Minotaur

38

First, before he got up, he checked his pockets. He hadn’t had time to secure his pistols, and all but one of them had fallen out in the water. He lifted the remaining handgun and checked its magazine—no easy feat with one hand, even in the best of times. The magazine was half full, with six bullets inside. It would have to be enough.

Slowly, careful of his wounds, Chapel rolled himself over onto his knees. He kept his head low, rising to a crouch, and scanned the back of the boat. To one side of him stood the big wheel that controlled the rudder. It had been lashed in place so it wouldn’t turn—freeing Favorov up to work the sails while the boat steered itself. Ahead of Chapel lay the low cabin, all dark glass and brass fittings. The door leading belowdecks was ajar, flapping back and forth in its frame. The single mast rose from the top of the cabin and a long boom stuck out from it at a right angle. The mast showed a fair amount of sail now—Favorov had been busy while Chapel caught his breath. The sailboat was flying along over the calm, dark sea, no doubt headed straight for international waters.

Chapel imagined it would be next to impossible for Angel to track the boat as long as its lights stayed off and she had only a rough idea of where it was. As much as he’d come to think of her as omniscient she was limited by what imaging and data sources she had, and she couldn’t work magic. A Coast Guard craft might spot the boat, even in the dark, but it would have to be close by. Scanning the horizon Chapel failed to see any lights that might indicate a boat within range. It was up to him to finish this, with no help.

Chapel padded forward toward the cabin, listening carefully for any sign that Favorov was inside. He could only hear water dripping off his own pants. As he got close to the door an errant breeze made it slam against its frame and then swing open again, vibrating, as if it were a pair of jaws snapping at him. Chapel reached out and grabbed the edge of the door to steady it.

Looking inside he could see only darkness. No—there was a single red light glowing in there, a tiny LED on a radio console or something. He slipped inside the cabin and let his eyes adjust for a second.

The cabin was small and its ceiling was low, almost brushing the top of Chapel’s head. There wasn’t much room to maneuver inside. There was a narrow cot, a table where Favorov could take quick meals, and a ladder leading down to the hold. One wall was lined with instruments and gear, radios, controls for the boat’s electrical systems, a complicated GPS rig. Chapel held his breath. Nothing moved in the cabin—nothing stirred the air, no clothing rustled. He could smell diesel fuel and mildew, but not Favorov’s cologne. The cabin was empty.

He could lay an ambush there. Favorov would have to come inside eventually, and Chapel could be waiting for him, gun in his hand. It might take hours, though, and Chapel knew he was too exhausted for that. If he crouched down in the dark and just waited with no stimulation at all he would fall asleep. It couldn’t be helped.

He moved over to where he’d seen the tiny red light. It turned out to be a chart light, poised over a map of the Atlantic showing currents and islands for much of the American coastline. The red light was there so that Favorov could check the charts without ruining his night vision. Chapel lifted up the chart and saw others underneath, a whole sheaf of them. They covered the entire route to Cuba in minute detail.

He went to the ladder that led down to the hold and peered into the dark, but there was no light down there at all. By now the starlight coming in through the cabin’s windows was enough to see by, but the hold might have been a coal mine for as much as he could see down there.

Favorov could be down there. Maybe he knew Chapel was on board. Maybe he was down there lying in wait, ready to kill Chapel the moment he stuck his head down the ladder.

But no. Chapel doubted it. That would be a terrible tactical position for the Russian to take. There were no other exits from the hold, and in the dark Favorov would be as blind as Chapel. Favorov wouldn’t go down there while an enemy was on the boat, not unless he was out of options.

Chapel went back to the cabin’s door. Favorov had to be on the bow, he thought, up at the front of the boat, making sure the way forward was clear. He opened the door to the deck, feeling the skin on the back of his neck prickle as if he were being watched from behind. As if someone in the hold was just waiting for him to turn away so they could pounce on him. But that was just nerves. He was sure of it. He was just jumpy, and likely to do something stupid if he listened to the fight-or-flight signals his body was sending him. He opened the door and stepped back out into the night air.

The first thing he saw was that the wheel wasn’t lashed anymore. It spun freely, which meant the boat would just follow whatever current caught it. Maybe the lashing had just broken on its own, or maybe Favorov had removed the cord for some reason. Chapel took a step forward, his head down, his hand outstretched, holding his weapon in front of him where he could aim at anything that moved.

From behind his shoulder something long and hard smashed down and struck at his hand. Chapel felt the pain even before he felt the pistol fall out of his fingers.