Deadly Pursuit

18

Jack swam just under the surface, head down, legs flexing and thrusting in a series of scissor kicks. The oval lens of his face mask framed the reef passing slowly below.

Lavender sea fans undulated in the drift and drag of the current, sensuous as swaying palms. Rainbow parrotfish nibbled at coral towers, consuming the living polyps within. A squadron of inch-long neon gobies darted among the colonnades and galleries of coral, streaking under archways and congregating on terraces, then capriciously reversing course to retrace the route they’d traveled.

The clarity of the water was astonishing. Clearer than the air in L.A., Jack thought half seriously.

Mesmerized by the stream of hallucinatory images gliding past, he had almost forgotten what he’d come here to do.

Almost.

But the intention was still there, still beating inside him, hard and steady, like a second pulse.

He focused his attention on Steve, swimming a few yards ahead, fins pedaling at a steady rate of twenty beats per minute. The proper rhythm for a flutter kick, Jack knew. He had taught Steve to swim and dive in these waters many years ago.

The memory stung him, painful as fire coral, but the hurt did not penetrate as deeply as it once would have. He was adjusting to the reality of what he had to do, coming to terms with it, suppressing his last twinges of conscience. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or dismayed at that development.

It didn’t matter either way. His feelings were irrelevant. There was a job to do.

He peeled back the waistband of his swimsuit, touched metal. The knife was still in place.

For the past twenty minutes he had awaited an opportunity to use it. But Steve, swimming steadily, had remained always out of reach.

Not for much longer, though. Jack would have his chance soon. He could feel it.

Steve circled a tall coral tower that broke the surface, forming one tooth in a ridge of jagged dentures above the waterline. Jack followed, breathing through his mouthpiece, aware of the slight tightness in his chest and diaphragm exerted by hydrostatic pressure even here, one foot below the surface.

Below, a moon jelly lazily passed over an alien landscape strewn with greenish brain-coral boulders and staghorn coral trees, scaring grunts and sharpnose puffers out of its path. Battlements of coral fortresses flickered madly with the racing shadows of a school of silver pilchards, like a wild rush of warriors storming the walls.

Steve’s kicking slowed. He pivoted to face Jack and pointed down. Waited for Jack’s nod, then took a breath and dived.

Jack lingered on the surface a moment longer, inhaling and exhaling deeply-four breaths-five-reducing the carbon dioxide in his lungs to extend his time on the bottom.

He needed extra time, extra stamina. Because he was going to do it now. Four fathoms down, or deeper, he would strike.

One thrust of the knife, and Steve’s throat would open up, black blood curling upward like smoke. Even if the wound wasn’t fatal, Steve’s ensuing panic and disorientation would kill him. He would never make his way to the surface in time.

Jack inhaled once more and held his breath. Body arrowed downward, legs briefly thrust into the air, he pulled himself completely under the water with a power stroke, then let his arms trail at his sides as he kicked hard, driving himself lower.

He passed palaces and labyrinths of coral, spires and canyons, archways like stone rainbows, garishly varicolored. Hydrostatic pressure increased markedly in seconds. His sinuses closed up, and his ears hurt; he swallowed several times to equalize the pressure between his Eustachian tubes and the water outside his eardrums.

Steve dropped still lower. Jack struggled to close the gap between them. The damn fins were slowing him down. He was wearing Kirstie’s gear, and her flippers were small and flexible, designed for novices; they lacked the speed and maneuverability afforded by the rigid fins Steve wore.

At a depth of thirty feet lay a grove of gently waving gorgonians, a miniature forest of bright yellow branches, threaded with the sleek, nimble forms of half a dozen bluehead wrasses. Steve perched on a coral ledge and examined the sea fans in the strong sunlight that filtered through the crystalline water like a luminescent mist. The blueheads scattered, seeds flung by an anxious hand, melting into shadows.

Jack alighted on the ledge also. Steve glanced at him, pointed to the gorgonians in lazy slow motion, then returned his gaze to the coral colonies, intrigued by their vivid colors, their languid undulating dance.

Steve himself would be dancing soon. A frenetic tarantella of muscle spasms and thrashing limbs.

Jack reached for the knife. Took a step closer…

Abruptly Steve turned. Tapped his throat once. Ascended, swimming swiftly toward the glitter of refracted light on the surface.

He needed to take a breath. Damn.

Jack felt a faint burning sensation in his own lungs. He rose also. His ears gurgled as the pressure eased. His sinuses opened again, and the dull pain above and below his eyes faded.

He broke water a few yards from Steve, removed his mouthpiece, and gulped air. The motorboat lay fifty feet away, wheeling slowly, tracing a large circle with the anchor line as its radius.

“Had enough?” Steve asked, treading water. His oversize mask, large enough to accommodate his eyeglasses, looked vaguely comical, an adult’s gear worn by a child.

Jack considered his reply. He could try to prolong the dive, hope for a second chance, but he didn’t think he’d get it.

The boat, then. He would have to do it on the boat.

“Yeah, I’m pretty beat,” he said, putting exhaustion in his voice. “Guess I’m not used to this Jacques Cousteau stuff anymore.”

“You’re not the only one.” Steve’s fatigue sounded genuine. He was out of shape; Jack could see that. No definition to the abdominal muscles. Flabby pecs. Bony shoulders.

He’d gone soft. Easy prey.

Jack replaced his mouthpiece, cleared his snorkel tube with a snort, and swam back to the motorboat. Before boarding, he and Steve removed fins, snorkels, and masks and put them inside the boat. Together they climbed over the gunwale.

Steve sat cross-legged in the stern. “Might as well stow your gear.”

Jack, squatting in the bow, handed over his equipment one item at a time. Steve put it in the vinyl case at his feet, then began packing his own gear, head lowered, the sunburnt nape of his neck exposed.

Jack felt his heart speed up. Felt the familiar tension in his body, the song of rushing blood in his ears, the electric tingle in his fingertips.

He could reach Steve in a single step. Lunge forward, plant the deadly blade between his shoulders.

The muscles of his calves and thighs tensed, coiled springs wound tighter, ever tighter. He knew how the lioness feels as she hunkers down on the windswept veldt, scenting antelope at a water hole. Like her, he was a predatory animal, preparing to pounce and claw.

His hand slipped under the waistband of his swimsuit and withdrew the knife. Slowly he extracted the spear blade. It gleamed like a viper’s fang.

Steve, preoccupied with stuffing his flippers into the crowded case, still had not looked up.

Jack pursed his lips. A last twitch of irresolution stirred in him, a final tick of conscience. He hardened himself against it.

This was for survival. And survival justified… anything.

Do it.

Goddammit, do it now.

He sprang upright. The boat rocked. A lurching step carried him forward, the knife poised to descend in a looping thrust, and with shocking abruptness Steve recoiled, his hands clearing the bag, left hand empty, the right gripping something small and shiny and blue-black.

A gun.

Jack froze, holding the knife awkwardly at chest height, the blade aimed downward, pointing like an arrow at the hull.

Steve lifted the pistol a little higher. The muzzle was a small black hole, an unwinking eye, staring coolly up at Jack from three feet away. Steve’s own eyes, gray and darkly thoughtful, hazy behind the sunstruck lenses of his glasses, did the same.

Jack took a long moment to speak. When he did, his voice was a hoarse rasp, sandpaper on old wood.

“Stevie…?”

Steve’s face showed no expression, no life. He might have been a mannequin, save for the jewel of sweat tracking slowly down his temple like a raindrop on a windowpane.

“Sorry, Jack,” he said softly, in the flat, pitiless voice of an executioner. “I’ve been one step ahead of you the whole time.”