Page 100 of One Minute Out

One of the Greek guards came out of the saloon, looked around, and then spun away as he spoke into his walkie-talkie. Verdoorn noted the mannerisms of this man, and when a second one of Kostas’s force came running up the main deck, himself showing worry and purposefulness, the South African grabbed him by the arm. “What is the problem?”

In English the guard said, “One of our men. We no can find.”

Jaco had his pistol out of his coat an instant later, and he looked to Dr. Riesling. “Get the product below! You stay with them!”

The American woman began ushering the girls into the saloon, but to Verdoorn she said, “What’s the matter?”

Verdoorn was already moving into the saloon, his pistol out in front of him, searching the area as he headed for the circular staircase. But he called back behind him in answer to the doctor’s question. “The Gray Man... he’s on board.”

“How do you—”

“Because I can feel him!”

THIRTY

I take stairs up to the open sundeck and then, after checking the area below for armed goons, I kick a leg over the rail and slide down the slick white side of the vessel, landing hard but quietly on the main deck. This portion of the boat is well lit, and I see movement up near the bow, but it’s only a deckhand facing away from me, far enough forward on the one-hundred-fifty-foot vessel that I’m not worried about him.

My goal is the aft deck and the scuba equipment I’ve staged there. Once I get it on, I plan on using the sea stairs to make my way into the water silently.

I begin heading aft in a low crouch along the starboard-side main deck.

I don’t make it far before a voice comes over the loudspeaker. He’s speaking Greek, and he’s agitated, shouting commands. I forgo the crouch and haul ass the last twenty-five feet, pretty certain the reason this guy has his panties in a twist is that he just found out some asshole is killing people on his boat.

Sure enough, the man switches to English and says words to that effect. “Alert! Trespasser on board. He is armed! All security to the main deck.”

I slow and peek around the corner to the aft deck, and here I see a couple of deckhands winching the tender, along with one guy wearing a dark polo and holding a subgun in one hand and a radio up to his ear in the other. He’s facing the saloon, and he’s between me and the diving equipment I need.

I think about just pulling the Glock from the pack hanging from my chest and shooting him, but I need a few seconds to get the tank valve opened and to put the equipment on, and even if I put the suppressor on my weapon first, everybody on the deck is still going to hear the gunshot.

So instead I just start walking towards the armed man purposefully but nonthreateningly.

He’s twenty feet from me when he lowers the walkie-talkie and looks in my direction. But all he sees is a diver in a wetsuit, his face partially hidden by the hood, heading to the scuba rack. My pack probably looks a little weird; not many people dive with luggage, but he’s unsure enough to allow me to close on him.

Another few steps and it won’t matter what he does.

The man on the loudspeaker says something else, and the guard in the polo swings his submachine gun towards me, but I’m two steps away now and I cover them faster than he can fire. I knock the weapon away, spear the man in the throat, and slam my knee into his face as he doubles forward.

The deck crew begins shouting; I reach for the guard’s weapon, but he crumples to the ground before I can wrench it away.

Giving up on both the gun and stealth, giving up on everything but getting my ass in the water, I lunge for the scuba rig I placed in the corner. Hefting the fifty pounds of gear, I spin back towards the stern. The deckhands look like they want to make trouble, and my hands are full so fighting them is not an option, so I juke to the left and run for the starboard side, and they give chase.

A gunshot cracks on my left as I make it to the starboard deck; I shift my body around as I hit the railing and start to go over, hoping to use the tank as a makeshift bulletproof vest.

Another gunshot rocks the night and I feel the impact as the bullet strikes my tank just as I tumble over the side, falling headfirst with all my gear slung over my shoulder.

Splashing into the cold black water, I realize I’m clear from the immediate threat of guns, but I’ve landed into a new threat. I’m heavily laden with equipment and weights, and I’m descending quickly.

I could let go of everything, just allow the tank and equipment to drop, but I won’t do that because I’m wearing a wetsuit that adds buoyancy to my already buoyant body, so I’ll just shoot to the surface.

And the surface is where the jackasses with guns are.

Somehow I have to open the air valve on the tank, get the vest onto my body and buckled in, arrest the descent by adding air to the vest, and then find my regulator and get it into my mouth so I can breathe.

With my eyes closed, because my mask is in the pack on my chest.

All before I drown.

But I’m not thinking about this, I’m doing this. I pull the entire rig off my shoulder and place it in front of me below my pack. Wrapping my legs around the steel tank, I crank open the valve. As my ears scream from my rapid descent, I muscle my way into the BCD, snap one of the three quick-release buckles to keep it on, and whip my hand around wildly for my regulator.

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