handle. She twisted the knob of the dead bolt above it and flung open the door. Grabbing her remaining crutch, she crawled out, then hopped away from the building.
Before the door swung shut, she heard the gunman let out a wail from the pain of his fractured wrist. He scrambled off the desk to escape Pitt’s onslaught. Pitt could hear him stagger to his feet, but now he was beyond reach and out of sight. Knowing that Ann couldn’t move fast with her hurt ankle, Pitt pressed the attack to buy her more time. He dropped the crutch and hurled himself onto the desk, sliding across the spot where the guard had backpedaled seconds before.
Spinning as he slid, Pitt landed on his feet and took a step forward, blindly swinging his fist in an arc in front of him. His knuckles only grazed the jacket of the guard, who had stepped to Pitt’s left.
The guard countered with his good hand, striking a solid punch to Pitt’s shoulder.
Pitt recoiled and shook off the blow. He knew where his target was and he stepped forward with two quick strikes. He connected with both fists, barreling a left and a right into the guard’s chest. The man grunted as he staggered backward, tripping over a chair and clattering to the ground.
Pitt had no time to finish the attack. The hallway door flew open and the other gunman, alerted by the shooting, ran in. He scanned his flashlight across the room, hesitating on the guard’s fallen body before focusing on Pitt a few steps away.
Pitt reacted instantly, flinging himself back across the desk. The gunman tried to track his movements with the light while firing a snap shot, but the bullet went high.
Pitt slid off the desk and onto the floor, ducking out of the shooter’s sight. He wasted no time lying still, scurrying across the floor to the back wall. He bumped against the discarded crutch and plucked it up.
The gunman bolted after Pitt. The beam from his light bounced across the floor as he moved, gradually zeroing in on his prey.
But the light also illuminated the rear door, just a few feet beyond Pitt. Still crouching, he lunged for it, reaching for the handle a second before his torso slammed against the lower half of the door. He caught the handle and twisted, and his weight blasted the door open.
Halfway across the lab, the gunman raised his arm and fired three quick shots on the run. Pitt felt a sting in his leg as he yanked the crutch after him and slammed the door closed.
Springing to his feet, Pitt wedged the crutch’s arm pad beneath the door handle as a makeshift lock. It might give him an extra ten, maybe twenty seconds. But that still wouldn’t be enough. Somewhere in the darkness, Ann was hobbling about. He had to find her, and fast. They would both be sitting ducks for the gunmen, with their night vision goggles, once they exited the lab.
He scrambled toward their car, but then heard a motor cranking over nearby. It didn’t come from the road but down by the lake. Pitt spun in his tracks and ran for the water, thinking that they might just have a chance after all.
24
THE MOTOR RUMBLED TO LIFE, NOT THE TINNY whine from a compact rental car but the throaty gurgle of a powerboat. Pitt took off toward the dock, admiring Ann’s plan to escape in Heiland’s boat. For her part, it was simply easier to navigate downhill on her tender ankle, and the boat represented a closer target. With the keys already in her pocket, she had just prayed that she could get it started.
Inside the lab, the gunman found himself stymied by the back door. The aluminum crutch had pinned it closed, at least momentarily. The angered man shoved violently at it, finally bending the crutch until it slid from beneath the door handle and fell to the ground. Charging out the door, he turned toward the sound of the boat. He spotted the shadowy blur of Pitt running amid the shoreline trees and took off in pursuit.
Pitt was breathing hard, and his left leg ached, as he reached a gravel footpath that led to the lakefront. He could faintly make out the figure of Ann standing in the boat’s cockpit, looking in his direction. Having heard the crash of the lab door opening, he didn’t have to look behind him to know the gunman had no plans to let them get away.
“Cast off, Ann!” he shouted. “Don’t wait.”
Ann crawled onto the dock and untied the stern line, then limped over and released the bowline. She was sliding back into the passenger seat when Pitt pounded onto the dock.
As Pitt approached, he was surprised to see the boat was an old dual cockpit runabout, built of mahogany. Had there been sufficient light, he would have recognized it as an early 1940s Chris-Craft.
Not losing a step, Pitt crossed the dock and leaped into the rear cockpit. He bounded off the cushion and vaulted into the front pilot’s seat, jamming down the boat’s throttle. As he fell into the seat, the old boat charged away from the dock with a bellow from its vintage six-cylinder Chrysler engine.
“This was fast thinking,” he told Ann as he guided the boat away from shore.
“I was afraid you’d never make it out of there.”
He looked back at the dock to see the dark figure of the lead gunman charge onto the platform.
“Better get down!” Pitt yelled, spinning the wheel hard over.
The cockpit floor was spacious enough for both of them and they ducked beneath the cowl as the boat jutted left. Pitt reached up and eased back the wheel, letting the boat run blindly ahead.
His move had turned the boat parallel to shore as it sped across the lake, its occupants hidden from view. The gunman ran to the end of the dock and aimed at the pilotless craft, firing until his clip was empty.
The roar of the engine drowned out the gunshots, but Pitt detected several faint thumps when a few rounds struck the hull. He waited a minute, then popped his head up for a quick look. The dock was lost from view among the trees as the boat skittered toward shore. Pitt slid into the seat and bumped the wheel over to keep them in deep water. Once on course, he pulled Ann up beside him. With all focus on their escape, he had ignored the throbbing pain in his leg, and the sticky wetness that told him he was now bleeding.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “That was a little too close for comfort.”
“It would have been even closer if I hadn’t had your crutch handy. Sorry to leave you off balance.”
“I was so scared, I didn’t even think about my ankle. I just saw it was downhill to the dock and remembered I had the house keys in my pocket. Fortunately, the boat keys were also attached.”
She unconsciously rubbed her ankle, now noticing the pain.
“Where to now?” she asked.
The wheels of justice had already been turning in Pitt’s mind. “Simple,” he said. “We head them off at the pass.”
There was only one road out from Heiland’s cabin. Pitt knew the thieves would have to pass through Bayview to escape with the stolen documents. They could be stopped, but only if he and Ann got there first. It was a race that would depend on a seventy-year-old boat.
Though long in the tooth, Heiland’s Chris-Craft was no turtle. The Custom Runabout was fitted with the company’s Model M engine, which churned out 130 horsepower. The old speedboat was as stylish as she was speedy, featuring a varnished mahogany finish, dual cockpits, and a rakish “barrelback” stern. A desirable boat when it had left the Algonac, Michigan, factory in 1942, it was now a prized collectible for classic boat lovers.
The elegant boat cut easily through the waves as Pitt kept the throttle down, mustering full speed from its inboard engine. Although they had a healthy head start, Pitt knew the gunmen would be desperate to escape and could travel the road back at nearly twice the boat’s speed.
A star-filled sky gave him ample light, and he nudged the boat near the shoreline to trim the distance. After a few minutes of hard running, a wide inlet appeared on Pitt’s left, and he angled the boat into it. The lights of Bayview appeared off the bow, twinkling at the far end of the aptly named Scenic Bay. Pitt glanced toward the shoreline road but didn’t spot any headlights.
“How do we stop them?” Ann shouted.
Pitt had been ruminating on that question since they had cleared the dock. Sitting weaponless in a seventy- year-old boat with a woman who could barely walk did not give rise to many options. The obvious course of action would be to storm into the Navy facility and request help. But such an assault would more likely get them shot or
