Cold Vengeance

Stretching out on the polished fiberglass, Pendergast leaned down over the overhang and — with one arm extended — lightly brushed the barrel of his gun on the door. It made a faint noise, no doubt magnified inside the saloon.

No response. Now the two men inside would be even more agitated. They couldn’t be sure if the sound was random or not; whether someone was outside the door. That uncertainty would, for the time being, keep them in place.

Sliding back up on the roof above the saloon, keeping hidden behind the vent, Pendergast pressed the barrel of his Les Baer against the fiberglass roof and pulled the trigger. A massive explosion sounded in the saloon below as the.45 ACP Black Talon expansion round ripped a hole in the roof, no doubt filling the saloon air with fiberglass and resin dust. Instantly he skipped off the roof and slid back to the door-well as the two panicked men opened fire through the roof with their machine pistols, riddling the area where he had just been and thereby revealing their location within the saloon. One of them did the expected and came charging out the door, firing as he went; Pendergast, positioned behind the door, kicked him hard across the shins as he emerged and then struck him a simultaneous blow to the neck; the man’s momentum sent him sprawling facedown on deck, unconscious.

“Hammar!” came the shout from within the saloon.

Without slowing, the agent charged in through the now-open door. The second man turned and let loose a burst, but Pendergast had anticipated this, throwing himself to the carpeted floor, rolling, and firing a single round into the man’s chest. The man slammed backward against a plasma television and collapsed in a shower of glass.

Leaping to his feet, Pendergast veered left and exited the port saloon door, then flattened himself against the wall next to the recessed entrance. Hidden beneath an overhang, he paused once again to listen in on the continuing radio chatter, rearranging in his mind his picture of the vessel and the shifting locations of the men on it.

“Szell. Respond!” came the voice of the man in charge. Other voices jammed the frequency, asking in a panic about the gunshots, until the German shut them up. “Szell!” the man called harshly over the radio. “Do you read?”

Pendergast thought with satisfaction that Szell was beyond all reading.

CHAPTER 70

ESTERHAZY WATCHED WITH GROWING ALARM as Falkoner spoke into his radio, “Szell. Hammar. Respond.”

Static sounded over the speakers.

“Damn it,” Esterhazy burst out, “I keep telling you, you’re underestimating him!” He slammed his hand on the bulkhead in frustration. “You’ve no idea who you’re up against! He’s going to kill them all! And then come for us!”

“We’ve got a dozen heavily armed men against one.”

“You don’t have a dozen anymore,” Esterhazy shot back.

Falkoner spat on the floor, then spoke into his headset. “Captain? Report.”

“Captain reporting, sir,” came the captain’s steady voice. “I heard some shooting in the saloon. There was a fire on one of the tenders—”

“I’m well aware of all that. What’s the status on the bridge?”

“All’s well up here. Gruber’s with me and we’re locked and barred and heavily armed. What the hell’s going on below?”

“Pendergast took out Berger and Vic Klemper. I sent Szell and Hammar to the main saloon and now I can’t raise them. Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maintain course. Await further orders.”

Esterhazy stared at him. Falkoner’s chiseled features remained calm and collected. He turned to Esterhazy and said, “This man of yours, he seems to be anticipating our every move. How is that?”

“He’s a devil,” said Esterhazy.

Falkoner turned toward Esterhazy and his eyes narrowed. He almost looked like he was going to say something, but then turned away, speaking into his headset. “Bauma

“Here.”

“Your position?”

“Upper VIP stateroom. With Eberstark.”

“Klemper’s gone. You’re in charge. I want you and Eberstark to join Nast on the sky deck. You go up the aft ladder. Eberstark, you go up the main ladder. If the target is there, catch him in the crossfire. Move with extreme caution. If you don’t see him, the three of you sweep the sky and upper decks, fore to aft. Forget what I said about taking him alive. Shoot to kill.”

“Yes, sir. Shoot to kill.”

“I want Zimmerma

“Yes, sir.”

Esterhazy paced the narrow engine room, thinking furiously. Falkoner’s plan seemed a good one. How could Pendergast—even Pendergast — escape five men armed with automatic weapons on a confined boat, firing at him from two sides?

He looked at Falkoner, still calmly speaking into his headset. He remembered, with horror, the eager look in the man’s eyes as he tortured and killed the journalist. It was the first time he’d seen Falkoner actually enjoying something. And he recalled Falkoner’s eyes when he’d spoken of capturing Pendergast: that same eager, anticipatory look. Like thirst. Despite the warmth of the engine room, he shivered. He was begi

It had been a serious mistake to plan this op on the Vergeltung. Now he, too, had placed himself at their mercy.

CHAPTER 71

PENDERGAST ASCENDED THE SIDE OF THE YACHT, clinging like a limpet to the exterior of the upper deck, using the drip edges of the windows as toe- and handholds. He reached the lower edge of the bridge windows. While the windows of the staterooms were smoked, making it impossible to see inside, the bridge windows were clear. As he peered over the edge, in the dim light from the electronics he could make out the perso

The bridge itself was locked and barred. A yacht like this would have high security as a matter of course. The windows would be shatterproof and, judging from their thickness, possibly even bulletproof. There was no way in for him — none.

Pendergast crept along the slanting wall until he was just below the level of the toe-rail, where sliding glass doors opened from the sky lounge to the sky deck.

He reached into his pocket, took out a coin, and tossed it so that it clanked against the glass doors.

The man inside the sky lounge froze, then fell into a crouch. “Nast here,” came the guard’s whispered voice over the radio. “I heard something.”

“Where?”

“Here, on the sky deck.”

“Check it out,” was the response. “Carefully. Bauma

Pendergast saw the dim outline of the man, crouching behind the glass doors, peer out. When the man was satisfied the deck was clear, he rose, slid open the door, and stepped out warily, weapon at the ready. Pendergast lowered his head below the edge of the deck and, speaking into his own stolen headset in a hoarse, indistinguishable whisper, said: “Nast. Port side, over the railing. Check it out.”

He waited. After a moment, the dark silhouette of the man’s head appeared over the railing, directly above him, looking down. Pendergast shot him in the face.