There. His hand closed around the shape of the pistol inside a jacket pocket. He tugged frantically, feeling the cloth give way.
Yet another gunshot erupted behind him.
Come on! Come on! Thorn worked the slide — chambering a round. He rolled, bringing the Makarov up, looking for a target.
The darkhaired sailor Helen had attacked was down — lying twisted and broken on the deck. He rolled further … Too late he saw Tumarev swinging toward him, weapon in hand.
Three more shots cracked out — one right after the other. One round slammed into the freighter captain’s chest. The second hit him in the throat. The third caught him in the forehead.
His face a red, ruined mask, Tumarev fell back and slid down behind his desk. He left a trail of blood smeared across the metal bulkhead.
Helen Gray lowered the Tokarev pistol she’d seized, breathing hard.
She checked the room swiftly. Nobody was moving. Nobody but Peter.
They exchanged glances, unspoken communications that said “We’re both all right,” before simultaneously turning to Alexei Koniev.
The young Russian lay slumped over Tumarev’s desk. Two separate red patches covered most of his back. Oh, God … Helen moved toward him, aware of Peter doing the same thing. They each took an arm, turned Koniev over, and gently laid him on the deck. She knelt beside him, cradled his head, and pressed her fingers to his neck — searching for a pulse.
“He’s gone, Helen,” Peter said grimly.
His voice seemed far away, and Helen realized she’d known there was no pulse for some time — only a minute, probably, but it seemed much longer.
Still cradling Koniev’s head, she looked down at his chest and saw the dark red ruin where two bullets had struck him, spaced only inches apart. A third opening, this one an ugly exit wound, showed where the darkhaired sailor had shot him in the back while he struggled with Tumarev. That bullet should have been fired at her, she knew.
Alexei Koniev had bought them time with his own life.
She stared down at the young Russian major. Why had he done it? He must have known the price he would have to pay.
She heard Peter searching the compartment, gathering weapons and spare clips. She looked up.
Peter was right to force his emotions to the side for now. They were still in danger. If they survived, she would have time to mourn later.
But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to let her grief over Koniev’s death go, to close it off for a while longer.
Helen fought for control, and took a deep breath.
As she stood up, Peter came over to her and pulled out a handkerchief.
Taking her face in one careful hand, he tenderly wiped her cheeks dry.
She hadn’t even known she was crying.
Then he offered her Koniev’s 5.45mm Makarov and two spare magazines.
Helen shook her head quickly, fighting back more tears. “You keep it.”
She picked up the pistol she’d used to kill Tumarev. Three shots there plus the bullet the darkhaired sailor had fired at Koniev added up to three 7.62mm rounds left in the magazine and one in the chamber. Not enough. She tore it out and snapped in a fresh magazine.
Some people would have called the Tokarev she carried a piece of obsolescent junk. It was single-action, not double, and it didn’t have a real safety — just the half-cocked hammer. Still, she’d scored three-for-three with it against that son of a bitch Tumarev.
And right now, that made this pistol the sweetest piece of hardware she’d ever fired.
Peter handed her three extra magazines and watched as she tucked them in her jacket pocket. “Ready?”
Helen nodded.
He grimaced. “We’ve got to get off this damned ship and get the militia out here, pronto.”
True, she thought. Staying put meant ceding the initiative to any bad guys left outside the cabin. It was high time to get out of this blood-soaked rat pit. “You think the whole crew’s in on this thing?”
Peter shook his head, more in puzzlement than disagreement.
“I dunno anything for sure right now.” He prodded one of the dead sailors with his foot. “But somehow I don’t think we’re going to have an easy stroll back out to the pier. Whoever planned this wants us dead real bad.”
Helen joined him near the door to the passageway. She glanced back at Koniev’s body, then turned away.
“The feeling’s mutual,” she said grimly.
Thorn took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, readying both his mind and body for instant action.
Now.
In one smooth motion, he pulled the door open, ducked forward, scanned the passage, and then pulled his head back in.
Nothing. He glanced at Helen. “Clear.”
She nodded tightly, holding her pistol ready in both hands.
Thorn glided out into the corridor, keeping low. It ran straight aft to a door standing wide open into the sunshine. Helen followed right behind him, sliding off to the other side.
Feet clattered on the metal stairs leading up from the main deck. A man’s head and shoulders appeared in the open door.
“Watch left!” Thorn warned softly. He dropped into a shooting stance, but kept his finger off the trigger. Years of Delta Force training had taught him the art of discriminate shooting. The guy coming up the stairs could be anyone — all the way from the ship’s cook to a Russian militia officer. Instead, he focused on the man, quickly noting a shaggy haircut, a dark leather jacket, and a thin, pale face.
Halfway up the stairs, the stranger spotted them in the passageway and called out something in rapid-fire Russian. Something about wanting to know where “Kleiner” was, Thorn thought — wishing his own Russian were good enough to give him an answer.
Suddenly the pale-faced man got a better look at them. He froze for a single instant, then turned, and dropped back down the stairs out of sight.
“Well, that was useful,” Helen remarked dryly.
They came to a junction. A second passageway crossed theirs, running across the ship with doors to the port and starboard — both closed.
Thorn hesitated. “Portside’s the way out,” he suggested.
“And probably the first place they’ll be waiting for us,” Helen countered.
“Good point.”
They turned the corner into the second corridor.
Helen reached the starboard door first. It was a heavy metal watertight hatch opened by a long handle connected to clamps on both sides. Pull the handle and the clamps would unlatch.
They would also make noise. A lot of noise.
She stopped, pressing her ear against the door and testing the handle.
Thorn controlled the urge to tell her to throw it open, to get moving.
He had to trust Helen’s judgment. He put one hand on the metal wall of the corridor. Shit. He could feel the vibration made by running feet.
“We’ve got company,” he said quietly, already starting back toward the intersection.
The portside door flew open — revealing another man, this one in grease-stained overalls. He held a pistol in his right hand.
Thorn dropped to one knee and took rapid aim — still holding his fire.
Was this one of the bad guys or just somebody investigating all the shooting?
The sailor’s eyes opened wide. His pistol swung up.
Bad choice, Thorn thought coldly. He squeezed the trigger once, then again. Hit by both rounds, the gunman
