The causeway came up fast and McCracken’s teeth clamped together as the pickup’s tires thumped onto it. The cars followed him down it side by side. Blaine heard the loud blast of a shotgun and started swaying from side to side to make himself a more elusive target. Then the stacatto song of a machine gun found his ears an instant before the back window exploded, showering him with glass. A few ragged splinters found their way into his neck and scalp. He grimaced against the pain and straightened the pickup out, giving it all the gas it would take.
He saw the Sheraton clearly now, along with the large island marina virtually deserted for the winter. And there was something else.
A pair of cars were parked facing each other to block the end of the causeway. Men were positioned behind them, bracing weapons on roofs. A bright light caught McCracken’s eyes and blinded him just before the fire began. He managed to duck low beneath the windshield, but in the process his foot momentarily lost the gas pedal. The tailing cars drew up on top of him and sprayed the cab with automatic fire. The bullets passed just over Blaine’s head as he struggled to hold the wheel steady, his intention being to ram the pickup right through the makeshift barricade.
An extra loud blast assaulted his ears, followed by another similar one, and then the truck wavered out of his grasp.
They had shot out the tires!
Blaine struggled for control, but it was gone. The pickup squealed right, and then suddenly left, crashing over the right side rail just before the causeway’s end.
McCracken braced for impact against the hard sea, but it came too fast for him and then the water was everywhere, drenching him with a black cold, the mouth of a great beast opened to swallow, sucking him down.
Chapter 20
“Anything?” Wells asked the man coordinating the search through the frigid waters.
“No sign of him,” he reported, lowering his binoculars. “No one could have survived that crash. He’s drowned.”
The bright floodlights continued to sweep over the water and nearby shore.
“I want more men and a helicopter,” Wells ordered. “And I want them now.”
“That would attract even more attention than we have already,” the man cautioned.
“I don’t care. I want McCracken.”
“He can’t still be alive. Besides, it’ll be dawn soon and—”
Wells’s hand came out in a blur and locked onto the man’s throat, shutting off his air. He lifted the figure up until his toes scraped against the causeway.
“I believe my orders were clear,” Wells said coolly. “They do not need elaboration or comment. Am I correct?”
Blue-faced, the man nodded.
“Good.” Wells lowered him back to the pavement.
“Now, do it.”
The man scampered away, hunched over.
Wells knew McCracken was out there, still in the water probably. Men like him didn’t die easily. Others had failed in their assignments to eliminate him, and now Wells had failed too. He was not used to failure. If they had let him handle McCracken at the hospital instead of sending Scola, none of this would have been necessary. Now Wells felt the frustration gnawing at him as the floodlights continued to sweep the area around where the truck had crashed over the rail.
McCracken was still out there all right, and Wells meant to find him because now it was more personal than ever. He had destroyed his army career in ’Nam and embarrassed him tonight. There remained forty minutes until dawn’s first light, and he meant to have the bastard dead or in tow by then.
Wells cursed the whole episode under his breath.
Blaine swam slowly. He stayed with the currents and kept below the surface as long as he could between breaths. Every ten yards or so his lungs would thirst for air and he would satisfy them with a quick poke above the surface. A few times he had been caught in the spill of the floodlights and felt the panic swell within him, until he realized he hadn’t been seen.
His plan was to swim out beyond reach of the lights and around the small island where it bent to the left. Then he could make his move toward shore. He had just a little more space to cover, but his strokes had grown stiffer. The cold bay waters were taking their toll. His lungs began craving air every other motion, and he did his best to appease them. His body had ceased its frantic shaking, but he knew this was only temporary. Once he reached the shore and was greeted by wind and temperatures not even half that of the water, hypothermia would be a definite possibility: frostbite, too, if he lived that long. He wondered how long he could move under those circumstances, wondered how effective he would be if Wells and his henchmen caught up with him again.
Not very, Blaine regretted. Still, he stroked.
At last the sweep of the floodlights failed to catch him. He had passed the end of the island and stroked to the left, making for shore in slow, even motions so as not to disturb the currents or risk a splash that might catch someone’s attention. The shoreline of Goat Island was rocky, and his hands were scraped by the jagged rocks as he crawled onto land. A deep repose fell over him. He wanted just to lie there on the shore, to sleep for a brief period before forcing himself on.
No! The peace and sudden warmth were illusions cast by his exhaustion. If he slept now, it would mean death whether Wells caught up with him or not. Even if he kept active, though, the cold would kill him. He could feel it seeping through his flesh, turning his very bones brittle. He had to get a heavy jacket to ward off the chill.
Above him footsteps crunched snow. McCracken kept still and low as a flashlight swept over the general area. It made another pass, then the footsteps started up again. It had to be one of Wells’s sentries, and the man was alone. Blaine crept down the narrow shore toward the flashlight’s beam. As he neared it and made out the shape of its bearer not more than ten yards off, he climbed to the road and charged forward with caution thrown to the cold wind.
The sentry turned much too late and felt Blaine’s fist hammer him before his eyes even had a chance to focus. Seconds later McCracken pulled his arms through the man’s heavy coat. The warmth vanquished his chill almost immediately. The chattering of his teeth slowed, then vanished altogether as he started down the road, leery of more of Wells’s guards appearing in his path.
Blaine tried to increase his pace, but his heart and lungs rebelled. Exhaustion swept over him. He felt cold again. The exertion from the chase and subsequent swim had proven even more a strain than he’d thought. The water on the legs of his fatigues had caked into ice, and he heard it crackling as he moved. Thank God for the coat. …
The Sheraton Islander loomed to his right and made a warm, inviting target. But that would be the first place Wells would expect him to go and there wouldn’t be a chance of his even getting through the front door. His only alternative was to keep walking, playing the role of the guard whose coat he was wearing. There was no one around to question him. He kept his pace measured and gave the impression he was searching for someone. He was buying himself time, and with time came a chance.
He passed the causeway entrance cluttered with troops, his heart lunging against his rib cage. He kept walking through a parking lot into the marina complex where row after row of docks were reserved for summer boaters. None was present to offer him escape.
Except …
It was the yellow cover at the far edge of the docks that grabbed his attention first, and then the ramp angling up the water. He quickened his pace just a bit, eyes sharpening on his target. Almost there now.