Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 73

FALKONER STARED AT ESTERHAZY. “We can still beat him,” he said. “We’ve still got half a dozen men, armed to the teeth. We’re going to mass the men, make a full-frontal assault—”

“I doubt you have that many left,” Esterhazy cried. “Don’t you see? He’s killing us, one by one. No brute-force attack is going to work. We need to out-think him.”

Falkoner, breathing heavily, stared at him.

And in truth Esterhazy had been thinking, furiously, since leaving the engine room. But things were happening too fast, there just wasn’t time, Pendergast and Constance were…

Constance. Yes — it could work. It could.

He turned toward Falkoner. “That business of the woman flushed him out. That’s where he’s vulnerable.”

“It won’t work again.”

“Yes it will. We’ll use the woman — for real this time.”

Falkoner frowned. “For what purpose?”

“I know Pendergast. Believe me, this will work.”

Falkoner stared at him. He wiped his brow. “All right. Go get the woman. I’ll wait here with Schultz.”

A short corridor connected the engine room to the forward cargo hold. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Esterhazy sprinted down the corridor, threw open the door, entered, then slammed it shut, dogging it. No lock-picker could get through that.

The floor was spotless after the killing of the journalist the day before, the sailcloth gone. He went to the hatch in the middle of the V-shaped hold, undogged it, and threw it open. In the dim bilge, the young woman’s face stared up at him: hair matted, face smeared with engine oil. As the light gleamed in her irises, Esterhazy was once again taken aback by the naked, overpowering hatred he saw in them. It was a most unnerving expression: suggesting unfathomable violence, yet overlaid with a kind of detached, frozen calm. Her mouth was gagged and taped; Esterhazy found himself grateful she could say nothing.

“I’m taking you out. Please don’t struggle.”

Snugging his gun into the waistband of his pants, he reached down and seized her hair with one hand, grasping her around the shoulders with the other. Her mouth and hands were still securely taped, but that did not prevent a struggle. He managed to pull her out, the baleful stare still fixed on him. Esterhazy pushed her toward the door, then he paused a moment, listening. Holding her in front of him as a shield in case they ran into Pendergast, he undogged the door, opened it, and pushed her forward, keeping his gun trained on the base of her skull. The corridor was empty.

“Start walking.” Esterhazy directed her down the corridor to the forward stairway. They climbed it, ultimately emerging onto the foredeck. The vessel was moving through a moderate sea, into a cold headwind. The lights of Manhattan were a distant glow, the graceful arc of the Verrazano Bridge receding into the darkness behind them. He could feel the roll of the ship; they were now in open ocean.

Falkoner’s face was even paler than when he’d left. “Nobody can raise Eberstark or Baumann,” he said. “And look what happened to Nast.” He pointed at the main deck railing, where a body hung limply, dripping blood.

“We’ve got to work fast,” Esterhazy replied. “Follow my lead.”

Falkoner nodded.

“You and Schultz hold her tight. But be very careful. I’m cutting her free.”

The two men grabbed Constance. She had stopped struggling. Esterhazy uncuffed her hands, freeing her. Then he removed the tape from around her mouth.

“I’ll kill you for what you’ve done,” she immediately told him.

Esterhazy glanced at Falkoner. “We’re going to throw her overboard.”

Falkoner stared. “You do that and we’ll lose our only—”

“Just the opposite.”

“But she’s just a lunatic! He won’t trade his life for hers. He’ll let her drown.”

“I was wrong,” Esterhazy said. “She’s not crazy at all. Pendergast cares for her — deeply. Tell the captain to mark a waypoint on the GPS when she goes over. Hurry!”

They manhandled her to the rail. Suddenly she gave a short, sharp cry and began to struggle ferociously.

“No,” she said. “Don’t do it. I can’t…”

Esterhazy stopped. “Can’t what?”

“I can’t swim.”

Esterhazy cursed. “Get a life preserver.”

Falkoner extracted one from a lifesaving container on the deck. Esterhazy grabbed it and tossed it to her. “Put it on.”

She began to put on the life preserver. Her icy composure had returned, but her hands were shaking now and she fumbled with the latch. “I can’t seem to—”

Esterhazy went over and buckled the front, bending over to tighten the strap.

With a sudden movement she brought her fist up, smashing him in the chin. He staggered and saw her nails once again clawing for his eyes. With a grunt of pain he twisted free and shook her off. She fell on the deck. Falkoner kicked her in the side, then grabbed her hair, hauling her to her feet while Schultz seized her and wrenched her toward the rail, pinning her arms. She cried out, head flailing, trying to bite them.

“Easy!” said Esterhazy sharply. “Don’t hurt her or our plan will fail.”

“Lift!” cried Falkoner, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Now!”

She struggled with sudden, frantic, shocking strength.

“Over!” called Falkoner.

In one galvanic movement they heaved her over the rail into the ocean. She landed with a splash and after a moment resurfaced, flailing, her cries rising for a brief time over the rumble of wind and water, then fading away rapidly as she disappeared into the darkness.