The Devil's Waters (29 page)

Wally fired once into his gut to slow him. The second round spun him by the shoulder. The third backpedaled the Somali until he tripped and slumped against the rail.

Wally stepped forward to make the kill certain.

The fat pirate fired back.

The Somali’s bullets blew Wally backward and down.

Before the pirate could shoot again, LB swung the Zastava off his back. Without time to aim, he loosed the big gun, nailing the pirate against the rail. The Somali shook like a doll on the end of LB’s burst, then stilled.

The explosions of the Kalashnikov and the big Serb gun echoed across the freighter, driven toward the stern on the head-wind. LB yanked his knife out of the dead pirate and leaped to Wally.

He dragged Wally out of the open, behind cover of the great windlass. Wally kicked to help, a good sign. A ragged tear in the left biceps and a neat hole in the center of his Rhodesian vest were the marks of the AK. Jamie skidded to his knees beside them into the shadows, just in time to duck a blast from a pirate rounding the corner of the starboard companionway. Bullets pinged against the iron anchor chain, chewing off sparks.

Jamie answered fire. The Somali retreated.

With his M4 up and waiting for the pirate to stick out his head again, Jamie muttered, “There’s your fourth pirate. Off taking a piss or something.”

On his back, Wally sputtered, catching his breath. He panted through blown-out cheeks. His legs scrabbled as if on fire.

“Shit…the guy was supposed to be dead.”

LB’s bloodied knife cut into the sleeve of Wally’s camo tunic.

“Sit still.”

He tore the opening wide enough to probe the channel in Wally’s biceps, pushing Wally to a sitting position to get a better look at the entire wound. The Kalashnikov’s round had grooved the inside of the muscle, missing bone and major vessels. It surely stung like hell.

Sucking in his lips, proving LB right, Wally dug a finger into the tear in his web vest, over his sternum. The 7.62 round had pounded a Kevlar armor plate, knocked Wally over, then bounced away. This one should have killed him.

Wally blinked, restoring himself.

“You’re not bleeding too bad. We’ll get that wrapped later. You good?”

Wally worked his left hand. He gritted his teeth and shifted to his knees. The M4 returned to his grasp.

Wally swung his vision around the bow, as if taking in the situation for the first time. He’d been out of it for the last fifteen seconds. “What have we got?”

“Three of the four targets on the bow are down. The fourth one was in the passageway. He got a look at us. Probably heard the AK. He definitely heard me.”

“Yeah. LB, thanks.”

“No fun being rescued, is it?”

“No fun.”

Over the stock of his carbine, Jamie spoke. “I think he went to get his buddies.”

“Ten down,” Wally said. “That leaves six more on the deck. Plus the five inside the bridge.”

LB pivoted the Zastava to the starboard rail, should the pirates try to bracket them.

“What do you want to do?”

Wally checked his watch. “Thirty minutes. Halfway.”

Jamie hoisted his rifle barrel. “Lemme shoot out that damn light.”

LB thought this a good idea. Darkness would restore some of their advantage with the night-vision goggles. Wally pulled down Jamie’s aim.

“Don’t. They can see that light from the bridge.” Wally thumbed his talk button. “Doc. Juggler.”

“Juggler, go.”

“We’ve been spotted.”

“We heard the shots. What happened?”

“I screwed up. Any change inside the bridge?”

“Negative. They didn’t hear it, I reckon. Everybody okay?”

“All good. Listen. Six targets left. They might come your way.”

“That’ll suck. What’s your move?”

“We’re gonna chase them, make our way to you. We’ll keep them off your back, if we can.”

“Roger.”

“If we get stuck, you take the bridge without us.”

“Roger. Don’t get stuck.”

“I hear you. Hold.”

“Holding.”

LB swiped the knife and his palm across his bent thigh, adding more smears to his uniform. He slipped the blade into its sheath around his calf. Wally checked his watch again, calculating. A red glisten seeped onto his wrist, under the watchband, into his glove.

The stench of rust off the anchor chain blended with the tang of so much loose blood. The combination was heady for LB, tempting his nausea. He was relieved when Wally led him and Jamie away from cover under the white light, into the open wind.

They approached the port corridor the same way they’d shot their way to the bow along the starboard rail: Jamie on point, LB in the middle, Wally covering their six.

The claps of gunfire reached Yusuf first, then the sound of sandals flapping on the deck. Next on the wind came the metal clatter of a gun rattling against a running man’s chest.

“It begins,” Suleiman said.

The pirate ran out of the dim corridor, up to Yusuf’s leveled weapon. Suleiman caught the man by the shoulders, as if he might run past.

“Jama, slow down,” Suleiman urged. “What has happened?”

The pirate’s blouse had slid off one shoulder like a woman’s. His rifle hung askew. He’d run for all he was worth. He nodded excitedly at Yusuf and Suleiman, catching his breath, too much to say.

“Jama, tell us.”

The man looked up from his feet. “Soldiers.”

Yusuf stepped away from this news, putting Suleiman between himself and Jama. He turned his back to drink in a last look into the night, the stars above the gulf no different than in the desert. The thin moon rose like a scimitar tonight. There must be a place for peace inside a violent man, or he is too dark and lost and he cannot make violence do his bidding.

