Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

35

Zeibig had not feared for his life. He was certainly distressed at being abducted at gunpoint, handcuffed, and locked in a cabin on a luxury yacht. Reaching the cove, he had his doubts as he was roughly herded ashore and into the old stone building, where he was directed to sit in an open conference room. His captors, all tall, pale-skinned men with hardened dark eyes, were certainly menacing enough. Yet they had not yet proven to be abusive. His feelings changed when a car pulled up in front and an austere Turkish couple emerged and entered the building.

Zeibig noted the guards suddenly assume a stiff, deferential posture as the visitors stepped inside. The archaeologist could hear them discussing the freighter and its cargo with a dock foreman for several minutes, surprised that the woman seemed to be making most of the demands. Finishing their shipping business, the couple strolled into the conference room, where the man glared at Zeibig with angry contempt.

“So, you are the one responsible for stealing the artifacts of Suleiman the Magnificent,” Ozden Celik hissed, a vein throbbing out from his temple.

Dressed in an expensive suit, he looked to Zeibig to be a successful businessman. But the red-eyed anger in the man bordered on psychotic.

“We were simply conducting a preliminary site investigation under the auspices of the Istanbul Archaeology Museum,” Zeibig replied. “We are required to turn over all recovered artifacts to the state, which we were intending to do when we returned to Istanbul in two weeks.”

“And who gave the Archaeology Museum ownership of the wreck?” Celik asked with a furl of his lips.

“That you’ll have to take up with the Turkish Cultural Minister,” Zeibig replied.

Celik ignored the comment as he moved to the conference table with Maria at his side. Spread across the mahogany surface were several dozen artifacts that the NUMA divers had retrieved from the wreck site. Zeibig watched them peruse the items, then he suddenly became wide-eyed himself at the sight of Gunn’s monolith lying at the far end of the table. Curiosity caused him to crane his neck, but it was too far away to make out the inscription.

“To what age have you dated this shipwreck?” Maria asked. She was dressed in dark slacks and a plum-colored sweater but unstylish walking shoes.

“Some coins given to the museum indicate that the wreck sank in approximately 1570,” Zeibig said.

“Is it an Ottoman vessel?”

“The materials and construction techniques are consistent with coastal merchant vessels of the eastern Mediterranean in that era. That’s as much as we know at the moment.”

Celik carefully reviewed the collection of artifacts, admiring fragments of four-hundred-year-old ceramic plates and bowls. With the experienced eye of a collector, he knew that the wreck had been accurately dated, confirmed by the coins now in his possession. Then he approached the monolith.

“What is this?” he asked Zeibig, pointing to the stone.

Zeibig shook his head. “It was removed from the wreck site by your men.”

Celik carefully studied the flat-sided stone, noticing a Latin inscription on its surface.

“Roman garbage,” he muttered, then examined the remaining artifacts before stepping back over to Zeibig.

“You will never again plunder that which belongs to the Ottoman Empire,” he said, his dark eyes staring madly into Zeibig’s pupils. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and retrieved a thin leather cord. He twirled it in front of Zeibig’s face for a moment, then slowly pulled it taut. Celik moved as if stepping away from Zeibig, then turned and whipped the strap over the archaeologist’s head as he whirled behind him. The cord immediately constricted around Zeibig’s neck, and he was jerked to his feet by a firm upward yank.

Zeibig twisted and tried to drive his elbows into Celik, but a guard stepped forward and grabbed his cuffed wrists, pulling his arms forward as the cord tightened around his neck. Zeibig could feel the cord bite into his thorax, and he struggled for air while the blood pounded in his ears. He heard a loud pop and wondered if the sound was his eardrum bursting.

Celik heard the sound as well but ignored it, his eyes ablaze with bloodlust. Then a second blast erupted nearby, shaking the entire building with the accompanying force of a thundering boom. Celik nearly lost his balance as the floor vibrated and window glass shattered upstairs. He instinctively released his grip on the leather garrote.

“Go see what that was,” he barked at Maria.

She nodded and quickly followed the foreman out the front door to investigate. Celik immediately tightened his grip on the leather strap as the guard remained stationary, holding firm to Zeibig’s wrists.

Zeibig had managed to suck in a few breaths of air during the interlude and renewed his efforts to break free. But Celik jabbed a shoulder into his back, turning as he pulled on the leather strap and nearly pulling the archaeologist off his feet.

