Page 146 of Enemy Within
“Fine,” Wright growled. “You and your crew are not going to stop us.”
In one move, he pivoted to Lieutenant Munoz and the weapons station. Anderson lunged, trying to tackle him, but the time it took to squeeze a trigger was much less than the time it took for him to get to Wright.
Wright fired, almost emptying his weapon into Munoz. Bullets slammed into Munoz’s chest, turning his body into a bullet-riddled sack of meat, and then flew through him, shattering the weapons control console. Sparks flew as glass burst and displays shorted out, whining and going dark.
Anderson tackled Wright to the deck, just as Roller shoved the control yoke hard, plunging the boat downward, straight for the depths.
Everything and everyone not strapped in tumbled end over end, careening out of control. Sailors rolled down the deck, slamming into stations and bulkheads. Munoz’s body hit the deck hard with a sick splat. His corpse bounced off the periscope stand and continued to slide. Crimson blood slicked the deck, drops racing down the slick surface. Coleman, too, went sailing down the deck and banged off the plotting table. Doc rolled like a gymnast, clear across the Conn and slamming into Boomer’s sonar station.
Anderson braced his feet on the periscope railing and grabbed hold of Wright, fisting his hands in his uniform. Wright had dropped his pistol, and it clattered down the deck with everything else, sliding through Munoz’s blood and bouncing off people and bulkheads. It disappeared into the darkness by the plotting table and went silent.
Wright wrapped one leg around Anderson in a classic grappling move and grabbed Anderson’s hair. He hauled Anderson’s head back, opening up his face, and slammed three punches into his cheek, his nose, his eyes. Anderson’s world went white, bursting with stars as pain nearly blinded him. Grunting, he slammed Wright down on the deck, leaning his weight against his forearm as he pressed it across Wright’s throat.
The boat creaked and groaned, and the hull popped with rifle-shot cracks. The hull was squeezing, clenched in the fast-rising pressures of the depths. How deep had they gone? A steep dive, over twenty-five degrees down angle. They could go hundreds of feet in seconds. It had already been too long.
Each breath seemed heavier, weightier, the pressures of the sea pushing inward, squeezingHonolululike a balloon about to pop.
“Level the boat!” Anderson roared. “Bring us up!”
Roller clawed his way up the deck, crawling through a river of spilled blood before climbing back into his seat. He grabbed the controls and jerked, bringing the boat to level.
Wright wrapped both his legs around Anderson and twisted, flipping Anderson on his back and breaking his chokehold. He reared up, sitting on top of Anderson as he pummeled him in the face, over and over.
Roller roared and charged, leaping from his station toward Wright.
Wright twisted and grabbed Roller out of the air, gripping him by his throat and slamming him to the deck. Roller hit hard and didn’t move. He lay face-down, still.
Anderson blinked blearily up at Wright.It can’t end like this.
THE PISTOL WHISPERED UNDER the plotting table, into the darkness beside Coleman.
Faisal snatched it, plucking the weapon out of its bloody slide.
Coleman struggled to breathe, gasping for air. Wright had drawn his concealed weapon in the dark, pressed it to Coleman’s back, and fired a shot into his right lung. Blood frothed at Coleman’s lips, flecking over his pale skin. Faisal had clung to him during the wild tumble, slingshotting the two of them beneath the plotting table. He kept pressure on Coleman’s gunshot, trying to stop the burble of blood spilling between his fingers.
Coleman’s eyes darted to the pistol he held. He reached for Faisal, one shaking hand grabbing his jacket. He pulled him close.
“Go. You know what you have to do.” He shoved Faisal, pushing him away.
If he left Coleman, he might bleed out. Bleed to death, cramped beneath the navigation station of a broken submarine beneath the ice cap.
Faisal grabbed Coleman’s hand and pressed it over his own wound. He spoke fast, whispering in English in Coleman’s ear. “Allah, I beseech you in your mercy. Protect this man. Keep him in your sight and your care.”
He rose, gripping the pistol in his hand. The weapon was slick, drenched in blood. Droplets fell from the barrel, striking the deck as he slipped behind Wright, moving in the shadows. He kept praying, turning to Arabic. “Allah, remove all fear from my heart. Guide my hands and protect these men from the vileness of this enemy.”
He raised the pistol and sighted the back of Wright’s head. Time slowed, elongating between breaths. He saw Adam in his mind, saw his smile, the tousle of his hair. The way he tipped his head back and laughed. How his brow furrowed when he struggled. Their love had been hard fought, hard won, a dangerous gambit between men who had everything to lose by taking a chance on each other. How had they found each other? How had they come so far, loved so deeply?
How had it all been ripped away?
He knew how. He knewexactlyhow.
Yallah, Wright had played them this whole time. From the very beginning. From the first moment he’d met him, after Ethiopia. How long had Wright served with Adam? How long had he been betraying him?
And at the station, when they’d escaped before the blast. Wright had supposedly been beaten outside, and then dragged in and dumped on the deck. He’d recovered fast for someone beaten unconscious. He must have been faking it.Wallah,he’d been working with Cook at every moment. Would he have left them there to die in the blast, if they hadn’t escaped? Had he stayed with them, a silent betrayer lying in wait, to ensure that the final nail had been hammered into their coffin? Into Adam’s coffin?
Fury swept through him, the scorch of the midday desert sun stabbing his soul. He’d been happy. He’d been so happy, and he and Adam were making it work.
It wouldn’t end like this.
