Day of Wrath

The sailor slid the pistol into his pocket, produced a roll of duct tape, and took a step toward Thorn — the nearest of the three to him.

Colder than he’d ever been in his life, Koniev half turned to look at Helen and the American colonel. They looked surprised, angry, and somewhat baffled. But did they truly understand the peril they faced?

Tumarev’s brutal, dismissive “not here” could have only one meaning.

Koniev breathed out, his thoughts suddenly reaching toward his older brother. Their parents were dead. And now perhaps Pavel would be left all on his own. The possibility of that pierced him with regret, but there were no options left no other doors to open. He must act. Or none of them would make it out of here alive.

Flatfooted, Koniev launched himself across the desk — straight at Tumarev. He was counting on surprise, on doing something totally unexpected. He was also counting on the fact that a bullet would have to hit something vital to kill him quickly. With luck, he could give Helen and Peter Thorn a chance to react.

Thorn exploded into action — spinning to the left, poised for a round kick with his right leg. He glimpsed Helen moving at the same time, whirling toward the darkhaired sailor who’d brought them here from the gangplank.

Three deafening gunshots erupted — two in rapid succession, the third a split second later.

His foot missed its intended target — slamming into the blond sailor’s hip instead of his stomach — but the kick still had enough energy to knock the man down. The roll of tape skittered away across the steel deck.

Thorn threw himself across the sailor, pinning one arm. He chopped down hard twice — aiming for the man’s exposed throat.

Something crunched on the second blow, and he saw the sailor’s eyes widen in horror.

The man suddenly stopped fighting and gasped, struggling desperately for oxygen that couldn’t get through the larynx Thorn had smashed. His arms and legs quivered as he flopped on the deck like a dying fish tossed into the bottom of a boat.

Another pistol shot rang out.

Thorn crouched low as the round whined over his head, ricocheting off the metal bulkhead in a shower of sparks. Jesus! His hands tore through the dying sailor’s clothing. Where the hell was Koniev’s Makarov?

There. His hand closed around the shape of the pistol inside a jacket pocket. He tugged frantically, feeling the cloth give way.

Yet another gunshot erupted behind him.

Come on! Come on! Thorn worked the slide — chambering a round. He rolled, bringing the Makarov up, looking for a target.

The darkhaired sailor Helen had attacked was down — lying twisted and broken on the deck. He rolled further … Too late he saw Tumarev swinging toward him, weapon in hand.

Three more shots cracked out — one right after the other. One round slammed into the freighter captain’s chest. The second hit him in the throat. The third caught him in the forehead.

His face a red, ruined mask, Tumarev fell back and slid down behind his desk. He left a trail of blood smeared across the metal bulkhead.

Helen Gray lowered the Tokarev pistol she’d seized, breathing hard.

She checked the room swiftly. Nobody was moving. Nobody but Peter.

They exchanged glances, unspoken communications that said “We’re both all right,” before simultaneously turning to Alexei Koniev.

The young Russian lay slumped over Tumarev’s desk. Two separate red patches covered most of his back. Oh, God … Helen moved toward him, aware of Peter doing the same thing. They each took an arm, turned Koniev over, and gently laid him on the deck. She knelt beside him, cradled his head, and pressed her fingers to his neck — searching for a pulse.

“He’s gone, Helen,” Peter said grimly.

His voice seemed far away, and Helen realized she’d known there was no pulse for some time — only a minute, probably, but it seemed much longer.

Still cradling Koniev’s head, she looked down at his chest and saw the dark red ruin where two bullets had struck him, spaced only inches apart. A third opening, this one an ugly exit wound, showed where the darkhaired sailor had shot him in the back while he struggled with Tumarev. That bullet should have been fired at her, she knew.

Alexei Koniev had bought them time with his own life.

She stared down at the young Russian major. Why had he done it? He must have known the price he would have to pay.

She heard Peter searching the compartment, gathering weapons and spare clips. She looked up.

Peter was right to force his emotions to the side for now. They were still in danger. If they survived, she would have time to mourn later.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to let her grief over Koniev’s death go, to close it off for a while longer.

Helen fought for control, and took a deep breath.

As she stood up, Peter came over to her and pulled out a handkerchief.

Taking her face in one careful hand, he tenderly wiped her cheeks dry.

She hadn’t even known she was crying.

Then he offered her Koniev’s 5.45mm Makarov and two spare magazines.