Turning red and feeling his head pounding as he gasped for air, Zeibig gazed into the eyes of the guard, who smiled back at him sadistically. But then a puzzled look crossed the guard’s face. Zeibig heard a muffled thump, then felt the leather strap suddenly slip free from his neck.

The guard let go of Zeibig’s wrists and quickly fumbled inside his jacket. In the fuzzy, oxygen-deprived recesses of Zeibig’s brain, he knew the man was reaching for a gun. With a sudden impulse that felt like it was happening in slow motion, Zeibig leaned forward and grabbed the guard’s sleeve. The guard hastily tried to shake the hand free before finally shoving the archaeologist away with his free arm. As he gripped his handgun in a shoulder holster, an object whizzed by and struck him in the face. He staggered a bit until a second blow hit home and he crumpled unconscious to the floor.

Zeibig turned with blurry vision to see a man standing beside him, holding a wooden mallet in his hand, a grim look of satisfaction on his face. Coughing and sputtering for air, Zeibig smiled as his senses revived and he could see that it was Pitt.

“You, my friend,” he said, wheezing out the words in pain, “have arrived like a breath of fresh air.”

36

Nearly the entire dock crew had flocked to the rear of the warehouse to watch the smoldering remains of the truck light up the night sky. Giordino’s handiwork could not have produced a better diversion. And it was all so simple.

Sneaking to the side of the truck, he’d quietly opened the cab door and peeked inside. The interior reeked of cigarette smoke, with dozens of butts littering the floor amid smashed cans of soda pop. A notebook, some tools, and the bony remains of roasted chicken wrapped in brown paper sat on the bench seat. But it was a thin, ragged sweatshirt stuffed under the seat that caught Giordino’s eye.

Giordino grabbed the shirt and easily ripped off a sleeve, then searched the dashboard until he found the cigarette lighter and pushed the knob in. He then made his way to the rear of the truck and unscrewed the gas cap. He carefully dangled the sleeve in the tank until it was partially saturated with gasoline, then pulled it up and laid the dry end over the side of the gas tank. He left the fuel-soaked end just inside the filler tube and rested the cap on top of it to seal in the vapors. When he heard a popping sound, he scurried to the cab and retrieved the cigarette lighter, then hurriedly ignited the dry end of the sleeve before the lighter turned cold.

He barely had time to run to the rear of the stone building before the small flame crept up the sleeve to the fuel-soaked section of the cloth. The flames quickly ran to the filler, igniting the vapors in an explosion that blew apart the fuel tank.

But it was the charge of plastic explosives, positioned on top of the fuel tank, which did the real damage a second later. Even Giordino was surprised by the massive blast that blew the truck entirely off the ground and incinerated its back end.

Pitt had done his best to coordinate his break-in with the sound of the blast. Perched on the ladder outside one of the darkened second-story windows, he shattered the glass with his mallet as the building itself shook before him. He quickly climbed in, finding himself in the guest bedroom of the comfortably appointed living quarters. He was sneaking down the stairs when he heard Zeibig’s struggling gasps and sprang with his mallet to lay down Celik and the guard.

Regaining his strength, Zeibig stood and looked down at the unconscious Celik, who had a large bump on the side of his head.

“Is he dead?”

“No, just napping,” Pitt replied, noticing the prone figure beginning to stir. “I suggest we get out of here before they wake up.”

Pitt grabbed Zeibig by the arm and started to lead him toward the front door, but the archaeologist suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“Wait… the stele,” he said, stepping over to Gunn’s stone slab.

Pitt gazed at the excavated stone, which stood nearly four feet high.

“Too big to take as a souvenir, Rod,” he said, urging their departure.

“Let me study the inscription for just a moment,” Zeibig pleaded.

Rubbing the surface with his fingers, he quickly read the Latin several times, pressing himself to memorize the words. Satisfied that he had it down, he looked at Pitt with a weak smile.

“Okay, got it.”

Pitt led the way to the front entrance and flung open the door only to be met by an attractive woman with dark hair on her way in. Pitt knew he had seen her face before, but the evening clothes she wore obscured the context. Maria, however, recognized Pitt immediately.

“Where did you come from?” she demanded.

