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He faced forward again, raised his pistol as he steered the Jet Ski one-handed. On dry land, he would have been within range, but bobbing on the East River made the shot difficult. He forced himself to be patient, and a minute later he pulled alongside.

Yousef lifted the pistol, aimed at the broadest part of Sparrow's back. It would be easy, and maybe the smart thing. Kill him now. Finish it. But Yousef was too in love with his plan for Sparrow, too eager to inflict long, drawn-out revenge upon the man he'd hated for so long. For his wife and for his daughters, it would go hard and slow for David Sparrow.

He shifted his aim from Sparrow's back to the sputtering little outboard that propelled the dinghy. He fired once and sparks flew, a ricochet. He squeezed off two more shots, and the outboard coughed and belched smoke and died.

Yousef noticed Sparrow hadn't flinched at all at the sound of gunfire.

Without the motor, the dinghy eased to a stop, the current spinning it around. Yousef blinked at Sparrow's hunched figure.

Only it wasn't Sparrow.

A Windbreaker had been draped over a pile of life jackets, something stuffed in the sleeves for arms, a small round dive buoy with a watch cap stretched over it.

“Son of a bitch!”

The other Jet Ski pulled up behind him.

Yousef pointed at the dinghy and the pile of life jackets. “Bring that back with you.”

He turned his own Jet Ski around and sped back toward the
Avenger
.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Charlie had been spot on when he'd pulled up the specs for this make and model of luxury yacht, and he'd been able to talk David through exactly what he'd wanted to do. Lowering the transom had indeed sent an alarm to the bridge, which resulted in bringing the ship to a full stop.

David had hastily built the dummy out of life jackets and his Windbreaker, a buoy and a watch cap, yanked the cord on the little outboard and sent it across the water. He'd barely had time to fold himself into the storage locker where he'd found the life jackets when Payne's goons came stomping around the elevated lounge area, splashing and yelling. He couldn't see them, but they'd obviously spotted the departing dinghy.

There was a brief noisy frenzy during which David deduced they were preparing the Jet Skis and the other dinghy for a hasty pursuit. Engines cranked, and somebody yelled instructions. Soon the Jet Ski engines faded. He heard a man say something to another, then shallow splashes as one of them moved away.

David held still, listened, clutching the shotgun to his chest. He was pretty sure one of them was still out there. He hoped there weren't two because unless they were standing together, the situation could rapidly get awkward.

He waited twenty more seconds but didn't hear anything helpful.

David cracked the locker door, which allowed him to see back toward the elevated lounge but didn't see anyone there. He opened the door and slipped out of the locker, pivoting toward the stern, the shotgun raised and ready.

A man stood smoking a cigarette. He was looking out over the water, but turned to look at David as he approached. For a long second, the man seemed not to understand what was happening, puffing the cigarette. A moment later his eyes went wide as he realized David wasn't somebody he recognized, and his hand went into his jacket for a gun.

But David was already moving forward fast. He brought the butt of the shotgun down hard, smashing it across the guy's mouth. Blood and teeth flew, and the guy spun back into the water. David watched him float a second, satisfied he wasn't coming back.

He hit the button to raise the transom, and an electric motor hummed to life, the transom moving slowly back into position with a clank. He paused to toss a coil of yellow rope used for dive buoys over his shoulder.

David headed up the stairs to the elevated lounge, stepping lightly. He wanted to stay quiet as long as possible, but he gripped the shotgun, ready to cut loose. It would have to get bloody eventually.

He moved along the starboard side and climbed a short set of stairs to the bridge, entering quickly.

The captain saw him, eyes popping. He opened his mouth to say something, but David shut him up by raising the shotgun.

“Start the engines,” David told him. “Get us underway.”

The captain hesitated, but a glance down the gaping barrels of the twelve gauge convinced him. He took the ship's wheel in one hand and the throttle in the other. “What course?”

“Upriver.”

