide. Soon we’ll be out of range.
I suck the stump of my missing finger. There’s surprisingly little blood. Where’s Mickey? Was she in the pipe? Is she down below? I can’t leave her behind.
I hear another sound—a different engine. With my back against the wall, I lever myself upward again, peering through the shattered porthole. I can’t see any navigation lights. Instead I make out the silhouette of a boat. There is someone standing on the bow holding a gun.
I can either stay here or take my chances in the river. It takes less than a fraction of a second to decide.
Then I see Kirsten lying under a tarpaulin against the bow. I don’t see her face, just her outline as she tries to stand and falls. She tries again and rolls over the side. I hear the splash followed by the sound of men yelling and bullets hitting the water.
The boat is getting closer. I have one good leg and one leaking. Pushing off the wall, I take two stumbling steps and roll over the railing. The cold comes as a shock. I don’t know why. I’m still wet from before.
Kicking with one good leg and whipping my arms across my body, I swim down into the darkness where I’m going to drown or bleed to death. I’ll let the river decide.
28
Joe is holding on to me. I’m growing accustomed to his face. He lays my arm over his shoulders and braces his body against mine.
“C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”
“I remembered.”
“Yes, you did.”
“What about Mickey?”
“She’s not here. We’ll find her.”
I climb out of the drain and we limp across the parking lot. A pair of teenagers, a boy and a girl, have parked their car away from the light. I wonder what they make of two middle-aged men arm in arm. Are we drunks or lovers? I’m way past caring.
I have remembered. I have waited and hoped for this to happen. I have feared it. What if I shot someone? What if I had Mickey in my arms