Ghost Ship

He took stock of his position. He had no idea who he was, where he had come from, or why he was sitting in a rowboat with a dead — no, not just dead — murdered woman in some sort of medieval harbor. He had a suitcase, the contents of which he had no idea. Otherwise he was carrying nothing. He searched for a wallet or a cell phone — anything that might reveal some indication of who he was.

His hands stopped at a small metal handle, stashed in the groove beneath his shirt, in his lower back. He retrieved it.

And sighed heavily.

It was a Russian built Makarov semiautomatic handgun. Although how he knew that at a glance, he was terrified to find out.

Working on instincts, he opened the chamber and removed the magazine — there were two rounds missing.

“Good God!” He said out loud, his voice aghast with revulsion. “I killed her!”

The wooden rowboat stopped as its bow struck the sandy beach and sank into the shore.

He inserted the magazine into the chamber and stashed the weapon behind his back again. He reached down, picked up the suitcase again, stepped off the boat…

And froze.

A chill of fear passed over him like a shadow.

From the church, a priest fixed a powerful flashlight straight on him, and yelled, “Stop! In the name of God!”

Chapter Two

Andre Dufort’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man.

The man in the boat didn’t seem like a killer. He looked frightened and confused. Much less certain and confident than Dufort had been led to believe. For a moment he wondered whether or not he had the right man, but it was a small doubt. After all, no one would be rowing at three in the morning. Besides, he wasn’t paid to ask questions, he was paid to provide a service, for which he was uniquely qualified.

The stranger seemed trapped and panicked — making sudden and jarring movements. At this rate, the man would be lucky to reach the beach without falling in.

In contrast, Dufort was slow and precise with his movements. He had dark hair, kept well groomed, and a trim salt and pepper beard. He had a strong jaw, and defiant gray eyes. His skin was dark with a decidedly European appearance. He opened his carry bag and went through the purposeful movements of putting together the equipment of his trade.

He was perched on the crumbling rampart of the medieval castle, Castello di Vernazza, and had a clear view of the entire harbor. He stared through the scope of his Barrett Model 98B sniper rifle and tracked the man. The wind blew the small wooden rowboat to the shore, where the man quickly scrambled out.

Into his radio, Dufort ordered his team to wait until they had a clean shot at the man — or better yet, were in a position to take him in.

A moment later, a priest stepped out of the Santa Margherita d'Antiochia and, having spotted the woman’s body and the blood, had determined to challenge the man.

Spooked, the man froze for an instant, and then turned to run.

Dufort shouted into his mike, “He’s on the move! Take him out!”

He squeezed the trigger, sending a .338 Lapua Magnum round down the barrel at a speed of 3100 feet per second. The shot struck the sand directly behind the running man, sending an explosive spray of sand skyward.

A second shot fired before Dufort had the chance to squeeze the trigger again. It was from another sniper rifle. The shot had gone wide by about six feet, meaning that the owner either was a poor marksman or really far away.

The question was, who even knew he was there, let alone wanted to take a shot at him? The thought was unsettling.

Dufort still had a job to do.

He shifted his aim and fired a second round, but the man was already gone.

Chapter Three

He heard the snap of a rifle shot.

In a fraction of a second, his mind tried to compute all the information coming in and make a decision on his next move, concentrating on the most important questions. Where had the shot fired from? Who fired it? It wasn’t the priest. That was one thing. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to go on. There was no one else in sight across the harbor, toward the church, that placed his shooter from the opposite direction — most likely somewhere up on the ramparts of the old castle.

It wasn’t a lot to work with, but it was enough to act on before the next shot fired, which came almost an instant later — only this one came from the opposite direction, and unlike the first shot, which had nearly struck him, this one had obviously passed way over his head.

He ducked behind the safety of the multi-colored pastel terraces and started to run east, uphill along Via Visconti into the heart of the small coastal village.

He slowed for a moment to catch his breath. He was still holding the suitcase in his right hand. It suddenly seemed to stand out to him. It wasn’t leather. Instead it was metallic, kind of giving him the impression of the nuclear football — the same sort of thing someone carried around with the US president.