The Zodiac bobbed up and down as the men climbed aboard, and one of them turned the key on the outboard. The engine started immediately.
Moore couldn’t disable the engine without being spotted and drawing their point-blank fire, but maybe he could sink the boat before they knew what was happening …
While the Zodiac had a rigid fiberglass hull, it still had synthetic rubber tubes constructed in separate sections, six or more chambers, he estimated. The rubber was actually a plastomer bound to a dense polyester cloth and tougher to damage than plain old rubber, but that didn’t mean Moore wouldn’t try.
He pushed off the piling, submerged again, and swam up beside the Zodiac while the motor was still idling. He took the knife and plunged it into the first compartment. The air hissed loudly and sent a steady rush of bubbles into the river. He swam under the boat as the men reacted and thrust his knife up once more, stabbing another section.
The fifty-horsepower engine throttled up, and Moore dove quickly to avoid being hit by the skeg or shredded by the propeller. As the boat passed overhead, he turned, swam hard for the surface, came up, and drew his pistol, lifting it over the waves and targeting the back tubes of the boat, firing once, twice, before the man at the outboard lifted a pistol and squeezed off two rounds. Moore threw himself back under the water, kicking hard for the dock.
By the time he began pulling himself up onto the dock, Towers was sprinting toward him, carrying all their gear. “What the fuck?” was all he shouted.
“Second Zodiac!” Moore answered.
Towers threw the backpacks and rifles into the boat and climbed aboard. “Keys! No keys!”
The guy Towers had hit still lay on the dock in a pool of blood and clutching his hip. Moore dropped to his knees beside the man. “Keys for the boat?”
The man just looked at him, all teeth and agony.
Moore went through his pockets. Nothing. Back in the house? Should he go check? No time.
Wait. The guy in the water. He looked up. The body was floating facedown. Moore ran to the edge of the dock and dove in, swimming out to the corpse. This guy had probably put the keys in the first outboard. There was nothing to say that he didn’t have the keys to the second one still in his pocket.
Moore reached him, felt the man’s pockets, found the keys, and dug them out. He swam back to the Zodiac and tossed the keys to his partner, who fumbled to get them in the outboard.
“Good to go!” Towers announced.
Moore reached up, and Towers hauled him into the Zodiac. While Towers started the engine, Moore threw off the line. The engine thrummed, and they sped away from the dock as Towers used one hand to tug on his night-vision goggles.
“They’ve got a good lead on us,” Towers said, pointing ahead as they dropped into the first Zodiac’s dissolving wake. “And I got a good look …and that is them! Samad is wearing a gray or tan T-shirt. The other guys are wearing black.”
“I heard him call to his men.” Moore was fighting for breath, trembling badly, the adrenaline overwhelming him as he riffled through his pack and produced the satellite phone. He thumbed it on and scrolled to the call log. There was only one contact saved there: BOOTNECK FIVE.
He hit the button, waited.
“This is Bootneck Five,” came a distinctly British voice.
“Hey, this is River Team,” Moore said. “Our package is on the move. They’re heading north in a Zodiac toward the rendezvous point. We’re in pursuit. We need your intercept at the rendezvous.”
“No problem, River Team. We were hoping for your call. I’ll contact you once we’re in position.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“You’ll thank us all later with a pint, mate.”
“My pleasure.” Moore returned the phone to his backpack, then sat up and readjusted his grip on the Glock, testing out his firing position from his seat. The wind was whipping over them now, and from the shoreline came pinpricks of light that became darker forms as they approached.
“Hey, did you check fuel?” Towers called.
“Shit, no.” Moore leaned down and rapped a knuckle on the plastic gas tank. Hollow. He dove for a small pocket on his backpack and produced a penlight, which he directed on the plastic so he could see the shadow line of fuel. Oh, shit …not good news. And that’s why the first guy had come out to fill the tank.
“You think we’ll make it?” asked Towers.
“Full-throttle. Just keep going.” Moore estimated their speed at nearly thirty knots, all they could bleed out of the little outboard. He reached down and pulled on his own NVGs, the world transformed from layers of gray, dark blue, and black to glowing green and white. He focused his attention ahead, and there, in the distance, he spotted the Zodiac with three ribbons of whitewater fluttering behind.
A gunshot ricocheted off the side of their outboard.
“Get down!” Moore ordered, throwing himself on top of his backpack.
Towers ducked but had to keep his hand on the tiller. Moore tugged off his NVGs and grabbed one of the sniper rifles. Three more pops sounded above the din of outboards, and a hissing came from the front portside of their boat. Moore crawled up toward the bow, propped his elbows on the tubes, and settled down with the rifle. He sighted the back of the Zodiac, but between all the bouncing of their craft and the target, an accurate shot was impossible. If he gambled and the shot went wide and struck Samad in the head …He cursed and turned back to Towers. “I can’t get a bead. Can we get any closer?”
“I’m trying!”
Moore leaned over, set down the rifle, and tugged out his Glock. Samad had probably called ahead to their pilot for an early pickup. The pilot’s cell phone was already being monitored by the NSA, so the second he got that call, Moore’s people would know. A quick check of his smartphone confirmed that. Text message from Slater: Chopper called. He’s en route to the ruins and rendezvous.
But so was a Sea King Mk4 helicopter carrying up to twenty-seven Royal Marines who would fast-rope into the rendezvous point and secure it. However, if Samad spotted that helo, he and his boys could ditch early and make a run for it into the jungle. The fool could get himself killed if he did that.
Moore checked their GPS position on his smartphone, the signal from his shoulder chip being received and routed to the Agency’s satellites and that information being shot back down to him for a position accurate to within three meters. They were about five miles up the river now, with about four miles to go, which translated into less than ten minutes boat time.
They heard the whomping first, followed by the distant flashes of the helo’s lights. No, it wasn’t the Guatemalan pilot but the Royal Marines, coming in loud, as though announced by trumpets, and if Samad didn’t see that bird far ahead, then he had his head under the water. Shit.
Behind Moore, the outboard sputtered, and then he felt it — the bow lowering toward the waves as they slowed, the tube growing softer as more air jetted out.
Samad’s Zodiac was less than fifty meters away. They’d slowed, too, the boat’s pilot distracted by the oncoming helicopter, which, perhaps, confused him. They were expecting a small chopper but were getting a big one. Moore hadn’t considered that.
As the outboard chugged even more loudly, sucking on fumes now, Moore cursed again and looked back at Towers, who said, “Up to the Marines now, I guess, huh? They got orders to take them alive, I hope?”