15
LYING SOAKED AS SHE CLUTCHED THE RAIL OF THE cabin cruiser, Ann was asking herself the same question. She wanted to commandeer the boat and sail it to San Diego, but that was a tall order against four armed men. She felt along her back at the waist, making sure the holster containing a SIG Sauer P239 had survived the plunge into the ocean.
Her decision to sneak aboard the Mexican boat had been driven more by adrenaline than strategy. She was exiting one of the ship’s labs while searching for a secure place to store Heiland’s crate when she saw Pablo on deck, pulling a pistol on Gunn. She ducked into a companionway, slipped down to her cabin, and retrieved her own weapon. When one of the gunmen drew everyone’s attention by blasting the Drake’s inflatable, she crept up to the bridge—only to find the ship’s radio destroyed. While the crew had been startled by the attack, she knew why the gunmen had appeared. They were after the crate. It, not Eberson’s body, was the real reason Ann was aboard.
The gunmen acted quickly and off-loaded the crate before she could devise a counterattack. Just one thought ran through her mind. If it could not be saved, then it must be destroyed.
With her heart pounding, she stepped to the bridge doorway and peeked aft. Pablo was busy with Gunn near the submersible, while the other gunmen were securing the crate aboard the powerboat. She took a deep breath, stepped onto the bridge wing, and dove over the side.
Ann’s years of springboard diving kicked in. She stiffened her body as she dove and stretched her hands above her head, reaching for the sea. She hit the water at a vertical angle, the desired rip entry barely producing a splash. The cool Pacific made her body shudder as she dove deep, then turned and swam toward the Mexican boat.
Surfacing off its outer beam, she moved in close alongside to stay concealed. She heard a man jumping aboard, then noticed the boat was drifting clear of the Drake. With a swift kick she reached up the side of the hull and grasped a rail stanchion on the deck. Then the engines rumbled, and the boat lurched forward. Ann held firm and let the boat’s momentum drag her across the surface as she swung one leg up and caught her foot on the deck. She yanked her torso up and rolled aboard on the narrow deck that ran alongside the enclosed cockpit.
She lay patiently, catching her breath and building her nerve, as the boat raced toward shore. It would be a half-hour journey. With darkness her ally, she waited for the sky to turn black. Salt water sprayed her face, and she bounced like a rodeo rider, battling to hold her position while praying no one looked her way.
Pablo and his men hung on the stern deck rail for several minutes, watching the Drake behind them. The barge faced them, obscuring the launch of the small Zodiac from its stern. After several minutes, the party moved into the cabin. Pablo made a phone call, then sat and drank a bottle of Dos Equis.
When a charcoal wash crossed the skies, Ann crept backward along the rail until she could catch a peek at the open deck. A dark, heavy-set man sat on a side bench, cradling a handgun as he gazed off the stern. He had a high forehead and a long full beard, reminding Ann of a young Fidel Castro. Secured on the deck in front of him was Heiland’s crate, which he used as a footrest.
Though the odds were against her in a gunfight with the full crew, this lone man she could subdue, especially with the element of surprise on her side. Her objective was simple: just get the crate over the side by any means she could. Perhaps Pitt and the NUMA ship could find it later. At least it would stay out of foreign hands.
She inched backward along the side rail and dropped quietly to the deck. Voices came from the main cabin, which was several steps below deck and out of clear view. Just above the cabin was the boat’s cockpit, where Ann could see the pilot’s legs a few feet away. With the boat closing in on the coast, she could only hope the pilot kept his eyes on course.
She slipped the compact SIG Sauer from its holster, reversed her grip, and sprung at Fidel. He never heard her coming. She aimed for his temple but struck high, and the pistol butt skipped over the crown of his head. He grunted and fell on his side, dropping his handgun to the deck.
Ann kicked it aside and knelt to free the case, which had been tied to the bench.
Only stunned by the blow, the man cradled his bleeding head with one hand and groped the deck for his gun. Instead of locating it, he found Ann’s ankle. He wrapped an angry fist around it and pulled with all the strength he could muster.
Hunched over the crate, Ann was caught off balance and went sprawling across the deck. But her reflexes were quick, and she quickly rolled to her feet. The gunman still clutched her left ankle, so she let go with her right foot, landing a vicious blow on the side of his head.
He grunted and pulled harder, so she let fly with another kick, connecting with his jaw. His fingers finally went limp, his eyes glazed over, and he sunk to the deck.
Ann scurried back to the crate, untying one strap and then the other. At last it was free. She dragged it to the stern and hoisted one end onto the rail. She bent to lift the other end, then froze. A cold ring of steel touched the back of her neck.
That will be staying here, my dear,” boomed the deep voice of Pablo as he pressed his Glock pistol into her flesh.