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Poliakoff turned to Bako. “First you want to stay and then you want to abandon our men? Who’s the coward now?”
Bako pulled a pistol from inside his coat and fired.
Poliakoff’s face seemed astonished. He looked down at the front of his white shirt, where a red bloodstain was blossoming quickly. His eyes acquired a faraway look, and the next swell arrived to rock the yacht and toppled him onto the deck.
Bako snatched Poliakoff’s radio from the deck, pressed the talk button, and shouted, “Take evasive action. Get this boat out to sea now.”
“Sir?” said the captain. “Mr. Poliakoff said—”
“Poliakoff’s dead. He’s been hit. Get going!” As Bako turned, he seemed to notice Étienne Le Clerc again. Le Clerc saw his expression and tried to run for the bridge, but Bako fired three more times, and Le Clerc lay dead. At least there would be no witness.
From the bridge the captain could see that most of the able-bodied men were aboard now, and he knew the others would only be extra trouble. He could also see that if he was going to make a run for it, he’d have to do it before the first police boat brought a boarding party. He shifted to forward and pushed the throttle. The big engines roared into life and the yacht surged forward, leaving a gurgling wash behind it, the twin propellers projecting water into the void behind the stern. As the stern swung about, he heard shouts from men either shaken from the sides of the yacht or chopped by the propellers, but he couldn’t help that now. The yacht gained speed, leaving one lifeboat swamped and the other drifting sideways into the surf.
When the Ibiza began to move, the captain of the Mazatlan saw it and had a small vision of the near future. If the Coast Guard and police had been fooled long enough to let the Ibiza pass them to open ocean, they would not ignore the Mazatlan. They would have twice the ships and men to devote to preventing the Mazatlan and every man aboard from escaping. And then they would blame every crime committed by anyone on the highest-ranking man they had caught, the captain. He shifted his engines into forward gear and hit the throttle. The Mazatlan surged forward, just as the Ibiza had.
There was a loud amplified voice coming from one of the Coast Guard vessels. He knew it was a warning of the “Stop or we’ll shoot” variety and he welcomed it. The more time they wasted shouting into microphones, the less time they’d have for taking action. He pushed the throttle all the way forward, picking up more speed each second. Those Coast Guard cutters probably had a top speed of twenty-five knots. The Mazatlan could do sixty. He yelled to his helmsman, “Cut all lights!”
* * *
FROM THE ROOF of the house on Goldfish Point, Sam and Remi watched the yachts, police boats, and Coast Guard vessels. The two yachts sped toward the open sea at incredible speed, roaring out at different angles, one toward the northwest, the other toward the southwest. “They’re not taking your advice,” said Remi. “They’re running.”
“Big mistake,” said Sam.
The two police boats fired first with small arms set on full auto. Sam and Remi could see the prolonged muzzle flashes, at least four on each boat, peppering the two yachts as they pursued them.
The two Coast Guard cutters remained in position. A trail of reddish sparks soared into the sky from one of them, and it looked as though the fireworks had begun again. The
re was a flash, but it didn’t go away. A military flare hung in the sky, lighting the air above the vessels almost like sunlight.
Sam and Remi watched as the deck guns on the two Coast Guard vessels swung about to aim, then fire. The first two shots took away part of the bow of the Ibiza. The third tore into its hull just aft of center and seemed to hit the fuel tank. The deck rose into the air, releasing a fireball that billowed upward and then settled into a large pool of burning gasoline. The gasoline burned brightly, consuming even the parts that had been blown off into the water.
A second later, the bow of the Mazatlan dug into the water as the yacht was hit below the bridge. Forward motion stopped, and something big, perhaps one of the engines, tore free and rolled through the yacht, tearing it apart. Then there were five secondary explosions, which left nothing floating on the surface.
“It looks as though they hit the ammo supply,” said Remi.
The smaller, nimbler police boats moved in quickly, sweeping the ocean near the surf with spotlights. There was no life near the capsized lifeboats. The Coast Guard vessels sent out launches to the wreckage of the Mazatlan and Ibiza. Sam and Remi watched them circle the burning spots on the ocean, then crisscross the area, but there were no survivors to pull out of the sea. They had all been shot, blown to pieces, burned, or drowned.
* * *
SAM AND REMI CLIMBED down the ladder from the roof into Sam’s closet to find Zoltán still standing there, watching to be sure nobody else came up after them. Remi knelt beside the big dog and hugged him. “If it weren’t for you, I never would have made it into the house, Zoltán. I’d be heading back to Russia in a barrel. Thank you for being so brave and loyal.”
Sam petted Zoltán and whispered in his ear, “Jo fiu. Good boy.”
They heard the voices of Selma, Pete, and Wendy calling to them. “Sam! Remi! The police! There must be hundreds of them. They’re here.”
“Oh, darn,” said Remi. “We wanted the police to be a surprise.”
Sam looked around. “We’re going to have to practically rebuild this place from scratch.”
“Draw the contractors a picture,” said Remi. “Maybe while they’re working on it we can give the others a vacation, take Zoltán down to Louisiana with us, and do some more salvage archaeology for Ray. We promised him some help when we left.”
“Sure,” said Sam. “What could happen to people on an archaeological site?”
* * *