Clark recognized the American who’d called himself Joe. Along with the South African he had come aboard Clark’s Irwin the other day to threaten him. Now Joe had a cup of coffee in his hand, and he was moving carefully so he would not spill it.
He was all the way up the stairs in front of Clark before he looked up and saw him.
Clark spoke softly. “Put the coffee on the table. Raise your hands.”
The man did as he was told, but he raised his hands only to chest level. “What do you want?”
Clark smiled a little. “How about we start with my pistol?”
The American looked down to the waistband of his board shorts and saw what Clark was referring to. The grip of the big SIG Sauer handgun he’d taken from the sinking boat the night he left the man in front of him there to die jutted out of his pants.
There was no way the man who called himself Joe could deny he’d been on board when the man was attacked, and that meant, to the American mercenary, anyway, that he was going to have to make a play for the pistol.
“Look, sir,” the American said, playing for time, hoping to find an opening.
Clark said, “You going to tell me you were out for a swim when two pounds of steel floated by?”
“No, sir.” Clark could tell the man was thinking about a move.
Clark said, “If you give me the gun, and you tell me where the Walkers are, without raising your voice, I will let you live.”
The man said nothing.
“Or don’t. You can guess what happens then.”
The American seemed to relax a little. Clark saw him glance back down at the full cup of coffee on his right. “You won’t shoot. It will make too much noise.”
“I’ll shoot. Then I’ll hang out up here with my gun on the companionway, drop the next asshole that comes through.”
The American shook his head. Still weighing the situation. “They’ll kill the hostages.”
“No,” Clark replied calmly. “Only an idiot would do that, give up their one bargaining chip, knowing a killer is waiting up here with a tactical advantage. They might be that stupid, but I’m going to guess that you are the idiot on this crew.”
“What makes you say that?” Before he finished speaking the man’s right hand went for the coffee mug, he got his hand on it, and started to fling it up toward the man by the helm.
Clark shot the man in the forehead. His head snapped back and he dropped to the floor of the cockpit.
“The first guy to die usually is.”
The sixty-seven-year-old man moved quickly now, rushing to the dead man on his back, pulling the SIG from his waistband and the radio from his front pocket. He then returned to the helm and began to flip switches, powering the navigation aids, starting the engine.
A second man appeared at the companionway stairs. Clark shot him dead before he could even focus on the situation.
He heard shouting from the hill now, and then over the radio a man with a Hispanic accent called for a status report.
Clark crouched behind the helm, pointed his gun at the entrance down to the saloon, and keyed the radio.
“I want to see guns tossed up out of the saloon. A lot of guns. Then I want you up here one at a time, hands high. I have a feeling you boys are working for a paycheck. Trust me, now that I’m on your boat, you aren’t getting paid enough for this shit, so I’m going to let you quit.”
He doubted he’d get the response he wanted, but he waited for a moment. Then he heard a woman scream.
Braam and Martina Jaeger stood at the Beef Island/Tortola heliport, watching the pilot of the Robinson helicopter conduct his preflight walk-around of his aircraft. The Dutch brother and sister yawned and stretched their arms; it had been a long flight in the rented Falcon from Amsterdam.
Braam’s mobile began ringing. “Hello?”
“It’s Popov! Listen carefully! The boat is under attack!”
“Where?”
“I’ll send coordinates to your phone. The crew is under fire. They have control of the hostages but haven’t been able to remove the threat. Get there and fix it.”
Braam hung up the phone and took Martina a few feet away from the pilot. Seconds later, both came back to him.
Martina asked, “Where can we get parachutes?”
The pilot seemed surprised by the question, but he said, “There’s a skydiving club here. Their shack is over by the terminal, but it won’t be open today till eight.”
Martina turned and headed for the terminal.
Five minutes later she returned with two packed chutes. The pilot said, “What the hell? Did you steal them?”
Braam produced a Steyr handgun from inside his luggage. He leveled it at the pilot. “Take us here.” He held up his phone with his other hand, showing a spot on a digital map next to Salt Island.
John Clark watched the head of Kate Walker appear up the companionway stairs. Just as he expected, there was a pistol jammed against her throat. Behind her, Clark recognized the South African, struggling to keep as much of himself hidden as possible.
When they were at the top of the stairs, the mercenary said, “Drop your fucking gun or I’ll shoot this bitch.”
Clark rose up behind the helm and took careful aim.
“No you won’t,” he replied.
“The hell I won’t, man. I’ll shoot her!”
Tears rolled down Kate’s face. Clark saw this and said, “Ms. Walker, don’t worry. He’s not going to shoot you. He’s going to get himself in what he thinks is a better position, then he’s going to turn the pistol on me and use you as a shield. When he moves the barrel of the gun off of you… I’ll take him, and this will all be over.”
The South African said, “You’re fucking crazy, man! I’ve got three more men who aren’t going to let you out of here.”
Clark said, “They can’t wait for you to die so they can get away from this fucked-up mission. C’mon, asshole. Go ahead. Turn your gun on me.”
Clark wasn’t focusing on the man’s eyes, he was just looking at the front sight of his weapon, making sure it was centered on the little piece of forehead he could target to the right of Kate Walker. But he knew what he’d have seen in the man’s eyes. Panic, indecision, and then… slowly… determination.
The barrel of the man’s pistol shot out toward Clark. Clark fired a single round, and the man lurched back, tumbling backward down the companionway.
Kate Walker collapsed.
Seconds later, pistols began flying up out of the saloon and dropping on the deck at Clark’s feet.
Five minutes later the two surviving mercenaries on the boat had tossed the bodies of their three mates overboard, raised the anchor, and then themselves leapt off over the gunwale into the bay. Clark turned the boat around expertly and pushed the throttle forward, moving the powerful engines up to full power, and leaving the three mercenaries behind on the deserted island.
Kate went downstairs to untie Noah, and Clark called Adara Sherman to let her know he’d be at the marina in Tortola in just over an hour. He then called Gerry and gave him the news. Gerry told Clark the other operatives were on their way back from Belgium on a U.S. government Learjet, after capturing a terrorist tied to Russian intelligence.
Clark said, “And I thought I was the one having all the fun.”
Gerry laughed and hung up.
Soon Kate was back on deck with Clark. “Noah will be up in a minute, but first I have questions.”
“I can imagine.”
“What do I call you?”
“Call me John.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of your husband.”
“My husband doesn’t have friends like you.” She said it flatly. A challenge to Clark.
He did not disagree with her. Instead, he said, “It’s not too late to change that. He’s been dealing with some dangerous people, but the people who took you did so because he wanted nothing to do with them. He can help us out now that you are safe, and he has promised to do so. I just have to get you out of here, then we just have to get Terry away from his captors.”