already unholstered his pistol, but instead of aiming it, he was bringing it down to pistol whip Locke.
Locke ducked aside. The pistol slammed into his bicep, and pain shot up his arm. The knife in his other hand slung around and slashed Perez’s wrist. Perez cried out, and the pistol went flying toward the door where it landed on the carpet. Locke brought his elbow around and sent a blow at Perez’s face.
Perez lurched toward the door. He crashed against it, splintering the frame, but remained standing. He looked down and saw the gun at his feet. He bent over to pick it up. Locke dropped the Leatherman and reached for his Glock. He had it aimed at Perez before the FBI agent could reach his service piece.
“Don’t move!” Locke yelled.
Perez froze, his hand inches from his weapon.
“You never said Whirlwind, did you?” Perez said. “That’s what it was called when you worked on it, so my mind reverted to that code name. I knew it was wrong as soon as I said it. Funny how one little mistake can get you.”
“Where’s your partner?” Locke demanded.
“She’s in the next room. Alive. For now.” Locke stole a quick glance at the bedroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Trina Harris’ inert form on the bed.
“You work for that wacko?”
“Sebastian Garrett is a great man. History will show it.”
This guy was just as loony as Garrett was.
“Stand up,” Locke said.
Perez didn’t move. “The world will soon be completely different.”
“I will shoot you if you try to pick up that gun.”
“Humanity is weak. We will make it strong again.”
“I said, stand up,” Locke repeated.
“You can’t stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“The New World.”
Like a striking cobra, Perez reached out and snatched the gun. He stood, bringing the weapon to bear. Locke had no choice. He fired a three-shot burst at Perez’s chest. Perez crashed through the weakened cabin door. The gun went flying out of his hand and over the railing. Perez slumped to the floor.
Locke rushed over to Agent Harris. She was hogtied, gagged, and moaning softly. She had a nasty bump on the side of her head.
He removed the gag and began to untie her. When he turned her to loosen the rope, her blouse came untucked, gathering up around her midsection. Beneath it was a gray material. Locke touched it and felt the hard Kevlar. A bulletproof vest.
Damn it!
He ran back to the cabin door and saw what he dreaded.
Locke saw nothing. Perez was gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Locke ran out to the hallway balcony. It was already filling with passengers who had heard the gunshots. An elderly woman peeked her head out from the cabin nearest to him. She gasped when she saw the gun in his hand.
“Call 911,” Locke said to her. He pointed through the door. “There is an injured FBI agent in that cabin.”
The woman slammed her door closed. Locke had no doubt police were already on their way, if not the ship’s own security team. But he had to make sure Perez did not escape, or worse, get to Garrett and warn him that Locke had survived the assassination attempt. If he did, they might not be able to recover the device in Garrett’s suite.
Locke went to the railing, looking in both directions down the hallway. No sign of Perez. He must have made it to the stairs. Locke saw Perez stumble from the stairwell into the atrium two floors below, searching for his gun. Locke quickly looked around and saw it almost directly below him. It wouldn’t take Perez long to find it either.
Locke’s nine millimeter rounds may have been unable to penetrate Perez’s vest, but they sure as hell hurt him. He could see Perez wince from the effort of running. The shots would have left massive bruises on his chest, maybe even some broken ribs. If he could get his weapon back, Locke would no longer have the advantage. Perez would never let Locke leave the ship alive. He had to get down there first.
The stairs would take too long. A pizza joint had an awning spread out in front of the restaurant to give it the feel of an outdoor cafe. It was only about 15 feet below Locke.
Shoving to the back of his mind what a bad idea it was, he holstered his pistol and jumped over the railing. He thought the awning would cushion his fall, but the material was only designed to look like fabric, when it was actually metal. The jolt of the impact knocked the breath out of Locke, and he artlessly tumbled over the side.
Gasping for breath, he crawled to the pistol and snagged it just before Perez reached it. He pointed the Sig Sauer at Perez, but Locke didn’t have enough air in his lungs to say anything. Perez ran past Locke toward the far end of the atrium.
Locke got to his knees. Perez continued to run down the atrium zigzagging as he went. Partiers still lingered after the gala, and Perez used them to shield himself from Locke.
“Stop!” Locke yelled, pointing the pistol in Perez’s direction. He hoped Perez would just stop at the threat of being shot, but he kept going, and there was no way Locke was going to take the shot, not with Perez in a bulletproof vest and so many bystanders around.
Locke would have to run him down. He got to his feet and sprinted after Perez. Once he got his wind back, he was able to gain on Perez, who was still hurting from the bullets in his vest. Locke would easily be able to stop him by the time they reached the opposite end of the atrium.
Perez looked behind him several times and saw Locke closing fast. Apparently, he knew he wasn’t going to outrun Locke because he angled toward the raffle prize platform.
Perez jumped up onto the platform and kicked through the display case, unleashing a shower of glass. He plucked out the key with the black fob and inserted it into the ignition of the black motorcycle. The engine began to sputter, and Perez threw his leg over the seat. The Suzuki fired up. The sound of its high-revving four-cylinder filled the atrium. He roared off the platform in the direction of the circular ramp surrounding the glass elevators.
Locke leaped onto the platform and retrieved the other key. Crewmembers who had rushed to find out what happened to the display case saw his gun and gave him a wide berth. Locke tucked the pistol in his waistband and kick started the Suzuki. A little different from his own Ducati, but almost as fast. It snarled in response, and he gunned the engine, laying a strip of rubber on the stand.
Perez started spiraling upwards. Locke aimed his own bike at the ramp. He could see startled passengers in the elevators watching a tuxedoed man on a Suzuki race toward them. He followed up the ramp, trying to keep an eye out to see what deck Perez exited.
They wound around the ramp at 20 miles per hour until they reached the top. Perez shot off the ramp and down the port balcony. Passengers, who by now lined the railings watching the spectacle of the chase, screamed and jumped back into their rooms as Perez roared past them toward the aft end of the ship. Locke was only 20 feet behind him.
At the end of the balcony, Perez burst through an exterior door. He was looking for another way off the ship. Locke knew from studying the Genesis Dawn deck plan that the aft gangplank was two decks down. Perez was trapped.
The trip through the door made Perez’s bike wobble, and he slowed enough for Locke to catch up. They were on the aft deck of the quarter-mile-long ship.
Perez regained his stability, and they raced side-by-side toward the back of the ship, Perez on Locke’s left, dodging sun chairs as they went. Perez tried to kick at Locke’s bike to knock it over, but he couldn’t connect.
Locke didn’t take the time to look at his speedometer, but he guessed they were now going at least 40 miles
