are shook up.
'John—'
'Forget it, Rudy. I'm not moving, you're not leaving,” he said in his calmest, most resolute voice, hoping Rudy couldn't hear the whomping in his chest. He didn't want Rudy panicking; he just wanted him to decide that he had no chance, that his only recourse was to give up. “Now put that damn thing down and we can talk this over.'
'I'll kill him, John,” Rudy said and dug the flare pistol into Nelson's side. Nelson stiffened.
'And then what?” John said. “Where does it get you?” His lips were dry but he kept himself from licking them. “You kill him and what do you do about me? There's only one cartridge in that chamber. I'll be on you before you can load another.'
'You know, you're absolutely right,” Rudy said. “Maybe I'd be better off killing you instead.” He was getting very edgy now. His glance kept darting through the windows at the activity going on on the deck below. Who knew when someone might decide to come up to the bridge?
'Same problem,” John said. “If you kill me, what do you do about Nelson?'
Rudy was still able to dredge up a dry laugh. “Nelson I think I can cope with.” He moved the gun a little away from Nelson's hip so it was leveled at John's belt. “I'm really sorry, John.” His eyelids squeezed together twice, a queer, nervous tic. Nelson stood frozen, staring straight at John. His eyes looked like bull's-eye saucers.
Christ, John thought, I played him wrong, he's actually going to do it... “Rudy,” he said quickly, “think for a minute, will you? If you shoot that thing off you'll have everybody on the ship up here in two seconds. What good is that going to do you? I'm telling you, you don't have any way out. Don't make it any worse for yourself than it already is...'
But Rudy wasn't listening and John knew it; he was steeling himself to pull the trigger. The barrel came up a little higher to point at John's throat. John's mind was buzzing. He saw only one thing he could do, one thing he could try, and it didn't have much going for it: duck unexpectedly and spring for Rudy's legs. Rudy would have only one chance, and if the shot went over his head or merely winged him, maybe he could...
Rudy pressed his lips together. Here it comes, John thought, even as he flung himself down. The squat orange barrel followed him. He was too late, too slow, he was going to take the shot in the face—
Nelson's arm jerked. His hand clamped on Rudy's wrist.
'Damn you, Nelson—” Rudy said testily.
And all hell broke loose. Smoke, flame, noise—banging, whizzing, spitting—and an incredible, hissing, crackling eruption of red-hot sparks, spurts, and streamers that went off in every direction at once.
John stayed low on the floor, on his stomach, while burning chunks of the flare went ricocheting around the room for what seemed an impossibly long time. At one point something fell onto the back of his head and he hurriedly thrust it away before he realized that it was only the flare's unopened parachute.
'Nelson!” he called when he dared to raise his head. The explosions seemed to be over, but bits of flare were still sizzling here and there, visible only as red glows in the billows of acrid smoke that now filled the room. “Are you okay? Where—” He broke off, coughing.
He was answered by a hacking cough off to his right, and he scrambled toward it on elbows and knees, swept out his arm, caught hold of the collar of Nelson's jacket, and dragged him with the same movement out into the fresh air of the gangway, where they sat with their backs against the wall of the bridge, choking and blinded by tears.
'You all right?” John said when he was able to.
Nelson still couldn't speak. He nodded.
'Rudy's still inside,” John said, pushing himself up and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He realized for the first time that his knuckles were singed. His cheek too. “I have to—'
'Help,” someone shouted wetly. “I don't—” There was a break for coughs and gurgles. “I don't swim very well.'
John went to the rail. There was Rudy in the water fifteen feet below, sputtering and flopping around in a pathetic attempt at a dog paddle. Apparently he had fallen or jumped through one of the open windows when the flare went off.
'Oh, lordy,” John said, preparing to go over the side but not liking it. Hawaiian or not, he wasn't much of a swimmer either.
But before he could move, one of the Tahitians dove casually into the sea, rising directly under Rudy and hauling him up the ladder in a fireman's carry, then dumping him on the deck. Rudy lay flat on his face, panting and jelly-limbed, hanging on to the metal deck rivets with his fingertips as if he were afraid of rolling off.
'Keep him there,” John called. “Be right down. I'm with the FBI.'
The crewman laughed. “Don't worry, this guy ain't going nowhere.'
John sank briefly down beside Nelson again. “Nelson, you saved my life. I can't believe it.'
Nelson, still hacking away into his handkerchief, shrugged.
'You could have been killed yourself,” John said. “He could easily have pumped that thing into you. I just want you to know that I—I mean, that was really brave of you; that took guts. Not many people—'
'Oh, shush.” Nelson waved him into silence with the handkerchief and finally got his coughing under control.
'I mean, really,” Nelson said peevishly. “You're my brother, aren't you?'
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