Max, stay with her. Jump over the side if you have to.
Hanley hadn't drawn his pistol but his hand was at the ready in his jacket.
What's happening? Tamara asked, her body sensing the tension in her new companions.
You're in danger, Max said. You have to trust us.
But I don't
Max cut her off. There isn't time. Please, trust me.
Juan had made his way to the main stairwell down to the lower decks when he heard screams coming from below. The Argentines were all aboard now, he guessed, and brandishing weapons. He could see a panicked mob, surging for the stairs. There was no way he'd be able to fight his way down through the mess of clamoring people.
He turned instantly and rushed forward. Next to the hot tub was a peaked skylight made up of dozens of pieces of emerald-cut glass set in a wrought-iron frame. He kicked at a few of the panes, shards of glass cascading onto the dinner table below. More shrieks came from startled early diners who hadn't heard the commotion.
Cabrillo jumped through the opening he'd created and hit the table a little off center. It collapsed, tossing him to the floor in an avalanche of food, cutlery, and plates. His momentum knocked a matronly woman back in her chair so her thick legs were pointed at the ceiling. They bicycled comically as she tried to right herself.
Juan got to his feet, stinking of wine and collard greens. His ankle gave a slight twinge. It wasn't sprained, but he'd twisted it in the fall. While some passengers stared, the husband of the woman he'd knocked over started yelling at him. He made to push Cabrillo in the shoulder, but Juan sidestepped his attempt, rotating in place and pushing the man on the back in a maneuver that looked like a matador turning a charging bull.
It happened so fast that the irate husband took two steps before he realized he was past his target. He spun to up the fight's ante but stopped dead when he saw Juan had drawn his pistol. Cabrillo didn't aim it at him, though he made sure the guy got a good look at it and rethought how best to defend his wife's honor. She still hadn't managed to get her legs down or her backside out of the overturned chair.
The glass doors leading into the dining room were suddenly smashed open. Two of the gunmen burst through. Screams erupted when the passengers saw the assault rifles. Cabrillo recognized them as Ruger Mini-14s, among the best civilian rifles made. He didn't have a clear shot because of the people scrambling to get away from the armed intruders. Some dove under tables while others seemed rooted where they stood, ashen and unsure.
The men swept the room, looking for Tamara Wright. They would easily have gotten a picture off the Internet, something Cabrillo had forgotten to do. Juan turned slightly and crouched so they wouldn't get a look at his face.
Everybody line up against the back wall.
Cabrillo recognized the voice of the Argentine Major.
There was a waiter standing next to the kitchen doors. He slowly tried to sneak his way through and escape. The second gunman saw the movement and fired without hesitation. The bullet caught him square in the chest, its speed sending it straight through him and on into the kitchen, where it ricocheted off some piece of equipment.
The passengers' screaming built into a crescendo of noise that filled the dining room. In this fresh surge of panic, Cabrillo made his move. He knew that once the gunman got control of the room he was a dead man, so he launched himself toward the big picture window overlooking the inky river. He took four paces before the Argentines reacted. A string of rounds from the semiautomatic rifles buzzed around him. Glassware and dishes exploded off the tables when they were hit. One round caught a tuxedoed man in the arm. He was so close to Cabrillo that his blood splashed Juan's sleeve.
Several other bullets hit the window, starring the glass and weakening it enough so that when Cabrillo threw himself against it it failed spectacularly. He crashed into the Mississippi in a hail of shards, forcing himself as deep as he could.
The water was pitch-black just inches below the surface. By feel, he swam along the hull as the Natchez Belle continued southward. He could sense the vibration of her props through the river and hear the relentless churning of her decorative stern wheel.
Juan surfaced just under where the hull and deck met, in an area protected from above. The boat was moving at about four knots, and its passage pulled him through the water at nearly the same speed. He jammed his pistol into its holster to free up his hands.
Like on a traditional stern-wheeler, there was a rocker arm protruding over the side of the ship, like the pistons that drive a locomotive's big wheels. On the Belle, it wasn't functional, only an additional element to make her look authentic.
Juan reached out of the water and grabbed one of the support brackets. There was nothing for him to climb higher once his torso was free of the river, however. This part of the ship was a sheer wall. He was partially aboard the ship but trapped along her waterline. The rocker arm lowered him back into the river like a tea bag before drawing him out again. The repetitive motion was nauseating. More shots pierced the night from inside the superstructure. Time was running out, and he knew what he had to do.
Hand over hand, he inched his way slowly aft, until the thirty-foot-diameter wheel loomed over his shoulder and tore at the water next to his waist. Unlike the original vessels where the paddles were made out of wood on a steel framework, the Belle's wheel was all metal.
Juan watched it in the glow of lights shining over the fantail, judging its rotation and the rhythm of the rocker arm, until he was certain.
He lunged for one of the paddles with both hands, managing to get his fingers in position the instant before it sucked him under. The drag against his body threatened to pull his arms out of their sockets, but nothing in the world would make him let go. Just as quickly as he'd been pulled below the surface, he emerged again, streaming water. He was facing away from the ship, so, in the seconds he had, he twisted around so that when he reached the apex of the wheel he was looking at the windows of the Presidential Suite, just below the topside lounge.
Momentum threw him against the glass with more than enough force to shatter it. He landed on a king-sized bed and bounced to his feet. A woman wrapped in a towel was just coming from the bathroom. She screamed at Juan standing there, shaking off glass chips and water.
In moments like these, Juan was usually good for a one-line quip, but he was too stunned by the impact and the wild ride around the stern wheel. He gave the woman a charming smile, and strode from the cabin.
Only ten minutes had passed since he'd dived in the river. Ten minutes in which Max was alone, outgunned three to one. Juan pulled his pistol, racked back the slide to drain it, and blew into the receiver. It was the best he could do, but the Glock was a hardy weapon that had never failed him before.
The hallway outside the woman's cabin was deserted. Orange flicker bulbs meant to look like candles cast bizarre shadows from the wall sconces. It gave the dim hall the feel of a haunted house. Juan's shoes squelched with each footfall, and he was leaving a trail of stinking river water in his wake. A door suddenly opened a crack, and an eye peered out.
Close the door and stay inside, Juan said. The person didn't need to be told twice. Even if he hadn't been armed, Juan's voice demanded compliance.
The screaming had stopped, which in a hostage situation means the gunmen now had complete control and the crowd had become docile. That wasn't a good sign.
Juan found a stairwell, ducked his head around quickly, and then committed himself when it was clear. He eased his way up until he could see the floor of the topmost deck. From this vantage, it looked deserted, so he climbed a little higher. Despite the sultry air, he felt chilled in his sopping clothes.