The Nosferatu Scroll

79

The Browning recoiled in his hand, but it was too late. The man had ducked down, stepped to the stern of the boat and opened the throttle. Bronson didn’t dare fire again, because the man was now too close to Angela. He holstered the weapon and ran for his own boat, beached only about fifteen yards away.

Bronson pushed on the bow of his craft, but for several agonizing seconds it remained immobile. Then he changed his grip, lifted the bow slightly and pushed again, and this time the boat moved. He scrambled on board and, gasping for breath, started the engine and swung the craft around in a tight circle and set off in pursuit of the other boat.

Inspector Bianchi had just ordered his men to begin a line search of the whole island when he heard the rising scream of a boat engine fairly close by. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw two powerboats carving white wakes through the dark waters of the Venetian lagoon. As far as he could see, each boat contained a single figure, and it was immediately obvious to him what had happened.

‘You four,’ he ordered, ‘take a police launch and catch those two boats. You three, come with me. We’ll use the other boat.’

A couple of minutes later, the deep rumble of the marine diesel engines of the launches echoed around the landing stage, as the two boats set off in pursuit.

Bronson had pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go, and as he swung around the end of the island, he saw the other boat about seventy yards ahead of him. From over to his right, he heard the sound of another engine starting, and guessed that at least one of the police launches was following him.

Within moments he knew that his craft was faster than the one he was chasing. Only a little faster, but enough. Inexorably the distance between them closed: fifty yards, forty, thirty…

Then a police launch powered across the water directly in front of him, the driver obviously intent on reaching the fleeing craft first.

Bronson cursed and swung around the stern of the launch, then turned the vessel back in pursuit. He’d lost some ground, but he was still gaining on the other boat. The police launch was almost matching speed with him, and running parallel.

Bronson took one hand off the steering wheel, pulled the Browning out of the holster and aimed it at the boat in front of him, waiting for a clear shot.

Twenty yards… ten. The leader obviously knew that Bronson and the police launch were behind him, but there was nothing he could do to get away from the faster boats.

As Bronson’s boat closed to a matter of a few feet, the leader swung his wheel hard over to the right, diving straight across his bow. Bronson reacted instantly, mirroring the man’s actions, so that his vessel turned just as sharply. But it was too late – there was a screech of tearing fibreglass as the two boats collided, the port side of Bronson’s boat smashing into the starboard side of the other vessel.

The two boats jammed together, the gunwale of Bronson’s slightly smaller craft riding up over the side of the larger vessel. Instinctively, he reached out and pulled back the throttle. As he did so, he lost his grip on the Browning, which fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Just feet away, the hooded man stared at him, his face white in the moonlight, the streaks of blood down his chin clearly visible. He obviously saw that Bronson didn’t have a weapon in his hand, and rose up from the boat, his arms outstretched as he reached for his next victim.

And at that moment Angela recovered consciousness, and screamed.

Bronson looked in sheer terror at the appalling spectre looming over him, then bent down, both hands scrabbling desperately to try to find the pistol. The stench of decomposition rolled over him in a nauseous wave as his hand closed around cold metal. He snapped off the safety catch on the Browning, pointed it straight in the centre of the dark shape in front of him, and squeezed the trigger.

Once, twice, three times, he fired, the sound of the shots rolling across the dark waters. As he fired, Bronson knew that the nine-millimetre copper-jacketed bullets couldn’t possibly have missed the target. Not at less than six-feet range.

But still the figure came on, his black robe blotting out the moon, as he reached for Bronson.