Justin aimed his pistol and fired a single shot. The bullet hit the man in the left thigh. He fell back for a second, but managed to stay on his feet. His submachine gun sprayed bullets, but they were off target. Justin slipped to the front of the truck, then raised his pistol again. This time the bullet found the man’s chest. The submachine gun flew out of his hands and fell next to his dead body on the road.
Only now Justin noticed the screams and the glares of bystanders. People got out of their stopped cars and stood on their balconies. A few were pointing at him. Others were looking to the left.
Justin stared in that direction. His eyes caught a glimpse of a red Vespa turning into a back alley. Now she really wants to get away. He tucked his pistol back into his shoulder holster and broke into a sprint.
Having no illusions he could keep up with the scooter, he cut through the nearest alley. He ran hard and fast, almost crashing a few times into pedestrians or vehicles. As he came to the other side of the building, the Vespa was nowhere in sight.
He took a moment to pause and think. Johnson had turned left, heading toward the marina. Her boat. Is she going there? Or is she tricking me? He had to make a fast decision. After drawing him into a trap, he decided Johnson was not returning to her yacht. But she was headed toward the marina.
Justin remembered the layout of that part of the city. The marina stretched for a few city blocks and Ribera Road ran parallel to the shore. She’s going for another yacht. Maybe a more powerful one. He remembered seeing a few one hundred-foot yachts anchored near the marina entrance. Yes, that must be her plan.
He began to run toward the marina. As he came to Ribera Road, he heard loud shouting coming from one of the marina piers. A woman’s voice was giving orders to a couple of men on a large yacht. She was threatening them with a pistol.
It was Johnson.
Justin hastened his pace, his feet hardly touching the ground.
Johnson turned her head around. She noticed him. A gunshot rang out. The front glass of a store in front of him exploded in a hail of sharp slivers. Justin fell behind a parked car. Two bullets banged against a wall, feet away from him.
Justin moved forward using parked cars as his cover. He glanced through the glass of one of them. The yacht was still there with the two men on board. Johnson was not on the pier.
“Where did she go? Where did she go?” Justin shouted at the men.
“She took the jet ski,” replied one of them.
He pointed to the right side of the yacht. The whine of a jet ski engine and the water spuming arch showed Justin his target’s location. Johnson had an advantage of about fifty yards.
Another jet ski was on a carrier tied to the pier.
“The keys,” Justin asked the men, “of that jet ski.”
One of them handed them over. Justin jumped on the carrier and pushed the jet ski into the water. He slipped the key in, punched the green start button, and pulled the throttle lever. The jet ski — a newer model Yamaha — jumped into action. Water spurted out of the back. Justin began to ride the waves.
His jet ski picked up speed, and the warm waters sprayed his face. Justin gripped the handles, his legs tight around the seat. He cranked up the engine, cutting through the gentle waves.
Johnson zipped over the surface of the water. She turned right, heading for a large catamaran sailing about a mile away from the shore. Justin fingered the throttle. The jet ski leaped forward, and Justin bounced on his seat.
Johnson must have noticed him trailing behind her. She slowed down and raised her right arm. Justin instinctively ducked on the jet ski, then made a sharp left turn. He clung to the handles as the jet ski almost tipped over.
If Johnson had fired a shot, she missed. Justin twisted on his seat, then pulled the throttle. The jet ski responded by climbing out of the whirlpool around him. He stared ahead.
Johnson was still waiting for him. Her right arm moved, but Justin did not feel the bite of the bullet. He leaned to the left, putting the jet ski between him and Johnson and eased on the throttle.
The water splashed his face and blinded him. He cleared his eyes with his left sleeve, which was also soaked.
Johnson was on the move.
Justin followed the line of foam trailing behind her jet ski. He steered clear of the waves formed by her, carving instead his own course, about six feet away from hers. His jet ski was leaping and bouncing as he kept his finger pressed on the throttle.
Johnson was almost at the large catamaran flying the Spanish flag. Justin kept his steady path, hoping to catch up to Johnson before she boarded the vessel and took hostages.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he shouted.
His finger hurt, the shape of the throttle lever cutting into his skin. The jet ski was going at its top speed, sixty miles per hour. His feet were planted hard on the jet ski’s rubber footwells, but the water had turned them slippery. He struggled to keep from falling off.
The rumble of Johnson’s jet ski died down. She was docking near the catamaran. A man appeared on the deck. Johnson was waving her arms, then pointed toward Justin. The man seemed to nod, then disappeared. A moment later, he tossed her a life ring. Johnson grabbed it, and the man began to pull her and the jet ski.
“No, no, no,” Justin shouted.
He was not sure if the man could hear him over the roar of his machine.
Johnson began to climb the ladder near the catamaran’s stern. As soon as she was on board, she turned toward Justin. She raised both arms in a shooting position. Justin eased his finger on the throttle and turned the handle just an inch. He plunged forward as the jet ski lost speed and responded to his command.
The first bullet struck the right side of the jet ski. Justin went for his pistol. Johnson recalibrated her aim and fired another shot. This one missed. Justin fired a quick burst. Johnson dove down. Justin waited for her to pop up, sweeping the entire side of the catamaran with his gun.
She stood up close to the bow. Justin fired a hurried shot and missed. Johnson fell back.
He gunned the engine and reached the catamaran. He put his left foot on the jet ski’s handles and leaped high. As he landed near the stern, a bullet bored a hole in a large cooler behind him, inches away from his shoulder.
Justin scurried for cover behind the cooler. He checked his gun. Locked and loaded. His shoulder was scrapped, probably by a sliver from the gunfire.
He crawled around the cooler and a few boxes, making his way to the other side of the catamaran.
“Justin,” he heard Johnson’s voice. “You relentless bastard. You never stop, do you?”
A gunshot punctuated her words. It came from the bridge deck cabin.
Justin moved closer to the cabin. He looked through one of the windows but could not see her. Her voice put her a few steps away on the port side. She must have just stepped out of the cabin.
“Justin, I know you can hear me, you coward.”
He resisted the urge to respond and give away his position. Instead, he stood up and took another quick peek through the window. He saw Johnson moving slowly on the walkway between the hull and the bridge deck cabin.
He waited until Johnson took another step. Her head came in full view of the window glass. She crossed through the doorway inside the galley and crouched low beside the stove.
“Drop the gun,” Justin shouted.
Johnson turned her head toward his voice and fired a quick shot. She missed. The bullet shattered the window. A sliver sliced through Justin’s left cheek, missing his eye by an inch. Blood gushed out of the wound.