Sandor did not wait for a response. He lowered himself down the metal steps, facing forward, one hand on the rail the other holding the automatic. He moved as quietly as he could, but as soon as he came into view from below, one of the ship’s mates spotted him.
Jordan could not afford to hesitate. He fired, hitting the man in the shoulder, then leaped to the deck and dove for cover behind one of the huge diesel engines that powered the ship.
He heard men shouting and then the sound of feet scuffling on the other side of the room, but no answering gunfire came. He rigged the C-4 he had already removed from his leg with the detonator fuse and secured it against one of the engines.
Judging from the first charge, he would have less than sixty second to get clear. He looked towards the metal steps, listening to the movement of the others as they pulled the mate to safety.
Jordan started the fuse and bolted, firing his pistol behind him, under his left arm, as he moved to the metal stairs. He was half way up when a series of gunshots followed, one of which caught him in the right calf just as he made it to the top. He clung there for a moment, almost falling backward, then sprung upwards, collapsing beside a startled Christine.
“You’ve been shot,” she said as he slammed the metal door behind them.
“Again,” he said, trying to force a smile that didn’t work. He struggled to his feet. “That charge is about to blow.” He dropped the clip in his automatic to the floor and inserted the final replacement. “Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and leading her back toward the set of steps to the main deck.
The second explosion was more powerful than the first, the C-4 positioned as it was beside the engine, sending a violent shudder thundering throughout the yacht. Jordan and Christine held on as the boat shook, then ran to the corner of the passageway where they came face to face with two more men.
Both men had their guns drawn. Sandor responded by shoving Christine back and diving atop her, the two of them tumbling behind the corner of the bulkhead as the guards opened fire. Jordan grabbed the Uzi from Christine, scrambled to his hands and knees, and then, pointing the weapon around the turn, answered their fire.
In the small area, Traiman’s men had no chance, falling under a barrage of rapid and ricocheting shots as Jordan emptied the submachine gun at them. He got to his feet and, holding Nelson’s automatic at the ready, made sure they were finished.
One of them was the tall Arab, Zayn.
“We owed him that one,” Jordan said. “For Andrioli.”
He leaned over and picked up the man’s MP5.
“Come on,” he called out to Christine, and they hurried to the main deck.
Traiman was still in the wheelhouse. He ordered the captain to go full throttle, but the explosion in the engine room had slowed the boat to a few knots.
“Engine’s shot,” the captain told him after speaking to his engineer on the intercom.
Traiman got a call on his radio from Dombroski. “Nelson’s dead,” he reported.
“Damnit,” Traiman said through clenched teeth. “Sandor.” He knew it was getting close to the time when he would have to exercise his emergency escape plan.
“Prepare for seaside,” Traiman said.
“Copy that,” Dombroski said.
Jordan led Christine to the port deck. They were squatting below the steps to the pilot house. “I want to get Koppel out of here,” he whispered.
Just beyond the main cabin structure, they could still hear gunfire on the starboard side.
“Where is he?”
“They said something about the dining salon. Come on.”
He moved swiftly along the deck. As he threw each door open he was ready with the SMG. They finally found Koppel in the main dining room, hiding in a corner, beside a large breakfront.
“Come on,” Jordan said. “You two are going for a swim.”
Koppel responded with a stunned look. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Move it,” Jordan growled at him. “I’m the good guy, so let’s go. Now.”
Koppel stood up, more dazed than afraid, and came to the door.
“Drop over the side here,” Jordan told them. “Push as far out to sea as you can, away from the ship, and just tread water.”
“What am I, Johnny Weissmuller?” Koppel demanded. “I’ll drown in thirty seconds.”
“You’ll get shot for sure if you stay here. Look, this boat’s still moving, it’ll go by you pretty quickly. Then the cruiser to the rear should spot you.”
“Should?” Koppel asked.
“Just do it.”
“And if they don’t see us?”
“Keep your head down as much as you can until this boat is gone, then swim for the lights on shore. And whatever you do, stay together.”
“What about you?” Christine asked.
Jordan looked down at the large stain of blood on his shirt and gingerly touched his leg. “I’m okay. I’ve got some unfinished business here. Then it’s man overboard for me too.” He checked the magazine in the weapon he had taken from Zayn. There were several rounds left.
They were kneeling beside the main bulkhead. He pulled out the rubberized, waterproof chart cover that held Traiman’s file. He turned Christine around, tucked it inside the waistband of her slacks at the small of her back, and pulled her blouse over it. “This is important.”
“I know,” she said, leaning towards him. “You’re going after Traiman.”
Jordan looked beyond her, down the length of deck. “Go on,” he told her. “Don’t make me push you overboard.”
“Be careful,” she said.
“Careful?” Koppel asked. “Believe me, this is so beyond careful—” The rest of his statement was lost in the sound of gunfire coming again from the stern.
Jordan kissed Christine on the forehead and said, “Go.” He watched as she and Koppel climbed under the rail and slipped, feet first, into the dark Mediterranean.
SIXTY-THREE
Once Christine and Koppel were in the water, Jordan stole up the stairway in a crouch, staying so low he was practically crawling. The ache in his side was not as bad as the debilitating pain in his leg. He pushed himself, knowing there was only one more thing left for him to do. He nearly tumbled as he quickened his pace, but steadied himself with the heel of his left hand, the H&K SMG securely in his right.
If Traiman was still on board, Sandor knew he would be on the bridge. It was his old partner’s style. Always in control.
As he came to the top of the companionway, he realized he had already gone too far. His head was in view of the glass wheelhouse. He froze, but it was too late. The captain spotted him and pointed. As Sandor pulled back, he caught a glimpse of Traiman.
Traiman responded with a rapid fire explosion from a MAC 10 automatic that shattered the glass and sent it in a spray across the foredeck and into the sea.
Jordan held his position, just beneath the sight line of the bridge. He extended his arm, peered up swiftly, then squeezed off two rounds. His shots were answered by another burst from Traiman’s gun.
“Get to the wheelhouse. Port side,” Traiman hollered at his men into the radio.
Sandor acted quickly, diving across the fiberglass foredeck, firing up at the pilot house, striking the captain, whom Traiman was now using as a human shield. As the captain slumped, Jordan ignored the blast from Traiman’s gun, knowing this might be his best and last chance. He came up shooting, catching Traiman in the shoulder and side of the neck, sending him reeling backward against the wall on the starboard side of the pilot house.
Jordan, on his feet again, moved cautiously forward. Traiman was barely standing, leaning against the control panel, his submachine gun now lying nearby on the deck. Sandor moved slowly inside, checking behind him, and kicked the door shut.