Kill Switch (9780062135285) (36 page)

Tucker got pitched left and landed in a heap in the cockpit's passenger seat.

Nick screamed next to him, fighting for control, “Tail strike, tail strike . . . Ah, Jesus!”

Tucker shouted and pointed to the cargo ship's main deck. “Cut the engines! Crash us! We're going down anyway. Do it!”

“Okay . . . !”

“Doctor, grab Kane!”

“I have him.”

Nick worked the cyclic, bringing the nose level, then took his hand off the throttle and flipped switches. “Engines off! Hold on!”

As the roaring died around them, the Bell dropped, falling crookedly out of the sky. Suddenly a tall davit crane loomed before the windscreen. Nick jerked the cyclic sideways, and the Bell pivoted. The tail section swung and slammed against the davit tower, whipping the helicopter around as it plummeted to the deck.

With a bone-­numbing thud, the helicopter hit, bounced once on its skids, then slammed its side into the aft superstructure. The still-­spinning rotor blades chopped against the steel, shearing off and zipping across the deck like shrapnel, severing cables and slicing off rails.

Then all went silent, save the spooling down of the Bell's engine.

44

March 28, 7:49
P.M.

Lake Michigan

“Who's hurt?” Tucker called out as he regained his senses after the wild plummet and crash.

“Bleeding,” Nick mumbled, dazed. “My head. Not bad.”

“Doc?”

“We're okay, Kane and I . . . I think.”

Tucker untangled himself from his spot on the floor and crawled back to the passenger compartment. He checked on Kane, who jumped up and greeted him.

Bukolov gasped, aghast. “Dear God, man, the blood . . . your ear . . .”

Tucker carefully probed the injury. The upper part of his left ear hung down like a flap.

“Grab that first-­aid kit behind—­”

Nick shouted from the cockpit, “Another guy with a gun!”

“Where?”

“Left side! On the port side! Coming up the deck by the railing!”

Means I have to be on the starboard side . . .

Tucker crawled across Bukolov's legs and shoved at the side door. It was jammed. Tucker slammed into it with his shoulder a few times until the door popped open. He hurled himself out and landed hard on the roof of the cargo hold. Staying flat, he rolled away from the man climbing to the deck. As he reached the starboard edge of the raised cargo hold, he fell the yard down to the main deck.

He landed on his back, unzipped his jacket, and drew out his MP-­5 submachine gun.

Bullets ricocheted across the cargo hold as the man on the far side took potshots at him from across its roof.

Tucker shouted to Kane. “C
HARGE S
HOOTER
!”

He heard the shepherd land on the roof and begin sprinting toward the gunman. Tucker waited two beats—­then popped up out of hiding. As planned, the shooter had turned toward the charging dog. Tucker fired twice, striking the guy in the chest and face.

One down . . .

“C
OME
!” he called to Kane.

The shepherd skidded on the snow-­slick surface, turned, and ran to him, jumping down beside Tucker.

Now to deal with the man who had shot their bird out of the air.
The assailant with the RPG launcher had been atop the aft superstructure. But where was—­?

Boots pounded to the deck from the ladder behind Tucker. He swung around. The assailant had his weapon up—­but pointed at the helicopter. During the man's frantic climb down, he must have failed to witness the brief firefight, and now he missed Tucker lying in the shelter of the raised cargo only yards away in the dark.

Small miracle, but he'd take it.

He fired a three-­round burst into the man's chest, sprawling him flat.

Two down . . .

That left Felice and how many others? The police report mentioned three men accompanying her on the boat, but were there more? Did she have other accomplices already on board, mixed with the crew, to expedite this takeover? Regardless, his most pressing question at the moment remained:
Where was she?

He poked his head up and took five seconds to get the lay of the land. Their helicopter had crash-­landed against the aft superstructure and on top of the rearmost cargo hold. He turned and stared down the length of open deck between him and the main bridge, studying the ship's wheelhouse and its two flying bridges.

The first order of business was to reach there, try to take control of the ship.

There was only
one
problem.

Between him and the bridge stretched two hundred yards of open deck. Aside from the other four raised cargo holds and a handful of davit cranes down the ship's midline, there was no cover.

