it,” Gail said. She climbed the ladder as quickly and as quietly as she could, yet again keenly aware that she was exposing herself in a progression from the head down.
There he was! “I’ve got him,” Gail said.
The man she’d spotted was just a few feet away from the door to the wheelhouse and sprinting toward it.
“Stop! Don’t make me shoot.” If he got to the wheelhouse—if he got anywhere—he could gain an advantage. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
Gail brought her rifle to her shoulder and gave the runner one last chance. “Stop!”
If anything, he sped up.
Gail settled her front sight on a spot between the man’s shoulder blades and fired. Fired again.
The man faltered with the impact of the first bullet, and the impact of the second appeared to propel him through the opening and out of sight.
“I hit him,” she said.
“Is he dead?” Jonathan asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Approach cautiously.”
Gail didn’t bother to respond to that. Again, the biggest threat at this second—especially since shots had been fired—was the approach of previously unknown and uninvolved crewmen who had just been alerted.
She kept low and advanced in a scissor-step as she crossed the deck toward the open door to the wheelhouse, scanning in a continuous arc for additional targets.
“He’s on the radio!” Jonathan announced in her ear. “Goddammit, he’s on the radio. Kill him.”
Gail picked up her pace. Still with no targets to shoot, she closed the distance to the wheelhouse door and swung inside.
There he was, on the floor, bleeding from a hole in his belly, a bloody microphone clutched in his fist. No more than twenty years old, and maybe 130 pounds soaking wet, he jumped when he saw her, and threw the crimson-streaked mic onto the deck.
“Don’t shoot!” he said in heavily-accented English. “Please don’t kill me.”
Gail’s finger caressed her trigger, but she hesitated. “Who are you?”
“My name is Harm,” he said. He winced against a wave of pain. “Harm Mohren. I am Dutch. I am not with them.”
“Why are you here?”
“Please help me. I have been shot.”
“I know,” Gail said. “I’m the one who shot you.”
“For God’s sake, Gail, what are you doing?” Jonathan said. She could tell from the effort in his voice that he was running.
She pulled her Bluetooth from her ear and slipped it into her pocket. “Answer me,” she pressed, moving closer. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
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