"You know, Vince," said Adam. "You've neglected a few vital details. The car, for instance."
"Getting rid of the car's easy."
"I'm talking about my car." Adam took a step forward, so small it was scarcely noticeable. "An abandoned Volvo at the cemetery…" He took another step toward Shradick. Toward the gun. "It'll raise a lot of questions."
"I can take care of that, too."
"And then there's the matter of Peggy Sue Barnett's boyfriend."
"What?"
"You think she kept her little gold mine a secret?" Another step. "You think he didn't ask where all her drugs, all her cash, was coming from?"
Shradick was poised on the verge of finishing off the whole bloody business, but new doubts had been stirred. His hand wavered, the gun barrel dropping a fraction of an inch.
Adam was still ten feet away, too far to make his move. But he might not get a better chance.
M. J., standing behind Adam, could almost sense the tensing of his muscles, the last coiling up before the spring. Dear God, he's going to do it.
Adam's body would take the first bullet, and probably the second as well. By that time she could be on Shradick. It was a last-chance gamble, one they were almost certain to lose, but the alternative was to go down like sheep in a slaughterhouse.
She leaned forward, poised like a sprinter on the balls of her feet, waiting for Adam's move. Any second now…
The piercing beeps of Shradick's pocket pager suddenly seemed to trap them in an instant's freeze-frame. Pure force of habit made Shradick glance down at the pager looped to his belt. In that split second of inattention, Adam sprang.
He was halfway to Shradick when the first shot exploded. The thud of the bullet into his flesh scarcely slowed his momentum. Before Shradick could even squeeze off a second shot, Adam hurtled against him. Both men toppled to the ground.
M. J. scrambled forward to help, but the men were rolling over and over in a confusing tangle of limbs, grappling for the gun. Another shot went off, this one wild-the bullet whistled past M. J.'s cheek. Adam's hand shot out to grab Shradick's wrist. He managed to grunt out: "Run!" before Shradick, roaring like a bull, flung Adam aside.
M. J. attacked, clawing for the gun, but Shradick had too firm a grip. Enraged, he swung at her, his fist slamming into her jaw. The blow sent her flying. She tumbled across the floor to land in a pile of damp burlap. Through eyes half blinded by pain, she saw Shradick turn and walk over to look at Adam, who now lay motionless.
He's dead , she thought. Dear God, he's dead. Fueled by grief, by rage, she staggered to her feet. Even as blackness gathered before her eyes, she struggled desperately toward the warehouse door, toward the far-off rectangle of daylight.
Just as she reached the doorway, Shradick turned to her, raised his gun, and fired.
The bullet splintered the frame, and fragments of wood stung her cheek. She flung herself through the doorway, into the driving wind.
With Shradick right behind her, a few seconds' head start was all she had. Still dizzy from the blow, she was moving like a drunken woman. The car was parked a few feet ahead. Beyond it stretched the pier, barren of any cover. Running was futile. It would be a single shot, straight into her back.
No escape, she thought. I can't even see straight.
Just as Shradick came tearing out of the warehouse, M. J. ducked around the rear of the car. He fired; the bullet pinged off the rear fender. M. J. scurried alongside the car and yanked the passenger door open. One glance told her the keys weren't in the ignition. No escape in there, either-the car would be a trap.
Shradick was moving in for the kill.
She heard the creak of the planks as he moved along the other side of the car, circling to the rear. Ahead there was only the warehouse, another dead end.
She took a deep breath, pivoted away from the car, and leaped off the pier.
15
The stomach-wrenching plunge hurled her into icy water. She sank in over her head, into a frightening swirl of brine. She floundered to the surface, gasping, her eyes and throat stung by the salt. One breath was all she managed; the zing of a bullet through the water sent her diving once again into the depths.
Frantically she stroked her way under the pier and surfaced again to cling at the foundation post. Windblown waves churned and thrashed against her face. Her hands had already gone numb from cold and fear, but at least her head was now clear. She glanced toward land, saw that the only way to shore would mean a clamber across exposed rocks. In other words, suicide.
She looked up through the gaps in the planks, and she spied Shradick at the other edge of the pier, scanning the water. He knew she wouldn't swim away from the cover of the pier. He also knew the water was frigid. Fifteen minutes, a half hour-eventually she'd die of hypothermia. For him it was a simple waiting game. One she was sure to lose.
Numbness was creeping up her feet. She couldn't bob in this icy bath forever. Neither could she risk climbing those rocks. She had no choice-she had to do the unexpected.
Treading water with her legs, she managed to pull off her jacket. She tied the sleeves together, trapping air in the body, and tossed the jacket away, towards the edge of the pier where Shradick was crouched. Then she dove and began to swim frantically in the other direction, into open water.
The sound of gunshots told her the ruse had worked. Shradick was too busy firing at her jacket to see that she was swimming away from the cover of the pier. She surfaced for another breath, dove, and kept swimming an underwater course parallel to shore, surfacing, diving again. She could hear Shradick still shooting. Sooner or later, though, he'd realize he was aiming at an empty jacket and he'd turn to scan the open water; she had only a few precious seconds to put as much distance as possible between her and the warehouse pier.
She surfaced a fifth time and saw that she'd pulled even with the next pier, where the trawler was moored. She turned toward shore and began to stroke for all she was worth, aiming for the trawler.
The gunshots had ceased. She came up for air and glanced in Shradick's direction. He was pacing the pier now, his gaze scanning an ever-growing perimeter. She ducked under the surface and kicked wildly. When she came up again, the stern of the trawler was only twenty feet away. From the gunwale hung a rusty chain ladder- she could pull herself aboard! With escape so near at hand, she began to swim with abandon across the surface, drawing closer and closer to the trawler. Finally she reached up; her fingers closed around the first steel rung.
A gunshot rang out, ricocheted off the trawler's hull. He had spotted her!
Soaked, exhausted, she could barely pull herself up onto the next rung. So little time-already, Shradick was dashing back up the warehouse pier, toward shore. Another few seconds and he'd be on the next pier, cutting off her escape. She reached for the next rung, and the next. Water streamed off her clothes. The wind kept banging the ladder against the hull, bruising her fingers. She grabbed the edge of the gunwale and hauled herself up and over.
She tumbled, gasping, onto the deck. No time, no time! She struggled to her feet and dashed to the starboard side, ready to leap off onto the pier.
Too late. Shradick was already running along the shore. He'd reach the head of the pier before she could. Her escape route was cut off.
She scrambled to the ship's pilot house, yanked at the door. It was locked. What now? Back in the water?
She ran back to the stern and gazed down at the roiling waves, preparing herself for another dive. But she knew she didn't have the strength to swim any longer. Her whole body was shaking from the cold. Another ten minutes in the sea would finish her.
She looked toward shore: Shradick was on the pier now, and coming her way.
Her gaze shifted back to the stern, and two words stenciled in red on a deck locker caught her eye: Emergency Supplies.