66 Metres (35 page)

Ben shouted over the engine whine. ‘Listen, I don't care how good you think you are, the sea's a rollercoaster with attitude today, and you want to hit a moving target who can duck out of your way. I'm not willing to stake all our lives on you being a crack-shot with that sorry excuse for a pistol.'

Lazarus saw his point. ‘You have a better idea?'

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Shoot one of the engines at the back of his boat. There's a reasonable chance it'll explode.'

Lazarus was impressed. Ben was professional, and thought tactically. But Lazarus had other things to concentrate on now. He'd only get one shot.

As he lay back, he suddenly felt Sasha's presence next to him. It was all he needed. The pain came again, a food mixer gone berserk, chopping away inside his belly, but he no longer fucking cared. He spat out a gob of blood. Ben saw it this time. He looked concerned.

Lazarus ignored him and focused. He pulled out the pistol from his jacket, and straightened his arm.

Steady as a rock.

***

Nudging the boat into gear, Adamson faced off the other boat, the rifle on top of the console, the pistol in his shoulder holster. He leaned over the side, but could see nothing, just the sea. He studied the three men in the boat opposite. They all faced him, stared back in his direction, waiting for him to falter, for his concentration to lapse.
Not going to happen
. They'd be thinking two things: how to overpower him, and whether he'd kill them in cold blood if they couldn't. They were young, inexperienced, so they'd be focusing their mental energies on the former when they should be contemplating the latter. Not that it mattered. He wasn't going to kill them. The SEALs were. For another cool million. He'd already played out that scene in his head. And then he was going to kill the SEALs. When he'd told Bud he wanted it clean, he'd meant it. Only one man was going to walk away from this.

Adamson scrutinised the three young men in the boat opposite. Something wasn't right. All three of them were watching him. They didn't seem interested in talking to him, which was fine. He had nothing to say to them. But normally people in this kind of situation were keen to negotiate, to reassure themselves that they were going to be okay. It was as if these three knew something else was going to happen. But he couldn't see what. Two divers down, soon running short of air, and two armed SEALs gone to intercept them. The boats were separated by ten metres, so even if they had diving knives, he was out of throwing range, especially with both boats pitching up and down.

In order to be sure, he began to circle the other boat. Nothing. No, wait, something… bubbles… divers under the boat. The SEALs had rebreathers, which produced almost no bubbles, so not them. Nadia and her buddy? Would they come up without the Rose? The SEALs had a tracker for the device, one that would work underwater within fifty metres, so if Nadia had it, they'd find her.

He reasoned it out. The spread of bubbles was small, only one stream. A single diver on air, without the Rose, because the SEALs had a tracker. He hoped it was Nadia. The little cunt had shoved a gun up his ass, and he was looking forward to shooting her, Russian style, splattering her face. She'd sink to the bottom where the fish would chew the remaining gouged flesh off her sorry skull.

The more he thought about it, he was sure it was her underneath the boat, a mouse afraid to come out of her hole. He'd kill her on sight, as soon as she broke surface. A jumped-up little punk, Russian street-trash. Professionals respected each other. She was just a brat, and had brought others into play who were going to die on her account. That was an unspoken rule of the game. Sure, there was sometimes collateral, innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. But you didn't bring them into the game, except as hostages or human shields. You never, ever,
involved
them, for Christ's sake. For that breach of protocol alone, she deserved to die.

Adamson had killed before, in his entire career less than a clip-full, and only when he'd had to. He'd felt a little sick afterwards each time. But this was different. Although he wasn't like Danton, a psychopath who enjoyed killing, putting Nadia down would give him satisfaction. Her own fault. She'd made it personal.

Still, the skipper looked defiant, and it bugged Adamson, because Nadia coming up on her own didn't help them one iota. There was something else. He did a quick three-sixty, and saw it. A red smudge atop a wave on the horizon. He counted five seconds then saw it again. A boat headed their way. He couldn't make out any details, but it was moving fast. Still, it would take several minutes to arrive. He glanced at his watch. The SEALs should be up soon, maybe Nadia first.

