The Cheetah had located Woody by the auto beacon. They had taken him on board, planning to let the helicopter evacuate him. The navigator had removed the tape from his mouth and had cleared out his eyes and ears as best he could and given him morphine-for his broken hands. They had to wait for the family to hit the water, and they’d send Woody along with them to safety.
Minutes after securing Woody they picked up the signal as Laura, Reb, and Brooks hit the water. They called for the chopper to come in and evacuate Woody as they made for the signals being sent by the transmitters in the Mae Wests.
Thorne and Kurt had been in a Mexican standoff for ten long minutes when the boat found them. Thorne, still in his life vest, had been holding his pistol on Kurt to keep him at bay. Kurt was armed with a folding knife, sure Martin would corne back for him. The dark-green boat materialized beside him, startling him. Instinctively, he reached for the grenade on his belt.
The side door on the Cheetah opened. The navigator and Laura reached down and helped Thorne climb inside.
“Move it!” Thorne yelled at Kurt from the clamshell door.
“Fuck you!” Kurt yelled back. The rain had stopped, and Kurt heard the giant Sikorsky approaching low and from the south. He had to do something fast. He pulled the grenade free, held it up over his head, and pulled the pin while he kicked to remain above the surface.
Thorne fired twice as Kurt reared his arm back for the toss, and once as the arm came forward. The first two bullets went high, splashing ten yards behind his head.
Then he loosed the grenade, aiming for the open door.
Thorne’s next shot hit Steiner full in the neck. He slipped under the dark surface without giving up so much as a bubble.
The grenade had been high. It hit the door’s edge and bounced along the sloping roof, exploding as it rolled off the stem.
When the grenade went off, the pilot shouted, “What the fuck was that?” A red light on the console began flashing.
“Grenade,” Thorne said.
“Props are damaged,” the navigator said. He lifted his microphone. “Duster One, this is Cheetah, do you read?”
“Affirmative, Cheetah. We’re right behind you.”
“We’re dead in the water. Need you to evacuate four souls, and we’ll need a surface tow as soon as you can arrange it.”
“Roger that.”
The navigator looked at the screen. “Sir,” he said. “We got a blip. The Cigarette is closing on us at sixty-nine knots.”
“Duster One, we’re ready when you are.”
“Prepare your souls for a ride in the basket. Be advised we have the Shadowfax at zero-zero-one degrees and a quarter mile and eight knots steady. Be advised a second vessel is closing from zero-ninety.”
Then the chopper was above them, the basket already hanging below its open door, two white helmets visible.
“Cheetah, this is Shadowfax.” A voice came in over the receiver speakers.
“Please identify,” the pilot said.
But Laura and Thorne knew the voice. “It’s Martin,” she said, fear filling her eyes.
“Cheetah, Cheetah, this is Shadowfax. Bang, you’re dead.”
Then, as they watched in horror, the sailboat appeared out from the curtain of rain like a ghost ship making a beeline for their bow.