Suleiman asked, “How many?”

“I saw only three.”

“Where?”

“On the bow. Ahmad, Beni, and the fat one, they are dead.”

Soldiers. Not omens or ghosts, but men with guns. Suleiman was right.

Yusuf spoke above his cousin. “How did they get on board?”

Jama rattled his head. “I do not know. There was no ship, no plane. Nothing.”

Suleiman adjusted the man’s
khameez
. He straightened the Kalashnikov by its strap. He pushed the gun into Jama’s belly until the pirate’s hands took it.

“You are Darood. These soldiers, they have killed your clansmen. There are only three. Can you fight them?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Go tell the rest what I have said. Surround them and kill them.”

Even with his firm answer, Jama did not turn away on his own. Suleiman spun him to push him back into the corridor.

Jama ran off. Suleiman watched him go. “As you say. These are not regular soldiers.”

“We have to warn Guleed.”

Suleiman gazed up the side of the superstructure. Far on top, the bridge remained without gunfire or lights. “There’s no fighting anywhere else.”

Yusuf moved for the stairs. “I’ll go.”

Suleiman stopped him. “Guleed is always ready. No, cousin. We should stay on deck. We have enough to handle three soldiers, even these. But I know our men. They’ll need to be commanded.”

“Why only three? How did they get on the bow?”

Suleiman did not pause with the questions. He rushed past Yusuf to the stern.

All three lay dead. Each bore the same signs of their killing. A bullet to the body, then two more like fang marks into their hearts.

They found none of the men’s weapons.

Suleiman lagged among the bodies, standing in blood. Yusuf eyed the skiffs trailing behind the freighter in the roar of the wake and propeller. He could shimmy down a rope ladder, awaken an engine, and chance an escape. Only fifty miles to the coast.

He spat into the water. These men had followed Yusuf to this ship, for wealth and Qandala. In the end, it was for Robow and secret machines. For two holes in their hearts.

Somewhere in the ribs of the freighter hid the passenger scientist Iris Cherlina. Was she behind this as well? Had she brought down the soldiers the same way she’d beckoned Yusuf? Did these dead bodies stack at her door? She would do well to stay in hiding.

Yusuf wanted to make a vow. He’d done this in the war when comrades fell, had sworn to fight on. The war became a folly, and he became a pirate. There were no oaths for pirates. Now, with dead clansman at his feet, all he could do for vengeance was hold this ship.

“Come,” he called to Suleiman.

Yusuf turned the corner to the starboard rail. Suleiman caught up with him. Hurrying, both held their Kalashnikovs ready. No guard waited beside the superstructure. Yusuf slowed his approach.

His sandals skidded on the deck. He found no corpse or weapon, only two spent brass cases rolling in the blood pool. Suleiman hastened forward.

Forty meters on, the next pirate lay like the ones on the stern, shorn of his gun, bullets through the heart. Yusuf lent a finger to the cheek of this one. The flesh flexed, still warm. The soldiers were only minutes ahead.

Nearing the bow, another corpse plus the three Jama had reported dead made Suleiman ask, “Three soldiers did this?”

“It seems so.”

“What sort of men can these be?”

Brutal men who could rip a heart when called for. Yusuf was such a man; he’d done it. Suleiman too.

Gunfire erupted from the port side. The crackle of automatic weapons streaked across the base of the forward crane. Jama and what few living pirates he could find had engaged the soldiers.

Yusuf lumbered into the open range of the bow. Under the stark glow of the steaming light, another dead pirate greeted him, slumped at the rail. This one had been shot only through the head; one side of his skull was missing and gruesome. He’d been allowed to keep his weapon, a rocket launcher. Yusuf took it.

Suleiman led him to two more bodies. A fat one lay against the rail, Kalashnikov at his side, finger on the trigger. Perforated by six bullets, he’d died hard. The other, a young one, sprawled on shaded rows of nylon anchor line. Had the soldiers caught him napping?

A tunnel had been ground into the middle of his chest. The white coiled rope beneath him had soaked so much of his blood it seemed a red satin bed.

Yusuf breathed, “
Allah masaamax
.” God forgive us.

The pounding of guns from the port corridor continued. Yusuf gazed down on the drained boy, asking Suleiman’s question of the soldiers. What kind of men are these?

He swung the Kalashnikov over his back. Dodging hawsers, masts, and anchor chains, he reached the corner of the companionway. The gun battle raged ahead. Yusuf pressed himself against the wall, Suleiman behind him. He set down the RPG.

Yusuf leaned around the corner.

Fifty meters down the port rail, three soldiers huddled in the corridor. One faced the stern, firing. Jama’s men poked their Kalashnikovs from behind cover to spray bullets wildly. The soldier in the middle swung his rifle front and rear, shooting little. The one facing backward saw Yusuf.

A flock of bullets ricocheted off the corner just as Yusuf yanked his head out of the way. Paint chips fluttered to the deck, and steel echoes yowled over the dark water.

“Cousin.” Yusuf hefted the RPG. “You first.”

Suleiman edged close to the corner. Yusuf backed off, bracing himself. Raising the rocket grenade to his shoulder, he fixed his eye down the flip-up sight and long tube.

“Now.”