The captain turned the wheel slightly and pushed the throttle forward to half speed.

David looked ahead of them at the river, saw something low and lumpy ahead on the water. “What's that ahead of us?”

“A garbage barge,” the captain said. “Don't worry. It's in a slow lane. I can go around it easy enough.”

“Head for it,” David said.

“
Head
for it?”

David jammed the shotgun into the captain's ribs.

“Jesus.” The captain brought the ship in line right behind the barge. It was still some distance away, but the
Avenger
closed slowly.

“How long to catch up to the barge at this speed?”

The captain considered. “Seven or eight minutes.”

David grabbed the throttle and shoved it forward from half speed to full. He felt the vibration of the engines grow more pronounced beneath his feet as the ship plowed the waves forward.

“Are you trying to kill us?”

David motioned with the shotgun for the captain to step back and sit in his chair. The captain obeyed, and David tied him securely with the rope.

“You've got to listen to me,” the captain said. “We have three minutes. Maybe a little more before we hit. I'm not sure what you want to happen, but at this speed it's not going to be pretty.”

“Whatever happens, you'll have a good view of it,” David said. “Charlie.”

“Here,” Charlie said in David's ear.

“Give me a countdown from three minutes. Let me know every thirty seconds.”

“You got it.”

David left the bridge, taking an interior spiral staircase to the deck below, the shotgun up and ready to blast anything that moved. His heart beat hard and fast like it was trying to get out of his chest.

Calm down. Breathe in and out. Take care of business
.

He was in a cabin with a small table, charts, a coffeemaker … maybe some kind of office for the captain. He moved aft, as quickly as he could, sighting down the shotgun barrel, ready for anything that might pop out at him. He exited though a hatch, moved through a breezeway and into another hatch. A big room with an open-floor plan, low couches and a bar and an air hockey table. Pinball machines. Some kind of party area.

“Two minutes and thirty seconds,” Charlie said in his ear.

Shit
.

The
Avenger
was a big boat. David regretted pushing the throttle to full speed. He sped up his search in spite of the risk. Down another staircase to the deck below, a hall with doors on either side, presumably sleeping cabins.

He kicked open the doors to the first three, the sinking feeling creeping into his gut that he'd made a mistake.

“Two minutes and counting,” Charlie said.

The corridor on this deck spanned the length of the ship, and David was already approaching the stairway at the other end. He'd come up empty. There was no doubt now. Payne wasn't here. Sure, there were still a few places on the yacht he hadn't checked, but his gut instinct told him something had gone wrong.

“One minute, thirty seconds and counting.”

He paused at the stairs leading back to the deck above. Time to get off this overgrown sardine can before—

The pressure of cold metal at the base of David's skull. He froze. David knew what a pistol felt like.

“Don't move,” said the voice behind him. “Don't blink. Don't even fart.”

David caught the accent. “Chechen?”

“Smart,” he said. “But maybe not so fucking smart, eh? I was told you were a real fucking badass. You move, I blast a hole through your fucking skull, badass. You get me?”

“You're the boss,” David said.

“Damn right. Toss down that scattergun.”

David did as he'd been told.

The cold pressure against the base of his skull vanished, and the Chechen said, “Turn around.”

David turned. The man was younger than he'd thought, but there was still a cold experience in his eyes. He was close enough to shoot David point-blank but had stepped back just far enough to make going for his gun a bad idea.

“Take out the pistols,” he said. “Very slowly. Forefinger and thumb. One at a time.”

David plucked each pistol from each shoulder holster one at a time and dropped them on the deck as instructed. The Chechen kicked them back skittering down the corridor.

“One minute and counting,” Charlie said in the Bluetooth.

“Pull the pant legs up,” the Chechen told him.

David did it, exposing the ankle holster and the .380.

“Get rid of it.”

David unstrapped the holster and tossed it aside.