Which meant they had
two
problems.

Somewhere aboard this ship was an expert sniper.

Tucker called toward the helicopter, “Nick . . . Doc!”

“Here!” the men called in near unison from inside the craft.

“Think you can make it over to me?”

“Do we have a choice?” Bukolov yelled back.

It seemed to be a rhetorical question. Both men immediately vacated the broken bird at the same time. Nick helped Bukolov, as the doctor was weighted down by the backpack over his shoulders. They ran low and fast together. Nick pushed Bukolov over the roof's edge to the deck, then jumped down after him.

They both collapsed next to him.

Nick had brought the first-­aid kit with him and passed it over. “Looks like you could use this.”

Tucker quickly fished out a winged pressure bandage. Using the pad, he pressed his ear back in place, then wound the strips around his forehead and knotted it off.

“What's this I overheard about the ship may be blowing up?” Nick asked as he worked.

“Just a possibility. The good news is that it hasn't happened yet. The bad news is that there's a highly trained sniper on board, and unless I miss my guess, she's probably looking for a decent perch to—­”

A bullet zinged off the cargo hold beside Tucker's head.

They all dropped lower.

And there she is . . .

He rolled to face the others, while keeping his head down. “Nick, you stay put with the doctor.”

“Wait! Do you feel that?” Bukolov asked.

Tucker suddenly did: a deep shuddering in the deck. He knew what that meant.

“The engines are picking up speed,” he said. “And we're turning.”

Tucker had spent the last two days studying a map of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. In his mind's eye, he overlapped the
Macoma
's approximate position, picturing the ship slowly swinging to port. He suddenly knew
why
the ship was turning.

He yanked out his satellite phone and dialed Harper, who picked up immediately. “She's here!” he said. “On the
Macoma
. And she knows she's been exposed and knows the ship will never make Chicago now that the alarm has been raised. So she's gone to Plan B and is heading straight for land, to try to run this ship into the ground.”

It also explained why her forces hadn't overwhelmed Tucker and the others by now. She and her remaining teammates must have turned their attention to the bridge and likely entrenched themselves there to keep anyone from thwarting them.

“If Felice is truly attempting to crash the ship,” Harper said, “that might be good news.”

“Good? How?”

“It means she hasn't had time to set up any explosives . . . or maybe she doesn't have any. Either way, I'm vectoring all teams to you now. The State Police and Coast Guard won't be far behind us. Still no one will reach you for another twenty minutes.”

“We don't have that much time, Harper.”

“Do what you can to delay her. Cavalry's coming.”

Tucker disconnected.

“How long until we hit the coastline?” Bukolov asked after eavesdropping on the conversation. He crouched, hugging his body against the cold and snow.

“Twenty, maybe twenty-­five minutes at most.”

Tucker needed to get the others somewhere safer. A bit farther up the deck was a thick enclosed hinge for the cargo hold. It was only two feet high, but it offered additional shelter both from the wind and from direct view of the main bridge's wheelhouse, where Felice was surely perched.

“Follow me, but stay low,” he said and got everyone into that scant bit of cover.

Nick clutched Tucker's elbow. “I was born and raised in Michigan. If this ship is heading to shore around here, that'll put them in Grand Traverse Bay, headed straight for Old Mission Point. The rocks there'll rip the hull to shreds.”

“Must be why she chose that course,” Bukolov said.

Tucker nodded grimly. “Doc, stay here with Kane, prep your dispersal rig, and do your best not to get shot. Felice is holed up there in the forward wheelhouse, with who knows how many others. She intends to make sure this ship stays on course for those rocks. I have to try to get to her before that happens.”

Tucker also had to assume one or more of the holds was already contaminated by Felice and her team. Back at Fort Detrick, he had trained Kane to lock on to the unusual sulfurous smell of LUCA. But before that search could commence, Tucker first had to clear the way.

He poked his head an inch above the cargo hold's lid, aimed the MP-­5's scope at the wheelhouse, then dropped down again. The wheelhouse had three aft-­facing windows. They all appeared untouched, which meant Felice had probably fired upon them from one of its two open flying bridges—­one stuck out from the port side of the wheelhouse, the other from the starboard, the pair protruding like the eyes of a hammerhead shark.

Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.

“What's your plan?” Bukolov asked.

“Run fast and hope she misses.”

“That's not a plan. Why not go belowdecks and stay out of sight?”

He shook his head. “Too easy to get lost or boxed in, and I don't know how many men she's got.”

His only advantage was that Felice would be surprised by his frontal assault. How much time that surprise would buy him was the big question.

Tucker took a deep breath and spoke to the others. “Everyone stay here. When the coast is clear, I'll signal you.” He ruffled Kane's neck. “That means you, too, buddy.”

Kane cocked his head, seemingly ready to argue.

Tucker reinforced it with an order, pointing to Nick and Bukolov. “H
OL
D AND PROTECT
.”

He stared across the open deck.

But who's going to protect me?

8:04
P.M.

Tucker took a few deep breaths—­both to steady his nerves and to remind himself that he was alive and should stay that way.

Ready as he was ever going to be, he coiled his legs beneath him, then took off like a sprinter, a difficult process with the snow and wind. But the darkness and weather offered him some cover, and he was happy to take it. All the while, he kept a constant watch on the wheelhouse for movement.

Clearing the rearmost cargo hold, he shifted a few steps to the left and ran across the deck toward the cover of the next hold. He was twenty feet from it when he spotted movement along the flying bridge on the starboard side. He threw himself in a headfirst slide and slammed against that next hold's raised side.

A bullet thudded into the lid above his head.

Not good.

He crawled to the right and reached the corner of the cargo hold and peeked around—­just as another round slammed into the steel deck beside his head. He jerked back.

Can't stay here . . .

Once a sniper had a target pinned down, the game was all but won.

He crawled left, trying to get as far out of view of the starboard bridge wing as possible. When he reached the opposite corner, he stood up and started sprinting again, his head low.

Movement . . . the
port
bridge wing, this time.

Felice had anticipated his maneuver, running from the starboard wing, through the wheelhouse, to the port side, but she hadn't had time to set up yet.

Tucker lifted his MP-­5 submachine gun and snapped off a three-­round burst while he ran. The bullets sparked off a ladder near a figure sprawled atop the wing. Dressed in gray coveralls, the sniper rolled back from Tucker's brief barrage. He caught a flash of blond hair, the wave of a scarf hiding her face.

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 pinned down, Felice had no reason to move. She wouldn't give up that advantage.

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.

“K
ANE
! C
HARGE TARGE
T
! F
AST 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
: H
OLD
. 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.

. . .
F
AST 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 running that way. Felice crouched up there, rifle up to her shoulder.

He shouted to Kane. “T
AKE 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, spinning slightly to slam into the next raised metal square.

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.

“C
HARGE 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 running.

“K
ILL!
” 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.

“K
ILL!
” 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.

“K
ANE
! B
REAK 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.

Nothing.

He peeked behind him.

No sign of Kane.

Had his last order come in time?

No matter the dog's fate, Kane had done as asked, allowing Tucker to close the gap and get inside Felice's bubble. Her primary advantage as a sniper was gone. Now she was just another soldier with a rifle.

Which was still a dangerous proposition.

She was up there, and he was down here—­and she knew it. All she had to do was wait for Tucker to come to her.

With his gun still trained on the wing above him, Tucker slid over to a neighboring hatch, one that led into the main bridge's tower. He tried the handle:
locked
. He slid farther around the bulkhead, searching for another.

As he stepped cautiously around an obstruction, leading with his Browning, a dark shape lunged toward him. He fell back a step, until he recognized his partner.

Kane ran over to Tucker, panting, heaving.

Relief poured through him—­until he saw the bloody paw print in the snow blown up against the bulkhead.

Buddy . . .

He knelt down and checked Kane. He discovered the bullet graze along his shoulder. It bled thickly, matting the fur, dribbling down his leg. He would live, but he would need medical attention soon.

A growl thundered out of Kane.

Not of pain—­but of
warning
.

