“They must have radioed ahead,” Monkey said. The distant silhouettes of the men in the boat became clear enough to see that they were carrying AK-47s.
“Can they catch us?”
“We find out soon enough.” Monkey firewalled the throttle and the big Mercuries howled in response. “Hold on.”
The noise was deafening as the speedboat slammed into the chop. It was obvious Monkey meant it literally when he said hold on. Gideon’s fingers whitened as they clenched the gunwale. Every tiny wave jarred his teeth.
Monkey pointed at the pistol Gideon had taken from him. “You gotta shoot. There’s more clips in the storage compartment under the seat back there.”
Gideon eyed the pistol but didn’t move from the gunwale as Monkey steered toward a small channel on the far side of the island. The boat was getting closer. In his mind, Gideon could feel the Colt’s grip on his fingers, its texture, weight, and heft. He could feel the dance of his hands on the slide, the safety, the magazine release. His father’s favorite pistol was a Kimber 1911, pretty much the same model as this one, and Gideon had shot endless piles of ammo through it.
“Take the gun!” Monkey was sweating, his face a mask of concentration. “I saw how you handled that gun. I know you know how to shoot. Shoot.”
They weren’t going to make it. Gideon could see the intersection of the two arcs. Monkey’s was the more powerful boat, but the jihadis were tracing the interior arc of the circle, and there was nothing Monkey could do to avoid being intercepted.
“Shoot!”
Gideon took a tentative step toward the rear of the boat where the pistol lay. It would be so easy. All he had to do was—
The boat shuddered and slammed into the air. They must have hit something—a submerged log, a sandbar—Gideon wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, the whole boat went airborne for a moment, the Mercuries jumping up in pitch for a moment as they clawed for purchase in the air.
Gideon lost his balance, grabbing for the railing as the boat slammed back into the water. When he looked toward the back of the boat, the Colt was tumbling in a high slow arc through the air. And then it was gone, swallowed by the boiling wake of the speedboat.
Gideon surveyed the deck, looking for something he could use to fend off the attackers. Within seconds a plan was forming in his mind. Grabbing a life ring attached to a yellow nylon rope, he flicked open the Benchmade he’d taken from the Prang and sliced the ring free. Then he grabbed an axe that was duct-taped to the bulkhead, and wrapped two loops around the axe head, securing it with a quick square knot.
“gonÁ€Turn toward them!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at the pursuing speedboat.
“What?” Monkey said.
“We’re not gonna make it. Head straight for them.”
Monkey gripped the wheel, his teeth gritted. For a moment he kept barreling straight toward the inlet. But then, he yanked the wheel in the direction Gideon was pointing.
Suddenly the two boats were heading toward each other at a combined speed that probably exceeded a hundred miles an hour. The eyes of the jihadis went wide with surprise. The distance had closed to only a matter of a few hundred feet by the time the first of them managed to shoulder his AK and start shooting.
“Straight for them!” Gideon shouted. “Straight for them.”
Gideon heard the bullets snapping in the air around him and thudding into the hull.
“Hold steady . . .” Gideon was swinging the axe over his head in a slow circle.
Monkey held his bearing, turning what had moments ago been a chase into a game of high-speed chicken. As the distance closed, Gideon saw it register on the face of the jihadi boat’s pilot. Seeing that a collision was inevitable, he suddenly swerved. The shooters lost their balance and, for a moment, stopped firing.
That was all the time Gideon needed.
When the boats flew past each other, missing by inches, Gideon let the axe fly. It sailed through the air, trailing yellow rope in its wake. The bow of the jihadis’ boat passed under the rope, which caught on the edge of the windscreen. The axe whirled around in a short arc, snapping like a whip and embedding its blade in the driver’s chest.
A heavy thump jarred Monkey’s boat as it caught the weight of the man’s body. The contest between man and boat was no contest at all. With the axe still buried in his ribs, the jihadi was hurled fifteen feet into the air. For a moment he was pulled behind the boat, flailing like a fallen skier caught in a tow rope, before the axe blade tore free from his chest. He sank immediately.
The remaining jihadis scrambled toward the wheel of their driverless boat, but not before the boat slammed onto the little island and flipped. The men pinwheeled in the air before falling in heaps on the sandbar or splashing down into the water. One landed in a small tree and was impaled by the sharp end of a leafless limb. His body convulsed for a brief violent moment, then hung lifeless, like some horrible twisted fruit.
And then Monkey’s boat was around the bend, and the jihadis were gone.
Monkey shook his head, eyes big as shot glasses. “You messed them people up,” he said, his expression a mixture of fear, gratitude, and amazement.
The entire episode had taken less than a minute. Gideon expected to feel some kind of remorse over the horrific deaths he’d caused. And yet he didn’t. He realized, too, that he hadn’t felt any fear, just a sense of total absorption in the moment, of utter commitment to the fight.
Then, when the emotion finally came, he was surprised by what he recognized was an almost giddy sense of well-being, even a kind of elation. Men had tried to kill him, and he had survived by ghtÁ€killing them. Simple as that.
He felt his teeth bare in a brief, feral smile.
My God, Gideon thought. What’s wrong with me?
Gideon's War and Hard Target
He tried to square himself with the man who had just killed...
Gideon turned to Monkey and started to talk, but his mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips and tried again. “How long before we reach my brother?” he asked, his voice cracked and hollow.
Monkey reached inside his shirt and scratched himself nervously. “Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE WIND HAD STIFFENED by the time Kate came up onto the chopper deck. Beneath her hard hat, her hair whipped at her neck. The State Department chopper was struggling to get onto the deck. Pilots who weren’t used to it didn’t like landing on rigs. She didn’t blame them—especially not in this kind of wind. Anything above thirty knots and they shut down chopper landings. It wasn’t thirty knots yet—but the gusts were probably getting close to that.
After a minute of tilting and bouncing, the chopper finally settled onto the deck and its rotors wound down.
Kate moved toward Big Al, who was staring toward the eastern horizon. She knew what he was looking for. If the typhoon changed direction, it would come from the east. The sky was still clear and blue, but a thin dark smudge had appeared threateningly along the horizon.
Big Al turned toward her, covering his concern with an admiring smile. “You clean up nice, chérie.”
“Thanks.”
“While you were getting all pretty, we got a call . . .”
“From?”
“The White House. The president wants Mr. Parker to call him.”
Kate raised an eyebrow, then followed Big Al’s nod toward the idling Sikorsky. A small man with a face that reminded her of a bloodhound was now emerging from the chopper, followed by a Secret Service agent. Behind him was the U.S. ambassador, Randy Stearns, a large, red-faced man wearing a bespoke suit. Stearns was nearly as big as Big Al. He’d played pro football for the Vikings, Kate knew, because on all three occasions that she’d met him, he had made a point of telling her. He was talking to a slim woman with hair that was dyed one shade too blond, whom Kate recognized as his press attaché. Her name was Tina. Or Tara. She couldn’t remember which.