work this way? He had repaired hulls under similar conditions, but only with backups and lines held by those above, prepared to yank him up in an emergency. He climbed the steps and cautiously walked out on the pier. The clouds intercepted the sun, darker clouds now, rain clouds.
His first instinct was to raise the metal-men, and with the authority of the military officer he had been, to yell at everyone and tell them how stupid they were, then dismiss them for the night.
His authority diminished with each step he took; there were no lines, no bubbles in the darkened water. There was no one on the pier or beneath it. The marina was deserted.
Suddenly, the dock’s floodlights atop aluminum poles switched on, the beams blinding. Then an ice-cold slicein his left shoulder was accompanied by a loud gunshot; he gripped the wound and plunged over the pier into the water, hearing a staccato volley of gunfire as he dove beneath the surface. For reasons he could never explain, he let his panic guide him. He swam underwater as long as his breath would permit to the nearest yacht he could recall. He surfaced twice, only his face, to inflate his lungs, and proceeded until he felt the hard wood of a boat’s hull. He surfaced again in its deepest water line, breathed again, and swam under to the other side. He raised himself on the gunwale and looked over at the pier, now half in blurred, streaked sunlight, half under the glare of floodlights. His two would-be killers were crouching at the end of the dock, peering into the water.
“
Suo sangue
!” yelled one.
“
Non basta
!” roared the other, leaping into a motor-driven skiff and starting the engine, instructing his associate to release the line and jump in, his
lupo
at the ready. They crisscrossed the small harbor, an AK-47 and the shotgun of the wolf in their hands.
Hawthorne slithered over the gunwale of the yacht he had reached and found what he expected to find in nylon straps near the fishing tender—a simple scaling knife. He slipped back over the side and into the water; his shoes having disappeared, he removed his trousers, trying to remember where they sank, should he survive. He then wriggled his tan guayabera jacket loose, oddly thinking that Geoffrey Cooke would have to pay for his money, his papers, and his lost apparel. He swam into the darker waters, again suddenly aware that the driver of the small boat held a powerful flashlight which he kept roving over the sundown waters. Tyrell dove deep in the path of the skiff until he heard the motor above him.
Timing his moves, Hawthorne lunged to the surface directly behind the skiff and grabbed the pivoting metal casing of the engine, his head to the side, his hand in shadows, preventing the rudder from turning. Furious,and confused by the fact that the motor did not respond to his commands, the skipper leaned over the stern less than a foot above the wake. His eyes bulged at the sight of Tyrell’s hand as if it were some monstrous tentacle from the deep. Before he could scream, Hawthorne plunged the blade of the scaling knife into the killer’s neck, Tye’s left hand surging up, gripping his would-be assassin’s throat so that no sound emerged that carried above the engine. He yanked the corpse over the stern into the water, and carefully moving the propeller to far starboard, climbed into the killer’s seat as the man in front obsessively moved his flashlight back and forth, scouring the watery path ahead. Hawthorne grabbed the AK-47 and spoke clearly.
“The waves splash a lot at this hour and the motor’s pretty loud. I suggest you put down your weapon or join your friend. You, too, would make a nice tenderloin for our sharks. They’re really benevolent creatures; they prefer what’s already dead.”
“
Che còsa? Impossibile
!”
“That’s what we’re going to talk about,” said Tyrell, heading out to sea.
5
D arkness descended; the water was calm, the moon barely visible through the cloud
His first instinct was to raise the metal-men, and with the authority of the military officer he had been, to yell at everyone and tell them how stupid they were, then dismiss them for the night.
His authority diminished with each step he took; there were no lines, no bubbles in the darkened water. There was no one on the pier or beneath it. The marina was deserted.
Suddenly, the dock’s floodlights atop aluminum poles switched on, the beams blinding. Then an ice-cold slicein his left shoulder was accompanied by a loud gunshot; he gripped the wound and plunged over the pier into the water, hearing a staccato volley of gunfire as he dove beneath the surface. For reasons he could never explain, he let his panic guide him. He swam underwater as long as his breath would permit to the nearest yacht he could recall. He surfaced twice, only his face, to inflate his lungs, and proceeded until he felt the hard wood of a boat’s hull. He surfaced again in its deepest water line, breathed again, and swam under to the other side. He raised himself on the gunwale and looked over at the pier, now half in blurred, streaked sunlight, half under the glare of floodlights. His two would-be killers were crouching at the end of the dock, peering into the water.
“
Suo sangue
!” yelled one.
“
Non basta
!” roared the other, leaping into a motor-driven skiff and starting the engine, instructing his associate to release the line and jump in, his
lupo
at the ready. They crisscrossed the small harbor, an AK-47 and the shotgun of the wolf in their hands.
Hawthorne slithered over the gunwale of the yacht he had reached and found what he expected to find in nylon straps near the fishing tender—a simple scaling knife. He slipped back over the side and into the water; his shoes having disappeared, he removed his trousers, trying to remember where they sank, should he survive. He then wriggled his tan guayabera jacket loose, oddly thinking that Geoffrey Cooke would have to pay for his money, his papers, and his lost apparel. He swam into the darker waters, again suddenly aware that the driver of the small boat held a powerful flashlight which he kept roving over the sundown waters. Tyrell dove deep in the path of the skiff until he heard the motor above him.
Timing his moves, Hawthorne lunged to the surface directly behind the skiff and grabbed the pivoting metal casing of the engine, his head to the side, his hand in shadows, preventing the rudder from turning. Furious,and confused by the fact that the motor did not respond to his commands, the skipper leaned over the stern less than a foot above the wake. His eyes bulged at the sight of Tyrell’s hand as if it were some monstrous tentacle from the deep. Before he could scream, Hawthorne plunged the blade of the scaling knife into the killer’s neck, Tye’s left hand surging up, gripping his would-be assassin’s throat so that no sound emerged that carried above the engine. He yanked the corpse over the stern into the water, and carefully moving the propeller to far starboard, climbed into the killer’s seat as the man in front obsessively moved his flashlight back and forth, scouring the watery path ahead. Hawthorne grabbed the AK-47 and spoke clearly.
“The waves splash a lot at this hour and the motor’s pretty loud. I suggest you put down your weapon or join your friend. You, too, would make a nice tenderloin for our sharks. They’re really benevolent creatures; they prefer what’s already dead.”
“
Che còsa? Impossibile
!”
“That’s what we’re going to talk about,” said Tyrell, heading out to sea.
5
D arkness descended; the water was calm, the moon barely visible through the cloud
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