The Ambitious Orphan (14 page)

“We'll have to
hurry,” Sherlock said as he helped Mycroft haul the hatch up. A few
seconds later they were heading down the steps into the crew area
of the boat. They reached the bottom as a man wearing a crew
uniform appeared in the small dining area. He had a cap on that
identified him as the captain.

“What's going on?”
he said in Russian, covering his eyes as Mycroft and Sherlock used
their torches to keep him from being able to see exactly who they
were.

“The generator is
playing games. We'll see to it. Go back and rest,” Mycroft replied
in his best imitation of a similar Russian accent.

For a few seconds
the captain hesitated, obviously trying to figure out who they were
still but not particularly alarmed either. Mycroft didn't give him
any more time to decide they were a threat. While Sherlock kept him
blinded, he stepped forward and smacked the palm of his hand up
against the man's nose, shattering the bone and sending a splinter
into his brain. He was dead instantly.

As he caught the
body, Sherlock reached for the cap and then placed it on his own
head.

“I'll handle this
and the rest of the crew. You get to Krylov before he has a chance
to find Amelia.”

Mycroft nodded,
knowing it was the best option. While Sherlock grabbed the
captain's jacket and shrugged himself into it, the elder Holmes
made his way down the corridor, past the hatch to the crew's
personal sleeping and relaxing area.

At the next door,
Mycroft paused, but the kitchen was devoid of Krylov or any staff.
Taking a few seconds, he reached into the waterproof bag for his
gun. As he was pulling it out a torch came around a doorway to the
right and shone in his face.

A second later a
shot rang out and ripped his own torch from his hand, stinging his
fingers. He dropped to the floor and rolled behind the kitchen
counter, firing back once but knowing he'd miss. Another shot
smacked into the wood not far from where he'd stood.

Before any more
bullets could be fired, Mycroft heard a grunt and the clatter of
Krylov's weapon as it hit the floor and skittered away. A thud let
him know it had come to rest against one of the kitchen
cabinets.

He groped for his
torch, unable to see enough to make sure Amelia was safe.
Eventually he grasped the small device and spun it around to where
he heard scuffles.

It lit up Amelia
and Krylov as they struggled, her body latched onto his back. With
a move only Tom could have taught her, Amelia jabbed her fingers
into Krylov's neck. He twitched and almost collapsed, pitching them
both backwards into the dining table.

The air whooshed
out of her lungs as she was crushed. Less than a second later
Krylov spun himself around, pulling a knife from a sleeve.

Yelling to try and
put the Russian off, Mycroft rushed from the kitchen to Amelia's
defence, shooting again as he did, but once more missing the moving
target. Neither he nor Amelia moved quickly enough as Krylov
stabbed downwards. The blade sliced her thigh as she rolled
away.

Mycroft shot
again, this time hitting the Russian, only to see him stagger back
a foot and then regain his balance. Krylov was wearing a
bulletproof vest.

As Mycroft closed
the gap, trying to get a solid fix on his target's head in the
shaky torchlight, Krylov swivelled his body around to defend
himself. The gun and Krylov's torch connected, sending both flying.
What little light there had been dimmed as the device smacked into
another surface.

It took a few
seconds for Mycroft's eyes to adjust, but by then he had already
thrown another punch, connecting with Krylov's arm instead of the
jaw he'd aimed for. He ducked the returning blow.

Before he could
process another move, the Russian attacked again, smashing a fist
into his face with a loud crunch. He reeled backwards, pain
exploding outwards from his cheek. Something had broken.

As he ducked
again, Mycroft managed to push off the counter behind himself and
catapulted into Krylov's stomach. Both he and the winded Russian
ended up in a heap on the floor.

While he thumped
down at the prone body he poured out his frustration at having to
fight hand to hand. He'd always preferred a gun to a fist fight,
and he definitely wasn't as well trained as Krylov.

Despite the blows
Mycroft rained down on the delicate areas of the Russian's body,
Krylov managed to pull himself out from underneath Mycroft.

