toward him. Was he about to die? He couldn’t accept that. No fleeting images of his childhood, no mom smiling at him in the light of creation. Just a dark, empty sense of pointlessness about the whole situation. Was this ugly bastard going to kill him?
The thoughts went through his mind during the long moments as he sank to one knee with the butt of the gun to his shoulder, the Russian in the crosshairs.
Jens fired, the Russian fired.
Their bullets must have passed each other in the air somewhere halfway between them. He could hear the whining sound as they passed him on the left, then the burning pain as one of them hit his upper arm.
The three bullets that he had managed to fire were better aimed, and hit the Russian’s chest and neck simultaneously. His carotid artery had been punctured, blood was squirting straight out, and the man fell back limply, dropping his gun and hitting a packing crate, dead before he hit the floor.
Jens stared, then heard steps behind him and spun around with his gun raised. The Swedish-speaking man had his pistol aimed at Jens’s forehead. Jens’s Bizon was aimed straight at the man.
“Lower your weapon … I’m not going to hurt you,” he said calmly.
“Lower your own weapon,” Jens said, completely foolhardy because of the adrenaline coursing through his body.
The man hesitated, then lowered his gun, and Jens did the same.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, staring at Jens’s shoulder.
Jens took a look, felt the wound, it seemed to be superficial. He shook his head.
“Come on! Leave him.”
Jens looked at the man he had just killed. Thoughts involving luck, fate, gratitude, angst, guilt, and distaste were flying around his head without finding anywhere to go.
“Come on!” the Swedish-speaking man repeated. Jens followed him.
He noted that the man had a microphone by his chin and an earpiece in his left ear. He said something in a low voice, then stopped abruptly.
“We have to wait,” he whispered.
No activity anywhere, no sound, just waiting. Jens looked at him, he was calm, evidently used to this sort of thing.
“My name’s Aron,” he said.
Jens didn’t answer.
The man put a finger to his earpiece, then stood up. “It’s clear now, we can go up.”
In the middle of the deck Mikhail was on his knees with his hands behind his head, with Leszek standing behind him, an HK G36 with telescopic sight in his hands.
Aron gestured to Jens to follow him. They went past Mikhail and up the steps to the bridge, into the cabin, where they found the dead helmsman lying in a pool of blood. The captain was hiding under his desk, pale and shocked, clutching a large monkey wrench in his hand. He got up, looked at the dead helmsman, then out the window. He saw Mikhail kneeling on deck, and a flash of hatred crossed his eyes. The captain pushed past Jens and Aron as he hurried from the bridge, down the steps, and across the deck. Mikhail didn’t have a chance to defend himself before the captain hit him with the wrench and he collapsed. He stared down at the big Russian, who was now trying to protect himself as the captain hit him over the arms and legs again and again, all the while cursing him in his own language. Jens and Aron watched the attack from the bridge.
“What are you doing onboard?” Aron asked.
Mikhail had curled up into a ball down below. “I was getting a lift home from Paraguay.”
“What were you doing there?”
“All sorts of things.”
“How do you make a living?”
Jens looked away from the violence.
“Logistics,” he replied.
“Have you got any goods onboard?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking.”
The captain was working hard with the wrench.
“I think that’s enough now,” Jens said, gesturing with his thumb toward the attack below.
Aron didn’t seem to understand, then he let out a short whistle and signaled to Leszek, who intervened and put a stop to the captain’s brutal attack. The captain spat at the bleeding Mikhail,
The thoughts went through his mind during the long moments as he sank to one knee with the butt of the gun to his shoulder, the Russian in the crosshairs.
Jens fired, the Russian fired.
Their bullets must have passed each other in the air somewhere halfway between them. He could hear the whining sound as they passed him on the left, then the burning pain as one of them hit his upper arm.
The three bullets that he had managed to fire were better aimed, and hit the Russian’s chest and neck simultaneously. His carotid artery had been punctured, blood was squirting straight out, and the man fell back limply, dropping his gun and hitting a packing crate, dead before he hit the floor.
Jens stared, then heard steps behind him and spun around with his gun raised. The Swedish-speaking man had his pistol aimed at Jens’s forehead. Jens’s Bizon was aimed straight at the man.
“Lower your weapon … I’m not going to hurt you,” he said calmly.
“Lower your own weapon,” Jens said, completely foolhardy because of the adrenaline coursing through his body.
The man hesitated, then lowered his gun, and Jens did the same.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, staring at Jens’s shoulder.
Jens took a look, felt the wound, it seemed to be superficial. He shook his head.
“Come on! Leave him.”
Jens looked at the man he had just killed. Thoughts involving luck, fate, gratitude, angst, guilt, and distaste were flying around his head without finding anywhere to go.
“Come on!” the Swedish-speaking man repeated. Jens followed him.
He noted that the man had a microphone by his chin and an earpiece in his left ear. He said something in a low voice, then stopped abruptly.
“We have to wait,” he whispered.
No activity anywhere, no sound, just waiting. Jens looked at him, he was calm, evidently used to this sort of thing.
“My name’s Aron,” he said.
Jens didn’t answer.
The man put a finger to his earpiece, then stood up. “It’s clear now, we can go up.”
In the middle of the deck Mikhail was on his knees with his hands behind his head, with Leszek standing behind him, an HK G36 with telescopic sight in his hands.
Aron gestured to Jens to follow him. They went past Mikhail and up the steps to the bridge, into the cabin, where they found the dead helmsman lying in a pool of blood. The captain was hiding under his desk, pale and shocked, clutching a large monkey wrench in his hand. He got up, looked at the dead helmsman, then out the window. He saw Mikhail kneeling on deck, and a flash of hatred crossed his eyes. The captain pushed past Jens and Aron as he hurried from the bridge, down the steps, and across the deck. Mikhail didn’t have a chance to defend himself before the captain hit him with the wrench and he collapsed. He stared down at the big Russian, who was now trying to protect himself as the captain hit him over the arms and legs again and again, all the while cursing him in his own language. Jens and Aron watched the attack from the bridge.
“What are you doing onboard?” Aron asked.
Mikhail had curled up into a ball down below. “I was getting a lift home from Paraguay.”
“What were you doing there?”
“All sorts of things.”
“How do you make a living?”
Jens looked away from the violence.
“Logistics,” he replied.
“Have you got any goods onboard?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking.”
The captain was working hard with the wrench.
“I think that’s enough now,” Jens said, gesturing with his thumb toward the attack below.
Aron didn’t seem to understand, then he let out a short whistle and signaled to Leszek, who intervened and put a stop to the captain’s brutal attack. The captain spat at the bleeding Mikhail,
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