“You're a lucky man.” The Chechen had his pistol pointed straight at David's face. “They want you alive. Me? I don't much care. They told me to be careful of you. Because you're a bad man. I guess you're clever. Maybe. I'm not impressed.”

“I'm out of practice,” David said. “But I can load a dishwasher better than anyone you know.”

“I don't get that joke, bad man,” the Chechen said. “But points for trying with a gun in your face.”

“What's Payne paying you?” David asked. “Maybe I can do better.”

The Chechen laughed. “This is Payne's boat. That should give you an idea how big his wallet is.”

Good point
.

“Thirty seconds and counting,” Charlie said.

“So what happens now?” David asked.

He motioned up the stairs with his pistol. “Not up to me. We go topside and the boss can decide. You stay well ahead of me out of arm's reach, you understand?”

David counted down in his head.
Twelve … eleven … ten …

“Let's just talk about this a minute,” David said.

“There's nothing to talk about. You can go up those stairs on your own two feet, or I can shoot your kneecaps and have you carried up.”

… three … two … one …

David braced himself.

Nothing happened.

“Go.” The Chechen shook the pistol at him for emphasis.

David turned slowly, still waiting. Obviously the estimation could have been off by a few seconds. He just needed to stall. He put his foot on the first step, froze.
Come on!

“Whatever you're thinking of doing, forget it,” the Chechen warned. “You think you're fast. Or good enough. Put that out of your mind. You lost.”

David began to climb the stairs slowly, feet leaden, mind racing for a plan. Someone could have found and freed the captain, altered the
Avenger
's course. Or the garbage barge could have seen the yacht coming up fast and—

The impact was so sharp and sudden, David felt it from his feet up through his spine. The scream of metal and fiberglass. The ship tilted sharply, and David had to grab the banister to keep from being thrown off the stairs.

The Chechen lost his footing, fell back against the bulkhead, arms flailing for something to latch on to.

David leaped at him.

He crashed into him hard, smashing him against the bulkhead. Air wheezed out of the Chechen, and David grabbed his wrist, smashing his gun hand against the bulkhead until the Chechen gave up the pistol.

David turned to reach for it, but the man recovered faster than predicted and brought a knee up into David's gut.

David grunted and pushed away from the Chechen who was already pressing forward with a martial arts chop at David's throat. David blocked it, punched with his other hand, but the Chechen dodged his head and caught David's arm, trying to trap it in a quick arm lock.

Instead of trying to pull out of it, David heaved himself forward going in for a head butt. Smashing a man across the bridge of his nose with one's forehead usually took the fight out of him quickly. He hadn't had a lot of recent luck with head butts. Maybe this time.

The Chechen saw it coming and lowered his head to protect his face, and David drove his forehead into the top of the man's skull with a loud crack.

David stumbled back, lights flashing in his eyes, half blinded by pain. Probably the Chechen's bell had been rung just as badly, but David couldn't assume anything, didn't know which of them had the upper hand. He swung a wild backhand.

And got lucky.

His fist hit the Chechen's jaw, hard. A grunt through clenched teeth.

David kicked, hoping to find the man's balls. He missed his target but struck hard with his heel into the man's thigh muscle. The Chechen went down to one knee, and that put him level with David's own balls, but David knew what was coming and turned away, taking the punch on the hip. He kicked out again and connected with the Chechen's teeth. The man went down face-first into the water, which was now ankle deep.

David blinked his eyes clear, vision finally snapping back into focus.

Get out of here. Move!

He turned and rushed for the stairs, fighting against the tilt of the listing vessel, pulling himself up by the banister. He made it up to the next level and heard the sharp report of a pistol shot behind him.

The Chechen was at the bottom of the stairs, raising his pistol to fire again.

But David was already moving when the next shot came, racing up the stairway to the next deck. He sprinted along the gangway to the first hatch he saw and exploded through it to the starboard side rail, stepped on the lowest rung, and launched himself over it just as three more shots sounded behind him. Flying lead missed his ear by half an inch.