The harsh voice immediately came back to Pitt as the one that had threatened him in the Yerebatan Sarnici cistern in Istanbul. He was startled by her sudden appearance here but then realized it all made sense. The Topkapi thieves had ransacked Ruppé’s office, which had led them to the wreck site.

“I’m from the Topkapi vice squad,” Pitt said in a wry tone.

“Then you will die together with your friend,” she snapped in reply.

Looking past them, she caught a glimpse of her brother and the guard lying on the floor of the conference room. A twinge of fear and anger crossed her brow, and she quickly backpedaled across the porch and turned toward the warehouse to yell for help. But her words were never heard.

A burly arm appeared from the shadows and wrapped around her waist, joined by a hand that gripped tightly over her mouth. The fiery woman kicked and flailed, but she was like a child’s doll in the powerful grip of Al Giordino.

He carried her back up to the doorway and into the foyer, as he nodded pleasantly at Zeibig.

“Where would you like this one?” he asked, turning to Pitt.

“In a fetid Turkish prison cell,” Pitt replied. “But I guess we’ll have to make do with a closet for the moment.”

Pitt located a small broom closet off the stairwell and opened the door, and Giordino deposited Maria inside. Zeibig brought over a desk chair, which Pitt wedged beneath the handle after Giordino slammed the door shut. A deluge of muffled voices and angry kicks immediately ensued from within.

“That one’s a devil,” Giordino remarked.

“More than you know,” Pitt replied. “Let’s not give her a second chance at us.”

The three men scurried out of the building and onto the darkened waterfront. The burning truck still had everyone’s attention, though a few dockworkers returned to loading the freighter. The armed guards were nervously securing the area around the blast as the trio quickly made their way onto the pier. Pitt found a discarded gunnysack and draped it over Zeibig’s hands to disguise the fact that he was still wearing handcuffs.

They moved by the extended crane, stepping as quickly as they dared without drawing attention. Keeping close to the freighter, they turned a shoulder toward the yacht and the idling workboat as they moved past, Pitt and Giordino shielding Zeibig as best they could. They relaxed slightly as they distanced themselves from the brightly illuminated section of the pier and saw no workers ahead of them. The shoreline remained quiet, and Pitt figured they were home free as they approached the stern of the freighter.

“Next stop, the Aegean Explorer,” Giordino muttered quietly.

But the hopeful feelings vanished as they reached the end of the pier. Stepping to the edge, Pitt and Giordino looked down at the water, then scanned the area around them in disbelief.

The Bulletwas nowhere to be seen.

37

Celik came to slowly, with a pounding ache in his head and a loud thumping in his ears. Rising unsteadily first to his knees and then to his feet, he shook off the fog and realized the thumping originated well beyond his ear canal. Detecting his sister’s muffled voice, he stepped to the closet and kicked away the chair. Maria practically flew out, her face glowing red with anger.

Taking one look at the dazed appearance of her brother, she quickly calmed down.

“Ozden, are you all right?”

He rubbed the bump on his head with a slight wince.

“Yes,” he replied coarsely. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was that American from the research vessel again. He and another man set off an explosion in one of the trucks, then came in here and freed the archaeologist. They must have followed the yacht here.”

“Where are my Janissaries?” he asked, weaving slightly back and forth.

Maria pointed to the prone guard lying beneath the conference table.

“He must have been attacked with you. The others are investigating the explosion.”

She took Celik’s arm and led him to a leather chair, then poured him a glass of water.

“You had better rest. I will alert the others. They cannot have gotten far.”

“Bring me their heads,” he spat with effort, then leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

Maria stepped onto the porch as two of the guards approached.

“The fire has been extinguished,” reported one of the men.

“Intruders have attacked us and taken the captive. Search the dock and waterfront immediately,” she ordered, “then launch the yacht and scour the cove. They must have a boat with them.”

As the men ran off, Maria stared into the blackened cove, sensing that the intruders were still close at hand. A thin smile crossed her lips, her anger dissipating as she contemplated her revenge.

38

At that particular moment, the men from NUMA had neither boat nor submersible.

Giordino peered into the water, trying to determine if the Bullethad sunk at her mooring. Then he stepped over to examine a black iron bollard he had used to tie the craft up. There was no sign of the mooring line.

“I’m sure I tied her securely,” he said.

“Then someone sank her or moved her,” Pitt replied. He peered down the dock a moment in quiet thought.

