End of Enemies

70

Crouched in the read lead helicopter, Camille watched Tsumago’s bow flash past the open doorway. Beside her, Stucky cradled a Galil assault rifle. She watched his ringers flex on the stock and thought, He’s done this before. He scared her, not only for her sake but for Tanner’s as well. He had burned Briggs, and now he’d come to finish the job. Knowing that, she was in danger as well.

“Five seconds!” the pilot called. “Positions!”

As one, the ten commandos crouched over their rope packs. Camille flicked off her Beretta’s safety and dried her palm on her vest

“You piss your pants yet?” Stucky yelled over the rush.

“Go screw yourself.”

“Maybe when this is done, sweetie.”

Camille felt the helicopter jolt to a stop.

“Go, go, go!”

The commandos leapt from the door.

The PJ pointed at Camille and Stucky. “Go!”

Camille didn’t think but grabbed the nearest rope and jumped. She hit the deck, rolled to her feet, and looked for Stucky. The CIA man was crouched a few feet away.

Above them, the helo turned broadside and accelerated away, the door gun firing. The pilothouse windows exploded. Glass peppered the deck. Muzzles flashed from the bridge wings. She felt something zip past her ear and dove flat

“That’s good!” Stucky shouted. “Stay here and get your ass shot off.”

He got up and ran aft.

Camille struggled to her feet and ran after him.

Twenty-five miles north of Tsumago, the lead harpoon skimmed over the waves at 500 miles per hour. A circuit in its computer brain instructed it to ascend, which it did, climbing to eighty feet, where the radar seeker clicked on. It swept out a pie-shaped section and spotted the target: slightly left of dead center. Another signal went to the fins, which responded by pivoting slightly and easing the missile a few degrees to the left. Once the maneuver was complete, the radar seeker clicked on again and scanned the pie. Now the target was dead center.

The Harpoon dove again, picking up speed as it went.

It was nineteen miles and two minutes from the target.

“FREEZE!”

Cahil looked up and found himself staring into a gun barrel. “I’m a friendly!”

One of the commandos, a captain, stepped forward. “Call sign!”

“Sierra.”

“Right.” The captain crouched beside him. “What’s this?”

Bullets peppered the deck. They ducked. “The bomb’s in this hold,” Cahil replied. “Its locked from the inside.”

“Do you know where the hostages are?”

“Gotta be on the third deck somewhere… midships is my guess.”

The captain barked orders. Four of the commandos raced aft.

Art Stucky and a black-haired woman ran up and knelt beside the hatch. Cahil realized he recognized the woman and did a double take. “What…?”

“Later,” Camille said.

“Where’s Tanner!” Stucky demanded.

“Down there.”

“Open it!”

“It’s locked—” Cahil broke off and stared up at the derrick. He turned to the Israeli captain. “Can you operate that?”

“Yes, why—”

“Get on the controls. We’re gonna pry this thing open.”

Inside the cargo hold, Tanner could hear the muffle chatter of gunfire and boots pounding on the deck above. Al-Baz tore his gaze off the ceiling and glanced at his watch. “Four minutes,” he said. “Four minutes, and we will be close enough. My men will give us time.”

Tanner glanced at the trigger man. One shot, he thought. One shot was all he would get, and it would have to be the right kind of shot Bridge of the nose….

“You!” al-Baz yelled at Tanner. “What are you looking at?”

Azhar turned and backhanded Tanner across the face. Briggs stumbled into the bulkhead. Azhar drew his pistol, put the barrel against his forehead and hissed, “Do not even think about interfering!” Then, under his breath: “I will take the two guards, you take the trigger man. Wait for me.”

Azhar turned and walked over to al-Baz. “Mustafa, a word in private?”

As al-Baz leaned forward to listen, Azhar lashed out with his elbow. It smashed into al-Baz’s face, sending him crashing into the bulkhead. Azhar spun. Guard two turned to-ward him, his own rifle coming up. Azhar shot him twice, then spun toward the guard nearest the bomb. Tanner raised himself to one knee and drew his pistol. Azhar fired. His shot tore into the guard’s chest, shoving him backward.

Tanner focused on the trigger man. One shot…. He fired.

The bullet found its mark, striking the man between the eyes. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he crumpled to the deck. The trigger box fell from his hand and clattered across the deck.

Movement….

Briggs looked right and saw al-Baz reach for his AK. Tanner spun. Too slow, too slow…. Al-Baz raised himself to his knees, rifle turning….

“Abu get down!”

Tanner fired. Even as his three rounds caught al-Baz in the side, flame burst from the AK’s barrel. As if in slow motion, Briggs watched the flame lick outward and touch Azhar’s chest Azhar stumbled backward, crashed into the bomb housing, and slumped down the bulkhead.

Cordite smoke filled the air. Shell casings tinkled on the deck. Briggs stared at Azhar. Beneath him, blood was spreading across the deck like a pair of black wings. “Abu,” he called. “Abu—”

“He’s dead.” A few feet away, al-Baz lay propped against the bulkhead. He grinned sleepily and rolled his head toward Tanner. “You’re too late. It’s done.”

“What?”

“We’ve done it.”

Briggs felt a chill. What—? He’d assumed if triggered, the bomb would detonate immediately. He cast his eyes around for the trigger box, saw it, scrambled over, and snatched it up.

On the faceplate, the LED read 04:52