He kept the rifle where it was. Whoever was on the speedboat – he couldn't make out details yet, but it looked like only one man – wouldn't be expecting a rifle. The other skipper looked uneasy now, but the arrival of a new player didn't necessarily change anything. Adamson raised his hand and lowered it, gesturing for the skipper and the others to sit down. The bubble patch grew, larger bubbles breaching the surface, so whoever was down there was coming up. He nudged the boat forward and waited but no diver appeared, and all he could make out was a dark, blurry shape. He edged the RIB back.

The new boat was getting closer, its single occupant a ginger-haired male. Not a RIB. A speedboat. Must be a pretty good skipper not to sink it in this weather. He took out his pistol and placed it on the console, then picked up the rifle.

‘Friend of yours?' he shouted across to the other three.

The skipper shouted back. ‘Don't shoot him!'

Adamson answered with a single shot in the sky, watched the other three flinch and crouch at the thunderous crack. The approaching boat didn't waver. It looked like it was going to ram the other RIB. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the bubble patch moving in his direction, but she was still too deep for him to pop her skull.

He reversed the boat, then shouldered the rifle and took aim. He fired at the speedboat's console windshield. The ginger-haired man went down. But the bubble patch was still coming towards him – the little bitch was practically underneath his boat. He rammed the engines into gear and spurted the boat forward. The engines roared then whined, and just as he turned to look, the boat stalled with an almighty clanking noise, and he was thrown forward.

His right temple smashed into the steering wheel. A grating noise turned into a metallic scream as one of the engines seized. Then there was a gunshot. The engine he was staring at exploded. A scorching wave of flame roared over him. Everything washed red just before he scrunched his eyes closed. For a fraction of a second he was engulfed in a cocoon of fire, unbelievably hot. Then it was gone. At first he thought he'd been lucky, but when he opened his eyes he saw that his clothes were alight. The skin on his arms was blackened, like barbecued beef.

His body shook, fucking hell it shook so violently, his body no longer under his control.
This wasn't happening. This can't be happening!
The boat listed, took water, then the aft disintegrated, small flames licking around the outside, hissing into steam as the boat slowly submerged. Cold seawater reached his lower legs and he screamed. It burned like acid. He dared to look, saw his trousers welded onto seared flesh, flames there doused as the boat steadily sank. Three loud bangs announced the rubber tubes surrendering to the heat. Water rushed around his armpits and the lower part of his neck. Then he saw her, that fucking Russian cow, her head just above the surface, staring at him through her facemask. His right hand groped for the gun, and he found it, clasped it with blistering fingers. He tried to aim at her, but he was shaking so much.

He squeezed the trigger once, and the water to the left of her head erupted in spray. The boat tipped upwards, and he slid towards what was left of the two engines. Taking a big breath, he squeezed the trigger two more times, once when underwater, the muffled shot sounding like a truck hitting a wall. His face stung as the seawater enveloped him, but he managed not to breathe in or out.

Just hold on, hold on, you can still make it out of this
.
For Arnie, you can do it.

Slipping deeper, he clawed his way out of the sinking boat. He held onto the gun, knowing it weighed him down, but without it he was dead. A plastic cushion rose from the boat, and he grabbed it, anchored it under his left arm, used it for buoyancy, and stared up towards the surface with stinging eyes. To his left, a patch of fuel was on fire, to the right the boat with three men leaning over the side, staring in his direction. He couldn't see Nadia anywhere, nor the other boat.

Fuck it, he had to breathe. He lifted the gun and breached the surface, yelling at the three men.

‘Pick me up or I start shooting.'

They didn't move. He caught sight of the other boat, some way off. He turned briefly left and right. No Nadia anywhere.

He turned back to the three men, waving the gun.

‘I said –'

He was sucked downwards, hard. He swallowed seawater. He almost choked, and fought hard not to cough. Something was tied around his right ankle, something heavy, dragging him down like a stone. He saw Nadia, backing away from him, staring at him. The bitch had weighted him, was trying to drown him. And she'd taken the knife that had been strapped to his ankle. He raised the gun, fired at her, watched the bullet zip towards her, hit her, but she kept backing away. Forget about her, he was sinking. It hurt his ears, as if someone was jabbing a needle into his eardrums. He pinched his nose and blew against it, temporarily equalising pressure, then reached down and grabbed at the nylon rope. Some kind of slip knot.
A fucking noose!

