The Sniper and the Wolf

8

Gil continued to cover the rear as Dragunov led the hurried search of the Palinouros, finding no one alive. In one of the smaller state rooms, they came across a couple shot to death in the midst of lovemaking, a single 9 mm hole in each of their heads. Judging from the white uniforms on the floor beside the bed, Gil guessed there was no one aboard other than crew.

Making their way below decks to the crew quarters, they found a veritable slaughterhouse, eleven of the crew knifed in their sleep and two more bodies littering the passageway, one with a vicious wound under the jaw where a blade had been rammed upward into the brain stem. They found another pair of bodies sprawled in the engine room, blood pooled on the otherwise spotless white deck beneath their heads.

“They went through these people like shit through a goose,” Gil muttered.

They accounted for nineteen dead crew members by the time they arrived at the bridge, where they found two more bodies. The first mate’s throat was cut, and the captain, a man of about fifty, lay faceup on the deck with a single bullet through the forehead. Gil recognized him at once.

“This asshole’s ex-CIA.” He holstered the pistol and took a knee beside the body.

Dragunov stood over him. “How do you know?”

Gil rolled the dead man onto his belly to search his back pockets. “I worked a mission with him when he was attached to SOG.” There was no need to tell Dragunov what SOG was. Spetsnaz operators knew more about the Special Operations Group of the CIA than 98 percent of Americans. Nor did Gil see any need to mention that the dead man was also a former navy destroyer captain who’d been kicked out of the CIA three years earlier for malfeasance. He found an unusually long key in the bottom of the captain’s back pocket and tucked it into a zipper pouch on his wet suit.

“Hate to tell you this, partner, but I’m pretty sure shit’s about to get complicated. Covert elements of the CIA are working with covert elements of the GRU.”

Dragunov leveled his gaze. “The GRU is clean.”

“So’s my ass, Ivan.” Gil got to his feet and put his foot on the body. “This sorry motherfucker here was thrown out of the CIA for raping a fourteen-year-old girl in Thailand three years ago. He only escaped prison because the girl disappeared before she could testify. And now he’s here — on this boat — working for a Russian Spetsnaz team that turned back around and shot him in the head. Somebody’s tying up loose ends, and they’re not gonna—”

One of the windows shattered, and Terbish’s head blew apart, splattering gore all over Gil and Dragunov, who both hit the deck.

“You were saying about the GRU being clean?” Gil said, wiping the gore from his eyes.

Dragunov’s blood-spattered face split into a malicious grin. “Are you going to help me kill these sukiny dyeti — or run home like a little girl?”

Gil drew the Strike One, unscrewing the suppressor. “Oh, we’re definitely gonna kill ’em.” He got into a combat crouch, moving to the hatchway leading from the bridge to the gangway. He could see that the P21 was already out of pistol range, heading north at her top speed of twenty-six knots, almost double that of the Palinouros.

“Well, that’s why God made radar.” He stood up and went to the satellite phone on the console. “Get ready to weigh anchor, Ivan.”

Dragunov went to the window, easily making out the wake of the P21, but the patrol boat itself was scarcely more than a silhouette. “Can you pilot this thing?”

“Sorta,” Gil said, punching numbers into the phone. “We’ll need a little help.”

A few seconds later, Pope was on the line. “Bob, we’ve taken the Palinouros. The entire crew’s dead. The skipper was Paul Miller, an ex-CIA man with the Thailand office. I need you to patch me through to a yacht in Auckland called Frieda’s Joy. I’ll explain what’s going on while you work your magic.”

“Stand by,” Pope said. “I’ll put Midori to work while you bring me up to speed.”

Within eight minutes, Gil had Pope completely updated, and the satellite phone was ringing aboard Frieda’s Joy in Auckland, New Zealand.

“This is the Frieda’s Joy,” answered a female voice with an Australian accent. “First Mate Dana Keener speaking.”

“Keener, my name is Master Chief Gil Shannon. I need to speak with Wild Bill ASAP.” Wild Bill Watkins was a retired Navy SEAL from the West Coast teams who now captained a yacht similar to the Palinouros for an Australian millionaire.

“I’m sorry, Master Chief, but Captain Watkins is ashore at this time. May I be of assistance?”

“I sure hope so. Listen, Keener, I’m stuck in the Med aboard an anchored Lürssen Kismet with her engines at dead stop. I’m only semi familiar with the controls, and I need to get her under way fast. All I got for crew is a grumpy Russian, so if you could keep your instructions simple-stupid, I’d appreciate it.”

First Mate Keener chuckled. “I’ll try and keep it fairly dinkum for you,” she said, her lilting voice sounding suddenly sexy. “Where in the Med are you, Master Chief?”

“North coast of Malta.”

“So you’ve got slightly rocky bottom.”

“Yeah, I believe so.”

“And I assume she’s fallen off with the current?”

“Yes, ma’am. To the north.”

“Then you’ll need to ease off the cables before you weigh anchor. Are you at the con?”

“Roger that,” Gil said. “And the computers are all up. I just need to start the engines and get this tub turned around.”

With Keener’s help, it took Gil and Dragunov fifteen minutes to get the Palinouros under way and headed north in pursuit of the P21 at her normal cruising speed of twelve knots. Anything faster might have looked suspicious on Maltese military radar. Keener helped them figure out which blip on their own radar was the P21, and judging from the heading, Kovalenko and his men were heading directly for Sicily. Keener remained on the line in case they needed further assistance conning the vessel.