Day of Wrath

There! Helen saw the gunman. He was on the seconddeck catwalk, lying prone behind a stanchion. She frowned. With only part of one hand and his head exposed, the Russian was a difficult target. She fired again, mentally counting off her shots.

Two more were left in the magazine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Peter lifting his head above the equipment locker, trying to spot the man who had her pinned down.

Five meters from the gangplank, Mischa Chabenenko lay flat behind a metal fitting on the rusty steel deck. He saw the American man rise slightly, looking up toward the superstructure towering above — toward Yuri’s firing position.

Chabenenko felt his heart pounding. Sweat trickled down his forehead and puddled under his arms. This was supposed to have been an easy job — a piece of cake. Instead it had all gone wrong.

Kleiner, the German bastard who’d masqueraded as Captain Tumarev, was dead. And so were most of his comrades — all of them killed by these two Americans. Except for that gutless worm, Rozinkin, already on his way back to Moscow, Yuri and he were the only ones left.

All he’d been told was that the two Americans and an MVD major were poking their noses into places they should not be.

And that the vor, Larionov, wanted them stopped — permanently.

Chabenenko muttered an oath under his breath. Someone should have checked into just who they were trying to stop.

What should he do? It would be easy to let the Americans escape, he knew. All he had to do was just stay in hiding here, let them get clear, and then flee down the gangplank himself. He might have a slim chance of making it safely back to Moscow before the militia picked up his trail.

But then he’d have to answer to the vor.

A bead of sweat rolled down his nose and dripped onto the deck. Felix Larionov did not tolerate failure. Or cowardice.

Chabenenko shook his head. He’d rather take a bullet here than die screaming under the Lariat’s knife. Besides, if he could just take these two, he and Yuri would share the pay once meant for eight.

Driven by fear and greed, he took careful aim, centering his pistol sights on the American man’s head. He pulled the trigger.

Superheated air tore at Peter Thorn’s face as a slug screamed past, only an inch away — way too close. He dropped back behind the locker.

Shit! There was a second shooter out there, near the gangplank — one he couldn’t see.

The gunman above them fired again.

Helen screamed — a terrible, rising wail that tore at his soul.

He whirled around, expecting to see her writhing in agony on the deck.

So did the Russian who’d been shooting at her. He poked his head further out from behind the stanchion — trying to see whether the woman he’d hit needed a second bullet to finish her off.

Instead, Helen still knelt there, perfectly poised and aiming for the upper deck. She fired twice, coolly paused, and then snapped a fresh magazine into her weapon.

She glanced at Thorn and nodded contemptuously toward the upper deck.

He followed her nod and saw the gunman’s shattered head lying cocked at an odd angle over the edge of the catwalk.

Thorn swallowed hard, forcing his breathing back to a normal pace.

She’d scared the hell out of him with that stunt. Another bullet tore across the top of the metal locker he was using for cover, reminding him that at least one of their enemies was still alive and fighting.

Helen rolled in beside him. “Spotted the guy. He’s close to the gangplank — about four or five meters back, behind some kind of rusted-out fitting.”

Thorn ran through the memory of what he’d seen before the latest round of shooting started and nodded. He knew the spot she was talking about. Remembering the round that had nearly taken his head off, he frowned. They didn’t dare move forward.

This Russian was too good a shot to risk rushing him.

But they couldn’t wait here indefinitely. If there were any more bad guys left alive aboard the Star of the White Sea, huddling behind this metal locker was a good way to wind up getting shot in the back.

The gunman fired again.

Why? Thorn wondered. Neither he nor Helen had offered him a target.

So why was he still shooting? Was he trying to keep them pinned here long enough for his friends to close the net?

Another steeljacketed round punched into the equipment locker.

Thorn suddenly realized the Russian was firing at fairly steady intervals — once every several seconds, almost in a pattern. Acting instantly, he rose above the locker with his pistol braced in both hands, aiming just above the metal fitting — right where the shooter would be … now!

He had the fleeting impression of a pale white face, an open mouth, a dark gun.

Thorn fired three times in rapid succession, holding the Makarov down and on target as it bucked upward.

Hit at least twice, the gunman slumped over the fitting. His pistol clattered to the deck. Blood pooled beneath the dead man, blending with the rust, grease, and dirt coating the steel surface.

Silence fell over the corpse-strewn freighter. Nothing moved.