Page 54 of Ground Truth

Flint glanced in all directions. He had no idea where the speedboat was now. He lay his arms on the water’s surface and kicked with his legs and allowed the waves to pass. When a wave swept him up, he used the vantage point to look farther.

It was the wrong move.

He spied the boat, which was half burned. The fire was out now, but the boat was still moving. When he spied the boat, the captain must have spied him, too.

The boat turned toward Flint and Drake. The engine roared a moment then died back to a burble. Flint couldn’t tell whether the captain had an attack plan or if the fire had damaged the boat, thwarting the plan before it began.

“Open the raft,” Flint called.

“Now?” Drake’s voice was incredulous.

“Just do it. Then dive. Stay under as long as you can.”

Drake pulled a red handle and the raft burst into life. In a matter of a few quick seconds, compressed air expanded into chambers to form the circular base. The central cover rose gently, pulled taught by the raft’s expansion.

Drake breathed hard, oxygenating his blood. Flint did the same and a moment later they disappeared underwater.

They swam toward the approaching boat which they could see in shadow cast by the bright blue sky above. The boat passed overhead. It was moving slowly. The engine’s lazy chug was beating the water but not gaining speed.

Flint surfaced near the damaged boat on the side opposite the life raft. He bobbed his way to the rear and located a steel ladder.

The engine was still running. The boat rocked on the waves. The motion made him nauseous.

Flint pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and prepared to board the boat.

There was plenty of noise to cover his actions, so he climbed fast, cresting the gunwale, Glock first. The fire had melted the seats and much of the rear of the craft. One man lay on his back, burned and groaning with the rise and fall of every swell.

At the front, the captain had the fifty-caliber rifle resting on a straining bar and lined up to aim at the orange life raft.

When he was ready, he pulled the trigger.

The gun bucked in his hands. The captain struggled to keep himself planted on the boat’s moving deck.

The gun slid a few inches from side to side. The bullets were churning the water and tearing the raft to pieces.

The man was no amateur. He knew what he wanted to do, and he did it well. He’d had training. And plenty of it.

The burned man raised an arm and pointed at Flint.

“Here, here, here,” he said, hissing through clenched teeth. Urgent. Demanding attention.

The captain turned, his eyes going wide when he saw Flint on the boat.

He swung the fifty-caliber rifle around. Sliding it off the straining bar. Bracing it with his left hand.

He was a big man. It was a big weapon. Lots of weight and inertia. The strain and urgency were obvious from the contortions of his face.

Flint didn’t wait. The captain had stepped too far over the line.

There was no time to subdue him. This was kill or be killed. And Flint would not land on the wrong side of that equation.

Flint fired the Glock. Rapid. Five shots.

The first hit the man’s knee. The ocean swell and the movement of the boat brought the following shots up in a line. Hip, stomach, chest, head.

The captain’s bloody body lurched backward, pushed by the impact of the shots and the movement of the boat. He rolled over the side rail, the strap of the fifty-caliber gun wrapped around his arm. He fell back, splashed into the water, and the heavy gun pulled him under.

He was gone.

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