folded over and flopped onto the deck-half in and half out of the door.
He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Helen had the starboard hatch open now, and she was scanning the outside of the ship.
A voice called something from the aft. Maybe a name? Or maybe an order?
Thorn couldn’t tell. He felt more footsteps through the freighter’s metal skin.
“The natives are getting restless, Helen,” he said bluntly.
“I can hear,” she shot back. “Don’t rush me.”
All of Thorn’s instincts told him to move and move fast, before they were cornered. The two shots he’d just fired had echoed throughout the entire ship.
“Okay, it’s clear,” Helen finally announced. She stepped out onto the walkway that ran around the outside perimeter of the deck and turned toward the ship’s stern. Thorn followed close behind her, pulling the hatch shut behind him to buy them some extra time. He turned, blinking in the bright sunlight, and immediately saw why she’d been so cautious.
The catwalks surrounding each deck were a maze of metal boxes, hose reels, and other objects he couldn’t recognize. Hell, he thought, you could hide a platoon out here.
Without pausing, Helen slid forward — moving smoothly from cover to cover. Thorn came after her, keeping his pistol trained behind and above them, while she searched for enemies ahead.
They were heading for the gangplank, one deck down at the aft end of the superstructure. That was their only real way off the ship. Diving off the side into the oil-stained harbor wasn’t an option not with armed men waiting above to pick them off while they were in the water.
Going off on the pier side would be even worse. That was a long way down. Jump far enough to hit the pier, and they risked breaking legs, arms, or their necks. Jump too short and they’d wind up in the drink anyway — only this time trapped in the shadowed space between the ship and the pier.
No, Thorn thought grimly, it was the gangplank — or nothing.
Helen Gray poked her head around the aft corner of the Star of the White Sea’s superstructure — straining to see the gangplank through the tangle of gear cluttering the freighter’s stern. There were four men standing close to it — all arguing excitedly. At least two had guns in their hands. She couldn’t see the others clearly enough to tell whether or not they were armed.
Before she could draw back into cover, one of them caught a glimpse of her movement and snapped off a shot. It whipcracked past, missing her face by about a foot.
“Shit!” Helen yanked her head around the corner of the superstructure and backed up fast.
“How many?” Peter asked urgently.
She held up four fingers, listening intently for the sound of feet clattering up the stairs toward them. If the bad guys were completely stupid and rushed them. she crouched lower still, aiming toward the corner. Eight rounds in the magazine, she decided. That ought to be enough.
They weren’t stupid.
Instead of men running, she heard only shouted commands in Russian — and then silence.
“We’ve got to move!” Peter whispered urgently in her ear.
It was hell having the same kind of counterterrorist training, without ever having worked as a team before, Helen thought.
Both of them were highly skilled in the combat arms and in close-quarters tactics. But they were each used to leading teams that had lived, practiced, and fought together long enough to know each other’s moves instinctively.
Helen rapidly ran their options through her mind. They were outnumbered by at least two to one. Given the disparity in numbers, constant movement was the best way to keep pressure on the bad guys — to make the bastards dance to their tune.
Staying on this deck was the worst option. That was “horizontal thinking” and too obvious. Combat in a built-up environment was often a lot like an aerial dogfight. Sometimes it paid to go vertical.
She glanced up at the third deck. Moving there would give them better visibility and better fields of fire. But it would also leave them more exposed — and it would limit their ability to maneuver. She shook her head. The day she treed herself was the day somebody could declare her brain-dead and pull the plug.
Helen looked down. Heading for the main deck would cut their fields of fire, but it would give them more running room. And that made it the best choice of all. Closerange firefights were the best matchup for the pistols they were carrying. She hadn’t seen any of the bad guys carrying long arms, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.
Peter arrived at the same conclusion in the same instant.
“Down to the main deck?” he suggested.
“Yeah,” Helen agreed impatiently. “I’m with you, Peter.”
“Never doubted it, Special Agent Gray.” Then he was up and running lightly back the way they’d come.
She came out of her crouch and followed after.
There were stairs leading down to the main deck right outside the hatch they’d come through. They took the stairs two at a time, staying as quiet as possible while moving as fast as possible.
They needed to put some distance between themselves and the place where she’d been spotted.
When they reached the forward end of the freighter’s superstructure, Helen could see an open deck stretching hundreds of feet toward the bow. Even with the forest of masts, winches, and other cargo-handling equipment, moving out there would leave them too exposed. It was a ready-made killing ground. Besides, she thought, their salvation — the gangplank-lay in the other direction.
Thorn eased around the forward corner of the superstructure carefully — scanning for any signs of movement on the deck ahead.
Nothing. With his left hand he signaled the all-clear to Helen and slipped ahead ? careful to stay close to the metal bulkhead.
His plan was simple. Head for the gangplank, eliminate anyone guarding it, and run like hell for the cover offered by the warehouses at the land end of the pier. Anything more complicated was likely to go wrong — especially since they knew so little about the ship’s layout and the people they were up against.
With his senses extended, and staying as low as possible, Thorn advanced a step at a time — listening, watching, trying to guess where the enemy might be lurking.
Nothing stirred. Nothing except the wind off the Barents Sea whining through the Star of the White Sea’s cargo cranes and radio antennas.
And the sound of water lapping around her hull. He frowned. They were trapped in a nightmare killing house scenario: fighting an unknown number of enemies on unfamiliar ground.
Something scraped against the metal above and ahead of them.
Thorn froze.
Another footfall came a second later. He flattened himself against the bulkhead, listening as the cautious, careful footsteps approached a point directly over his position. There were two men moving on the walkway above. Evidently they still expected to find their prey on the second deck. Not smart, he thought.
Thorn waited until the Russians were past his position and over Helen before moving. He swung around, tracking them by sound. If either of them leaned over the walkway railing, he’d have a good shot.
But he couldn’t wait for that. Fighting defensively wasn’t going to get them out of this jam. His hunter’s instinct told him to take these men down now — while he could catch them by surprise.
The only question was, how? Should-he make a deliberate noise to lure them into looking over the edge? He discarded that idea immediately.
If only one of the Russians fell for it, the other would be alerted, above them, and in a position to pin them down.
The need for speed pushed at him, too. There were at least two other gunmen hunting them. And what were they doing while he crouched here?
Helen was watching him, waiting for a signal.
Thorn spotted a fire hose coiled around a large metal bracket bolted to the bulkhead between them. The bracket looked strong enough to hold his weight. Perfect.
He pointed at the bracket, then at his foot, and finally toward the men above.
