'Up there.' Hawke pointed with his flashlight. 'At the top of the steps.'
Another feral dog, this one bigger and blacker than the first, stared down at the two men below. Its eyes shone bright red in the gleam of Hawke's light. The animal's sharp snout was smeared with red blood. The blood was dripping down, spattering the stone steps below.
'Cain has been having a go at Abel,' Hawke said.
'What?' Congreve said, his focus riveted on the gleaming red eyes above.
'This one's been munching on his dead brother in the doorway,' Hawke said. 'The scent of blood must have drawn him in.'
'Alex, consider. Would you imagine there are many more of these wild dogs on the island?'
'Yes. They breed in the wild and they tend to run in packs.'
'How many more might be out there, would you suppose?'
'No idea,' Hawke said, pulling out his gun.
'How many rounds do you have left in your weapon?'
'One for this major bastard above. Five more for the rest.'
'I think it's high time we bid farewell to Mutton Island.'
'I agree,' Hawke said, raising his gun and shooting the menace at the top of the steps.
THEY WERE CROSSING ROCKY GROUND, nearing the boat when the wild dog pack began to appear. The first one came slinking out from behind the ruins of a small stone cottage. It followed them, loping along at a distance. Moments later it was joined by two more, racing up from behind. Hawke held the SIG Sauer, a round in the chamber, in his right hand. An expert marksman, he wasn't worried about hitting his targets. He was worried about having more targets than bullets.
'Alex?'
'I know. I saw them. Bummer. Walk faster but do it gradually. We're almost there.'
'Bummer?'
'Slang. Harry Brock talk for bad luck. He says it all the time. California, you know.'
'Ah, our old chum, Mr. Brock.'
Alex was conscious of movement on both sides, shadowy figures moving ever closer, stalking them.
'Slow down,' he said to Congreve. 'If they see you running, they'll attack.'
'You slow down if you want. I don't think we can outrun them.'
'I don't need to outrun them. I just need to outrun you.'
'Alex, if you think that is remotely humorous-'
A dog leaped out of the mist, directly in front of them. He launched himself at Ambrose going for his throat. Hawke fired instantly, and the dog dropped heavily to the ground, mewling in pain, literally a mere foot from Congreve's Wellies.
'Run hard for the boat,' he told Ambrose. 'Do it now. I'll lag behind. Dogs will go for the easy meat first, but it won't take them long to devour this one. Use this knife to slice the mooring line, then shove the boat into the surf. If another dog comes at you, go for his throat with the knife. Stab first, then rip with the saw blade, that's what it's for. But for God's sake, strike to kill. Shout when you're safely aboard.'
Congreve looked at the knife and said, 'I'm uncomfortable with knives, Alex. Always have been.'
'You have another choice. When the dog lunges at you, simply grab each of his forelegs in midair, grip them tightly, and rip his chest apart. It works; I've done it a few times with Chinese police dogs.'
'I'll take the knife.'
'I thought so. Now, go!'
Congreve didn't need encouragement. He raced ahead, the saw-toothed assault knife in his hand, soon disappearing into the heavy ground fog. He quickly reached the rocky beach and made his way carefully down the slippery boulders to the shaly beach below. The boat was right where they'd left it, although the flood tide was in a bit and she was almost afloat. That would make it much easier to shove her offshore to wait for Hawke.
He was about to use Hawke's assault knife to sever the mooring line when he heard a low growl from above. He whirled round just as the beast leaped from the rocks above, snarling like some demon out of hell. Congreve braced himself, instinctively raising the knife to protect himself, and, seeing that the animal's throat was exposed as it lunged, he thrust upward with the blade as the dog came down. Instead of withdrawing the knife, he did exactly as Hawke had instructed, almost decapitating the rabid beast in the process.
It fell to the ground at his feet, dead.
Ambrose, breathing heavily, simply stood and stared down at the corpse, hardly able to believe what he'd just done, with a knife of all things. It never failed to amaze him what human beings were capable of when they found themselves in extreme circumstances. Sheer instinct, and the will to live, had made even an overweight, middle- aged detective who smoked and drank too much a very formidable foe against a rabid dog.
HAWKE, PRAYING THAT WHAT LITTLE he remembered of canine behavior was correct, ran forward a hundred yards, turned, and dropped to one knee. He held his pistol in both hands, swinging it in a smooth arc from side to side, the adrenaline rush bringing all of his senses to the fore.
The dogs converged on the wounded animal, snarling, growling furiously, snapping at one another, all of them fighting for a piece of fresh meat and the taste of warm blood. Couldn't even count how many. Ten? Fifteen? More maybe.
It took about a minute for the first one to turn his attention away from the shredded animal on the ground and focus on Hawke. It approached cautiously at first, then broke into a lightning-fast run. Hawke waited until the beast got within twenty yards before he killed it.
He got to his feet and ran another hundred or so yards, before turning and dropping to his knee again, gun in both hands, becoming his enemy like he'd been trained to do: all eyes, all ears, all nose. Waiting. Half of the pack soon broke off and came for the freshly dead. Ignoring the man in the mist beyond, they went in for the quick feed.
Hawke made an instant decision. He had four rounds left in his weapon. He no longer had his knife, the one thing that could keep him alive. No matter what happened, he would kill three dogs as soon as they turned away and started for him. Keep that one last round in the chamber. Just in case. Run like hell for the boat as soon as he heard Ambrose's summons.
He didn't have to wait long.
Having devoured the last dead dog, the pack turned, sniffed the air, and started coming for Alex Hawke. They were cautious now, having learned something about their human prey from previous experience. They also fanned out, which made things far more difficult. The ground mist didn't help either. He flicked on his flashlight. It picked out all the red eyes.
Something about them, those terrible bobbing eyes and what they represented, death, made him feel more alive than he had felt since-since Stockholm. Since Anastasia Korsakova. Since he'd lost her. Since he'd lost his lust for life. Since he'd lost everything.
'Come on, you miserable bastards,' Hawke said through his gritted teeth. 'Come closer. I've got something for you.'
The dogs went from hazy apparitions in the fog, to stark black silhouettes with bouncing red rubies in their heads, to ferocious snarling animals who wanted desperately to kill and eat him. He sighted in on three. One in the middle of the pack, two on either side. He aimed and shot, one, two, three rounds cooked off, and three dogs went down.
The pack hesitated, saw what had happened, and went into a renewed feeding frenzy that reminded him of shark behavior. Brutal and fascinating, a wild dance of life and death that was almost hypnotic. He tore his attention away from the blood feast at the sound of Congreve's muffled voice in the mist.
'I'm aboard the boat! Do you hear me?'
Hawke jumped to his feet and surely ran as fast as he'd ever run in his life. One of the damn dogs elected to pester him, nipping at his bloody heels until he wheeled and shot the beast dead, expending his last bullet just as he reached the beach, splashing into the surf and diving over the gunwale of the little boat, bruising his shoulder when he hit the deck.
He got to his feet, wiped the stinging saltwater from his eyes, and smiled at Ambrose.
'Ahoy, Captain. Ensign Hawke reporting for duty.'
'Thank God. Start the engines and get us away from this accursed place.'
