Passenger 13

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The vessels touched with a thump as the winches drew them together. The launch pilot closed down his throttle, dragging the Santa Clara to a halt. Ben ran to the wheelhouse and activated the port bow thruster in an attempt to combat the pull of the winches. The narrowing gap of water between the hulls churned furiously, but he knew the little yacht was hopelessly outpowered. At any moment, the engines were going to stall or burn out.

Ben shut everything down. The Santa Clara’s bows settled in the water and she began to rock in the heavy swell, helplessly tethered to the launch’s dark hull.

But Ben wasn’t going to let himself be boarded just like that. Snatching a stubby Maglite torch and a roll of black waterproof repair tape from the equipment rack, he flew down the companionway from the wheelhouse and darted into the main cabin. He could hear and feel the grinding of the launch’s side against the yacht’s, and the yells of the launch crew as they prepared to leap across the gap between the two boats and take him by force.

He picked the Remington shotgun up from where he’d left it on his bunk earlier. Working feverishly fast, he tore off a two-foot length of tape and used it to attach the Maglite to the forend of the weapon, so that it pointed along and under the barrel. He twisted the head of the torch until its beam was focused tight and narrow. Rather cruder than a laser sight, but extremely effective for night work. At close range, whatever the light beam shone on could be blown apart quarter of a second later with a blast of 00-buckshot.

Ben worked the shotgun’s bolt, feeding the first of the eight cartridges from the tube magazine into the breech. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder on its sling. Grabbed the Highway Patrolman revolver from his bag and stuffed it into the back of his jeans. Raced back up the companionway and burst out of the wheelhouse.

The lights of the launch were even more blinding at close range. Through the white glare he could see the shapes of men running across its deck.

And something else. The unmistakable glint of gunmetal under the spotlights, marking the contours of a weapon that Ben had seen so many countless times that even in near-total darkness it was as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. His unexpected guests were carrying MP5-Ks. The K designation stood for Kurtz, German for short. The stubby compact 9mm machine carbines were the kind of weapon favoured by professional assault teams.

So much for the coastguard.

One of the boarding team leaped across. Then another. Ben felt the thud as they landed on the Santa Clara’s deck and scattered. One crouched behind the tender while another raced up the port side-deck, the two of them quickly joined by another three MP5-toting crew from the launch.

Ben ducked down around the side of the wheelhouse as he heard footsteps thudding towards him. He counted: one — two — three — go. Straightened up and twisted round to point the shotgun, turning on the bright white Maglite beam and shining it right in the guy’s face.

Shoot or be shot. Ben dropped his aim a foot and squeezed the trigger without hesitation. His hearing disappeared in a wall of noise. The recoil of the heavy twelve-gauge load slammed the butt of the Remington hard against his right shoulder, sending a jet of pain through his side.

But it was worse for the other guy. The boarder took the blast in the chest and was lifted clean off his feet by the impact. His weapon flew out of his grip and splashed into the sea.

Before his man was even down, Ben was swivelling the Remington up and across. Another stabbing knife of pain through his ribs as he fired straight into the blinding glare of a spotlamp. Glass showered the deck of the launch. The spotlamp went dark. He was about to fire at another when he spotted a fleeting shape moving low along the deck beyond the wheelhouse. He chased the figure with the torch beam. The shotgun boomed and kicked — but in anticipation of the pain from the recoil he’d jerked the shot a little to the left, missing his mark and blowing a serrated bite out of the Santa Clara’s side.

The percussive rattle of fully-automatic gunfire sounded from the deck of the launch. Ben threw himself backwards as bullets punched into fibreglass all around him. He rolled behind the cover of the buckled wheelhouse, wedged the Remington tightly against its corner and blasted off four rounds as fast as his finger could move, the shotgun’s heavy boom drowning out the chatter of the MP5. There was a yell of pain from the launch and the splash of a body hitting the water.

Eight shots gone. Ben pressed himself tightly against the wheelhouse and started reloading the shotgun with spare cartridges from the ammo holder attached to the stock. He’d slid three rounds into the magazine when he heard the frantic commotion from the water. An instant later, a terrible bubbling wailing scream pierced the air.

The man who’d gone overboard let out another animal howl of terror as he tried frantically to reach the Santa Clara’s side and haul himself out of the water. His body jerked as something hit him hard under the surface. He opened his mouth to scream again, but before the sound could burst from his lungs, a powerful unseen force dragged him under.

For an instant the water boiled and turned red. The man’s bloody head and shoulders erupted from the surface, propelled violently from below. A glimpse of white teeth and an expressionless black eye; then the tiger shark dragged him back down into the churning bloody foam and tore him apart like a terrier shaking a rat.

Ben hadn’t been distracted for more than a second or two, but it was long enough for him to be taken by surprise as a dark shape flew down from the wheelhouse roof. It was the man he’d missed moments before, now leaping at him, knife in hand. With no time to finish loading the shotgun, Ben swung the weapon like a club and felt the whack of solid beechwood on human skull. The guy slumped senseless against the side of the wheelhouse. Ben kicked the fallen knife away.

‘Major Hope?’ said a voice from the shadows.

Ben whipped round, clutching the shotgun — but the pain in his side slowed his reaction time just a fraction of a second too long. There was a curious popping sound, and something hit him with a startling impact high up in the shoulder. His fingers lost their grip on the Remington and an uncontrollable wave of muscle tremors swiped his legs out from under him and sent him crashing to the deck. The sensation was like nothing he’d ever known before, filling his whole body with a terrible tingling agony. He struggled desperately to get up, but his limbs were gripped by spasms and wouldn’t respond to the commands from his brain.

Through a haze Ben saw a tall, thin man walk across the deck towards him. He was holding a taser gun in his hand, the curly wires connected to the dart that was embedded in Ben’s shoulder. With his other hand the man reached inside his jacket and flashed an ID card.

‘Jack Brewster, MI6.’ The voice seemed to echo from some indeterminate place a million miles away. ‘I’m sorry you’re being so uncooperative, Major.’ Another man appeared at Brewster’s side, holding a syringe.

Ben felt a sharp prick in his upper arm as the needle lanced deep into his flesh. He muttered something incomprehensible, then closed his eyes and went limp on the deck.