Day of Wrath

Helen shook her head quickly, fighting back more tears. “You keep it.”

She picked up the pistol she’d used to kill Tumarev. Three shots there plus the bullet the darkhaired sailor had fired at Koniev added up to three 7.62mm rounds left in the magazine and one in the chamber. Not enough. She tore it out and snapped in a fresh magazine.

Some people would have called the Tokarev she carried a piece of obsolescent junk. It was single-action, not double, and it didn’t have a real safety — just the half-cocked hammer. Still, she’d scored three-for-three with it against that son of a bitch Tumarev.

And right now, that made this pistol the sweetest piece of hardware she’d ever fired.

Peter handed her three extra magazines and watched as she tucked them in her jacket pocket. “Ready?”

Helen nodded.

He grimaced. “We’ve got to get off this damned ship and get the militia out here, pronto.”

True, she thought. Staying put meant ceding the initiative to any bad guys left outside the cabin. It was high time to get out of this blood-soaked rat pit. “You think the whole crew’s in on this thing?”

Peter shook his head, more in puzzlement than disagreement.

“I dunno anything for sure right now.” He prodded one of the dead sailors with his foot. “But somehow I don’t think we’re going to have an easy stroll back out to the pier. Whoever planned this wants us dead real bad.”

Helen joined him near the door to the passageway. She glanced back at Koniev’s body, then turned away.

“The feeling’s mutual,” she said grimly.

Thorn took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, readying both his mind and body for instant action.

Now.

In one smooth motion, he pulled the door open, ducked forward, scanned the passage, and then pulled his head back in.

Nothing. He glanced at Helen. “Clear.”

She nodded tightly, holding her pistol ready in both hands.

Thorn glided out into the corridor, keeping low. It ran straight aft to a door standing wide open into the sunshine. Helen followed right behind him, sliding off to the other side.

Feet clattered on the metal stairs leading up from the main deck. A man’s head and shoulders appeared in the open door.

“Watch left!” Thorn warned softly. He dropped into a shooting stance, but kept his finger off the trigger. Years of Delta Force training had taught him the art of discriminate shooting. The guy coming up the stairs could be anyone — all the way from the ship’s cook to a Russian militia officer. Instead, he focused on the man, quickly noting a shaggy haircut, a dark leather jacket, and a thin, pale face.

Halfway up the stairs, the stranger spotted them in the passageway and called out something in rapid-fire Russian. Something about wanting to know where “Kleiner” was, Thorn thought — wishing his own Russian were good enough to give him an answer.

Suddenly the pale-faced man got a better look at them. He froze for a single instant, then turned, and dropped back down the stairs out of sight.

“Well, that was useful,” Helen remarked dryly.

They came to a junction. A second passageway crossed theirs, running across the ship with doors to the port and starboard — both closed.

Thorn hesitated. “Portside’s the way out,” he suggested.

“And probably the first place they’ll be waiting for us,” Helen countered.

“Good point.”

They turned the corner into the second corridor.

Helen reached the starboard door first. It was a heavy metal watertight hatch opened by a long handle connected to clamps on both sides. Pull the handle and the clamps would unlatch.

They would also make noise. A lot of noise.

She stopped, pressing her ear against the door and testing the handle.

Thorn controlled the urge to tell her to throw it open, to get moving.

He had to trust Helen’s judgment. He put one hand on the metal wall of the corridor. Shit. He could feel the vibration made by running feet.

“We’ve got company,” he said quietly, already starting back toward the intersection.

The portside door flew open — revealing another man, this one in grease-stained overalls. He held a pistol in his right hand.

Thorn dropped to one knee and took rapid aim — still holding his fire.

Was this one of the bad guys or just somebody investigating all the shooting?

The sailor’s eyes opened wide. His pistol swung up.

Bad choice, Thorn thought coldly. He squeezed the trigger once, then again. Hit by both rounds, the gunman folded over and flopped onto the deck-half in and half out of the door.

He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Helen had the starboard hatch open now, and she was scanning the outside of the ship.

A voice called something from the aft. Maybe a name? Or maybe an order?

Thorn couldn’t tell. He felt more footsteps through the freighter’s metal skin.

“The natives are getting restless, Helen,” he said bluntly.

“I can hear,” she shot back. “Don’t rush me.”

All of Thorn’s instincts told him to move and move fast, before they were cornered. The two shots he’d just fired had echoed throughout the entire ship.