The pirate wasn’t going to let him. He came closer, swinging the hefty blade. Chase jumped back, bringing the wok up like a shield. Another swipe, aiming for Chase’s hand. Metal clashed against metal - and the wok’s bowl broke off the handle to hit the floor with a hollow bong.
He retreated, throwing the handle at the pirate’s face. The man swatted it away, then gripped the cleaver with both hands as they circled each other. Chase bumped against a bench, knocking over a plastic bottle of cooking oil. The glutinous liquid blurped out, spattering on the floor.
The pirate swung.
Chase threw himself backwards, the tip of the blade ripping his shirt across his left pectoral before it struck a metal pole supporting the roof, hacking clean through it at a steep angle. The top half of the pole clanged to the floor, the roof creaking.
Men rushed through the open door—
Chase flipped the plastic bottle at the naked flame of the gas hob.
The oil ignited, the bottle bursting open and showering liquid fire across the kitchen. The pirates who had just entered were engulfed, hideous screams filling the room as they staggered blindly in a futile attempt to escape the searing fat.
But the sudden inferno reached Chase too as it spread to the spilled oil on the floor. His dark jeans were still wet from his swim, but the fire leapt up to light the drops of splattered grease on his clothes. ‘Oh, shit!’ he gasped, jumping back and swatting at his burning leg. He bumped against the hanging carcass, setting it swinging.
The pirate with the cleaver took another swipe, forcing him back towards the blaze. Chase was now cut off from the door, and his opponent was between him and the nearest window. The dead goat caught fire. He flinched away as it swung back and forth, looking for an opening, a weapon. Nothing. The pirate advanced, flames reflecting dully from the cleaver’s blade as he pulled it back for another strike—
Chase plunged his hand into the carcass and spun it round, a shield of meat and bone. The cleaver hacked deep into the dead animal with a crack of breaking ribs. He felt intense heat on the back of his head as his hair started to burn, but held firm as he slammed the flaming goat into the other man’s face and knocked him backwards, jolting the cleaver from his grip.
A
He jumped up. The pirate also recovered, looking much less confident without his weapon. Seeing a chance, Chase ran at him.
The other man grabbed the severed length of metal pole and whipped it up like a baseball bat. Chase raised an arm just in time to protect his head from the blow, but still took a jarring hit to the elbow.
The pirate swung again. The pole whacked against Chase’s kneecap. He stumbled and fell. Before he could recover, another fierce strike smashed painfully down across his back. Powerful hands seized him by the throat.
Thumbs dug into his neck, choking him. The pirate hauled him round to look him in the eye, triumph clear in his expression as he tried to crush Chase’s windpipe—
Chase clapped both his cupped hands hard against the pirate’s ears, rupturing his eardrums. The pressure on his throat disappeared as the pirate screamed - but Chase didn’t let go, gripping the other man’s head and yanking it sharply downwards.
On to the broken end of the support pole.
The sharp spike of metal pipe stabbed straight through the pirate’s eye socket and punched into his skull.
‘You’ll need more than an eyepatch to cover that,’ Chase told the dead man as he stood. The fire had spread to the walls and ceiling, the shack being consumed around him.
The only exit was one of the windows. He jumped through it, landing on the waterfront walkway.
Two men on the jetty saw him. Opened fire.
Chase ran past the burning shack as bullets ripped into it, blazing splinters spraying out in his wake. Ahead was the covered dock at the edge of the settlement. If he ran into the darkened jungle, an environment in which he had plenty of survival and combat experience, he should be able to escape the pirates - but that would give Latan a chance to escape and warn his paymaster . . .
The option was removed as someone fired at him from the treeline. The surviving pirates had spread out to form a perimeter, trapping him inside. Latan, thinking tactically. The pirate leader wasn’t fleeing, but had organised his forces to catch the man who had attacked and humiliated him.
More shots, more shouts. They were closing, hounds after the fox.
‘When I said run, I meant
‘They found the boat!’ Bejo gasped. More bullets seared past. The only place they could go was into the dock. Chase crashed through the double doors, slamming them shut behind himself and Bejo. The planks would provide no protection against bullets, but at least they would be out of sight for a few seconds.
Bejo turned in a rapid, panicked circle. ‘Oh, very bad, very very bad! What do we do?’
The cruiser was tied up in front of them. Chase looked to its bow.
The .50-cal—
He grabbed the handrail and jumped up. The ammo belt was still hanging from the machine gun, but it was almost spent, maybe twenty rounds remaining.
He heard movement outside, Latan bellowing instructions as the pirates ran to the doors.
Chase looked frantically round. There was a toolbox on the deck, a ball of twine amongst its contents. He snatched it up and tied the end to the Browning’s trigger, then looped it round the rear grip before running to the side of the boat. ‘Bejo! Get in the water!’
A splash from below - then the doors crashed open. Pirates rushed in, AKs at the ready . . . as Chase plunged into the water, pulling the twine as he fell.
The Browning swung towards the door and roared, eating through the remaining bullets in less than four seconds.
It was more than enough. The storm of lead swept across the dock, the force of the .50-cal at point-blank range literally explosive. The men were practically vaporised, limbs flying, heads exploding like watermelons stuffed with dynamite.
The machine gun ran dry, the last links of the spent ammo belt tinkling to the deck. The sound of chunks of the pirates hitting the ground was considerably wetter.
Chase surfaced, peering over the dock as a headless body slumped to its knees and keeled over in front of him. Bejo popped out of the water, gasping. He was surprised by the sudden lack of a threat. ‘What happened to the pirates, Mr Eddie?’
‘They’re in pieces of eight.’ Bejo was about to climb on to the dock when Chase stopped him. ‘You don’t want to look up there.’ He pointed at the dock’s open end. ‘Swim out that way and wait for me.’
Climbing out, he took in the rest of the scattered, splattered bodies, feeling absolutely no sympathy or remorse - not after what the pirates had done to the people aboard the
Someone was still alive, though, a quavering voice calling out. Latan. But his anger and arrogance was gone, replaced by shock. When Chase picked up a fallen AK-47, the pirate leader turned and fled.
Chase pursued. Latan was heading for the RIB. Chase went round the other side of the flaming kitchen on to the walkway, running to intercept him at the jetty—
A thick arm lashed out from round the corner of a shack, clotheslining Chase to the floor. The big, scar-faced man scowled down at him.
Chase raised the AK, but the pirate kicked it from his hand, then drove his heel down into the Englishman’s stomach. Chase groaned. The man lifted his foot, about to stamp on his head, but Chase grabbed it and twisted hard to throw him off balance. The pirate staggered back into the shadowed, overgrown gap between the shacks, almost tripping over the tree stump.
Chase heard the whine of a starter motor. Latan had reached the RIB. Clutching his aching stomach, he got up, seeing the dull line of the steel cable he had earlier secured round the stump.
Scarface saw it too, and immediately realised what Chase had done. He shouted a warning, but the RIB’s