“That small workboat. Wasn’t she ahead of the yacht when we went ashore?”

“Yes, you’re right. She’s idling in back of the yacht now. We couldn’t see much of her on the way back because of the generator. Perhaps she towed the Bulletsomewhere.”

A female voice was suddenly detected yelling loudly on the shore, followed by the shouts of several men. Pitt peeked around the stern of the freighter and saw several gunmen running toward the pier.

“Looks like the party is over,” he said, glancing toward the water. “I think it’s time we think about getting wet.”

Zeibig held up his cuffed wrists.

“It’s not that I’m afraid of the water, mind you,” he said with a crooked grin. “But I don’t particularly relish the idea of drowning per se.”

Giordino put a hand on his shoulder.

“Right this way, my friend, for some dry patio seating.”

Giordino led Zeibig to the wall of empty fuel drums stacked along the edge of the pier. He quickly rolled several drums aside, hoisting them like beer cans, until creating a small recessed space.

“Pier-side seating for one,” he said, waving a hand toward it.

Zeibig took a seat on the pier, scrunching his legs together.

“Can I order a Manhattan while I’m waiting?” he asked.

“Just as soon as the entertainment ends,” Giordino replied, wedging a drum against the archaeologist. “Don’t you go anywhere until we get back,” he added, then stacked several more drums around Zeibig until he was fully concealed.

“Not to worry,” Zeibig’s muffled voice echoed in reply.

Giordino quickly rearranged a few more drums, then turned to Pitt, who was gazing down the pier. At the far end, a pair of guards could be seen heading across the waterfront toward the pier.

“I think we better evaporate now,” Pitt said, stepping to the end of the pier, where a welded-steel ladder trailed down into the water.

“Right behind you,” Giordino whispered, and together the two men scrambled down the ladder, sliding quietly into the dark water.

They wasted no time working their way back toward shore, swimming between the pier’s support pilings while safely out of view from above. Pitt was already formulating an escape plan but faced a dilemma. Stealing a boat seemed their best hope, and they had a choice between the workboat and the yacht. The workboat would be easier to commandeer, but the faster yacht could easily run them down. He braced himself for the daunting task of capturing the yacht without weapons when Giordino tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped and turned to find his partner treading water alongside.

“The Bullet,” Giordino whispered. Even in the darkness, Pitt could see the white teeth from his partner’s broad smile.

Gazing ahead through the pilings, Pitt looked at the workboat and the yacht just beyond. But sitting low in the water behind the workboat, he now noticed the crest of the submersible. They had walked right by it when they crossed the pier. Obscured by the generator, it had gone unseen when the men were trying to conceal Zeibig from any probing eyes aboard the yacht.

The two men quietly worked their way closer, observing that the submersible’s mooring line was attached to the stern of the workboat. It had indeed been the suspicious guard on the back of the yacht who had strolled down the pier after Pitt and Giordino walked by and discovered the strange vessel astern of the freighter. Enlisting the aid of the workboat’s captain, they had towed it alongside the yacht in order to get a better look at it under the bright dock lights.

Pitt and Giordino swam forward until they were even with the Bullet. They could see the armed gunman standing on the stern deck of the workboat and another man in its wheelhouse.

“I think our best bet is to keep the towline and pull her into the cove to submerge,” Pitt whispered. A sudden fray of shouting came from shore as the Janissaries began extending their search down the pier.

“You jump on the Bulletand prep her for diving,” Pitt said, not wishing to waste any more time. “I’ll see what I can do with the workboat.”

“You’ll need some help with that armed guard,” Giordino said with concern.

“Blow him a kiss when I get aboard.”

Then Pitt took a deep breath and disappeared under the water.

39

The guard couldn’t quite make out the commotion on shore, but he could see that some of his fellow Janissaries were headed down the pier. He had already tried radioing his discovery of the submersible to his commander, not knowing that the man was still lying unconscious in the stone building. He contemplated returning to the yacht but thought it better to safeguard the submersible from the stern of the workboat. He stood there, gazing toward shore, when he was startled by a voice calling from the water.

“Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?” wafted a gruff voice.

The guard immediately stepped to the stern rail and looked down at the submersible. A soggy Giordino stood on the Bullet’s frame, one hand placed on the acrylic bubble for support while the other waved cheerily at the startled gunman. He quickly jerked his weapon up and started to shout at Giordino when he detected the sound of some squishy footsteps approaching from behind.