A second later, he
narrowly avoided the Russian's left foot in his face. The right one
slammed into his chest, sending him flying backwards and giving
Krylov more momentum to slide across the floor away from him.

Before Mycroft
could get up and re-engage, a gleam of light on black metal showed
near Krylov's fingers. He'd found his gun.

A shot rang out
and Mycroft waited for the following pain, but his eyes told him a
story he hadn't expected. Krylov slumped back down, dropping his
gun as a dark stain spread down his shirt from the neck.

Looking behind
him, Mycroft saw the dark shape of Amelia. In her hands she
clutched the small pistol he'd acquired. It was still aimed at
Krylov and, despite the way she shook, her eyes hadn't left the
Russian. Amelia had saved his life.

As Amelia's leg
gave out Sherlock came flying into the room. Both of them reached
her at the same time.

“Ow,” she said and
let go of the gun.

“We've got to get
off the boat. Those shots will have been heard.” Sherlock reached
out to help Amelia up, but she was already hauling herself to her
feet, using the cabinet handles to support her weight. Mycroft
grabbed the gun and the nearby tea-towel.

After wiping the
weapon down he ran it over the few places Amelia had touched. Once
he was done, he held out the gun and towel to his younger
brother.

“Wipe our prints
and dispose of these. I'll get her back to shore.”

Sherlock nodded
and took the offered items. Without hesitating, Amelia moved closer
to Mycroft and let him wrap an arm around her waist to support
her.

Blood oozed out of
the wound on her leg as she tried to put her weight on it. He
clutched her tighter and walked forward, hearing the breath hiss
through her teeth as she had no choice but to try and copy his
movements.

Somehow they made
it back the way he'd come and up to the base of the stairs up to
the deck. Long before they reached the flight, Mycroft knew Amelia
wouldn't be able to walk up them, but he didn't stop moving.
Instead, he grabbed her with both arms and half carried her up. She
let out a slight whimper a couple of times but didn't protest or
struggle.

When they reached
the deck Mycroft scanned the horizon. Already a boat was motoring
towards them from shore, with a large light fixed on the middle of
the yacht they were on. Both Amelia and he dropped into a crouch at
the same time, hiding themselves behind the canopy over the
helm.

“Wait two seconds
and follow me,” he whispered as soon as he had her near the railing
facing out to sea. It was cutting it close for them both to get off
the boat before they were spotted, but it was their only option.
Hoping she had the strength to follow, he stepped through the
railings on the side and then dived into the water.

He surfaced in
time to watch Amelia bend and try and do the same. She managed to
get the injured leg through the gap but had to take her weight with
her hands as she clutched the railings.

It took her twice
as long and positioned her backwards but she managed to get to the
outside of the boat. Rather than diving neatly, she slipped and
fell into the water. A loud splash followed but luck allowed the
noise to coincide with the patrol boat hooking onto the yacht on
the other side.

She came up,
coughing and spluttering a couple of feet away from him. Less than
a second later he was by her side. This time she made no protest as
he grabbed her hands and looped them around his neck.

He swam towards
the back of the boat, knowing it was nearer the pontoon and the
array of other boats that would provide them with cover. As he
reached the end he paused and listened. The men who'd come to
investigate were talking nearby, but not loudly enough for Mycroft
to hear them.

The voices sounded
like they were still too far away to be on the same yacht, but they
grew closer as he listened. They didn't have time to wait. He
pushed out from the yacht, swimming as swiftly as he could with
Amelia attached to him.

She did her best
to kick with him but he could tell her injury hurt too much to
allow her to be effective. If she hadn't saved his life he'd be
cross with her for getting involved in a fight she evidently wasn't
ready for. It had been foolish, but necessary.

When they were
still only part way to the next boat a light flicked out across the
water, evidently searching for them. It moved along the path they
had swum, showing the wielder to be intelligent enough to predict
their path.

