Elna pulled herself into the boat, even as bullets continued to sizzle in the air. She dragged herself over the gunwale and flopped onto the deck. She heard the sound of the anchor chain, the flap of the mast. As she crawled toward the cabin, the whole boat continued to tilt dangerously to port.
“Starboard side, guys,” Raymond shouted. “We’re tipping!”
Elna lifted her head, saw water sloshing about just in front of her. Suddenly, one of the deck planks cracked as a bullet hit it. She was sliding to port as the whole boat continued to tilt ever farther, so she reached out, trying to grab something, anything. Finally, her hand clamped down on Prig’s boot. Prig reached down, grabbed her under the arm, and dragged her to the starboard side of the deck.
The boat was unsteady now. She could feel its movement in the whipping wind. Water sloshed back in the other direction, splashing against her. She finally rose to her knees and reached back toward the bench beside the tiller. Malin sitting on the bench across from Raymond, both of the full packs in his lap.
Spence took a final shot, unleashed a wordless cry at the shore, and jammed the gun into his holster. As the echo of the scream faded, a tense quiet descended. No more shooting from the shore, scarcely a sound from those on the boat. Elna dared to raise her head and look back to the beach. Three bodies were sprawled out on the slope. One of them was Rod Smith. She knew the shape of the man, the build. The other guards had apparently retreated.
That Rod should come to such an ignominious end was strange to her. Tipped forward like a domino after his many guards had failed to stop three Marines and two civilians from infiltrating his camp.
“My God,” Malin whispered, like a prayer. It was all he said—all he needed to say.
Elna took a seat at his feet, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Spence had slumped down on the deck. He had a fierce look on his face, teeth bared, head down, eyes gazing coldly from the deep well beneath his brow. Prig was still, silent, a calm expression on his face, as if he’d seen this kind of thing many times before. He leaned back against the starboard gunwale, set his pack and rifle beside him, and crossed his arms over his chest.
They were well on their way across the bay, the causeway just visible as a purple ghost-shape off to their left, before anyone spoke. It was Raymond, who had been quietly operating the tiller.
“We took damage,” he said to no one in particular. “Better check the hull when we get back. It got hit at least a few times. And we’ll need to repair the sail.”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Elna replied. The stress of the day had settled like a hard knot low in her belly. She felt all kinds of awful, actually, strange physical discomforts in every part of her body, as if she’d somehow fried her nervous system. “If we can just get back to the island, we’ll deal with all of that later.”
“Yes, yes, of course, señora…I mean, Elna,” he said.
She glanced at the hole in the deck, the cracked wood around it. Had it gone all the way through? Was the boat taking on water? It seemed possible.
Just get us home, she thought. Just get us home.
18
Malin was done. Absolutely done. He didn’t want to see that stupid, squalid militia camp ever again. He didn’t want to step foot on the mainland, trade shots with bad guys, or run any missions. He’d had his fill for one lifetime, and his whole body tingled from the aftermath of their latest harrowing escapade. The image of Archer floating on the water with a bullet wound in her back would intrude into his thoughts and bad dreams for a long time, he knew.
Was it worth it? he wondered. They’d traded Golf for Archer, essentially—a life for a life—killed a bunch of guards and terrified some poor, miserable civilians along the way. Was it worth it? He didn’t know the answer to that question. But, of course, Golf had the bunker codes, didn’t he? Maybe that was all that mattered to Staff Sergeant Prig in the end.
Malin helped Raymond bring the sloop in along the fishing dock, though they scraped the side of the deck in the process. Then Malin climbed over and tied the boat off to one of the corner posts of the handrail. It would have to do.
Spence and Prig carried the injured Marine. The guy looked like he was in bad shape. His face was all misshapen and bruised, one eye swollen shut, his cheeks puffed out, his lips split. It seemed like the militiamen had worked him over with a baseball bat. As they lugged him onto the deck, he grunted in pain, but he seemed remarkably patient with all the rough handling.
“Just take him up to the guesthouse,” Elna said. “Don’t wait for us. Find Dr. Ruzka or Selene. They’ll tend to his wounds.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Prig said.
Golf put one arm around Prig, the other around Spence, and they took off at a jog up the road. By the time Elna, Malin, and Raymond had carried the packs onto the fishing dock, the Marines were halfway up the hill.
“Those guys have way too much energy,” Malin noted. “Do they ever get tired?”
“I think they get tired, but they keep going anyway,” Raymond said. He had stooped down to examine the exit hole of a bullet on the starboard