Too late, he turned to find Pitt barreling into him like he was a blocking dummy. Pitt kept his elbows high, striking the man on the side, just beneath the shoulder. With legs pinned against the rail, the guard had no way to balance himself from the blow. With a warbled grunt, he flipped over the side, splashing hard into the water.

“Company,” Giordino shouted to Pitt as he released the hatch and scurried inside the submersible.

Pitt turned to see two men walking down the dock, gazing at him with alarm. He ignored them, turning his attention to the boat’s small wheelhouse. A middle-aged man with a chubby face and sunbaked skin stumbled out at the sound of the splash, then froze at the sight of Pitt on the deck.

“Arouk?” he called, but the guard was just gurgling to the surface.

Pitt’s eyes were already scanning the stern deck. Clamped to the gunwale a few feet away was a six-foot-long gaff. He quickly lunged for it, gripped the base, and whipped the barbed iron hook toward the workboat’s captain.

“Over the side,” Pitt barked, waving the hook toward the water.

Seeing the determined look in Pitt’s eye, the captain saw no reason to hesitate. With his hands raised, he calmly stepped to the rail and threw his legs over the side, slipping heavily into the water. On the other side of the boat, the guard named Arouk had surfaced and begun shouting to his cohorts down the pier.

Pitt didn’t wait around to decipher the conversation. Dropping the gaff, he raced into the wheelhouse and yanked the workboat’s throttle to its stops. The boat lurched forward, then faltered as the trailing towline drew taut with the submersible. The boat gradually regained momentum and accelerated at what seemed like a snail’s pace to Pitt. He glanced at the pier in time to see the two guards step to the edge and train their weapons on him. His reflexes still quick, he dove to the floor an instant before the guns opened fire.

The wheelhouse exploded in a hail of splintered wood and shattered glass as a pair of extended bursts ripped through the structure. Shaking away a blanket of splinters and shards, Pitt crawled to the helm and reached up to the wheel, pulling it three-quarters of a turn to starboard.

With just a few yards to spare, the workboat was quickly closing on the yacht moored directly ahead. While Pitt could have turned hard into the cove, he knew doing so would leave Giordino and the Bulletexposed to sustained gunfire. In the confusion, he had no idea whether Giordino had even entered the submersible before the shooting began. He could only hope to deflect attention until they could reach a safer haven out in the cove.

Spotting a seat cushion on the pilot’s chair, he ripped it away and crawled to the blasted remnants of the port-side window. Tossing it into the air, he succeeded in drawing the gunmen’s attention again as they finished reloading their weapons. Another volley of gunfire shredded the exterior of the wheelhouse with vicious effect. Inside, Pitt clung to the deck with the seat cushion over his head as more splinters and shards sprayed about the cabin. The bullets kept flying until the gunmen emptied their clips for a second time.

When the firing ceased, Pitt raised his head to see that the workboat was pulling alongside the yacht. He crawled to the wheel and eased it to starboard, then held it steady. As the boat approached the bow of the yacht, he kneeled and cranked the wheel hard over.

The old boat was now chugging along at eight knots as its bow turned sharply away from the yacht and the pier. Pitt could hear more yelling, but his move had bought a few precious seconds of safety as the yacht obscured the aim of the gunmen. They would now have to either board the yacht or step down the pier to get a clear shot, by which time Pitt hoped to be out of accurate range.

He stood for a moment and peeked out the back of the wheelhouse, spotting the Bulletbounding merrily behind. A dull glow from some of the interior electronics told him that Giordino had made his way inside and was powering up the submersible. He looked beyond it to the yacht, where he noticed a bubble of diesel exhaust erupt from the stern waterline. Pitt had banked on escaping in the Bulletbefore the yacht could get under way, but his opponent was jumping the gun. To make matters worse, he spotted the two gunmen racing across the yacht’s stern deck with their guns at the ready.

Pitt ducked down and tweaked the wheel, angling the workboat toward the center of the cove while taking the Bulletout of the direct line of fire. The rattling of machine guns preceded a spray of bullets, most of which scattered harmlessly into the transom. Pitt willed the boat to go faster, but the old tub had peaked out with the submersible in tow.

