Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [55]
As Charlie followed Drummond onto the pier, DeSoto spun around, the pistol in his hand ignited by the sunlight.
Instinct sent Charlie sprawling onto the hot, splintery slats.
Drummond remained on his feet. Without flinching, he stepped toward DeSoto.
“You best stop right there.” DeSoto’s salesman façade was history.
Drummond continued walking toward him.
“They’ll be here in less than a minute.” DeSoto gestured to sea. The police cutter was now visible, its siren growing louder.
“Give me the gun, please,” Drummond said.
Taking a measure of the older man, in his beach garb and Crocs, DeSoto scoffed. “I suppose you want my ten-thousand-euro reward too?”
Drummond advanced until only the length of the runabout separated them. “I want to avoid hurting you.”
DeSoto aligned the muzzle with Drummond’s chest. “Stop now,” he said evenly.
Drummond took two quick steps, wound back and threw something, some sort of shimmering white disk, too fast for Charlie to track.
The object struck the real estate man in the hip, then dropped to the deck with a clink.
A clamshell.
Glancing down, DeSoto smirked. “That’s all you got?”
His smirk faded when, with one more step, Drummond launched himself into the air. He effectively flew, feetfirst, at DeSoto.
The real estate agent pulled the trigger. The ear-splitting shot scattered birds from unseen perches all over the island. The bullet struck the shore, several small stones leaping upward.
Drummond’s sole smacked into DeSoto’s elbow, causing him to lose his grip on the gun.
Drummond landed on his side, rolled, and sprang back toward the weapon.
The real estate man rallied, snatching it off the slats. He wheeled around and pressed the nose of the gun against Drummond’s neck.
Drummond balled his left hand into a fist and drilled it into DeSoto’s gut. Staggering backward, the real estate agent fired again.
The bullet sent up a water spout fifty feet away.
Drummond heaved a roundhouse into DeSoto’s jaw. The real estate agent sank to the pier. Grabbing the gun on its way down, Drummond regarded him with remorse.
From her hiding spot behind a bush at the top of the clamshell pathway, the young chambermaid shrieked, distracting Drummond. He didn’t notice DeSoto draw a keychain from his trouser pocket and fling it at the darkest blue patch of bay.
Having anticipated this action, Charlie jumped to his feet, sprinted down the pier, and sprang off a rickety slat in what he meant to be a dive. Cold water slapped his face and chest. His momentum carried him down, to about fifteen feet below the surface, where the pressure made his head feel as if it was about to burst.
The key ring was a veritable strobe light in the colorless depths. He snatched it and launched himself upward, breaking the surface to find DeSoto flat on his back, out cold now, and Drummond ensconced at the runabout’s wheel.
Hauling himself over the opposite gunwale, Charlie tossed Drummond the key.
Turning it in the ignition and adding throttle, Drummond glanced at the police cutter, now close enough that Charlie could make out the two men aboard, until, with a boom, the entire craft was obscured by whitish smoke streaming from its thirty-caliber cannon.
A shell screamed toward the Riva.
The shell—or small-caliber rocket—zoomed wide of the bow, sending up a twenty-foot-high spout of seawater. A second shell hammered the Riva’s stern. Everything not tied or bolted in place slid or tumbled to starboard. Drummond fell from the portside captain’s seat, slamming onto Charlie. It felt as if the runabout would flip over.
In apparent defiance of gravity, Drummond heaved himself against the elevated portside gunwale, righting the boat and catapulting hundreds of gallons of seawater out.
Now maybe he could contend with the islet directly in their path, a mound of sand and rocks not much larger than a porch, but enough to turn the runabout to splinters.
He clocked the wheel. The Riva sashayed past the landmass, slicing