Having no
intention of being caught, Mycroft veered out to the left, out to
sea again, and instead aimed for a different yacht, farther away
but still able to cover them for some distance if they reached it
soon. He knew he could duck below the water quickly if the light
did come dangerously close to them, but he didn't put enough faith
in Amelia's state and ability to expect her to manage the same. It
would take longer to get to their destination, but he needed to
weave them away from prying eyes.

Despite needing to
swim around the anticipated path of the large spotlight, Mycroft
managed to get both him and Amelia to the nearest boat and out of
sight.

“Thank you,”
Amelia whispered as soon as they were both holding onto the back of
the yacht.

“We're not safe
yet,” Sherlock's voice came from behind them both and they turned
to see him come gliding up to them. His hair was dripping and,
given how well he'd snuck up on them, it was evident he must have
crossed most of the distance underwater.

“They know we're
in the water, don't they?” she asked but neither of them replied.
It should be obvious.

“We need to keep
going,” Mycroft finally spoke, encouraging Amelia back towards
him.

“I'll swim for a
bit. She struck out past him and the three swam side by side along
the boat. When they reached the end he slowed and both companions
did the same.

“Follow me,” he
whispered once he'd picked a path to another boat.

For the next ten
minutes they wove between the moored yachts, using them as cover
and making their way bit by bit towards the shore and the farthest
part of the harbour from Krylov's yacht. He took another moment to
look around and realised they'd gone half way. Amelia had slowed
even further, and he could barely see her as she tried to cross the
last gap.

“Go ahead and
check the coast is clear where we want to get out,” Mycroft said,
not really wanting his younger brother to see him helping Amelia.
Sherlock nodded and swam off, leaving him to wait for her to catch
up.

As soon as his
protégée was with him he grabbed her arms again and pulled her
through the water behind him. She'd made no mention of her leg
since being in the water but it had to be throbbing. The salt water
alone would have added to the pain, but the cut was deep and she'd
hardly been able to walk. It was a marvel she'd managed as much as
she had.

When they were
only a hundred metres away from the shore, Mycroft stopped and let
go of Amelia again. Without question or comment, she struck out for
the shore. It was slower going than he'd have liked but he felt
confident that they would have been caught by now if they were
going to be.

Not long after, he
spotted Sherlock, crouching on the edge of the harbour wall, slowly
turning and scanning the area around them. As soon as they drew
near he reached down to help haul Amelia up and out of the
water.

She lay panting on
the edge as Mycroft pulled himself up beside her. A few shivers
pulsated through her body but there was still some colour in her
cheeks, and her eyes looked as determined as ever.

“We need to hurry.
We're being looked for along the front as well,” Sherlock said as
he tore a strip of fabric off the top he was wearing. While he was
speaking Amelia sat up and let out a small gasp of pain.

Another escaped
her as Sherlock used the ripped material as a makeshift bandage,
tying it off as tightly as he could. No one spoke. This next part
of the plan had been gone over twice. Amelia's injury only changed
how quickly it could be achieved.

Both Holmes
brothers looped their arms around her back and lifted her to her
feet together. Somehow she kept her mouth clamped down on her
whimpers as they jogged with her towards the nearest grassy area.
Knowing they were leaving a wet trail, it was important they got
off the tarmac and onto something harder for the average person to
trace.

A couple of
minutes later the sounds of voices rang out from where they'd
exited the water. Their trail had been found. Over the next ten
minutes, the trio hurried down different paths and along several
streets, eventually coming out across the road from their hotel,
sounds of any pursuit getting fainter so quickly it was evident
their pursuers didn't know the first thing about tracking
someone.

Instead of heading
directly back, they moved away from the building, down a side
street, and then doubled back on themselves a few times as they
made their way towards the balcony where they'd left the rope. By
the time they stood at the bottom again, Amelia was shaking with
exertion and was unable to support herself.

Not waiting for
instruction, Sherlock hurried up the rope and Mycroft held Amelia
on her feet. While he made his way up to the balcony the first wet
drops of liquid heralding rain splattered on Mycroft's arms. He
felt a deep seated satisfaction at the stroke of good fortune.
Within a couple of minutes the route they took would be
untraceable.