He tugged at the knot, but it held fast. Then he tried to fire at the cord stretching below, and blew a hole in the side of his foot. It made him cry out in agony, emptying his lungs.
Fuck! No No NO!
He tried to fire at it again, but the gun no longer worked. He let go of the pistol, pulled frantically at the rope, cleared his ears once again, but he was sinking fast. The prow of the Tsuba rose towards him out of the gloom below.

He scratched at the knot, but it was useless. He stopped, and straightened up. He took one last look towards the surface far above, to thirty million dollars, to Sandy, to Arnie, and knew he'd lost it all.

There was nothing more to do. His lungs screamed at him. He closed his eyes.

And breathed in.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jake approached the SEALs, ten metres above him, from behind. They faced away from him, one lying on his stomach on the sled, the other one vertical, holding one of its outer bars, fins kicking lazily. It made sense. They'd had a head-start, but they couldn't go straight up. Even with rebreathers there was a deco penalty, at least a minute or two, and they presumed him dead. He wanted to breathe, but the expanding air in his lungs, courtesy of his constant ascent, held it at bay, just. He let go of the bag that had been lifting him, and it silently rose up towards the surface. He finned so he'd be right underneath them. His eyes locked onto an octopus regulator hanging from the sled driver's backpack. Both SEALs wore rebreathers, almost totally enclosed tanks and air systems with complex gadgetry for balancing oxygen, helium and nitrogen according to depth, with a main regulator and a spare octopus. But each one also had a small bail-out tank the size of an aerosol can, with a protruding mouthpiece, filled with normal air, stashed at the back, where a diver could reach around and grab it in an emergency. Considerably smaller than a pony, it was only intended to make a break for the surface in case all the tech failed. Maybe ten good breaths at this depth.

More than enough.

Jake worried they might glance down and spot him, but a dull crack, like close thunder, made them both look up to the surface. A gunshot. Jake had no real plan, only to reach the dangling octopus and breathe in, his lungs yelling for air now that he'd slowed his ascent and was finning, burning oxygen. Swapping Sean's knife to his left hand, he decided to hit-and-run, get some air, and help those topside into the bargain.

He came up from behind, avoiding the SEALs' undulating fins, and went underneath the sled, placing his mouth over the octopus mouthpiece as gently as he could. He knew he'd get a mouthful of seawater first, which he swallowed, but the second time came air. He inhaled as slowly as he could. Another gunshot topside distracted the SEALs further, so Jake took a real lungful, then disengaged. He moved directly behind both of them, the sled driver SEAL now up on his knees, both their heads scouring the surface. Jake reached for the oxygen manual override valves on each backpack, and opened them fully, so they'd be breathing one hundred per cent oxygen. One of the SEAL's fins struck Jake's leg, and he glanced down. Jake yanked the bail-out tank free from the sled driver and kicked furiously to get away from them. Going up wasn't an option – he'd be framed against the daylight, and might as well have a big target painted on him for spear-gun practice – so he descended.

The shaft sticking out of his shoulder hurt like hell as he finned, though it wasn't in too deep. The whine of the sled's propeller rose, the divers evidently deciding to come after him and finish the job. A spear swished past him just as he approached the Tsuba's funnel. He took refuge behind it and waited. The beams of the sled glared as it raced over the upper side of the looming funnel, but Jake only saw one diver on it. Too late, he turned around, confronted by the other SEAL, knife drawn, arm raised above his head. Jake caught the wrist holding the knife, and could barely stop it from stabbing him, his shoulder screaming in pain with the effort. They fell deeper, locked in struggle, facemasks close. Then the SEAL scrunched his eyelids closed and blinked hard, as if in agony. He let go of Jake with one hand and swiped at the bail-out tank, knocking it from Jake's mouth. It tumbled out of sight. The SEAL struck out again, hammered the spear shaft, drove it deeper into Jake's shoulder. Jake ground his teeth till he thought they would shatter, but brought his knee up hard into the SEAL's chest. He then got his leg up further and finned right into the man's facemask, knocking it clean off his face.