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Definitely Felice.
Tucker kept going, firing at the wing every few steps.
Movement.
Back on the starboard bridge wing.
Felice had crossed through the wheelhouse again.
Tucker veered to the right, dove, and slammed into the third hold’s edge, gaining its cover for the moment.
Three holds down, two to go.
He stuck his MP-5 over the edge and fired a burst toward the starboard wing—then something slapped at his palm. The weapon skittered across the deck. He looked at his hand. Felice’s bullet had gouged a dime-sized chunk from the flesh beneath his pinkie finger. He stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded, and then the blood started gushing. Waves of white-hot pain burst behind his eyes and made him nauseated.
Sonofabitch!
He gasped for breath, swallowing the pain and squeezing the wound against his chest until the throbbing subsided a bit. He looked around. The MP-5 lay a few feet away, resting close to the railing.
As if reading his thoughts, Felice put a bullet into the MP-5’s stock. His weapon spun and clattered—then went over the ship’s edge, tumbling into the water.
Felice shouted, muffled by her scarf. “And that, Tucker, is the end!”
45
March 28, 8:08 P.M.
Lake Michigan
Tucker tried to pin down the direction of her voice, but it echoed across the deck, seeming to come from all directions at once. He didn’t know where she was. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Felice. She had her sights fixed on him. Even a quick pop-up would be fatal.
He still had his Browning in its paddle holster tucked into his waistband, but the small-caliber pistol at this distance and in this weather was as useless as a peashooter.
With his heart pounding, he tried to guess Felice’s approximate position. She was likely still on the starboard wing of the bridge, from where she’d shot both his hand and the MP-5. Considering him weaponless and pi
On the other hand, she seemed talkative and overconfident. First rule in the sniper’s handbook: You can’t shout and shoot at the same time.
Tucker yelled over to her, “Felice, the Coast Guard knows your course! They’re en route as we speak!”
“Makes no difference! The ship will crash before—”
Tucker jumped up and mounted the top of the cargo hold lid. He sprinted directly toward Felice, toward the starboard wing. As he’d hoped, in replying to his taunt, she’d lifted her scarf-shrouded head from the weapon’s stock—breaking that all-important cheek weld snipers rely upon. She tucked back down.
He dodged right—as a bullet sparked off the metal by his heels—and in two bounding steps, he vaulted himself off the lid, rolled into a ball across the main deck, and crashed into the next cargo hatch, finding cover again.
“Clever!” Felice shouted. “Go ahead . . . try it again!”
No thanks.
He had one hatch to go before he could duck under the wheelhouse bulkhead as cover. To reach there, he had no good choices and only one bad—an almost unthinkable option.
Not unthinkable—just heartbreaking.
But he couldn’t let the LUCA organism escape.
Using his left hand, Tucker drew the Browning from its paddle holster. He squeezed his eyes shut, then shouted above the wind.
“KANE! CHARGE TARGET! FAST DODGE!”
The loud command strikes Kane in the heart. Up until then, he has heard the blasts, knows his partner is in danger. He has strained against the last order; it still blazes behind his eyes: HOLD. Another’s hand has even grasped the edge of his vest, reeking of fear, sensing his desire.
But the shout finally comes. He leaps the short obstruction, ripping out of those fingers. Wind, icy and full of salt, strikes his body hard. He ducks his head against it, pushing low, getting under the wind. He sprints, finding traction with his rear pads to propel him forward.
He obeys the order, the last words.
. . . FAST DODGE.
As he flies across the deck, he jinks and jukes. He makes sudden shifts, feinting one way and going another. But he never slows.
He races toward where his ears had picked out the blasts.
Nothing will stop him.
Tucker heard Kane pounding across the deck. His heart strained toward his friend, now a living decoy, sent out by his own command to draw deadly fire. He regretted the order as soon as it left his lips—but he didn’t recall it.
It was too late now. Kane was already in the line of fire. The shepherd knew his target, knew he needed to evade, but would it be enough? Were Kane’s reflexes faster than Felice’s?
Miss . . . miss . . . dear God, miss . . .
From the starboard bridge wing, a single shot rang out. Kane had drawn her fire, her attention . . .
Good boy.
Tucker popped up, took aim on the starboard wing, and started ru
He shouted to Kane. “TAKE COVER!”
Kane instantly reacts to the new order and pivots off his left front paw. He slides on the wet, icy deck, up on his nails, spi
He stays low.
He ignores the searing pain.
But the blaze of it grows.
Felice had heard Tucker’s shouted order. She pivoted toward him, bringing her rifle barrel to bear, her scope’s lens glinting for a flash through the storm.
Tucker fired, three quick shots in that direction with no real hope of hitting her. The rounds pounded into the steps and railing around Felice. Not flinching, she pressed her eye to the scope.
“CHARGE TARGET!” he screamed.
Kane pushes the pain deep into his bones and lunges back out of hiding. He runs straight, gaining speed with each thrust of his back legs, with each pound of his front.
He stays low against the sleet and snow, his entire focus on the steel perforated steps leading up. His target lurks above, in hiding, and dangerous.
Still he runs forward.
Then a new order is shouted, but he does not know this word. It flows through him and away, leaving no trace.
As meaningless as the wind.
So he keeps ru
“KILL!” Tucker hollered, using all his breath.
To his right, Kane passed his position and raced toward the starboard stairs, taking no evasive action as ordered. The shepherd sprinted along the deck, his head down, his focus fixed on the objective. He was pure muscle in motion, an instinctive hunter, nature’s savagery given form.
“KILL!” Tucker shouted again.
It was a hollow, toothless order—the word had never been taught to Kane—but the command was not meant for the shepherd, but for Felice. It was intended to strike a chord of terror in Felice, igniting that primal fear in all of us, harkening to a time when men cowered around fires in the night, listening to the howling of wolves.
Tucker continued his sprint across the cargo hatch, firing controlled bursts in her direction. Felice shifted back, lifted her face from the stock, and glanced to her left, toward Kane.
The shepherd had closed to within twenty feet of the steps and was still picking up speed.
Felice swung her rifle around and began tracking the shepherd.
Firing upward, Tucker covered the last few feet of the cargo hatch, leaped off, and headed for the shelter of the wheelhouse bulkhead.
“KANE! BREAK TO COVER!”
Crack! Felice shot as Tucker’s body crashed into the bulkhead. He bounced off it and stumbled along its length until he was in the shadows beneath the starboard bridge wing. He pointed his gun up, searching through the ventilated steel, looking for movement above.