Behind Tucker, the hatch handle squeaked, and the door banged open against the bulkhead. He spun, bringing the Browning up, but Kane was already on the move, leaping past Tucker and onto the man in three bounds. The shepherd clamped on to the hand holding the gun and shook, taking the assailant down with a loud crack of the guy's forearm.

The pistol—­a Russian Makarov—­clattered to the deck.

Tucker stepped to the fallen man and slammed the butt of his Browning into his temple. He went limp—­only then did Kane release his arm.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “Now H
OLD
.”

Tucker moved to the hatchway and peeked past the threshold. Inside was a corridor leading deeper into the bridge's superstructure, but to his immediate right, a bolted ladder climbed up toward the wheelhouse above.

Then came a clanking sound.

A grenade bounced down the ladder, banked off the wall, and landed a foot from the hatch.

Crap . . .

He backpedaled and stumbled over the splayed arm of the downed assailant. As he hit the deck hard, he rolled to the right, to the far side of the hatch.

The grenade exploded, the blast deafening.

A plume of smoke gushed from the doorway, along with a savage burst of shrapnel. The deadly barrage peppered into the steps leading up to the bridge wing, some pieces ricocheting back and striking the wall above his body.

Both he and Kane remained amazingly unscathed.

Tucker strained to hear, perhaps expecting some final taunt from Felice—­but there was only silence. She had the upper hand, and she knew it.

If that's how you want to play this . . .

8:18
P.M.

Working quickly, Tucker holstered his Browning and returned to the unconscious man. He slipped out of his own hooded parka and wrestled the man into a seated position. He then forced his coat over the man's torso, tugging the hood over his head.

The man groaned blearily but didn't regain his senses.

Straightening, Tucker hauled his limp body over a shoulder and carried the man to just inside the hatch, leaning him against the bulkhead. He took a step past him—­then leaned forward, grabbed the ladder railing, and gave it a tug.

The aluminum gave a satisfying squeak.

Immediately, he got a response.

Clang . . . clang . . . clang. . .

The grenade dropped, bounced off the last step, and rolled toward him.

Twisting around, he vaulted over the seated man and dodged to the left of the hatch. The grenade exploded. More smoke blasted, and shrapnel flew, finding a target in the man at the door.

As the smoke rolled out, Tucker peeked around the hatch and kicked the macerated body deeper inside. It landed face-­first on the deck, coming to a bloody rest at the foot of the ladder.

He backed out again.

Five seconds passed . . . ten seconds . . .

Felice was a hunter. He knew she would want to inspect her handiwork.

At the first scuff of boot on metal rung, he signaled to Kane and they both climbed the outside stairs to reach the open starboard wing of the bridge. Reaching the last step, he leaned forward and peered through the open hatch of the wheelhouse. It appeared empty.

He pictured Felice on the ladder, abandoning the bridge to gloat over his body.

Good.

With the Browning up and ready, Tucker quietly stepped across the threshold into the wheelhouse. He slipped to the head of the ladder, took a breath, and pointed the Browning down the rungs.

No Felice.

No one.

Just the corpse on the floor in a widening pool of blood.

Kane growled at his side.

On instinct alone, Tucker spun on his heel, jerked the Browning up, and fired—­as Felice stepped through the wheelhouse's port hatch.

His sudden shot went slightly wide, catching the woman in the side, just above her hip bone. She staggered backward and landed hard on the deck.

Rushing forward, he reached the hatch in time to see her rifle rising.

“Don't,” Tucker said, cradling the Browning in both hands, centered on her face. “You're done.”

She lifted her head, her scarf fallen away, revealing the ruin of her handsome face. Part of her nose was gone, sewn with black suture, along with a corner of her upper lip, giving her a perpetual scowl. A thick bandage covered her left cheek.

He recalled his last sight of her, as she vanished into the icy waters. She had been found later, saved, but it seemed not before frostbite ravaged her.

She snapped her rifle up, trying to take advantage of his momentary shock—­but he also remembered feisty Elena and poor Utkin. It tempered any shock and revulsion. All he saw in the ruin of her face was justice.

Holding steady, he squeezed the trigger and sent a single round through her forehead.