When Pitt guessed they were a hundred yards from the pier, he suddenly cranked the wheel hard to port, then eased back on the throttle. He held the wheel well over until the boat had drifted completely around, and the yacht rose ahead off the bow. As the boat bobbed in the cove under idle, Pitt stepped to the stern and quickly untied the towline to the Bullet. Tossing it toward the submersible, he leaned over the rail and yelled at Giordino.

“Wait for me here,” he said, motioning with his hands for him to stay put.

Giordino nodded, then held a thumbs-up against the acrylic bubble where Pitt could see it. Pitt turned and ran back to the wheelhouse as more gunfire opened up from shore, now peppering the workboat’s bow. Reaching the wheelhouse, Pitt jammed open the throttle and adjusted the wheel until he was bearing for the end of the pier.

“Stay where you are, big girl,” he muttered aloud, eyeing the luxury boat.

Free of the submersible, the workboat squeezed out another few knots of speed. Pitt kept the bow aimed toward the deep end of the pier, not wanting to give away his hand just yet. To the gunmen on the yacht, it appeared as if the boat was stuck in a large counterclockwise circle. Pitt held the ruse until the boat was passing parallel to the yacht some fifty yards away, then he turned the wheel sharply once more.

Aligning the bow till it was aimed amidships of the yacht, he straightened the wheel, then wedged a life jacket into the bottom spokes to hold it steady. Ignoring a fresh spray of gunfire that raked the bow, he sprinted out of the wheelhouse and onto the stern deck, where he dove headfirst over the rail.

The yacht’s captain was the first to realize they were about to get rammed and he screamed for help to release the dock lines. A crewman appeared on deck and scrambled onto the pier, quickly releasing the bow and spring lines. One of the gunmen tucked away his rifle and crossed the deck to the stern line. Rather than hopping onto the pier to release a shortly secured line, he attempted to unravel the opposite end, which was knotted tightly around a bollard on the yacht’s stern.

The captain saw the bow and spring lines tossed free, then turned in horror to see the workboat bearing down less than twenty yards away. Panicking in self-preservation, he jumped to the helm and pressed down the twin throttles, hoping that the stern line was also clear.

But it wasn’t.

The yacht’s big diesel engines bellowed as the twin props dug into the water and thrust the vessel forward. But it surged only a few feet before the stern line grew taut, anchoring it to the pier. The guard tumbled backward with a scream, nearly losing several fingers as the line snapped tight.

The water churned and boiled off the stern as the yacht fought to break loose. Then suddenly the line slipped free, the crewman on the pier bravely unraveling the dock line and ducking for cover. The yacht burst forth like a rodeo bronco, churning ahead in a spray of foam. The captain glanced out the bridge window, then clutched the helm with white knuckles, realizing the attempted escape had failed.

The unmanned workboat plowed into the yacht, striking the starboard flank just ahead of the stern. The boat’s blunt, heavy bow easily shattered the fiberglass shell of the yacht, mashing its opposite side into the pier pilings. The sound of grinding metal filled the air as the starboard driveline was crushed, mangling a score of fuel and hydraulic lines and high-spinning gears. The combined momentum swung the yacht’s stern to the pier, where its spinning port propeller was knocked off by a piling. The yacht gamely lurched forward as a final gasp, breaking free of both the workboat and pier before its motors fell silent and it drifted aimlessly toward shore.

Pitt didn’t bother watching the collision but instead swam hard underwater, surfacing only momentarily for a quick gulp of air. He pushed himself until his lungs ached, and his stroke count indicated he was close to where he had cut the Bulletloose. Easing to the surface, he gazed toward the pier while regaining his breath. The success of the attack was clearly evident. He could see the yacht drifting helplessly toward shore while the workboat, its motor still throbbing at high revolutions, pounded repeatedly into the pier as its mangled bow sank lower and lower into the water. Numerous people raced along the pier, surveying the scene and yelling in confusion. Pitt couldn’t help but grin when his ears detected a female voice shouting amid the fray.

Secure for the moment, he turned and paddled into the cove, his eyes searching the surface of the water. He took a quick bearing from shore to convince himself he was in the right location, then slowly surveyed the waters around him. In every direction, all he could see was small, dark lapping waves, and he suddenly felt very alone.

For the second time that night, the Bullethad disappeared without him.